“I understand you do not mean to suggest I get out of bed.”
-
Ambiguous WoL/G'raha. Post 5.3 on a lazy morning, the Warrior of Light [REDACTED]s G'raha's [REDACTED].
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
Not all sex has to feel like the end of the world. Sometimes it feels like tuning a harp or drawing a flower in the sand. It can feel simple like setting a table, natural as skipping a rock, standing barefoot by the creek—easy little things you might or might not do every day. The beauty is there’s no pressure, and it really doesn’t matter whether you do it or not. Life goes on. Love gets made today or tomorrow in any way at all.
You are old enough to know now that an orgasm shouldn’t change the course of history. You’ve had your share of that. Now in G’raha, you have found a present worth settling down in.
G’raha teaches you so much about patience, patience and hands. Until the last moment his are always light on your body, and that lightness weighs heavy. You’ve come to believe in less is more. He bruises on special occasions, bites once in a blue moon. It feels better to want when you know you won’t want all for nothing. His presence is a promise fulfilled, a wish realized, a dream dragged into reality. He’s here on the Source, outside the Tower, flesh and blood and bone, before your very eyes, against your very lips. G’raha Tia! Raha! Sometimes, you could shout it to all of Mor Dhona.
Or you could whisper it. And you do. At his neck with a hand down his smalls. Middle of a lazy morning, end of a wet dream. He’s hard. He’s smiling. He’s calling out to you, kissing like he doesn’t see how well you want to eat him alive, how keen you are on sucking until you taste the sweetness of his soul at the head of his cock.
“Well, good morning,” he says, stretching his legs. Already an arm finds its way around your shoulders. Another thing like so many that fall into place when he’s around. “Sleep well?”
You grunt and tug him from the base, rubbing an indignant expression upon his bare chest. He smells sunny and delicious, like browned butter just pulled from the stovetop.
“Too early to talk, hm?” he says.
You snicker. “Not too early to get you up, though.”
“I understand you do not mean to suggest I get out of bed.”
“If you do, I’ll come with you.” You work your way up into a straddle bit by bit, lumbering left and right like the pull of sleep is struggling to tug you back into the covers. Ultimately, you prevail and set your hands on G’raha’s belly. On his chest, right at his sternum is a pink half-scar. You both agree it almost resembles a bullet wound, though this body has never known such an injury. Either way, that’s the spot you kiss before slinking down his legs and taking the covers with you. When you settle at his knees, he’s fully exposed to the elements—or he would be, if he’d pull down his smalls. The shape of his stiff cock beneath the fabric warms you from the inside out. You want it so badly that you laugh.
He laughs, too. “Hm? What.” His dick tenses, bobs. Surely his doing. “Is something funny?” Another twitch, perfectly timed. It’d be hilarious if you weren’t so horny.
“I’m going to put it in my mouth.”
“In your mouth! My…” He lifts his head to look, as though he isn’t sure what exactly you’ve roused between his legs. “That doesn’t sound so bad, actually. I’ll allow it.”
“Good.” In days past, you might’ve sassed him. But you’re just happy, so fucking happy. You’ll take it however he gives it to you. He’ll give it a thousand ways before you get bored.
Moments later, your lips close around his clothed cock with a low moan. In the haze of your early lust, you want him leaking through the fabric before you set him free. You greet his tip with your tongue, and he curls his fingers in your hair—doesn’t even touch your head proper—just hovers his hand close, fraying a single strand between his thumb and index.
“Pretty,” he says. “Your eyelashes.”
You flutter them closed. His smalls are soon slick with your spit. You can feel him tensing his thighs every time you lap down the whole length. You know he wants more, but he also likes wanting. What’s the rush?
“Have you been up long?” He lets go of your hair, goes for your neck instead. Feather-touch, nearly a tickle. He keeps his nails short.
You slowly shake your head, your mouth locked upon his cock. Those lips of yours have made many lovers lose their patience.
G’raha’s breaths are loud and long, getting shorter by the moment. “I suppose there’s not much to do today...something with the…” He clears his throat. “Rowena was asking…”
“Mm.” You turn your head sideways and run your lips along his length that way, adjusting the pressure with your jaw. He shudders beneath your ministrations, and it isn’t long before he hitches a thumb in the band of his smalls. A subtle hint, but a certain one.
Who are you to deny him? You suck a little more then let off to tug down the fabric to his knees. He pulls one leg up and out entirely, giving him opportunity to spread a bit more.
The thing that springs free is wet and warm, full and swollen. “Pretty,” you say, staring directly at the bulb of precum on his slit. “Your eyelashes, I mean.”
“Ah-hah…” He blushes and swallows. “Thank you, Warrior.”
“Of course.” You return a smile, this time looking him in the eye. A quick shimmy and you’re once again taking him to the root. The bare taste of his skin makes you want to go faster, taste harder. All of your senses are intoxicated by his raw body, the musk, the moans, the shape of his dick, the way it fits against the roof of your mouth, the way he rubs behind your ear. You could suck his cock all day and have a good time, even if he kept all of his cum to himself.
But he won’t. You know him well enough to recognize the sound of pressure building. That he’s gone quiet is a sure enough sign. He starts holding his breath, shifting his thigh, gripping the mattress. With one free hand, you form a ring at the base of his cock and rub what you can’t always fit in your mouth. Faster, faster, faster, your ears train on the slickness. Your mouth leaks moans of its own.
You really love this man.
You love his dick, too. He’s near coming after you start thumbing at his balls, carefully rubbing down the middle and pressuring his taint with the rest of your fingers. He hikes one leg up and twists you half-sideways, so he can slot himself in and out of your mouth at his own pace. That’s where his touch grows harder, right at the precipice, right at rapture, when he hopes to give you every onze of seed he can offer. You picture each burst at the back of your throat, a mess of sticky white coating your tongue.
He calls your name then gives you something bitter to drink.
Your heart flutters. You swallow.
And swallow again.
He rolls back to his back and wipes his forehead. You move with him, mouth holding his tender cock until he stops adjusting. Before you lean away, you kiss his tip, which twitches. He flinches and laughs. You laugh, too.
“What a treat,” he says.
“I should say the same.”
“Hm…” A happy, thoughtful sound. He grazes your thigh with his fingers, grazes then squeezes. You can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. He can feel your affection at the bridge of his nose, where you’ve set your gaze. “An auspicious start to the day.”
“It always is.” You put your hand over his. “Do you feel like nodding off again, now?”
He fakes a yawn. “I wouldn’t mind resting for a moment more, now that I’ve exerted myself.”
You remove yourself from his legs and crawl back into the covers. Things fall into place, arms, legs, expressions. The pace of his heartbeat. His capacity for patience. Maybe even yours. You trace him from bellybutton to collarbone. “I’ll allow it.”
Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. During the events of Stormblood, Cirina notices something unusual about the Warrior of Light's left arm.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. During the events of Stormblood, Cirina notices something unusual about the Warrior of Light's left arm.
Cirina was sitting by the fire with her legs pulled up to her chest when some poor fool thought to rouse the Warrior of Light from slumber. Her quiet plot of the Steppe, blanketed with clear starry skies this night, became loud with the whipping of tent flaps and the sting of foreign curses. The frenzy didn’t frighten her though; it was hard for her to feel intimidated by the one called Blue.
When he stopped hissing at the one who disturbed him—another of Hien’s new friends, she thought—he rolled his eyes and stomped over to the fire, choosing a spot a few fulms away without paying her a nod of recognition. Immediately, he crossed his arms and legs and began bobbing a tiny foot up and down. Clad in nothing but a plain yellow robe, he was so much daintier than she ever would have imagined. This is Eorzea’s savior, not much taller or stronger-looking than she.
Until then, Cirina had never seen his hair down before, either; it was much longer than she expected, dark and shiny in the firelight. His amber eyes matched a shade of the flames. When he opened his mouth to speak, that surprised her, too.
“Apparently,” he said, bitter, tired, and dry. “Someone saw something suspicious on the horizon. Something suspicious. In the middle of a lively steppe, wherein some 50 tribes regularly engage each other in combat.” He rubbed his forehead with his right hand. The nails are painted dark. “I would rather not be woken on suspicion.”
Cirina blinked at him. This was perhaps the first time they had spoken outside the company of others. She wasn’t sure if he expected her to engage, or if he were just trying to fill the silence.
The Warrior kept talking. “He’s off to scout it out now. And I’m sure he’ll find nothing, and all I’ll be is a bit warmer and infinitely less able to sleep.”
Sleeping problems? Cirina furled her brow. She was getting the sense he would’ve said as much no matter what kind of company he found by the fire. She cleared her throat, regardless. “We have...teas known to help still one’s thoughts and relax one’s body.”
He raised his hand and gestured. “No tea shall work on me. I have tried them all.”
“Ah…” She didn’t see how that could be possible. Before she could inquire further, he shook his head.
“I should say—I don’t like tea. I think the process of stomaching it would outweigh any potential benefits.”
“The taste of ours is sweet,” she said. “Like…” What would an Eorzean recognize? She looked upward and pondered with the sky. “Well, it’s...it tastes almost like a dessert.”
“Hm.” He softened. For all his griping, he certainly looked like a man capable of sleep. Heavy eyelids, wilting posture. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, an elbow on either knee. That’s when Cirina noticed something peculiar about his left arm.
It was silver? It glowed?
She must have lost the light blue luminescence somewhere in the fire’s reds and golds. Now that she had noticed it, the whole arm appeared to be metallic in nature, with glimmering veins of cobalt. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking at, it wasn’t long before he realized she was.
