Night is nearly upon the castle of Xion, the sun falling behind the mountains, the sky turning from its azure blue to a now husky orange and purple affair. The port of Xion begins to fall silent, winding down from another busy day as the fishermen moor their boats and offload their cargo.
The marketplace echoes with storefronts locking their doors and shuttering their windows, traveling caravans haul their carts and wagons to the city exits. The noble quarter, and the grand Xion plaza too fall silent, the high-class establishments shuttering while taverns set out their lanterns.
You are standing outside the Princes quarters, atop a caged balcony furnished with vines and other creeping flowers. You are regarding the city of Xion, its streets and buildings spreading out before you. You can see all of the cities quarters from your perch. Just past the inner castle walls, there is the noble quarter encircling the grand plaza, leading down to the mercantile district, and then the docks, and next to it, the peasant quarter.
You can see as one by one, lanterns are set alight by the first guard patrols of the knight, their long stemmed oil lanterns reaching up to the city lanterns and igniting the wicks. They look like tiny stars being born all across the city, one by one, all in a concentric, circling fashion spreading out from the various district plazas.
You grow bored almost at once, going back to a small, carved wooden seat next to a furnished table with seats for two. There is an easel set up but unused, overlooking the city, there is no canvas or paints, and you haven’t ever seen Tyrian use it before, nor do you know if he can paint.
You look back, over your shoulder, at the door leading into his bedroom. He hasn’t been the same since the incident with the assassins. He wasn’t his normal, cheery but timid self. He’d withdrawn, introverted, refusing to go to his classes, refusing to leave his room unless it was to eat. You hadn’t the heart to drag him from his bed and carry him to his duties, but you could tell that that is what his family was expecting you to do, regardless of his feelings. You had managed to bargain some more time from them, a chance for him to just rest for a while, and get over it naturally.
It didn’t help that they mostly ignored you on this matter, Myrian hounding Tyrian constantly; unable to understand why he was so shaken. You had to bite your tongue and curl your claws back into your palms so as to restrain yourself from growling at her, her tirades only served to deep the miasma that seemed to hang over Your princes’ head. You knew that she meant well. She just had no idea in how to talk to her younger brother. That much you were beginning to learn.
Tyrian wanted to be left alone, day in and day out. He wouldn’t speak to you or anyone, only interacting with slow nods or shakes of his head, refusing to make eye contact, his hair uncombed and his arms wrapped around himself. He had never seen death before- supremely sheltered and groomed from birth, he was still helplessly naïve in the ways of the world- in how cruel and brutish it really is. He always saw the good in others; even the most depraved of criminals was still redeemable in his eyes.
It is so sickly sweet that it almost brings you to your knees.
He was hurting, this you knew. The soldiers that had died around him- falling to the poison darts and crossbow bolts of the Arachne assassins, their blood pooling around them as they twitched, their death rattles choked with the gurgles of lungs filling with blood. It was a sight that you as a Hellhound had seen many accounts of. Death was no stranger to you, in truth; it was naught but a close and familiar companion. But it was not death alone that plagued his mind; there was something else, a certain darkness that festered in his heart. You knew what it was.
You’ve seen it before. You’ve seen it more than anyone else in this kingdom has. The despair in the eyes of Humans who realize just how pathetic they are in the face of something like you, the dawning of their understanding of just how useless it is to resist something that is so many times their superior. The understanding that there is nothing they could ever do to change that fact of life, that there exist things that are stronger than they could ever be, and how they react to such knowledge. You can remember when you first realized this.
This snow dusted winter cursed land of your home, the place of your birth. The various feudal villages and tribes that dotted the forests and mountains and the simple, crude castles of fallen kingdoms that have yet to fully die. Food was scarce, few crops would grow and livestock was scrawny. You could not always steel animals from the villages, so you instead ate the humans.
