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"I don't think your sorcerer likes me." The voice comes from the beastman corpse on the table, not from the priest leaning over it and painting arcane runes on the skin. Ezekyle addresses the priest anyway.
"For a man who wants all knowledge to be attainable—and not just in the abstract, but ideally by him personally—all your secrets must be uncomfortable." Sargon and Khayon's clash over Gyre won't be the last problem this group has; they're all willful bastards, or they would never have made it here in the first place.
"Secrets?" Sargon says through his beastman, his expression guileless and wide-eyed, no match for the bestial voice.
"All those things you 'cannot say'," Ezekyle clarifies with a grin. He knows someone was making a deliberate bid in putting Sargon in his path; he even has a few guesses about who it might have been. Ultimately, it doesn't matter. Life in the Eye is an endless series of gambits and counters among those who could be powerful, and Ezekyle's strategy is to take all the bait and use it far better than his opponents think he can.
Sargon shrugs, smiling his cherubic smile. "I can say that I am yours," he offers. "I can say that my purpose here is to see you succeed in all your ambitions."
"I know," Ezekyle says. "That's why I keep you around."
"Here I thought it was for my pretty face."
"I can have multiple reasons." Ezekyle starts to unbuckle his gauntlets and tug them off. Over his years in the Eye he's replaced pieces of armor so many times, so haphazardly, that it doesn't hang together like a thing with a single spirit anymore. The downside is it's weaker at the joints than the original set; the upside is it doesn't take three serfs with power drills to put it on or take it off. He still doesn't take all of it off very often, because he lives in the fucking Eye of Terror, but he can. Or he can take off whatever suits his needs at the moment.
Sargon's gaze drifts down as Ezekyle toys with the clamps that hold his groin-guard in place. "You do have something else in mind," his puppet says as he finishes the final rune and steps back.
Ezekyle shrugs, his armor grinding in the left shoulder joint. Maybe the Tlaloc still has some arming serfs who can take a look at it so he doesn't have to. "Somebody did just call attention to his pretty face."
Sargon bites his lip, ducking his head so he can look at Ezekyle through his lashes, but he says nothing.
With the others here, plans will start to be put into motion. Conflicts will need to be managed, animosity sharpened and focused in the right direction. It's going to get more difficult to find time for frivolous things. "You want to come over here?"
Sargon does, smiling, silent, not stopping until his breastplate presses against Ezekyle's. He looks up.
"You get so shy about sex," Ezekyle says. He leans down to kiss Sargon's soft lips. "Just prepped a new voice and you won't use it for this." He kisses Sargon again and this time those soft lips part for him, offering him access to the empty mouth beyond. Ezekyle licks his way in, past teeth, stroking the roof of Sargon's mouth, finding the edge of the scarring there.
"You know what you want without me making suggestions," Sargon says through his puppet as he leans into the kiss. "But I am happy to speak if you want to hear this voice."
Ezekyle reaches down to unlock the clamps so he can pull his groin guard out of the way and open his bodyglove. He's already mostly hard for Sargon's sweet, surrendering kisses, and then Sargon reaches down to wrap a supremely careful gauntleted hand around his cock and he groans.
"I admit I can see the appeal of sounds like that." Sargon's control of the new body is firming up, his individual accent and cadence coming through in the beastman's rough voice. He strokes Ezekyle's cock with gentle reverence as Ezekyle bites his lip. "Do you want my mouth?"
Ezekyle pulls back from kissing him. "Of course I do."
Sargon nods, as if that is—and he's right—the only answer that makes sense. He sinks to his knees smoothly and presses his lips to Ezekyle's cockhead. His eyes sparkle when he looks up.
Ezekyle cups a hand around the back of his head and pulls him forward. Sargon's mouth opens and Ezekyle's cock slides easily into it, filling his mouth, rubbing the slick roof and the soft floor. Then there's the scar, twisted and thick, all that's left of his tongue. Ezekyle rubs his cock against that gnarled texture, the brutal wound his prophet survived to galvanize his purpose.
"You like the scar," says the beastman's voice. Sargon's green eyes are still looking up at Ezekyle's face. His throat works as he swallows, the scar pushing against Ezekyle's cock. "The way it feels, or everything it means?"
"Both," Ezekyle says. His hand still cradles Sargon's skull. "Always both. Separating sensation from meaning is pointless here, especially."
Sargon blinks slowly, a sign of contentment. Ezekyle thrusts deeper, pushing into the tighter confines of Sargon's throat. The scarring extends here, too, knotted flesh that presses against the most sensitive spots on Ezekyle's cock. He moans as he bottoms out, the full length of his cock buried down Sargon's throat and the muscles there working reflexively to try to swallow him.
Sargon's voice-puppet moans back. "Yes, like that. Love having you so deep inside me."
Ezekyle smirks. "For how it feels, or what it means?"
"Both," Sargon confirms. He sucks needily on Ezekyle's cock while his puppet continues, "Your cock feels good, thick and hard, and it shows I belong to the Chosen of Chaos."
"You do," Ezekyle agrees. "You were a very generous gift from someone."
Sargon's hands cling to Ezekyle's greaves, and a shudder runs through him hard enough to be visible in the armor. "Fuck me, please, use me for anything you want. I follow nobody but you now. I belong to you."
"Don't forget it," Ezekyle says. He thrusts harder, driving into Sargon's tight, damaged throat, and Sargon makes wet, voiceless sounds as he struggles to keep up. "When your last master tries to activate whatever ploy you're a part of, remember who you belong to now."
"Yes," Sargon says through the corpse, signing an affirmative at the same time, his eyes pleading. Khayon thinks his inability to read Sargon's thoughts renders the prophet a liability, impossible to trust, but Ezekyle is content in his ability to read people in less arcane ways. Sargon wants to be his.
It's either the feeling of Sargon's scarred throat clutching at his cockhead or the devotion the action embodies, or it's both because especially here the two are always intertwined—but Ezekyle comes hard, his cock pulsing, pouring his release down Sargon's throat too deep to even let him taste it.
Sargon takes a deep breath and lets it out in an obvious sigh. Content. ...And back to communicating without speech.
Ezekyle shakes his head fondly. He pulls out, wiping away a trail of spit from the corner of Sargon's mouth. "You want me to take care of you too?"
Sargon cocks his head, listening for something distant. "Not enough time," his corpse-puppet says. "Footsteps in the corridor. Someone has figured out where you went and has questions for the commander." Sargon rises to his feet in a smooth purr of servos he's clearly spent time maintaining recently.
"Soon, then." It's no good leaving a loyal brother unsatisfied, unappreciated; Ezekyle is going to need all of them, and he needs them to know they matter. He kisses Sargon's swollen lips as the footsteps become audible, approaching.
"Soon," Sargon's puppet confirms as he kisses back. "I'll make sure to remind you."