He whipped his head away and stood, tugging the fabric of his robes to cover up. “Well, I’d best—well you know. I ought to—”
She folded her hands and bowed her head. “Forgive me. It’s very pretty.”
He lingered. “Pretty…?”
“Your arm,” she said, peering back up. He looked flustered, not angry. She hoped she hadn’t overstepped some secret boundary. Was this some great and embarrassing thing?
He cupped his metal hand in his hand of flesh and looked down. Though he wore a shade of pink upon his cheeks, his eyes were narrow and suspicious. Before he walked away he mumbled something, but Cirina couldn’t figure out what exactly it was that he said.
She didn’t remember seeing him without a pair of gloves on ever again.
"Stay pretty, Exarch. No messes 'til you're two for one."
-
Like, VERY explicit. Set before ShB, the Exarch goes into season and calls upon a pair of soldiers to help him muscle through.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
The Exarch cannot trust Captain Lyna with every task befitting a skilled member of the guard. To lead his people into combat, to muster up morale, to keep his secrets, certainly. But there are some secrets he tries to spare her the burden of keeping.
She is discerning and subtle, the Exarch’s charge. If she discovers the truth of what sequesters him in his Tower for a fortnight—and what calls away two of her most capable soldiers—she keeps it to herself. And for that he is thankful.
For decades, the Exarch did not go into season. He was blissfully deprived of that supernatural warmth in his belly, the insatiable pressure at his groin. He assumed it was the Tower’s influence stepping in, putting biology in stasis. What need did the structure have for a breeding steward? By its power, G’raha’s life would be extended far past the point of needing an heir. Perhaps it came down to resource management and mathematics: surely it made more sense to suppress that feverish, time-consuming condition than it would to let it play out and risk the Exarch’s faculties for half a moon.
He isn’t sure why the Tower reassessed its calculations. Three summers before the Exarch would first attempt to summon the Warrior of Light, he awakens with a coat of sweat upon all but the crystal parts of his body and a sticky mess between his legs. There is no daydreaming nor doubt. He knows his reprieve has, for whatever reason, come to an end.
After staggering to the washroom, he wins a quick orgasm with perhaps a minute of stroking, then cleans up. That release gives him enough presence of mind to alert those who are likely to seek him out in coming days. He declines to disclose the specific nature of his ailment. He will handle this condition on his own, like he did as a rowdy scholar, jerking off between lectures and riding a toy when jerking off just wasn’t enough.
Jerking off, the Exarch finds, isn’t enough now either. He finds nothing in the Tower that can save him from lusting after the warmth of a hard cock. Other Seeker men might fantasize about breeding and filling as many holes as they can, planting as much seed as possible, but G'raha? The annual call usually tells him to spread his legs, oil his hole, and be bred.
He spends those miserable two weeks alone, journaling between arduous sessions of self-pleasure. If this condition springs up again—and he has a feeling it will—he will need to gracefully recruit someone to fuck him in his time of need.
13 days after the Exarch's ordeal began, his final orgasm comes following a full bell of fingering his ass in an empty bathtub. For the first time in nearly two weeks, he feels a lightness, a relief. He has barely enough energy to turn the faucet. The cool water rises around his hot and aching body, comforting as a spring breeze. He swipes the cum from his belly and decides that when the tub is full, he will settle in for a long nap. Biology is done calling him for now.
//
Biology does call again. By this time, the Exarch has made careful preparations, most notably the selection of two trustworthy volunteers. Messengers are sent, hints are taken, and two capable soldiers arrive at the Dossal Gate on day eight of the Exarch’s indisposition. He’s entering week two, when it’s harder than ever to get off and—according to the ache in his balls—twice as necessary to do so.
The first helper is a veteran mystel soldier with rough hands and a thick beard. He’s content to come half a dozen times in a row, when given the right incentive. The second is a drahn, surly, with one of the guard’s most impressive combat records. He doesn’t talk much, but he blushes easily. Sometimes he can hold back his release for the better part of a bell. G’raha would’ve approached these two specifically, even if their modes of intimacy were less complementary. But variety certainly doesn’t hurt, either.
Sometimes, the soldiers tend to the Exarch together. Sometimes they work alone. Neither stays overnight. The mystel prefers the Exarch with his ass in the air, or his torso bent over something sturdy. G’raha will claw at the desk or the pillow or whatever’s in front of him, while the mystel ruts inside, biting his lip and gripping G’raha by the tail. When the mystel comes, he gives just enough pause for G’raha to feel the warmth dripping out of him, just enough to savor the bitter spill running down his thigh before getting back to business. Each round begins with a rough slap to the Exarch’s ass—and ends with a full load inside.
The drahn likes G’raha on his back. He likes to see G’raha’s face. He likes to watch G’raha’s already stretched hole keep stretching to accommodate more than it looks like it should be able to take. G’raha always takes it, of course, usually coming in the process with a little whimper. Unlike the mystel, the drahn likes to bring additional equipment. The Exarch’s favorite is a soft toy he can oil up and slot onto his dick. He soon becomes spoiled on jerking himself with the borrowed device while being fucked in turn. Is there a more complete pleasure? Sometimes, he asks to keep whatever the drahn brings overnight, so he can put out a few more fires before the next exhausting session.
During the peak of each hormonal period, the Exarch averages perhaps 12 orgasms per day. Sometimes fewer, sometimes more. In summary, he aims to spend three days with his dutiful soldiers and take care of himself on the others. The trio tries to make the most of their time together. Usually the mystel is the one who comes up with new ideas.
For example, the mystel is the first to suggest the Exarch try taking two cocks at once.
The Exarch is laid back upon the drahn, feverish back to formidable chest. He feels pitiful, feckless, pathetic having someone hoist his wobbly legs apart on his behalf—he feels all those things plus excited. While the drahn holds him by the hip, the mystel tries to put their parts together. He's got one hand on his own dick and the other guiding the drahn's. Might as well get the hard part out of the way first.
When finally the Exarch's hole accepts the soldier's swollen tip, the drahn moans and jerks upward, pushing himself about halfway in. G'raha hisses in pleasure, and the mystel laughs. "Try to hold it in, Exarch," he says. "You've got to make room for one more, remember."
"Yes," the Exarch says. Spit drips from his lip and over the line of his jaw. "Please. Have faith...I'm ready."
"Ha! You've got to get the first one all the way in, before ye get mine."
There's a good deal of shuffling and heavy breathing. The Exarch has to arch completely to accept the bulk of the drahn's cock as requested. He's on the verge of bursting when the mystel's oiled finger starts circling his rim, testing the muscle. Can it really stretch more? The Exarch holds his breath and devotes all of his attention to the intoxicating question.
"Stay pretty, Exarch," the mystel says, voice low. "No messes 'til you're two for one."
The Exarch could whine out a premature apology or focus on living up to expectations. "Right. Yes. Don't leave me waiting…"
The mystel mutters something. For all his grump, his eyes are like saucers. He nudges his index finger in, and his middle follows close behind. He has faith now, faith and desire. Patience fades quickly with a begging man in the mix. When the mystel is ready to answer the Exarch, when he thinks the Exarch is ready—he sets his legs over the drahn’s and fully hilts his dick in one rude thrust, savoring the impossible squeeze of the Exarch, already aching with the drahn’s girth.
The mystel takes enough time to curse once before he starts fucking. By then, the Exarch’s abdomen is wet with his own delayed climax. He finds new colors in the overwhelming bliss that follows. Pleasure was never so intense, never so hard-fought when he was younger. Each season, his body learns to demand more, and now it’s going to develop a taste for the friction of two cocks rubbing against each other within him.
Of the two soldiers, the mystel comes first and keeps going. He’s nearly tuckered out after a third orgasm. Thankfully, the drahn seems ready to take initiative from the bottom, using his great thighs to push himself in and out until his release comes with an echoing groan. The Tower’s ambient blue light flickers to a low glow in the aftermath and all is silent, spare the wet sounds of the Exarch’s latest sloppy release.
The drahn and the mystel exchange glances. “Exarch?” the latter says, easing halfway out.
“Ah!” The lights buzz back to full brightness at the Exarch’s gasp. “F...forgive me,” he says, letting his crystal arm drop to his forehead. “It seems the both of us were overwhelmed. Both myself and the Tower.”
The mystel scratches the back of his neck. “Imagine that.”
“Are you all right?” The drahn’s voice is a careful whisper.
“Of course.” The Exarch rubs the side of his head against the soldier’s chest. “And I’m grateful.”
The Exarch wagers he will be indisposed for a few more days from that point. He isn’t sure whether the Captain of the Guard would have noticed a mysterious phenomenon afflicting the Tower’s appearance from the outside, but if she did—perhaps she’ll have forgotten by the time he reemerges.
"Let's cut to the chase, Emet-Selch. Are you trying to offer your services, or do you expect me to offer mine?"
-
Male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. The Warrior of Light indulges Emet-Selch in conversation, and then something else.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
Rain on the First is a queer thing. Sheets of water could be falling from the sky, yet even the thickest clouds provide little shelter from a very different kind of flood. Bas'ir is nudging muddy rocks with the toe of his boot near the entrance to Slitherbough, when the unusual afternoon shower finally lets up. Peering out from his little nook, he eyes the sky with suspicion. It has much to hide.
"Afraid of getting wet?" The voice materializes a few fulms behind Bas'ir, and its source follows soon after. "Of all the age's heroes, you seem to be among the most unlikely."
Bas'ir grumbles. It's the Ascian. From now on, Bas'ir will assume he is always somewhere nearby. "You're still putzing around these parts, hmm?"