Within the territory you claimed as your own, the people feared you. They never went out at night, and they were skittish during the day. Whenever you grew hungry you would break into a home and devour whomever you found inside. For the longest time you did not understand why they did not just hunt you down, or why they did not just run. These humans seemed to have already accepted death by your hand. There were some villages that were different, some that posted guards at night, where the village elders put on stern faces and rallied the people in an attempt to ward you away. You knew that it was a front, that the elders themselves were fearful of you, that they knew that resistance was pointless.
As the months dragged on, and your killings continued despite their best efforts, these leaders would eventually break. They would snap under the weight of what was asked of them. Their friends and family looking to them for answers, begging for the killing to stop, for the nights of fear and dread to end. Some would die from revolts, others would take to the bottle, and there were those that hung themselves or those that ran away. In the end, all the leaders broke.
Tyrian was to be a leader one day, and like those elders, he could not afford to look weak, but he was still just a boy who knew nothing of the world. If this continued, he would end up like them.
This would be different, for unlike those wizened old men from across the mountains, Tyrian has something that they did not.
Tyrian has you. And you will not let him crumble.
You rest on the balcony for several minutes more, watching as the last sliver of sunlight slips below the horizon. As night begins, you stand from your seat, and gently open the balcony door, and step inside the prince’s chambers. You have been given a small room of your own just beyond the princes own. It is close enough that you can easily hear whatever goings on occur in the princes room and more than enough time to respond should anything untoward occur. You will not be spending the night in your room, however.
In his bed of many pillows and fluffy sheets, Tyrian is curled in a ball, blankets wrapped around him and over his head; he has erected a small fortress of pillows around him. Tyrian is afraid of the dark like most young boys his age, and you know well enough that the monsters that skulk about in it are real, for you are one of them. You quickly scrape two claws together over a candle set next to a mirror, the spark hits the wick and a flame is born from hellfire.
It would burn until Tyrian fell asleep, usually. You would check on him regularly to make sure that it was the case. Glancing back at the bedded prince, you can feel the aura of morose misery and doubt that is about him from across the room. And it mirrors the twinge of doubt you feel in your heart as you unbutton he front of your dress. You unfasten your bra and step out of your panties. You set your clothes down on a chair, rolling your shoulders you step over to Tyrians bed, completely nude.
You’ve given Tyrian his space for the past few days, hoping that he would heal on his own, staying close but not disturbing him. Perhaps he noticed how you are approaching now. He roles over, peeking out from under the covers- looking up at you, silhouetted by the candle light. Tyrian filches, and you can’t help but feel a pang of hurt in your chest at the reaction, though you can understand it. “Mph,” Tyrian looks up at you, he hasn’t smiled once in the past several days. A frown doesn’t look natural on him; you are desperate to see the familiar sheepish pout that you have come to associate with him.
“What,” He hesitantly asks, he blinks, the light is faint and he can’t see well, but he has become accustomed enough to your familiar presence. “L-Leave me be, Moka…”
That is an order you will not follow, not now. You crawl onto the bed, Tyrian hesitantly setting up, uncertain. You stop him before he can get out, reaching over, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him back in. You lie down, silent for the moment; not saying anything as Tyrian stammers, “M-Moka?” He squirms. “Why- W-Why are you,” You pull him close to you, a finger to his lips as you shush him. He falls quiet at once, his heart beating fast. You reach over, and pull the covers up, the soft silken sheets feel unusual for you, but you ignore it. You hug Tyrian close to you, wrapping your arms around him, enveloping him with your warmth, breathing deeply of his scent. You press your lips against the top of his head, kissing him softly, licking at his hair lightly as if he were a pup.
It stifles any comments he has and you smile unseen. “Tyrian,” you whisper. Pulling him up onto you. “You don’t need to worry.” You tell him.
He tries to say something, his voice catching in his throat; he grabs at your tufts of fur and whines pitiably, “You can cry if you want to.” You tell him. “It’s alright to by a kid sometimes.” You whisper softly.
