Chapter Text
In the weeks that followed their return from the First, unable to lay their hands on the Telophoroi’s towers and unwilling to venture too far as they waited for word from Krile, the Scions hovered about Revenant’s Toll. They handled smaller disputes and put down rampaging packs that wandered too close to the settlement’s walls. They spent their extra time with the people, who were glad to have them near, and retreated to Dawn’s Respite to sleep more often than not. Even Estinien tiptoed in at the odd hour to lay among them, though he left early enough that no one could make a wayward comment to his face about it.
Overall they spent their days together. More importantly, G’raha spent his days with the Warrior of Light, and that was a humble fantasy he’d never thought to come true. They shared their meals and their errands; they slept in the same room in the glow of a single lantern. At breakfast they gravitated to one another as if by nature, for Meteor always sat with G’raha, perhaps reassuring himself that his soul had not curdled. G’raha was quick to promise him that it hadn’t. Even Y’shtola could find nothing wrong with it, but the tiniest crack was a thing that often went unnoticed, whether it be in a vase or a person, until one laid a finger on it.
And G’raha did have a fracture. The souls of his older and younger selves had merged, yes, but not perfectly, and it was such a minute imperfection that he couldn’t feel it, nor could he sense its gradual expanding as something dark nestled into its recess and grew there.
What he did feel was joy and purpose. Worry sat with him too, understandable given the impending business with Fandaniel and Zenos, but he didn’t let it ruin the good moments, of which there were so many. Not just with Meteor but the rest of them, including Estinien, who began to drop in more and more often to help them with whatever task fell into their laps. G’raha couldn’t fault him for his loitering. He was a great fan of the Azure Dragoon, after all, and while Estinien was quick to rebuff his attempts to get to know him he was a stoid ally, an honorable and experienced man, who was there to do only good.
G’raha did like him, even though Estinien had an inexorable way of drawing Meteor’s attention; even though they whispered together in corners, the comraderie between them subtle but undeniable; even though the smiles they shared seemed to convey something secret. G’raha liked him. He did. Who could fault the man for wanting Meteor’s attention? Practically everyone did, so G’raha could bear no grudge.
Until a night came when he chanced to glimpse a moment between the two that was meant to be private: Estinien’s hand on Meteor’s cheek, a brazen thumb across his lips. It was a fleeting touch meant to tease were Estinien’s immediate departure any indication, and in his wake Meteor stood silent and pondered the floor. G’raha had hoped his face would reveal some small sign of distaste, even horror. Instead he witnessed the slow spread of a smile before Meteor turned and followed after.
Strange, how such a small thing thrust a wedge in that tiny crack and hammered, prying it open to a great and miserable chasm, and stranger still how instantly it flooded with every selfish urge he’d forced to the back of his mind. They churned in that massive fissure like a knot of writhing snakes. Desire undermined admiration; need entangled with anger. Jealousy coated them all, turning them viscous and vulgar, so that they could more easily slide their way into every other part of him, rooting in marrow and entangling every ligament. G’raha let out a shaky breath, stunned by the swiftness of heartbreak.
What to do about it? A less experienced man might have chased after them and made a scene, but G’raha was not that man. He’d learned much in his century as the Exarch. A true leader knew when to deliberate and when to act, could be patient enough to lay out a plan and contingencies to back it up, and a strategist always chose a battlefield which served him best.
G’raha’s eyes wandered to the Crystal Tower’s blue spire in the distance.
Urianger was a helpful source. He was thrilled to share his collection at the Waking Sands with G’raha, who approached him under the pretense of preparing for their coming battle with the Telophoroi. He even trusted G’raha to be left alone there among the tomes at night so that he could study uninterrupted. Being Archons, they shared a love for research and knowledge, and Urianger delighted in having someone likeminded about. Estinien, he said, had not been terribly responsive.
“Well,” G’raha said kindly, “we each of us have our own interests.”
“Ah, yes,” Urianger said, murmuring to himself as he left G’raha. “Perhaps a history on the dragons of Meracydia might spark his interest better. I do believe…”
With that he was gone, and G’raha was able to scour through tomes, codexes, and grimoires to his heart’s content until he found a handful of spells which might serve his plans. It would take some practicing but he was nothing if not patient, and there were plentiful wild beasts in Thanalan to try them on, sprites and bulls alike. When the bulls tested the strength of his spell, he had a bit of materia melded into his staff. The difference thereafter was satisfying. It was, after all, something of a bull he was after.