An indignant Emet-Selch bends his wrist so his palm floats over his collar. "I'm afraid you grossly underestimate how boring the rest of the realm can be."
Bas’ir looks bored—of this conversation. He pockets his hands in his duster and meanders a few lazy steps into the Greatwood. "I just thought you might have something better to do. Boring or not." He casts a bemused glance over his shoulder. Tired, but self-satisfied.
The Ascian raises an eyebrow. He looks more natural when he’s sneering in some capacity. “Something better?” A flourish and sweep of his arm. This is going to be a grand reveal, a great unveiling. “What, like fucking the Crystal Exarch?”
“Yes.” Deadpan. If the Ascian meant to shock and surprise, he certainly hasn’t. If anyone had the opportunity to discern the nature of Bas'ir's regular trips to the Tower, it would be an ancient, occasionally formless being with the ability to watch from any angle, appear from any place. Now Bas’ir gets to raise an eyebrow. “What, is that what you’re here to pester me about? Shall I tell you tawdry tales? I think not.” He sets an honest pace out from the village now. The surrounding world smells like life, like humidity.
“You keep this secret from your precious companions,” Emet-Selch says, following. “And yet you are so eager to display the truth for me—for your sworn enemy. Explain that to me, hero.”
“Why should I care what my enemy thinks of me?” The ground beneath Bas’ir’s feet has a give to it, mossy and wet. “Besides, is that what you are? My enemy?”
“That depends.” Emet-Selch’s strides are much longer than the miqo’te’s. He catches up and rounds him in the twitch of a tail. “What do you think of me?” Arms outstretched, he offers a saccharine smile.
Bas’ir blinks. “I think you are blocking my way.”
“Oh, your way to where, Warrior? You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”
“I’m going a way, to get away.” He sidesteps Emet-Selch and chooses another path ahead. Truth be told, he really doesn't have a particular destination in mind. He wants to escape the unyielding hospitality of the Night’s Blessed. He wants to escape the depth of Y’shtola’s gaze. The rain held him at bay until it didn’t.
“Such trickery of the tongue. But you won’t entertain my question?” When the Ascian is done talking and waving his hands about, he again follows Bas’ir. This time he leaves more space between the two of them.
“I think you are very tall,” Bas’ir says, shoving a thorny branch out of the way. “And you are dramatic. And you are an Ascian. I have no reason to offer any more engagement.”
“However...?”
“No ‘however’ necessary.” A hissing sound catches Bas'ir's ear and he strafes away, pauses with a hand hovering over his firearm. Could be a beast or some mystery of the marsh. Neither option pleases him, and honestly? He’s not opposed to giving Emet-Selch the time of day. "Actually, if you could find me some dry and inoffensive place to be alone for a while, I might tolerate being alone with you."
Emet-Selch catches up with a smile on his face. Though he's been trekking through the same wilds as Bas'ir, his robes look untarnished. Benefits of being whatever the hells he is. "Excellent. Now, follow my lead."
//
The dry and inoffensive place is a patch of land between a natural rock wall and a tree so massive its limbs keep a considerable perimeter out of the elements. The contrast is so stark, it looks almost like a burnt circle of crisp leaves amidst the green. Either way, it’s lonely and dry enough for Bas'ir's standards. He's been leaning against the tree for less than a quarter bell, when Emet-Selch circles back to one of his favorite topics—the Crystal Exarch.
"How did it begin, precisely? Your engagement with him." The Ascian crosses his arms and waits for the answer, wearing the face of a man with only general curiosity.
Bas'ir shrugs and flaps a hand a few times. "As all my engagements do. He made a request, and I sent him an invoice."
"Truly…"
"No. But I did whore in Kugane." Bas'ir's lips wear an impish little cat smile. Though he isn't ashamed of his history in the slightest, he certainly doesn't talk about it around the Exarch.
"An unlikely hero indeed. Might I pry a little? As though we're old friends sharing notes about the latest gossip."
Bas'ir expects questions about the whoring, so he shrugs. "I have nothing to hide, Ascian."
"So dehumanizing!" Emet-Selch covers his mouth in another show of indignation. He ends the gesture with a fake yawn, then paces a few steps away. "So, do you get him off?"
Oh. He wants to know about the Exarch. "This is what you'd ask of me?" Bas'ir says. "Your enemy, or whatever we've decided to call each other."
"We're supposed to be gossiping. Besides, if you haven’t told your Scions, surely you've been itching to tell someone Why not your dear friend, Emet-Selch."
Bas'ir rubs his brow and adjusts his position against the tree. "I...yes of course I get him off. I'm a professional after all."
The Ascian giggles and smirks over his shoulder. "Of course! And does he get you off?"
“He has gotten me off, yes.”
“Goodness! And we're all very proud of him for this. Does he use his mouth?”
“He does not.”
Emet-Selch shakes his head. “Tsk tsk. He wastes too much time flapping it when he oughtn’t.”
“I believe,” Bas’ir says, “‘tis more of a privacy matter.”
“Oh?” This surprises the Ascian, who changes the direction of his wandering. He rubs his chin with one hand, elbow balanced in the palm of the other. “So not even you get to see his face, then.”
Bas’ir chews the inside of his lip.
“Oh, come now. Don’t look so dejected." Emet pouts and wipes an imaginary tear from his face. His gestures offer at least as much communication as his words. "I must say, Bas'ir. You’ve already seen my face. In at least one respect, the two of us have gone further than the two of you.”
“As if I want to see his face.”
“Well, why not? I’m sure he’s very pretty in the sunlight, with all the…” The Ascian gestures where a sliver of crystal would’ve crawled up the Exarch’s cheek.
“And perhaps you’d look pretty on your knees, or some such.” Bas'ir uncrosses his arms and swipes his hands on his thighs. "Let's cut to the chase, Emet-Selch. Are you trying to offer your services, or do you expect me to offer mine?"
"Oh!" Emet-Selch blinks. He doesn't exactly look ruffled. "So you are a professional, aren't you?"
//
Hades is the one who gets on his knees. Leaned against the tree, Bas'ir produces his cock like it's nothing to him, like he won't care if the Ascian leaves him wanting in the wind. Hades has to hunch over like he's trying to reach something from under a piece of furniture, but the position isn't entirely foreign. Azem wasn’t very tall, either.
Hades thinks he'll be able to prove himself as a formidable force, but Bas'ir keeps him on a tight leash, gives him little leeway. This unsundered imitation of what mortals would call a god in comparison! And yet his nerve seems to have survived every cosmic obstacle. Hades doesn't get to suck so much as he gets to choke; he's out of practice, and Bas'ir tugs his hair quite roughly through the whole ordeal.
But Hades wanted this to begin with. He wanted something familiar, something that tugged like Azem, tasted like Azem, laughed like Azem. And Bas'ir does laugh, bending his knees and pulling Hades with a hand on either of his shoulders. Hades keeps his eyes closed and minds his teeth. Is it shameful that an Ascian wants to be a good hole?
"Prepare thyself," Bas'ir says through another snicker. He lets his hands fall to the side. Hades groans and presses his lips to the Warrior's base, lapping the underside of his cock. He wants to be good at this. He wants to be good enough. He always wanted to be good enough for—
Bas’ir palms him right over the third eye, pushes him backwards until his lips pop off. On cue, cum flows freely from the Warrior’s tip, and nearly all of it hits the target. The Ascian's rosey cheeks, his parted mouth, his waiting tongue—all come to know the warmth of Bas’ir’s pleasure. And Bas’ir is having a great time of it.
“Ah! Ah!” The Keeper gasps a few times, jerking his hips forward at every burst. “Ahahah! I was right!”
Hades says nothing. He’s dumbstruck at the enduring qualities of his one-time friend. Ultimately, the taste isn’t all that different, either.
“Ohoh my…” Bas’ir swipes the head of his dick on the Ascian’s mouth. “Oh my. I shall have to tell my comrades about this, shan’t I?”
Hades mumbles and rolls his eyes. Swirls of darkness are already sprouting beneath him. “Yes. And be sure and tell the Exarch as well.” He isn’t bored, but he’s decided to leave Bas’ir for now anyway. Much to think about. Much to remember.
The floor creaks. A sudden rush of wind, a thundering crack, and the desk has disappeared from beneath Bas'ir's hands.
-
Bas'ir Bahani's tinkering appears to have awakened something in a sleeping Rhuya'a Namid.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
The digit clicks into place. Bas'ir tongues the side of his lip and watches. This prosthetic is one of his older creations, a prototype kept out of sentimentality, so the fingers look like those of a roughly jointed doll. With a few improvements, though, he thinks it might make a good back-up arm. Even though he has no immediate need for another spare, he’s leaning over his work desk at some ungodly hour with magnifying goggles on, wearing the bulky mechanical arm most-suited for precision-based work.
Behind him, Rhuya'a sleeps on their shared bed. For the past few bells, Bas'ir has been telling himself I'll join him in just a moment, just a moment more. But every moment brings a new idea, a new hypothesis, a new reason to tinker. So the tinkering goes on.
Now Bas'ir thinks—if he sanded down part of the metal interior, could he perhaps fit a workable converter? The forearm was originally meant to hold parts just barely capable of function, and over the years Bas'ir has simplified his preferred design. He needs a quarter of the space to accomplish the same tasks he once did. If he can just free up a tad more room, he's confident he can—
The floor creaks. A sudden rush of wind, a thundering crack, and the desk has disappeared from beneath Bas'ir's hands.
He staggers backward, gasping through his fingers. His first thought—this is his fault. Did he leave something burning, something live? Was he filtering, channeling something without realizing it? He tugs off his goggles and sees no evidence of an explosion but instead a heaving Rhuya’a, hunkered over the place where Bas’ir’s desk once stood. Now the thing is cracked in half with a mess of machinery in the middle.
