A Courtship of Dragons is a M/M Romance (it could be short, it could be a novella, it could be any size, I have no idea) told in short scenes, between two young dragons, Estenarven kin Boulderforce Clan Stoneheart and Mastekh kin Rainstorm Clan Flowflight. It’s pure fluff ‘n’ stuff and not intended to be anything other than that.
|| Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 ||
Warning: This update contains a flirtatious and inebriated Boulderforce.
It would appear this is a kissing book. You have been warned ;)
6
Banquet III
ESTENARVEN WAS DRUNK. Oh, he’d known he was been a bit merry when he was sitting with Anhardyne and Vish, basking in the attention and drinking far more wine than was probably wise. It had been right there, though, and it was a very good vintage. And he’d felt Mastekh’s eyes on him, so he may have been showing off a little.
But still, he’d kept his head. Mostly. Enough to enjoy himself while he waited for the gluttonous drake to finally finish stuffing his face and leave the seat beside Mastekh empty. It had taken longer than Estenarven had anticipated – hence the wine.
Still, he’d been fine until after he’d bid the lieutenants and fine and adventurous night and made his way around the long table. He’d been completely in control of himself when he pulled out the chair and dropped into the space.
Then he’d put a hand on Mastekh’s leg to gain his attention… and completely lost his head.
Mastekh was cool and sweet and smelled like grass after rain. The shivers, the closeness, the sounds he made.
Yes, Estenarven was drunk, utterly and completely soused, foxed, pissed, rat-arsed, tap-shackled, scale-shucked, loose-winged and every other description on the Overworld. But it had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with his companion.
And Mastekh had absolutely no idea, if the way he was blushing was any indication. His poor dear Puddle was utterly green in the face, a darker colour spreading down his neck.
Estenarven stared at where the colour vanished beneath the collar of his robe and couldn’t help wondering how far down it went. Was his chest pale or dark, mottled or clear, was he muscled or slender, where were his scales? Every dragon had them, regardless of form, but they never showed up in the same place. Estenarven had two patches, one small smudge on his left buttock, the other a slender line that spiralled up his right thigh. Where were Mastekh’s? Somewhere naughty, he hoped, since such scale patches were often sensitive. As sensitive as the webs between his fingers? Estenarven certainly hoped so. He couldn’t wait to explore, to uncover his Puddle’s every last secret, to –
“Est-t-tenarv-v-ven?” Mastekh’s shaky breath was accompanied by a sharp, insistent tug.
Estenarven paused and looked down. By the Family, he really was drunk. He’d been licking Mastekh’s hand again, focusing all of his attention on those same webs, eyes closed, lost to the exploration.
Poor Mastekh’s face wasn’t just green now, it was practically black he was blushing so hard.
Estenarven reluctantly released his hand. “Sorry.”
Mastekh’s mouth moved but no sound came out. Poor Puddle, he’d shocked him speechless. All because he was drunk on the nearness of him and had forgotten himself, again. They were in a crowded room, and even though no one was paying them any attention – nor would be shocked even if they were – Mastekh was not an exhibitionist. He had to stop forgetting that, forgetting himself, forgetting where they were. It might not bother him, but it would bother Mastekh and that was not something he should ever forget.
“Forgive me.” He pressed a hand to his heart and bowed his head in remorse.
A cool hand slid over his cheek and he looked up, into green eyes almost swallowed by dark, wide pupils. “D-don’t,” Mastekh whispered, rubbing a thumb over Estenarven’s cheek.
He closed his eyes and leant into the touch, thinking of all the things he could do if that hand moved closer to his mouth. All the things he wanted to do, to start, to explore.
Huffing in frustration at himself, he opened his eyes and forced himself to pull away from the temptation of Mastekh’s hands. He’d never been particularly interested in hands before, not on their own, but with Mastekh everything was different.
He couldn’t resist taking hold of Mastekh’s hand again, but forced himself not to bring it back to his mouth or to stroke it. He just held it pressed between both of his and tried to think sweet, pure, innocent thoughts.
Which was tricky in a room that had grown as loud and as rowdy as this one.
Estenarven frowned, rapidly losing his happy, wine-induced haze and passing into an grumpy, irritated aftermath. “Let’s go,” he urged, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet.
Mastekh’s eyes widened, but he didn’t object when Estenarven hauled him upright.
“We can talk in the morning. Everything will be better then,” he said, weaving through the raucous crowd and making for the nearest door.
“You w-w-won’t,” Mastekh replied, cringing against Estenarven’s side as a drunken party of dragons and Riders attempted to drag him into their dancing circle.
“Won’t what?” Estenarven asked distractedly as he stepped over a passed out Rider still clutching a flagon of ale to his chest. He turned and lifted Mastekh up and over the man without thinking.
Wide eyes stared down in surprise. Estenarven blinked up, clasping Mastekh against his chest and barely noticing the weight of him. He was a Boulderforce, after all. Liking the feeling of keeping his Puddle so close, Estenarven strode the last few steps until they were out of the hall and in the much quieter corridor beyond.
Then he had to put him down, because the temptation to pin him to the nearest wall was just too great.