In that way a week got away from him. The chasm which had opened gaped like a vaccuum, breathing in everything G’raha had to feed its knot of hungers. He was calm as ever on the outside, though, and was able to confidently approach Meteor after days and nights of study to push his plan into motion.
“An excursion?” Meteor asked. “To the Crystal Tower? I thought the wards were holding up.”
“They are,” said G’raha, “but I can’t help but feel I should still check on it periodically.” He chuckled. “Call it separation anxiety. The tower and I were one for so long.”
Meteor considered that and nodded, seeming to think this reasonable.
“Of course I’ll go with you. When were you thinking?”
G’raha did some quick calculations in his head. He was near good enough at his newfound spells to be confident they would hold when needed. Another night of practice and he would have it.
“Tomorrow?” he suggested.
“Tomorrow,” Meteor agreed, and G’raha could no longer differentiate nervous butterflies from the ravenous gorge of sickness within.
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It wasn’t that he had any plan of being cruel. He was still himself, so far as he was aware, and was ever thoughtful. So he packed a lunch for them, wrapping bread and cheese with care, and filled a couple skins with cool water. Meteor met him that morning at the gates in sensible clothes. The boots were worn leather. The trousers were simple at the binding, the tunic light and knotted at the waist. G’raha could not have hoped for better. The gods knew what a hassle armor would have been to work around.
Meteor, an inherent gentleman, insisted on relieving G’raha of the lunch pack. He peeked into it.
“What’s this?” he asked, plucking an amber bottle from the bag.
“Oil,” G’raha answered honestly. It was not the sort for dipping bread into, but Meteor didn’t know that. He gave a little ‘ah’ and tucked it away, flashing G’raha a lovely smile as he slung the bag over his shoulder. G’raha smiled back, his face a perfect countenance of uncomplicated sincerity, while behind it the chasm yawned.
He’d thought they might hoof it, or even borrow a Chocobo, but once they were outside the settlement walls Meteor surprised him with a long, sharp whistle, and moments later a winged horse descended to alight before them. The creature could not support their combined weight in flight, Meteor explained, but it would do perfectly well on the ground.
They rode together on its back. G’raha was shy at first in having to hold onto the other man’s waist, a silly bit of prudishness considering what he had planned, but it was altogether too dream-like. As soon as he tilted too far to the left, however, rocked by the horse’s determined gallop, Meteor advised that he “best hang on—and tight”, and that was sufficient enough encouragement for G’raha to wrap his arms around the hero’s middle.
It was a quick journey. Through Mor Dhona and down between the rocky faces of earth that shrouded the tower’s base they went, at last arriving at its massive doors. G’raha craned his neck to behold their height, as did Meteor, and G’raha wondered whether the man had a similar line of thought to his own: that the tower was as much a part of them and their history as were their own blood and bones. Despite no longer being one with it, G’raha felt that it was still connected to him and ever would be, even if he could no longer use its reserves to bolster his spells as he once had.
“Looks to be in good shape,” Meteor remarked. G’raha nodded, but he’d already known it would be.
“Would that I still had its power at my disposal,” he sighed.
“You’re a powerful mage on your own,” Meteor said. “More than you realize.”
G’raha flushed with pleasure at this gift of praise.
“Let us hope so.”
The doors opened obediently for G’raha’s blood. They strode in together, equally familiar with the path to the Ocular. It was the only place he really needed to go, G’raha told him, what with the scrying glass inside able to show him the tower’s interior without having to traipse through the whole thing. So to the Ocular they went, speaking softly to one another of nothing important as they walked.
It, of course, was untouched. They entered the room together and dropped their bag and water skins on the floor.
“This place is full of memories,” said G’raha, tracing the floor’s golden glyphs with his eyes. Such a beautiful pattern, a proper place for one to be laid down in penance.
“From when you locked yourself in here,” Meteor surmised, “and all the years you spent as the Exarch.”
“Ah, yes,” G’raha said. “But so quickly did those years pass me by. I suppose my sense of time was warped by the anticipation of your arrival. There was much to do, much to put into place before I moved to summon you. When you are so dreadfully busy, you don’t notice the hours dwindling until they have already slipped through your fingers.”