“Oh!” Bas’ir, wide-eyed and alert, starts and stops to approach his lover. Rhuya'a's hands are clenching like claws and his tail is bristled to the fullest. Shimmering sweat coats his bare chest, rising and falling in great noisy gasps. His single eye shakes left and right, and Bas'ir gets the idea that he's both seeing and not seeing the splintered remains before him. For a man who apparently just destroyed a desk, he looks...delicate. He looks vulnerable.
“G...good heavens!” Bas’ir says, kneeling to unlatch his prosthetic He stutters over a series of muted clicks and lets the arm drop to the floor. “Rhuya’a, it’s time for bed! Time for bed, now.”
Rhuya’a says nothing, but his ears twitch at the sound of Bas’ir’s voice. With pinned ears and high brows, he’s never looked so childlike before Bas’ir.
“Let’s get you back here now.” Bas’ir extends a trembling hand. Rhuya’a doesn’t shy away, but he doesn’t take accept the contact either. Bas’ir shakes his head. He doesn’t want his touch to hurt, but he doesn’t want the lack of touch to hurt either. So he touches.
“Let’s get you over...get you over here…yes?”
Rhuya’a is clammy beneath Bas’ir’s palm. Clammy and pliant. Their path to the bed is as steady as an amateur’s waltz, danced to Rhuya’a’s uneasy rhythm. When they land, they quickly tangle. Strong arms wrap around Bas’ir, and he feels the slightest mumble pressed against his chest.
“...’m sorry…”
Bas’ir swallows and gets to petting. “Shh, shshsh...I’m trying to sleep, you know. We’re trying to sleep.”
Rhuya’a becomes quiet. This is something they can fix on the morrow. This is something they can fix.
A short prose poem about the Warrior of Light’s decision to leave Aymeric.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
Sometimes you have to go, and you must go so far away, and you must go as far as you possibly can. Sometimes you must put aside another person's pride and head hill-ways, no more what-abouts, no more devil's advocate, no more his feelings your feelings his feelings. Sometimes your bed is a pretty prison, your daily kisses curses, your held hand a harsh reminder of what you're too afraid to let go.
Sometimes you decide you will learn to braid your own hair.
Sometimes you decide you will make new friends who can show you how.
I've been keeping up with the FFXIV writing challenge on AO3, I just lacked the mental fortitude to cross-post these past few days. I apologize! Should be posting my latest entries soon.
That being said, you can usually find my stuff faster on AO3. I really appreciate your support in these trying times!!
He has seen her do terrible, extraordinary things. Were she anyone but the Warrior of Light, they would surely call for her destruction.
He's also seen her masturbate.
-
Ambiguous female WoL. G'raha Tia has figured out where the Warrior of Light takes time for herself. He decides to take some time for himself, too.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
He has seen her do terrible, extraordinary things. Were she anyone but the Warrior of Light, they would surely call for her destruction.
Within a week of her appearance at the find, G'raha Tia came to associate acts of great violence with a devilish laugh. Where others might've warded unruly hippogryphs away, she punished them at the call of a cackle and a leap of faith. He'd seen her fell ten enemies with a single slash, burgeoning with aether. He’d seen her rocket through the air like a fiendish fireball, bloody lance in hand. He’d seen her rend and cleave and kill and—
He'd also seen her masturbate.
The first time, he thought he was hallucinating. He was walking along the lakeside, picking up pretty rocks when he saw something like a siren reclining on a mound of water-worn stone. She wasn’t wearing her armor, nor her trademark helmet. In fact, her trousers had been tugged off of one leg entirely to hang at the side. At first his tail whipped with fearful suspicion—was she in danger? Was she hurt? And then he saw the rough rhythm of her fingers up and down between her legs.
All his breath left his body, along with the bulk of his balance. By some miracle he stayed on his feet and kept himself from combusting on the spot. She was smiling! Not a care in the world, bare and unabashed! Once G'raha got his footing, he wandered back the way he came, somehow making it to his tent without anyone noticing the shapely outline at his groin. There was only one reasonable way to get rid of it, and he did so with just a few quick strokes and a well-placed tissue.
It would be misleading to say G’raha simply stumbled upon her again. By then he’d probably jacked off more than half a dozen times and driven himself half mad in so doing. With every orgasm, his fantasy went further; his lips on her nipples, her hand groping his cock, his cum filling her cunt. Each night he would finish, sweaty, panting, and wide-eyed. He would stare at the floor and wonder how he might excise this profoundly unprofessional attachment. For a while, his accidental obsession plagued him even more than his headaches. He started taking walks again. And he tended toward a certain path.
One day, he passed the stone where he’d first seen her working for her pleasure. Her spot was empty. Feeling both relief and disappointment, he kept walking and kicked a few pieces of driftwood on the way.
On his way back, however, her half-naked form once again occupied the area. She had her knees up and her legs spread wide. From his spot around the corner, he couldn't see her hole but he could hear it, slick and wet as she fucked it with her fingers. Without thinking, he gripped his filling cock through the fabric of his trousers and squeezed. The wanting, the aching was so painfully immediate. He was doomed to come the moment he felt the warmth of his own hands and imagined how much warmer her body might feel around him.
Shamed, he waited for her to leave before making the solemn trip back to camp that time. Laundry day came early.
A wise man would've chosen a different walking path or changed his habits. G'raha needed to spend more effort on tomes and relics, but every time he settled into his tent, his red eye would ache like an icepick. The walks gave him temporary solace, the stones he found made pretty souvenirs, and the sights he collected? They made compelling memories, selfish as he was for indulging in them every night and morning.
But he could be a selfish man. He could be bold. The third time he saw her at the rock, he walked right out into the open, right into her line of sight, like he was confronting some ancient enemy. He knew very well she could kill him if she wanted to, but he had the most uncanny feeling that destiny wouldn't want to find a substitute to fill his role. He had a feeling he’d survive the encounter.
Her hand came to a gentle stop between her thighs. She didn’t say a word, but she did look at him at least. With a single eyebrow raised, she seemed more like a bored adventurer than a deadly dragoon. Something about the slightest quirk of her lips—something haunting in the electric shade of her eyes suggested words that went unspoken: well? And?
He looked to the lake for a moment, then rectified his mistake; this was suddenly a game of wills, and he didn't want to blink. He fingered his belt buckle and shifted his weight, trying to remember what confidence tasted like.
It probably tasted like her. When he reaffirmed his intent to gaze upon her nearly naked body, her little sneer grew twice as mischievous. She shuffled on the rock and spread her legs again, made her hips even with his across the way. For the first time he had a perfect view of her opening, glistening and swollen.
He wanted more than anything to pump her to completion. She was a hero, sure, but she had an emptiness he was capable of filling The proof was yalms ahead, pulsing before his very eyes. If only it could pulse beneath his fingers or around his cock. If she was letting him look, would she let him get away with more someday? In the heat of the moment, he thought it was a worthy gamble.
So he lost the belt. Just undid it and ripped it from the loops, tossed it aside. He wanted to look calm and confident for the next steps, so he took a deep breath before going for the fly of his pants. It was a bit like showing off, this act, so he slipped his cock out with a little twist of his tail and a loose, casual stroke. As if this weren't a big deal. As if this weren't the hardest his heart had ever pounded outside of direct mortal peril. Fully on display, he didn’t think he had anything to be ashamed of. He prayed he didn’t have anything to be ashamed of.
She narrowed her eyes and waited for him to stop moving. Only then did she let her gaze drop to his chest, his waist, beyond. Whatever she saw, it didn’t keep her from smiling, nor from hooking a finger between her lips and plucking upwards.
G’raha exhaled, his mouth holding a circle. He had his dick out in the middle of the shore, shaft hard and slit pointed skyward, but hells if he didn’t feel good about it. He might not have been a predator, but he didn’t think he passed for prey either. As she thumbed her clit, he dropped to a squatting position and tugged at his cock a few times, wondering whether words might ruin the moment.
What would he say? Let me handle that or let me fuck you. Let me finish inside. He could see it so plainly in his mind’s eye, the sight of her dripping with white and still not full enough for satisfaction. Let me breed you, came one especially foolish impulse. Primal, rooted deep in biology. And yet he felt it in his balls. He curled a fist around his base and steeled himself against the need to spill that very instant.
He survived long enough to keep stroking. She rubbed herself faster.
From there he moved so slowly, like he was trying to notch a silent arrow before a seldom-seen beast. She paid him almost no mind at all, fingering herself the same way she had before he came out of the shadows. He watched with every part of his body, cock coaxed to full length and attentive. As she spread herself with one hand and fucked herself with the other, he dabbed at the precum building at his head and slicked it down his length as best he could.
He wanted so badly to watch her come first. He'd made it so far without coloring the shore with his seed. Maybe he should've called himself lucky and gone into premature bliss with a smile on his face, but instead he whined and twisted his lips at the first unhappy spurt of cum. The jerk of his hips was ugly, strong enough to send him lurching forward. He placed his free hand on the ground to keep himself from toppling over completely. Stroking out the last of his release, his head darted up to check her reaction.
Well, he might not've been smiling, but she certainly was.
When she came moments later, she raised herself up on her heels and rocked into the curl of her hand, feverishly flicking back and forth. It was a long and frenzied climax, full of sighs and laughter. That cackle—it was the same one he'd heard echoing ahead in the Labyrinth of the Ancients, the same that many came to know before blacking out for good. For all the heat on G'raha's cheeks, the idea brought a cold chill to his spine. That and the breeze helped him remember where he was and how vulnerable he was while doing it.