“It’s alright for you to be scared, too.” You reach down, cupping his face. “I’ll be there for you whenever you are.” You can see the light in his eyes reflecting the candles glow, big watery tears stream down his cheeks and wet your tuft of fur just above your breasts. You smile, melancholy but warm and protective as he buries himself against you, his body trembling with every shaky breath.
You hold him like this, humming softly and slow as you hold him there, comforting him, shielding him, taking in all of his fear, his misery, his doubt and pain and incinerating it bit by bit with the fire of your heart. You will always remember this moment, as he drifts off to sleep, his last two mumbled words before the dreamland reaches him.
You both lay there, silent, taking in the warmth of each other, the darkness closing in around you both no longer an oppressive thing, the withering flame of the candle not nearly as warm as your heart is for this young, sweet, boy. He relaxes eventually, reaching up and hugging you back, nestling his head against your breasts, sighing comfortably as his eyes drooped closed.
You run you fingers through his hair, petting his head, a low hum resonating with your breathing, your chest rising in falling in time with the beat of his heart. You languidly glance at the candle, its light gleaming in your eyes as you watch it slowly burn its way downward. By the time the flame extinguishes, the smoke swept away through the window, Tyrian is asleep in your arms, and you are drowsily smiling. The dream that greets you tonight is both warm and peaceful; you lay in a field of daisies as the clouds wander by overhead.
The morning is a cruel mistress, stealing away the bliss of your slumber, making known to you that your island paradise of dreams with your arms wrapped around a young boy is but temporary in the face of tomorrow. Sunlight trickles through the curtains, dappled lights painted across the room in a vibrancy of stained colors reflective of the kingdoms familiar blue and green. The first birds of the morning sing alongside groups of early morning harpies- sirens of the sky as they are, their pitched sing-song dalliances in the sky are requited across the kingdom, and you remember the minstrel servants of lady Myrian speaking highly of them more than once.
Your beloved Prince stirs in your arms, snuggling closer to you, trying to hide away from the morning light in much the same way any young boy hides from his duties if given the opportunity. Your smile is marred with melancholy, as you know that this will not last, given the circumstance. You lean down, your lips pressing against his head, and you hum softly, bidding the young boy into the waking world once more.
He stirs, murmuring nonsense as he’s pulled from his dreams. He looks up at you with sleepy blue eyes that for a moment are filled with a young wonder- as if seeing you for the first time again. You are reminded of the hellion marshes, that look- the sight of Tyrian for your first time- where everything changed. You do your best to not linger there. You rest a heavy hand on Tyrians’ scalp and tussle his hair, pulling him closer to you, resting his head between your breasts with a sigh. “Good morning.” You whisper. “It’s time to get up.”
“Mph,” He responds, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, fitfully squirming, “Comfy…” He whines.
“I know,” You smile, “But you’ve been lazy. Time to get back to work.” You sit up with him still held against you, throwing off the covers.
“Cold,” He mutters, the chilly air of his chambers making him shiver, “Can we go back to bed?” He asks. You pat him on the head again, swinging your legs over the side and shaking your head.
“I’ll run the bath water.” You say. “You have until then, okay?” You set him down on the edge of the bed as you stand, rolling your shoulders, you don’t feel any aches as you usually do in the mornings when in your own chambers. The prince had a quality mattress, you assume.
Tyrian mumbles something and you see him hurriedly wrap his sheets up and around him as if making his own little cocoon of warmth. You manage to suppress a giggle and you enter the bathroom.
For some reason you had always though that royals would always have obnoxiously lavish restrooms. You always thought that they would possess grandiose, cathedral like bathhouses devoted to them and them alone, with an army of stripped down beautiful servants ready to cleanse the body of their master.
It may be true somewhere, but for prince Tyrian, he is given a small room with the usual amenities, the only splendid thing denoting his status, was the washtub. White porcelain with a faucet, drain, and handle for hot water, it was remarkably advanced craftsmanship taken from the dwarves that most of the nobility of Xion possessed, as well as some of the mercantile class. You don’t ruminate on this for long, you add the various salts and oils to the basin and then run the water, watching it fill and steam up the normally cold, stone bathroom you open the door to fetch Tyrian.
