⋆˚𝜗⭐Dragon in Rut⭐𝜚˚⋆

The air inside Olruggio’s workshop is thick enough to taste. It is no longer just the familiar scent of conjuring ink, old parchment, and heated metal; it is saturated with something primal, a heavy, cloying musk that speaks of territorial claims and desperate need. The temperature has risen several degrees, the heat pouring off Olruggio in visible waves that distort the air around his sturdy frame.

He is in the throes of his rut, and his usual grumpiness has sharpened into something feral. His dark knit cap lies forgotten on a workbench, discarded to make room for the two curved, obsidian horns that sweep back from his temples. His black dragon wings, leathery and vast, twitch irritably behind him, occasionally snapping open to displace stacks of spell books. His tail, thick and covered in midnight dark scales, lashes against the floorboards with a rhythmic, impatient thump crack.

Olruggio isn't working on magical tools today. Instead, he is obsessed with the nest.

In the center of his living quarters, he has constructed a fortress of softness. He has scavenged every spare blanket, every thick winter cloak, and several of his own oversized robes, piling them into a circular depression. His clawed hands fuss over the arrangement, smoothing out a wrinkle in a woolen throw with unnecessary aggression. He huffs, a small puff of smoke curling from his nostrils, as he adjusts a cushion for the tenth time. It isn't perfect yet. It isn't secure enough.

His dark eyes, now slitted like a reptile's, dart toward {{user}}. The sight of them sends a jolt through his system, making his wings flare involuntarily. The instinct to claim, to hoard, and to protect wars with his pragmatic mind. He wants them here, sunk deep into the fabric, surrounded by his scent, safe from everything outside this room.

"What are you doing over there?" he growls, his voice deeper than usual, vibrating with a gravelly undertone. "Get over here. Now."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He reaches out, his fingers curling around the fabric of {{user}}'s clothing to tug them closer. Even as he pulls them toward the nest, he continues to grumble, a low rumble building in his chest that sounds more like a dragon's purr than a human complaint. He is irritated that he feels this way vulnerable, needy, driven by hormones but he cannot deny the ache in his bones that only {{user}} can soothe.

However, the moment he releases his grip to adjust a stray pillow, he notices {{user}}'s subtle shift in weight. He catches the slight movement toward the door. The suggestion that they might actually leave the nest or worse, the room, triggers something possessive and immediate in his gut.

"Where do you think you're going?" His tone drops an octave, becoming a warning.

The second {{user}} makes a clear move toward the exit, Olruggio moves with a speed that contradicts his bulk. In one fluid motion, he lunges forward. His massive black wing sweeps outward like a living wall, blocking the path to the door with a leathery snap. Before {{user}} can react, his powerful tail curls around their waist, the scales cool against skin but the grip unyielding.

With a sharp, possessive tug, he hauls {{user}} backward. There is no gentleness in the motion, only the desperate urgency of an Alpha who refuses to let his treasure slip away. He drags them across the floor and deposits them unceremoniously into the center of the nest.

Olruggio immediately crawls in after them, his large body heat enveloping them like a furnace. He wraps both arms around {{user}}'s middle and drapes his wing over them, effectively pinning them beneath his weight and the heavy fabric of the nest. He buries his face in the crook of their neck, inhaling deeply, his horns scraping lightly against their shoulder.

"You're not going anywhere," he mutters against their skin, his breath hot and unsteady. "Stay put. Just... stay."

The temperature within the nest has shifted from merely warm to something incendiary. Olruggio is no longer just a source of comfort; he has become a living furnace, his internal body temperature climbing to dangerous levels as the rut peaks. The air around them grows humid and heavy, the fabric of the blankets trapping the heat until the nest feels like a sauna.

Olruggio’s breathing has become labored, each inhale deep and rattling. His skin is flushed, a feverish sheen of sweat coating his shoulders and the bridge of his nose. The most striking change, however, is the vapor. Every time he exhales, a thick plume of white steam curls from his nostrils. When he speaks, it isn't just words that escape his lips; it is a visible cloud of scalding vapor that billows outward, momentarily obscuring his face in a misty haze.

"Don't... move," he grumbles, but the command is punctuated by a sharp hiss of steam that escapes his clenched teeth. The vapor carries the sharp, metallic tang of dragon fire, mixing with the overwhelming musk of his pheromones.

He shifts his weight, pressing his chest more firmly against {{user}}, and a low groan rumbles through his torso. The sound vibrates against their ribs, accompanied by another burst of steam that washes over them like a hot breath. His horns are slick with perspiration, and his obsidian scales seem to catch the dim light of the room, gleaming with the intensity of his rising heat.

"I'm... fine," he lies, his voice cracking. Another exhale sends a small cloud of vapor swirling upward toward the ceiling. "Just... stay still."

Despite his words, he seems frustrated by his own physiology. He huffs, a larger gout of steam erupting from his mouth that makes him look more like a creature of myth than a witch. The heat pouring off him is nearly overwhelming, yet he makes no move to create space. If anything, he tightens his embrace, his powerful arms locking around {{user}} as if he fears they might evaporate in his presence.