While his hands stuttered in trying to get his dick back in his pants, the Warrior slipped easily into decency—smalls, trousers, and tunic back on in the blink of an eye. He was barely standing by the time she patted her thighs and turned over her shoulder. "Tomorrow!" she said.
"Tomorrow?"
But it was too late. She hunkered down in that dangerous way dragoons do, before launching herself over the side of the mound and onward. She was gone.
Around that time, his muscles started to ache, tired from holding the same ungraceful squat long enough to drain himself of semen. Were it not for an incriminating patch of ground before his feet, he might've been able to convince himself the whole thing didn't happen. And would it happen again? Tomorrow? He rubbed his forehead with the back of his arm and took a deep breath. Research. He should return to his research.
On his way back, he tread a bit heavier and with more unsteadiness in his gait. His footsteps looked uneven in the silt of Silvertear. For the rest of the night, his thighs hurt like hells...but for some reason his head didn't.
By the time my retainer has delivered this, I shall have passed. Thank you for helping a lonely old man feel loved in his final days.
-
Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. Past WoL/Aymeric and WoL/G'raha. The Warrior of Light, now living happily as a sex worker, gets a strange letter from an old client. CW sex work.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
Bas'ir has seen paper cranes folded. He has never folded one himself. Even if he removed his feather-soft gloves long enough to learn the art, his mechanical hand would likely falter in the delicate motions of shaping the paper, folding, pressing. The edges wouldn't line up. The beak wouldn't look right. In other words, he could do it—but it would be an ugly crane born of ugly secrets.
His prosthetic is a masterwork, of course, the fruit of careful engineering, years of study, a workshop’s worth of failures. Other masters might have shown off the piece of sleek equipment, bared it for the world, painted it blue and gold so it'd shimmer in the sunlight. Its design is so efficient, so familiar that it passes for a human part when wrapped in the right texture. But it's not really human. Not enough for him to go without the gloves. He wants patrons to book him for his ability in bed, not to satisfy some fascination with his mechanical anatomy. So far, no one has figured it out against his wishes.
He’s just a whore, as far as anyone else can tell. A simple whore with a yellow bow and black gloves. The simplicity of it makes him smile. In Kugane, he doesn't have to be the Warrior of Light. He doesn't have to be Ser Aymeric's enviable lover. In Kugane, he can keep secrets and be messy, so who cares if the girls pick at him for passing on origami?
That aside...
There is a fat stack of square-cut paper in Bas’ir’s apartment. It sits ignored beneath the shade of a dusty lamp on his work bench, usually weighed down by various bolts and wires. Sometimes, in the middle of maintenance, Bas'ir will get bored and let his eyes wander to the pretty floral patterns on the top sheet. Pink and orange, swirls and petals. He will always leave the paper be. He will always wrinkle his nose and get back to tinkering.
//
One night, Bas'ir is filling in his thin eyebrows when someone knocks at the door of his apartment. His instinct is to sneer and let it go ignored, but he's a curious creature for better or worse. Once his brows are evenly articulated, he stands and meanders to the door, stepping over loose scarves and scattered books. A landscape he's well-versed in navigating; he knows his chaos well.
By the time he pokes his head into the hallway, no one is there. He just barely catches sight of the letter attached to the door with a tiny rice glue sticker. After looking left and right and finding himself unobserved, he retreats, letter in hand. It weighs like a handful of gold.
Dear sir or madam—
An auspicious start, followed by a polite acknowledgement of autumn beginning and a wish for the good health of Bas'ir's family. He flattens the paper out, holding a makeup brush between his teeth. A Doman sender, he thinks.
I regret my night with you was too quickly spent and not well enough rewarded. Please take this gift not as a sign of disrespect for the honorable work you do, but as payment for nights I would have spent with you, had my health allowed it.
Who is this, then? Bas'ir squints and chews the end of the brush. No one comes to mind.
By the time my retainer has delivered this, I shall have passed. Thank you for helping a lonely old man feel loved in his final days.
A lonely old man? An uncountable quantity for Bas'ir, and Bas’ir likes counting. He looks at the stack of origami paper and picks the brush from his mouth, holds it like he's smoking a kiseru. The most surprising thing about the message is the idea that Bas'ir could help anyone feel loved. What does he know of it? He snickers to himself.
Although—he does miss Aymeric from time to time. None of his clients could dream of passing for something as pretty as Ishgard’s finest, but with a little imagination it’s easy to summon bittersweet nostalgia. Sometimes hands find places Aymeric found, or mouths leak the same sweet words. Your voice is beautiful, maybe, or don’t let go. Bas’ir can spirit himself back to the bed of a lord in such moments and remember what it felt like to be fucked silly on expensive sheets—to be lovingly fucked, openly loved.
The truth is Bas'ir doesn't need to think of Aymeric—doesn't need love to give or find pleasure with a client. He never needed it from G’raha. What does it mean that strangers of the streets can make him come just as hard as his former flames? Probably nothing. Or perhaps it means Bas’ir has chosen the right profession. Righter than his previous position, in any case.
If I could make one selfish request, the letter continues, I would have you please yourself in my honor. Though we are not destined to spend more time together, it would gratify me to die believing you would think of me at least once.
The letter ends with the usual marks of etiquette and without a name. Bas’ir, chewing on his pinky now instead of the brush, frowns and raps his metal fingers on the desk. The message doesn’t matter in the slightest; he’s received his unsolicited gift and the giver is gone. He is under no obligation to touch himself, and even if he were—no one would know if he left the deed undone. Who is this dead stranger, come to jog his memory and bring him bliss from beyond the grave? In just over a bell, Bas’ir will be in someone else’s arms, on someone else’s mind.
But then just as Bas’ir moves to toss the letter away, a foul thought rouses him into a fit of laughter. With one forearm across his forehead and the other hand anchoring him to his desk, he tilts backwards and cackles. This man, this mysterious client, so inexplicably fond—he left Bas’ir with more ceremony than G’raha Tia did when he locked himself away in that damned Crystal Tower.
Through little bleats of lingering laughter, Bas’ir makes his way to the futon, undoes his robes, and gets himself off for the hells of it. It's the most he's laughed in moons, and he doesn't even cry when he's finished.
Ambiguous female WoL and Lucia. A tender moment between the Warrior of Light and her lover during a night of storms. Apparently I forgot to upload this to tumby yesterday, but I promise it was up on AO3 and submitted.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
A great crack in the night stirred Lucia from her slumber at the Warrior's side. Harmless, huge, and bright—flash after flash of lightning lit the room, sparking it out of its storm-cast darkness. Lucia wasn't scared of thunder, but at the orphanage she often wound up offering her shoulder to the many Garlean children who were. Even now, her instinct was to peer over to the next cot, and the cot after that, searching for anyone with tears on their cheeks. Of course, there was no cot that night. There were no tears.
"Wake you up, too?" the Warrior said. Without the aid of lightning, Lucia could just barely see her smiling over her shoulder. "Was a big one, for sure."
The Temple Knight blinked into the darkness. Decisions and thoughts were coming slowly. The rumbling must not have knocked the sleep completely out of her. "Shook the house," she muttered, settling back into place, pulling up the covers, and winding a protective arm around her lover. Her bare chest was pressed against the Warrior's bare back. As she nuzzled against that precious warmth, the rain picked up. It sounded like tiny stones falling against a sheet of metal.
"Were you ever scared of storms?" the Warrior said.
"No." A simple, sleepy answer. Too simple, Lucia decided with a yawn. "There were always worse things to worry about. Frankly, it was a blessing to know the elements were keeping us up at night—not machines of war."
"'Us?' Your sister."
"No." Lucia curled her fingers against the Warrior's abdomen. "We were separated early on. I wasn't alone, though. The empire always had an army of orphans waiting on the wings…"
Has, she thought after closing her mouth. The empire has an army. She wanted to go back to sleep now. Though the rain was loud, it was droning and constant. A comfort, Lucia thought, now that she didn't have temporary brothers and sisters to look after.
She did have a lover, though. And her lover's hand was trembling.
At first Lucia doubted the truth of it. She was tired after all, and sleep had left her senses somewhat muted to reality. Ishgard’s savior, unsteady at thunder’s first rumbling? Lucia opened her eyes to the darkness, tried to more deliberately observe the shake of the Warrior's hand upon her own without giving away her observation.
Among her peers at the orphanage, not all the fearful children cried. For every storm, there was at least one wearing a brave face for the world, secretly clenching the cot beneath the covers. Someone who would pretend to sleep, pretend to be fine so the comforting could go where it was supposedly more deserved. Many times Lucia would ask a confident face are you all right? And the face would answer yes. Even if she suspected otherwise, a graceful path to offering solace was hard to find. Lingering would be like calling someone a liar—and that might’ve been worse than being branded a coward.
The answer, of course, was not to ask.
Lucia breathed deeply against the breaths of her lover, inhaling the sweet scent of messy hair, squeezing her a bit tighter. “I’m certain the storms won’t be much longer,” she said.
“I think I’d have preferred another blizzard,” said the Warrior. “Quieter, even if they leave more mess.”
Lucia chuffed out a tiny laugh against the Warrior’s neck. “Not always.”
“Which would you prefer?”
“Hm…” The Garlean closed her eyes and shuffled. “Makes no difference to me, I suppose.”
“‘Makes no difference.’ Sure…” The Warrior reaffirmed the position of her hand upon Lucia’s, unlinking and linking their fingers before settling into place. “Well, storms and blizzards aside, I…”
“Hm?”