He’s properly awake now, fiddling with his hair and staring down at his wiggling toes. He looks up at you when you come for him, and for a moment he seems to flinch at the sight of you, giving you reason to pause for a moment. He quickly flushes red and looks away, “I-I’m up.” He stammers, “And-And I can wash myself, Moka.”
“It’s fine.” You tell him otherwise, walking over, taking him by the shoulder and leading him into the bathroom. “Besides, I need to wash as well.”
“You-You mean,” He stammers again and this time you cut him off.
You hook your claws under the waistband of his silken nightclothes despite his sudden protests. You don’t know why, you’ve seen him naked plenty of times and washed him just as many times before. The reason why is quickly made known to you.
Your brow rises slightly at the sight of his erect boyhood. You say nothing at first, his face now beet red with embarrassment as you eye his pronounced arousal. Your brain hiccups for a moment and for some reason you reach down and cup your hand beneath his balls, your thumb running over his length. You’ve seen his privets before, having dressed and washed Tyrian plenty of times before, but never in a state of arousal. He was clearly a grower- not a shower, as they said. Your reasoning catches up to you now, and you jerkily retract your hand with a cough. “Come on, in you go. It’s just the right temperature.” You say, opting to remain casual; you lift him up and set him into the tub. You slide in behind him, the water making you feel tingly with the various oils you added. Normally you just make do with a tub and a brush in your own quarters.
“I-I…” Tyrian begins, his hands under the water, folded over his erection. “I’m, er…”
“It’s fine.” You tell him, trying your best to be reassuring. “You’re a growing boy, it’s natural.” You take up the brush, its bristles soft but ridged and set to work on his back first. “Nothing to be ashamed of. I’m told this happens to men every morning.” You run your hands over his skin, spreading water and oils that you then brush away, a tickle of something stirs in the back of your mind, you are not sure what. “Is it the first time for you?” You ask softly.
“N-No…” He shakes his head. Tyrian normally was up, waiting for you most mornings. You’ve never seen if he has had to deal with ‘morning wood’, which you think this to be. But it…” He struggles to say something, awkward and shy. He glances back at you over his shoulder for a moment, furtive.
“Is something the matter?” You ask. He says nothing in return, and you don’t press the issue. Instead, your turn him around, now washing his front. His cheeks are still flushed as he looks at you, eyes darting up and down, trying to remain locked onto the wall behind you but failing. You are growing concerned, you thought that your consoling last night had worked, but perhaps you’ve now uncovered something deeper and more sinister. “Are you sure everything is all right?” You calmly ask. “You can tell me anything, Tyrian.”
You bid Tyrian to stand up, after a moment he does so, hands still cupped around his groin. You look up at him from your sitting position, and after a moment he relents, moving his hands away, his stiff member upright in front of your face, You glance at it off and on as you wash his legs. He can’t meet your gaze. “You know you don’t have to be embarrassed.” You tell him. “Like I said, this happens to males, every morning.”
“It’s…” He hesitates, shivering for a moment as you reach up and start washing his lower half. You reach around him, your hands running over his rear end with the brush, and down his legs.
“Go on,” You tell him, standing up next to him you pull him closer, pressing up against him, your breasts against his face and his member against your navel. He shivers again. “Please tell me.”
He’s stammering with every word he speaks, eyes shut tightly he hugs himself. “It’s Y-You!” He exclaims suddenly, “I-I feel, um, my thing, it, I, it feels all t-tingly, w-when I lo-look at y-you!”
You blink at that, pulling away for a moment it suddenly clicks in your head. How could you be such a blind idiot? You are aware of your body for once, your heavy breasts, wide hips and full ass, toned, but still welcomingly soft where it matters. And here you are, feeling him up, naked, pressing against him. Of course he would become aroused. You feel like punching yourself in the gut, some caretaker you are.