Mastekh kept his hands pressed against his chest, eyes still wide, barely blinking.
Smiling, Estenarven rubbed his knuckles down the Rainstorm’s cheek and pressed his thumb beneath his jaw to close his gaping mouth. It was simply too tempting left open. “Won’t what?” he repeated, remembering the question he’d asked before.
Mastekh snatched his hands away and folded his arms across his chest, rubbing at his shoulders, face flushed green once more. He shivered and offered up a tremulous smile. “You w-won’t feel b-b-better in the m-morning.”
Estenarven blinked in surprise – then burst out laughing.
Mastekh folded his arms defensively, huffing with indignation. “Well, you w-won’t. After all the w-wine you’ve dr-drunk, you’ll have a t-t-terrible h-headache. And d-don’t come c-c-crying to m-me.”
It was one of the longest sentences Estenarven had ever heard the Rainstorm mutter, and it made him laugh even harder. “Oh, Puddle,” he sighed, draping an arm across the smaller dragon’s shoulders before he could storm off in a huff. “We really have to work on your seductive invitations.”
Which earned him a slap on the chest. “It w-w-wasn’t an inv-v-vitation you l-lout. As if I’d inv-v-vite you anywh-where.”
“A dragon can dream,” Estenarven sighed soulfully, slightly embarrassed to realise his wistfulness wasn’t entirely feigned.
“F-fool.”
“Yes,” he agreed cheerfully. “Entirely. I’m a complete fool for you.” He pressed his lips against Mastekh’s cool cheek, delighted to feel it heat beneath his lips. “And now to bed, before I ravish you right here. I know you’re not one for exhibitions.”
This time the soulful sigh came from his companion. “A d-dragon can d-d-dream.”
Estenarven could only hope his wistfulness wasn’t entirely feigned either. “Don’t tempt me, Puddle. You might not like the outcome.”
“I’ll s-s-save it for wh-when you’re n-not d-drunk, P-pebble. You m-might dr-drop me.”
“Oh, really?” Estenarven roared with mock indignation, spinning Mastekh around. Catching the Rainstorm by complete surprise, he upended him over his shoulder and started running towards Elder Blazeborn’s suite.
“P-p-p-put me d-down, you f-f-fool!”
Laughing, Estenarven ignored the kicking legs and fists thumping his back, knowing full well that if Mastekh really wanted to escape all he had to do was shift and flatten him. “I heard a challenge, Puddle, and a good dragon never turns down a challenge.”
“You’re d-d-drunk!”
Yes, utterly. Completely drunk on Mastekh and the light, silly, foolish feelings he stirred up inside. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was a fool for Mastekh. He would be anything for this Rainstorm, he only needed to ask.
As Estenarven jogged up staircase after staircase, Mastekh’s struggles slowed and stopped, the fists that had been thumping his back having turned to smoothing caresses over the dark silk. By the time Estenarven reached their suite, his breath was heaving, his legs were shaking and he felt rather light-headed, but his back tingled all over from the teasing touches.
Unlocking the door, he staggered inside and carefully lowered his burden.
When he straightened, Mastekh grabbed hold of his head before he reached his full height. Green eyes glowing with determination, the Rainstorm pulled Estenarven down and kissed him.
At first it was clumsy, a hard push that mashed their lips against their teeth. Mastekh clenched his hands around the back of Estenarven’s neck as if afraid he would try and escape.
Estenarven wasn’t going anywhere. Reaching back, he gripped Mastekh’s wrists and rubbed the insides with his thumbs, urging the Rainstorm to relax. Then he slid his fingers over the back of Mastekh’s hands to slip between his fingers and stroke the sensitive webs.
Mastekh gasped, firm grip relaxing.
Estenarven took full advantage, pulling back to take a breath and gain some room, then darting in to slip his tongue into play.
Ah, such play. Mastekh melted against his chest and Estenarven turned their kiss into a lazy, thorough exploration that left them both panting and shaking, holding tight to shoulders and waist in an effort to keep standing.
And they were both still fully dressed.
Estenarven had never felt like this with anyone before – certainly not without naked skin and a solid, supporting surface involved.
It was too much.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
And Mastekh wasn’t ready for more.
Estenarven eased the kiss until he could pull away, cupping Mastekh’s face in his hands. Wide eyes, more black now than green, gazed up at him, kiss-swollen lips trembling with uncertainty, anxiety already draining the passion from his face.
No, there would go no further tonight.
But he stole another kiss anyway, a sweet, delicious sip, before pulling away with a sigh.
“Goodnight, Puddle,” he murmured, resting his head against Mastekh’s.
“G-g-good-n-night, P-pebble,” came his reply.
Then they parted for their tiny, solitary rooms on opposite sides of Elder Blazeborn’s suite.
Turns out Mastekh was right: Estenarven was not going to feel better in the morning. He certainly wasn’t about to sleep any time soon.
But it had been worth every single moment.
And he would willingly do it all again on the morrow.
Next update will be on Monday. Complete with merry Mastekh.
Take care, my lovelies!
Becca Lusher 
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