“I prefer it cold, I think.” The Warrior’s voice wore a smile. “Because that brings you closer to me.” A backwards nudge of the elbow.
Lucia didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t consider herself quick-witted or clever in conversation. Her sword was ever sharper than her tongue. But this woman in her arms wasn’t asking for something sharp; she wanted something warm. And maybe that was something Lucia could give. She sighed the Warrior’s name and planted a kiss at her nape.
“It’d certainly take an act of nature to bring us further apart.”
"In that case—O, Bas'ir Bahani! Grace me with your considerable girth!"
-
Pre-ARR specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani and G'raha Tia. The Warrior of Light rewards himself for good grades by indulging in one G'raha Tia. Continuation of heady.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
The sight of a beautiful man bent over is capable of draining Bas’ir Bahani of his confidence. This specific man—this red-haired, archer-armed, book-headed man in particular—has a harrowing effect on the Keeper, even in his haughtiest of moods. Even after high marks in literary analysis. Still, he cloaks himself in airs of emotional fortitude.
"Aren't you pretty?" he says, snickering. It's as much an act of self-soothing as it is genuine amusement. He has one finger inside G'raha Tia, whose face is turned against a pillow. "Specifically, this part of you. Of course, I suppose you wouldn't know!"
"Plenty have apprised me of the situation." G'raha's tail is lopped over the side of his hips, bouncing idly to the conversation. When Bas'ir's finger goes deeper, the tail twists and tenses. He tries not to make a sound.
"Plenty, hmm?" Bas'ir eyes the hole giving around his index. Excess oil has dripped down G'raha's taint and over his balls. The temptation to clean up with his tongue is palpable, but he aims to serve in other ways today. "Well, now that you've heard it from me, you know it must be true."
"Yes, your word above all others' carries a heavy weight."
"Bah! If you're capable of such sarcasm, you need more things inside of you." Bas'ir twists his lips and collects G'raha's cock with his free hand, gives it a few rough tugs.
G'raha closes his eyes and grunts once. His tone was sarcastic, but his words are truer than Bas'ir realizes. G'raha likes Bas'ir, even when he's manic and making a whole show of how dearly he wants to enjoy G'raha's body, and have his own enjoyed in turn.
The second finger pushes in. Bas'ir rests his head on G'raha's ass and watches his digits disappear from the side. He's being squeezed, being pulled and already imagining the same welcoming reaction around his cock. The wanting casts a glaze over his yellow eyes.
"You could probably...go ahead and fuck me," G'raha says. He's lost some of his vocal control. The words are low and husky.
Bas'ir's ears twitch. "Fuck you?"
G'raha murmurs affirmation into the pillow. "Two fingers ought to be enough, with what you're offering."
With a whip of his tail, Bas'ir straightens his back and narrows his eyes. "Such insinuations are beneath you, Raha."
"Are they?"
"Continue down this dark path and I shall lose interest."
"Oh?" G'raha smiles. He does not imagine Bas'ir losing interest any time soon. "In that case—O, Bas'ir Bahani! Grace me with your considerable girth!"
More confidence whittled away, more pink upon his cheeks. Bas'ir shifts his weight on the mattress. "When I said I wanted you to beg…"
"Forgive me. I suppose you could call me a poor beggar."
Bas'ir squints. Ultimately he forgives, but not before nipping at the base of G'raha's tail and scissoring his fingers a few more times for good measure. He knows his friend is ready when the only noises coming from his mouth are tiny huffs of breath. Bas’ir removes the fingers and winds his cock into position. The head looks plenty big against the Seeker’s ring, stretched and ready.
“Go on,” G’raha says.
"W-wait…" Bas'ir bends over and goes for the braid. "I'm taking your hair down. Just in case you wind up on your back, of course.”
"Just in case?"
"I want to see if it fans." He uses both hands to draw an imaginary crown around his head. "Don't you think that'd be a pretty sight, too? Hm hm…"
G’raha blinks. Such long eyelashes! “You’ll have to tell me.”
“I shall. If you please me. Heheh…”
Bas’ir enters with a hand on either side of G’raha’s ass. He doesn’t look until he’s all the way in; best to absorb the imagery once he’s sure he isn’t going to burst. The pressure is so immense, he wants to collapse on Graha’s back to simply hold and be held. He's sure if G’raha kept twitching around him, he’d be able to come without fucking him properly even once.
G’raha stretches his arms out and arches. “...more than I remembered, maybe…”
“You won’t forget again.”
G’raha laughs. Bas’ir starts moving.
For all the day’s raving, the sex is quiet. Bas’ir bites his lip half the time, trying to make every thrust count for the both of them. G’raha has his fingers making divots in the mattress. When Bas’ir chooses to pick up the pace, G’raha’s cock rubs against the covers. It’s just enough friction to make him whimper. Not enough to make him moan. When they’re both coated in the shimmer of sweat, Bas’ir sets a hand on either side of G’raha to lean over without calling his hips to a halt. “Do you want to touch yourself?” he says, like a villain. “Is that it?”
“I shouldn’t have to.”
“Well now I’m definitely not going to allow it.”
G'raha closes his eyes and absorbs the truth of what's happening: Bas'ir is doing a passable job. More than that—he's doing well. A less prideful man might offer direct commendation. "H-hey actually Bas'ir," G'raha says. The syllables are too quiet for his taste, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Bas'ir, you could pull my tail."
"Hm?" He shimmies deep and nuzzles at G’raha’s shoulder blade. "Is this your way of asking me to do so?"
"Perhaps."
"I expect better on this momentous occasion. Why, you could practice your begging, scholar boy!"
“Please…” What G’raha meant to say was are you not a scholar boy as well? He grinds his teeth and consigns to doubling down. “Please. Give me more.”
Bas’ir’s tail whirls like a whip, his pupils full like dark moons. “I think I’ll flip you after all.”
“Wait—”
Bas’ir pulls out and watches G’raha’s hole react to the change, shifting and tensing while the Seeker groans and curls his toes. It takes a nudge and some shuffling to achieve the next position—G’raha on his back, holding his legs up beneath each knee in offering. This time Bas’ir does watch the slide of his cockhead into G’raha’s ass; he feels like he’s being sucked deliciously inside. The Keeper has a sinister quirk to his lips when his gaze flickers up. “It does look pretty. Your hair,” he says.
“Does it...” G’raha’s words are absent of all question-like qualities. “So you won’t pull my tail, then…”
Bas’ir scoffs and comes forward with a deep, penetrating thrust. He has an elbow on either side of G’raha’s head. “I offer you my lips now.”
The ensuing kiss lasts through the sting of Bas’ir’s biting teeth, through the rumbling in G’raha’s throat. It lasts through the upped tempo of body to body, of the bed frame squeaking beneath the weight of frenzied coupling. It lasts through G’raha’s spill, realized after a few heavy rolls of Bas’ir’s hips and by the graceless rubbing of his dick between their torsos. G’raha keeps his eyes open and barks toward the ceiling, surprised with how much his silly lover has learned since the first night they fucked. And that’s when the kiss ends.
“Raha!” Bas’ir grunts and lets his head drop to G’raha’s neck. Teeth sink into flesh, cock sinks deeper into hole, and then Bas’ir comes, too. The bite lasts for at least as long as the kiss did. When he finally lets off, he collapses without pulling out.
G’raha sighs and sets a shaky hand on the back of Bas’ir’s head. “Bas’ir.”
“Raha.”
“I think you deserve high marks for that as well.”
Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani and G'raha Tia. The wounded Warrior of Light has a carnal encounter with a familiar shade.
CW consensual sexual encounter with a hallucination (not Fray)
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
Bas’ir asked about G'raha Tia before he asked about the arm. In fact, he never asked about the arm at all. Perhaps long-term healing would've been easier with the right questions and answers acting as bandage, salve, surgery. But instead of answers, he got the dreams and the darkness. For a while—since the Void took his limb and the Tower took G’raha—that was all he had.
For many nights, he churned in sweaty sheets to the roar of imagined machinery. There was no quiet for Bas’ir, not even when all the lights of the infirmary were dimmed and not a single soul watched over him. He could hear the phantom whirring, the rushing above his own voice, which went hoarse from prolonged attempts to overcome the imbalance. Throughout the bulk of his recovery, long and loud, he wasn’t there enough to hear the healers evaluate his condition on the daily. His wounds have closed up, but he isn’t lucid. Or that makes a week now, doesn’t it?
Another thing he never asked about—how long. When all was said and done, he knew it was more than a week or even weeks. It was long enough that he struggled to catch his breath after a flight of stairs, long enough that a spoonful of rolanberry mash felt like a bowl and a half. In his initial unrest the bloody noise battered him for moons and moons, but when he finally got the better of his senses...the quiet started battering him, too.
Had to fill the void with something, had to find a way to live. Once, a concerned Mor Dhona whispered about his poor odds of full recovery, but the whispers stopped once people saw him out of bed and limping around. By then the whispers came only from the Scions who knew Bas’ir better—knew enough to see his odds had never been worse.
He spent too much time undoing the progress he made, too much time pushing himself to keep his eyes open, his feet moving, his blood rushing. So many days wasted already! His first impulse was to drive himself to the edge in making up lost time. Six days without sleeping, he began to pay the price.
Fever. Aches. Shadows. Bells upon bells in the workshop, parsing books of every field. Bas’ir knew he needed to convince the others he was taking breaks, resting soundly. He began pausing his studies to shut himself away in his chambers for just enough time that his comrades would assume he was sleeping. In truth, he would pace until his bones were at the brink of protest, then drag himself to bed and lie frozen in pain until the ringing came.