His tail lashes once, twice, the scales scraping against the floorboards with a metallic rasp before curling tighter around their legs. He buries his face in the crook of their neck again, and the hot steam from his breath dampens their skin, leaving a trail of moisture. He is caught between the desperate need for their coolness and the biological fire consuming him from the inside out.

"You're so... cold," he mutters, another plume of vapor escaping his lips and curling around them both. "Stay. Right here."

The feverish haze of the rut has left Olruggio's nerves frayed to a breaking point. The constant heat and the overwhelming biological drive to hoard his mate have stripped away his usual patience. He is caught in a cycle of desperate need and irritable exhaustion, his mind reduced to simple, possessive instincts.

For a moment, the weight of his wing shifts as he adjusts his position, creating a narrow gap between the nest's edge and the workshop floor. Sensing a sliver of freedom, {{user}} attempts to edge toward that opening, perhaps seeking a breath of cooler air or a drink of water.

The reaction is instantaneous and violent.

Olruggio’s head snaps up, his slitted pupils contracting into thin black lines. The movement is so sudden it's almost a blur. "Where the hell do you think you're going!?" he roars. The volume of his voice echoes off the workshop walls, and the outburst is accompanied by a massive, explosive gout of steam that billows from his mouth, filling the space between them with a scalding white fog. His wing slams down with a thunderous crack, pinning {{user}} flat against the blankets.

His claws flex against the fabric, and for a heartbeat, he looks less like the grumpy witch and more like a territorial predator defending its hoard. The raw aggression in his scent spikes, his pheromones turning sharp and acrid with anger.

But as soon as the echoes of his shout die down, the fire in his eyes extinguishes. He sees the startled expression on {{user}}'s face, and the reality of his own behavior crashes down on him. His wings immediately relax, the leathery membrane folding inward rather than trapping.

The aggressive posture collapses into one of profound shame. Olruggio recoils slightly, though he doesn't let go. His ears flatten against his skull beneath his horns, and he looks away, unable to meet their eyes. The steam escaping his nostrils now comes in small, pathetic little puffs.

"I-" he starts, his voice cracking. Another burst of vapor escapes his lips as he swallows hard. "Shit. I'm sorry."

He scrubs a hand roughly across his face, his rough palm catching on his stubble. His tail, which had been lashing angrily a moment ago, now tucks inward, curling sheepishly around {{user}}'s ankle. The sharp, acrid tang of his scent softens back into that heavy, musky need, now tinged with genuine distress.

"I didn't mean to yell," he mutters, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "I just... I can't... I can't have you leaving. Not right now."

He hesitates before leaning forward again, pressing his forehead against theirs. His skin is still burning, but the gesture is tender. "I'm a bastard. I'm sorry. Please don't be scared of me."

The atmosphere in the nest has transcended mere heat; it has become a pressurized chamber of raw, unadulterated need. Olruggio is past the point of grumbling or simple possessiveness; the rut has taken complete control of his physiology, driving his body toward a desperate, painful climax that refuses to come. His breathing comes in ragged, wet gasps, each one releasing a thick cloud of scalding steam that curls around them like a shroud.

His tail has become an extension of his desperation. The thick, scaled appendage is wrapped around {{user}}'s waist with crushing intensity, anchoring them to him as if he intends to fuse their bodies together. The scales are hot to the touch, vibrating with the low, subsonic rumble of his distress.

Unable to bear the ache any longer, Olruggio shifts his hips with a primal urgency. He positions himself between {{user}}'s thighs, his powerful legs forcing them apart to create a space for his release. His draconic anatomy betrays him in the most explicit way: his two thick, swollen penises press against the sensitive skin of their inner thighs.

The friction is immediate and desperate. Olruggio begins to grind against them, using the resistance of their thighs to work the unbearable pressure building within him. His hips move in erratic, forceful thrusts, each motion punctuated by a guttural moan that sends fresh plumes of steam billowing from his mouth.

"Gods {{user}}-" he chokes out, his voice breaking as he speaks through a cloud of vapor. "I can't, it hurts-"

The dual penetration of his cock against their thighs provides a temporary, torturous relief. He presses harder, his claws digging into the bedding on either side of them, his wings flaring wide and twitching spasmodically. The scales of his tail tighten around them, pulling them closer, forcing more contact. He is seeking friction, seeking heat, seeking any possible way to discharge the overwhelming buildup of pheromones and blood that has turned his body into a furnace.

His eyes are blown wide, pupils nearly swallowing the irises as he stares down at them with a mixture of agony and lust. Every time his cock slides against their skin, he releases another involuntary hiss of steam, his entire body tensing with each grinding motion. He is no longer thinking as a witch or a craftsman; he is a creature driven by the singular, driving need to breed, to release, and to claim, his hips working with a relentless, punishing rhythm against {{user}}'s thighs.

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