“Oh,” Is all you can say, stammering yourself, realization bringing a certain heat into your body, a sudden realization of your own femininity. “I see,” You laugh, nervously, all the same you reach down, and rub Tyrian on the head, “No need to worry, it’s alright.” You tell him.
“Sorry…” He mumbles.
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” You tell him again, “Lets just get you cleaned up, okay?” You turn him around, all to aware of how you make this young boy feel, and trying not to think about it too much. You reach down, the brush and your hands working down his front, scrubbing away dirt and grime with sweet smelling soap and water. You go lower, something that was normally routine when you were outside the tub, washing him- although awkward- now was something… else.
You glance at his groin, hesitating again at the sight of his erection. You are not sure how you should do this, so you deign to just get it over with quickly. You grab ahold, Tyrian stiffens in back and in rod, biting his lips with shut eyes as you try your best to gently, but quickly scrub his area clean, slipping up between his legs, over his scrotum and again the protrusion of his maleness,. Your ministrations are gentle despite the roughness of your hands and the bristles of the brush. The water you palm upwards to clear away the soapsuds is warm. You blame what happens next on these factors, as well as your closeness, his inexperience, and yourself overall.
Tyrian is trying to tell you something, his voice catches and for a moment he seems to collapse before you catch him, dropping the brush to do so. You are immediately worried, his face his red, his breathing is harried and his eyes unfocused. A shudder goes throughout his body and that is when a scent cuts through the steam, hitting your nose directly.
Pungent and cloying, you recognize it at once.
You look down; your hand is clearly stained with sticky white strands of virginal semen. You are not certain of what emotion it is that you are feeling at this moment, some cloud spawning in your head and locking down most of your senses. You have half a mind to call it fear, panic, or distress if it were not for the torrent of what you can only call ecstasy and bliss that assaults up your spine. You almost forget to breathe.
It passes at once, shaking your head you glance back down at Tyrian, lost in the throws of bliss from what you can assume to only be his first ever orgasm, a something that resonates in your mind with an acute clarity. His eyes are unfocused, his body spasms slightly, his mouth hangs open and you can feel his heart racing. You blink yourself into clarity. You wash your hands in the bath water, pull the plug and towel Tyrian off, all the while neither of you speak a word, Tyrian glancing over at you- only to find that you are the one who refuses to make eye contact this time. You are too focused, too hung up on how you should feel to say anything.
It is two days later, and there has been a noticeable shift in the princes’ demeanor, noticeable only by you. To the royal court, to the peasantry and the nobility, the Prince is once more himself. The charming, lighthearted and shy boy they have all come to know, once more is among the folk of Xion with his Hellhound Guardian.
The King, back from one of his campaigns in the south against more incursions of marauding Orc war bands, asked you to tell him just how you lightened the princes spirits, and you simply told the king that you talked to him. It was no lie, but it was not the whole truth. He took it at face value and your heart beat once again. The Prince was not himself, however. You knew this simply because you observed him.
This is not the same little boy you once knew, but neither was he all that different. It was in the looks he gave you. Once, they were awed, furtive glances that he stole when he thought you not to be looking. Now, there was something else in them. Not quite carnal, but altogether uniformly indecent, lustful but without the knowledge of what Lust is.
Depraved, yet innocent.
You first noticed during the morning after, during breakfast.
On the second morning after your incident, you were standing behind Tyrian, as he ate. You were lost in thought for the most part. As you’ve not spoken of what occurred in the bathroom, you were unsure as to where you stood with the young Prince. The clang of metal against stone catches your attention, Tyrians’ knife clattering against the cold stone floor. He mutters an apology as you go to pick it up. Bending over you just so happen to see something, in the reflection of the overly polished silver knife you catch sight of the young prince behind you at the table.
He was looking at you, rather intently, and you are all too aware of how your position renders yourself, your skirt riding high, exposing your underwear to the world, and more importantly, with you bent over like this, Tyrian was more than free to see everything, as if you were on display. You stand up, not reacting, not letting him know that you noticed. You clean the knife and return it to him, taking up your station behind him once more.