A shape like G’raha entered his quarters in one of those hazy, sleepless moments. Bas’ir was practically naked. He had stripped himself of all but his smalls to escape the uncanny heat of his body, and in the restlessness that followed, his smalls came off, too. Only a white sheet wrapped around his torso obscured any details of his anatomy—but not the fact that he was hard.
Bas’ir knew it wasn’t really G’raha. It was a figment of insomnia, born just like all the others. It was the consequence of his actions, and he didn't care to change his ways. In fact, the sight of russet ears and broad shoulders was enough to make him chuff out a gasping laugh. It didn't matter that no one was actually there to hear him.
“Help,” he said, more croak than man. “I can’t do it myself. Not like this anymore.”
This shadow could speak. He seemed to perk up at being spoken to, like he didn't expect it. “Help? You mean…”
Bas’ir swallowed and nodded. Even the tiny gesture brought hot tears to his eyes. Too much ache, too much weakness. Too much time away from his books. “Touch me. If you like. Or go away.”
The shape did not go away. The shape moved closer, step by quiet step, twiddling his fingers much like G'raha might have. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." Bas'ir almost smiled. So close! So close to release he could feel it on his tongue like honey. "You won't. You can't. Please…" As if a hallucination couldn't touch him hard enough to hurt him, as if a dream couldn't take him by the cock and start stroking.
The dream started stroking.
“A-ah! Gods, you—” Nails into bed, one hand and one phantom set of fingers.
“Should I stop?”
“No!” More whisper than shout now. He had to keep quiet, lest curious minds inquire. “This is the least you can do after what you’ve done.” Locked himself into history, left without a word. Bitterness proved a poor distraction for Bas'ir's dick. This false touch—it felt so real Bas’ir thought he was going to make a mess from first contact. The shape’s palm was warm around his inexplicable arousal, warmer than the heat he was trying to escape, and the grip was firm enough to fuck. Bas’ir closed his eyes and got started. Every motion hurt, but to eliminate the burn it was worth it.
“Yes!” Intense and quiet. “Yes, yes, yes. Yesyesyes.” Everything blending together. How considerate of G’raha’s ghost to visit when G’raha did not. How considerate of G’raha’s ghost to recognize a need and try to get him off.
“I’ll suck.” The red voice.
“Good!” The blue one. “Quickly.” He caught his breath and soon felt sweet warmth surrounding his head, lapping up his precum. Not long now, probably a matter of seconds. It had been ages since he came for anything. Obedience from this shadow! If only the others would listen when Bas’ir told them to go or stop or leave him alone.
Lips met the base of Bas’ir’s cock and held the position. From then, the Warrior of Light abandoned all hopes of remaining quiet. Surely the world would take his guttural moan as a sign of mental anguish, not pleasure. It ended when the shadow grabbed him by the balls and pinched his nipple with the other hand. A squeak and a buck of his hips, and Bas’ir was coming. Most likely that part was no illusion.
He wished he had two hands, so he could use both to get a grip on G’raha. In the heat of orgasm, it would have felt like petty revenge to hold him in place and fuck his mouth harder. As it happened, the shadow didn’t need incentive; he kept his mouth locked down until he swallowed everything and kissed the whole of Bas’ir’s cock with his tongue. All it took was a minute. Maybe less.
When the shape pulled off, Bas’ir opened his eyes. He expected to see nothing, but the dream wasn’t over. The whatever-it-was wasn’t over. “Well?” Bas’ir said.
The shape’s hands started fiddling again. “I...I would like to see you get better.”
“If I get better, you won’t be seeing me again.” Bas’ir started patting his abdomen, expecting to find the mess of reality dotting his skin. He found nothing.
"I love you," the shape said. And Bas'ir knew once again for certain that it was not his old friend.
Bas'ir Bahani drops a plate and Rhuya'a Namid comes for a quiet rescue.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
Sometimes the answer is simple. Throw out the broken plate, sweep up the tiny pieces. Check for glass bits between the floorboards. Another quick round with the broom, just in case. Easy. Hand on shoulder, gentle nudge. It's just a plate, sweetness, and like magic—it's just a plate.
But sometimes it's not just a plate. Bas'ir holds his head in his hand and listens to the ghost of his mother. She almost never hit him, but she didn't have to when her words were sharper than the back of her hand. Even in the safety of his garden home with Rhuya'a, the sound of something shattering conjures fearful memories: the rush of footsteps, the sting of his name, the view of his childhood room from underneath the bed.
It wasn't even a nice plate this time. Plain and white, bought at no place in particular at no great expense. Instead of bending down to clean up, Bas'ir rubs his right palm over his lips and stares. Some days, his mother is louder than others. Sometimes, there's a soft squeak coming from the stairwell and a gentle voice soon after.
"S'ir?" Rhuya'a is always careful, cautious, considerate of his lover's vulnerabilities. With one eye, he can easily spot a teetering Bas'ir and begin the compassionate process of guiding him away from the ledge for a safe landing. Now, he peers into the kitchen with a hand on the door frame.
Bas'ir looks over his shoulder with upturned eyebrows. His left hand is frozen in place where once it held the plate. "Rhuya'a." Quiet, quick, but wide enough to hold a tremble. It's as clear a call for help as Bas'ir is likely to give for any tragedy, big or small.
Without a word Rhuya'a approaches, dusting off his hands on the front of his trousers. He's been working on a new bookshelf downstairs, but there's time aplenty to put Bas'ir together, too. Seeing the spread of glass mostly contained to the floor before the kitchen sink, and not caring much besides, Rhuya'a sidles right up and plants a kiss on the back of Bas'ir's neck.
"Rhuya'a, I—"
"Shh." His chest to Bas'ir's back now, arms wrapped around the belly. "Just a plate."
“You’ve got me in a compromising position...and I don’t want anyone thinkin’ you’ve clouded my judgment...”
-
Ambiguous male WoL and G'raha Tia, who decides that the middle of a blowjob is a good time to voice his complaints about having his adventuring restricted.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
"It's disrespectful."
G'raha is on his knees, resting his head on the Warrior of Light’s bare thigh. It's a lazy day at the Find. Everyone is playing the waiting game, while Eorzea's finest engineers tinker at the Tower’s latest mystery. The warrior’s humble tent is a good enough place for G’raha to air his grievances with the expedition so far. "I'm more than a page-flipping scholar, after all," he says.
"I'm well aware," says the warrior. A shimmer of sweat coats his forehead. The weather is unseasonably hot, and he's been under unintentional duress for about five minutes now, besides. What started as a casual conversation led to oral sex—then apparently circled back around. He's gripping the covers of his cot in muted anticipation, while G'raha works through his feelings.
"It's just—my frustration is immeasurable." The red-cheeked Seeker wraps his lips around the warrior's head and taps it absently with his tongue, as though he’s just curious about the taste. Though he has his fingers curled around the base, he isn't stroking. "I simply think—I've proven myself as a capable adventurer. And now they pull my reins..."
"Y-yeah." The warrior wouldn't mind pulling G'raha a little bit, specifically to have him lower his mouth all the way again and suck more diligently. But the warrior has waited longer for less important things. It's rude to interrupt.
“Do you think...perhaps your input might sway them?” G’raha raises his head with a furrowed brow. By the optimistic sparkle in his mismatched eye, it’s clear the idea just occurred to him. “If you spoke to Rammbroes, perhaps—”
“I think, er—” The warrior is quick to interrupt with words and a steady hand to G’raha’s shoulder. “You’ve got me in a compromising position...and I don’t want anyone thinkin’ you’ve clouded my judgment...”
“Oh. Oh!” G’raha pats his palms together and looks the throbbing problem in the eye. It isn't getting any less hard, that's for sure. "Forgive my impropriety.”
“You don’t have to. We can—”
“I finish what I start!” His russet tail mimics the determined point of his finger. “Besides, I want to very much. It was unprofessional of me to get so distracted. So…” A close-mouthed laugh. He paints the tip of the warrior's cock with spit before smiling and taking in the bulk of the shaft.
The sudden pressure catches the warrior of guard. He sputters out a few syllables, none of them meant to form any particular word. G’raha, now happily flattening his tongue against the warrior’s cock, offers a comforting hand. The warrior takes it, presses it to his thigh.
It's almost romantic, isn't it? Somehow.
It also feels pretty damn good. For all his academic know-how, G'raha appears to have studied more than books and tomes and relics in the halls of Sharlayan. This man is comfortable on his knees. He looks pretty from that angle, too, like something that ought to be immortalized in marble. The warrior stares at his long, fluttering eyelashes for a bit too long—and G'raha looks up to catch him looking.
As if there's something embarrassing about ogling the man with his head between your legs, the warrior gasps and turns his head away. “Um...would you mind if I…?” His hands blindly dance back and forth above G’raha’s ears. “Touch you?”
“Mmm.” The Seeker keeps working. His thumb and index meet around the root of the warrior's cock, rubbing where his lips can't quite reach. An affirmation.
One thumb at a time, the warrior presses his fingers upon G’raha’s shoulders. A gentle, reverent touch, though his stomach tells him to be much rougher. Perhaps he'll give in soon. First, he acquaints himself with collarbone, before bringing his thumbs together at the bump on G’raha’s neck. A feather-touch comes next to the dark tattoos on either side. The warrior still doesn't understand them. He half-expected them to glow upon contact. When G'raha swallows, the warrior feels it in two places. "That's...that's nice…" he says.
"Hmm?" G'raha drags his lips off and twists the ring of his fingers over the whole of the warrior's erection, now well and slick. "Much better when I focus, aren't I?"
"You're very good." Good enough to make the warrior's heart pound, though it may not be the sex alone. "Can I fuck you?"
"Of course!" G'raha smiles and prepares to stand.
But the warrior stands first. As soon as he gets his answer, he shoves his cock back inside and puts both of his hands on G'raha's head. Deep, deeper the warrior pushes, until it makes his teeth hurt to think of waiting any longer. A throaty groan from G'raha, and the die is cast. He holds the Seeker in place and pistons in and out from the hip until he can't hold his breath nor his climax a moment longer.
"A-ah!"
The warrior bends his knees and pulls at G'raha now, acting on some biological instinct to make sure no drop goes wasted. The next thrusts are ugly and uneven, primitive and unrefined. The Seeker has to swallow twice to accept all he's given—which is to say the warrior had quite a bit to give. the aftermath is heavy and hot. Since when did it get so warm in Mor Dhona? When the warrior deflates back onto his cot, he accidentally takes a grunting G'raha with him.
"Oh! Sorry!" The warrior raises his hands higher than necessary to release his partner.
G'raha laughs and wipes his mouth. "No need to apologize." His tail waves happily at his back. "I'm simply thankful you respect my ability."
Specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani. The future Warrior of Light wants to celebrate an academic victory in a very practical way.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
Woe be upon the master who gave Bas’ir Bahani excellent marks in literary analysis—for G’raha Tia is experiencing the consequences.
"Let me! Let me have my way, I say!" Bas'ir is practically skipping down the hall to his dorm, hands waving, boot heels clicking. As is typical, he wears a dark blue scarf to match his hair. It sways with every manic movement. His tail is having a hard time keeping up, and so is G'raha.
"You wisp," G'raha says. He has two sets of books in his arms, so Bas'ir is free to float around. "Wouldn't you prefer to beg in private?" The hall is empty, as it stands, but there’s a fair echo and gods know how many people listening from inside their rooms.
"Beg?" Bas'ir spins on his heel and stomps to meet G'raha nose-to-nose. His smile is unhinged, and a snicker threatens to break his voice at any moment. "I'd prefer you beg in private. Silly, silly man!" He thwaps G’raha on the nose and practically sprints down the rest of the hallway. When he finally reaches his own door, he drops his key and makes a flailing show of disappointment. “Curses!”
G’raha adjusts his grip on the pile and closes the distance at his own responsible pace. If he had a free hand, he’d be pinching the bridge of his nose, hiding a smile with his wrist. So this is how Bas’ir wears happiness? G’raha isn’t entirely convinced that’s what he’s looking at, but it’s better than the brooding if nothing else.
Bas’ir claps his hands together once they’re both inside. “Well, Raha? Are you prepared to give me what I want?” He scoots himself backwards onto the bed and crosses his legs with a dramatic tilt of his chin. The room is neat, other than a pile of tomes by the closet. Once, they stood in a neat little pile—bookshelf overflow—but Bas’ir knocked them over on his way out that morning.
G’raha takes his time setting his haul on Bas’ir’s desk, stretching his arms and yawning. No urgency whatsoever. “You haven’t exactly made your intentions clear, my friend.” Leaning against the chair, he scratches the back of his head and smiles. Soon, he’s tugging at his collar. “Despite your enthusiasm.”
“Ohoh, you know very well. My interests—my goals—my masterplan!”
“Your masterplan…”
“Yes!” Bas’ir kicks off his boots and nudges them away from the bed, upon which his tail is most ardently thumping.
“All you’ve said is ‘let me, let me!’” A light-hearted, mocking tone. G’raha waves one hand and unbuttons his vest with the other. “Let you what, precisely? And who am I to impede you from doing whatever it is in the first place?”
“You know what I want. You rascal. You’re undressing!”
“Your room is unseasonably warm.” G’raha slips the fabric down one shoulder and cocks his head with a wink.
Bas’ir’s tufted ears point straight back. “Raha!”
“Bas’ir, you don’t have to get good marks just to fuck me.” G’raha flips his braid, as though he hasn’t just dropped an incendiary device into the conversation. Though his eyes are closed, he knows the impact is profound, considering his friend’s chattering stops immediately. “Just because it may not come so naturally as—”
“Come naturally?!” Bas’ir whips off his scarf and approaches. Once again, their faces are ilms apart. The Keeper’s yellow eyes are so narrow, it’s a miracle he can see through his own indignation. “I’ll show you what comes naturally.”
All stays the same for a moment. No footsteps in the hall, no crickets chirping outside. They’re not even breathing—not loud enough to hear, anyway. G’raha is the one who cracks, slapping his hand on Bas’ir’s shoulder with a laugh like sunshine. “What comes naturally?” he says, undoing his belt. "Hopefully the answer is the both of us."
"And what of the mess? You'd get up and out of bed to face the consequences of your actions?"
"I can swallow."
-
Explicit. Haurchefant and ambiguous female WoL. As the fire fizzles out, Haurchefant and his love burn up some excess energy before bed.
Also on AO3.
Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge
He likes the sight of her sleeping comfortably beneath his covers, the flicker of flames dancing on her cheeks. While Haurchefant would prefer to crawl in with her, there’s a certain comfort in the looking over of one’s shoulder, the checking on of one’s love. From his desk, he likes to cast a smile backwards between reports and think ah. I’m still blessed with her presence! as if it’s a miracle she doesn’t wake up and walk out the door.
Haurchefant is fond of miracles. His bar is very low. What pleasure he can glean from the world’s mysteries, big and small, he shall cherish ‘til he can cherish no longer. She is among the greatest things he’s had the honor of cherishing—as a bedmate, sure. But also as a friend. A companion. A partner.
He scribbles out another signature and sets his pen flat on his desk. Must be late for the flames to be growing so dim. He eyes the pile of wood by the fire, but isn’t sold on the idea of stoking it back up to a roar. A far more powerful temptation is the warmth of his bed—and the warmth of his warrior's body. He sets his hands on the edge of the desk and eases backwards in his seat, trying not to let the wood creak as he moves to stand.
She's been watching him, when he isn't looking. She likes the scratching of his pen on paper, the low sighs he casts upon the page. Over the past half bell or so, his backward glances have grown more frequent. She imagines there must be a half dozen more documents left for him to look through by the time he gives up and tiptoes over. Work for the morning. Or the afternoon, or so on.
After stripping down to his smalls, he sidles into bed and wraps one arm around her waist. First a kiss to the back of her neck, then a whisper of her name—and a loving accusation. "You're awake, aren't you?" he says.
"Shh... I'm trying to sleep." She wiggles her hips back into his, giggling.
"Ah, forgive me." He laughs and traces her waist with the flat of his palm. She feels so small beneath his fingers. "You could've kept pretending, you know. I'd not have pushed the matter."
"Maybe I wanted you to know." She pats her hand atop his and squeezes. "Maybe I want you to, say...pamper me as I toe the line of consciousness and drift off into the warm embrace of slumber."
"Do you prefer that embrace to mine? Ah, well I suppose you could have both…"
"I could." The world is cabin-quiet for a few beats. A smoldering fire, snow pattering upon the window. After a while, she slides his fingertips beneath the band of her smallclothes. "We might sleep easier…"
He huffs out a laugh at her method of seduction. "And what of the mess? You'd get up and out of bed to face the consequences of your actions?"
"I can swallow."
If he weren't so tired, he'd have burst out laughing. Instead he expresses his amusement with a great exhalation, warm and full. This vixen in his arms is many things to many people. He's glad she can be anything at all to him. "Here," he says, shoving down her garment a bit roughly. "Off with these, my love. I've just enough energy for a proper massage."
He fingers her, of course. She pulls one leg up to her thigh and he snakes his hand into the right position from behind, relishing the scent of her sex, rubbing his thumb all over. Once she's slick, he pushes two fingers in and twists. She arches against him, and he wraps his free arm beneath her neck so he can reach her breasts and pinch her nipples.
The whole affair is noisy. As if there aren't patrols wandering somewhere outside his window, she whines to her heart's content—and it's not like Haurchefant has the heart to stop her. He really does mean to please and sleep without seeking his own pleasure, but he's plenty hard and haunted by quiet thoughts of how long his dick is compared to her torso.
Perhaps that's also a task for the morning, or afternoon, or both.
When she comes, he's kissing her neck so hard that teeth meet skin. They're both sweaty beneath the covers. He doesn't stop fucking her with his fingers until she's done shaking against him, gasping at every hit inside. After he pulls out, he presses the same fingers over her clit and strokes it idly. "Are you satisfied?" he says, as she trembles as his touch.
"N-not so much that I'd mind another round," she says, panting. "You're not interested?"
"I'mdeeply interested. You could feel for yourself." If she reached, she'd find his cock filled, with a dab of precum at the tip. "I am also perfectly happy with myself for having pleased you."
At that, she blinks and slowly edges her thighs back together. "Haurchefant."
"Yes, my love?"
"You are... simultaneously the most voracious man I know, and the finest gentleman."
"You flatter me." He adjusts his dick beneath the band of his smalls and curls up next to her again, body to body.
"You expect me to ignore that?!"
"Shh," he says with a smile. "I'm trying to sleep."
She elbows him but ultimately acquiesces. It's not a slight but an act of service. An act of love. In the afterglow of climax, with his smile and a bit more at her back, she soon drifts off to sleep for the rest of the night.
And he follows shortly thereafter. Peace like this is hard to capture, he knows. It crumbles easily when cupped too closely, when forced into place. He shall hold it gently, warmly, with a fraction of his strength. If it means to go, it shall go whether he's gripping it by the horn or not.
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