This wasn’t the only occurrence.
You were changing Tyrian from his indoor regalia into his riding suit. You were helping him with several hard to reach knots on his back, and when you were finished he gently asked if you could help him with his laces. He’s never had trouble with them before, and you could smell the lie on his breath, but you said nothing, curious as to what he could want with that. You do as you are told, kneeling down, and running his laces up through the holes in his riding boots. You can practically feel the heat of his gaze going down the front of your dress, ogling your breasts. For a reason you don’t understand you lean forwards a slight bit more, and lean your head back, thrusting your chest outwards ever so slightly, as if you were trying to give Your prince a better view.
It is now the fourth day, and scenes like these have played themselves out over, and over again. The young Prince is attracted to you, that much is certain, and he is a growing boy- the stains on his sheets and pajamas from the previous two days have brought claim to that. As for how you feel about it, you are still uncertain.
Part of you is pleased, almost smug or confident in the affirmation of your sexuality, you feel like a female for what felt like the first time. And you are suddenly conscious of your appearance in a way that you haven’t been before; the way your hips sway and how your breasts bounce, the subtle jiggle of your ass and how your clothes hug your curves. You are a Hellion hound, born from the shadow beyond the abyss, formed out of the rampant desires and dark emotions of human kind. You are also a female. Your instincts are now awoken to that fact, and they all scream the same thing:
You want to breed.
There is another part of you that is shouting something far different. It is the part of you that has kept you alive long enough to see your tail streaked with silver fur. It is a harsh, cruel, but imminently analytical voice of reason and logic. It reminds you that you are exactly that- a Hellhound. You are a monster. You are not human at all. More-so, it reminds you that Tyrian is a Prince, a Human Prince, and you are a servant. The desires that run through you could never be realized; never sated no matter what you did- so long that you wish to remain living. If you had your way with him, and if it ever came to light- even if he stayed quite- your head would be rolling in a garbage chute long before the day was old.
Despite being the closest to Tyrian, you were also the farthest from him.
These are the thoughts that haunt you, as you escort Tyrian through the vaulted hallways of the inner castle hold, your destination the much-famed library that lies near the heart of the grand Castle of Xion. Its endless shelves filled with the combined knowledge of over three hundred civilizations and countless species. It would be his endeavor to learn as much as he can of them all, and you were to assist him in this despite your egregious lack of knowledge concerning anything of the sort. The most you know of other species and kingdoms is if they hunt you or not, and how best to avoid or kill them.
Tyrian trails slightly behind you as you make your way through the halls; mostly deserted save for the occasional House Guard or menial slave. Through it all you can feel Tyrain looking at you, the corset you are made to wear pulls your dress snugly around your waist and often times it will pull up your skirt if you are not careful, and Tyrian is short enough to make full use of such a wardrobe malfunction, nervously examining your butt on display for his viewing pleasure.
You’ve grown a habit, a nervous tic that has developed over the course of your newfound feelings. You are toying with your bangs, curling your hair around two fingers before pulling them free. You have yet to grow accustomed to this new voyeuristic tendency that is growing in Your dear little Tyrian. You have to restrain yourself succumbing to a sudden desire to reach back and pull your dress up fully that he could see all that he wanted. Another part of you says that you should pull your dress back down so that it covers you, but doing so would almost certainly tell Tyrian that you were on to his peeping. How he would handle that, you don’t know.
You lead Tyrian through the oak double doors; the aged face of the court mage greets you. He is Tyrian’s personal tutor. Minute later, his lesson begins. During the course of the lesson, you stand behind and aside Tyrian, absently ruminating over the turn of events, and Tyrians’ apparent leap into puberty. You come to the conclusion that his voyeurism is innocent enough, it isn’t hurting anyone, beside, Tyrian is a growing boy. He is merely awakening sexually. It is harmless.
Your late awakening, should you lose control of yourself, would be far from harmless.