Meteor laughed in agreement, looking around as though he’d never had the chance to take it all in before, but G’raha supposed that might be true. Too often had Meteor entered that chamber at his behest only to leave it within the same hour, chasing Lightwardens and their lesser ilk all over Norvrandt. And too often G’raha had watched his back as he left and wished just the two of them could have an honest moment alone.
“Did you feel trapped here?” Meteor asked him.
“Trapped? Me?” G’raha touched his chin thoughtfully. “No, I would say not. There was a great well of knowledge here that I was all too happy to cohabitate with. It was at the crux of everything we hoped to achieve. Even now, I see this place and think only of how well it served us, of all the good you and I were able to do thanks to this tower.”
Meteor walked the room as G’raha spoke. It was one of his baffling strengths, being a soundboard for people. He had an air about him that encouraged one to talk. G’raha in his youth had already been something of a chatterbox, so he had to remind himself to get to the point.
“Everything we accomplished together,” G’raha murmured.
Meteor made a soft, fond sound. G’raha could imagine a smile on his face—just like the one he’d worn for Estinien. His hand tightened around his staff. When he spoke again, his voice was cold.
“Everything I’ve done for you.”
Meteor halted at the floor’s center. He turned to look at G’raha with surprise. G’raha stared back with hardened eyes.
“G’raha?”
They faced off for a beat of silence: Meteor waiting for a sign, and G’raha waiting for his resolve. All he had to do was look Meteor over, take in every ilm of his body and imagine those long-fingered Elezen hands upon it, and his determination turned to unbreakable stone. With a simple gesture of his staff the Ocular doors swung shut, only the briefest flash of light around the threshold indicating the seal he wove upon it. Just a flick of the wrist, it was that simple, and the Warrior of Light was locked inside with him.
Meteor turned to face him in full. While his stance widened in preparation he made no move, unwilling perhaps to attack a friend even as the signs of trouble were beginning to stack up.
“What is this?” he asked. “Why are we really here?”
“Why indeed?” said G’raha. “Every significant moment between us has occurred in this tower, my friend. Let it go on that way. Let this be our place, our sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary?”
G’raha paused, and told him, “You may think of it as a confessional.”
Meteor strode forward with intent. G’raha—loathe to do it, truly, but necessity was necessity—pointed the crystal of his staff at the man’s chest and cast, “Break.”
Meteor came to an almost complete stop as a dark cloud encircled his legs, turning every limb to lead, his face opening with shock. He had been slowed significantly but not bound, for the spell was not meant to last long. It was only to give G’raha the time he needed to cast another. Holding the staff upright in both hands, he summoned a binding circle beneath Meteor’s feet. As it unfurled G’raha quickly wove in yet another, this one accompanied by a shout of intention shaped in a foreign tongue, then a downward slash of the staff, and a shining force descended from on high to slam Meteor onto his knees. From the glyph beneath him sprouted two shining tethers for his wrists, just in time for the dark cloud to disperse.
“What are you doing!”
Such a roar that was in G’raha’s ears, so much disbelief and outrage packed into it. G’raha swallowed.
“Hold still,” he warned, knowing it was futile, and for that reason was not shocked when Meteor thrashed against his binding spell. Neither did it surprise him how powerfully Meteor’s physical resistance stressed the seams of his magic. He was the Warrior of Light, after all, and was not one to disappoint. Well, not in most regards, but G’raha did feel the strain of it like a tugging at his very aether.
When the tethers did not break, Meteor stopped his fighting long enough to catch his breath, looking about wildly for something that might serve him. There was of course nothing, so he turned back to his companion.
“You mean to kill me?” he accused. “That’s why you brought me here?”
The betrayal on his face was heart-wrenching. G’raha could have wept to behold it—that his most precious friend could even think him capable—were he not preoccupied already with so much else. Now was not the time to succumb to one’s own softness. He had a battle of wills to win.
“Please don’t misunderstand me,” he said heavily. “I would not seek to harm you.”
He raised a comforting hand to Meteor’s cheek. The man jerked away, and that was quite infuriating considering he hadn’t done the same to Estinien. G’raha, though, kept his calm, letting his hand fall back to his side.
“Is this a joke?” Meteor snarled. “A surprise spar? Tell me.”
G’raha bowed his head. How daunting he found Meteor in all his glory, even shackled as he was, and to be the subject of his fury was a greater trial than he’d ever thought possible. The Exarch had suffered much in his hundred years, though. G’raha depended now upon that fortitude.
“Shall I be honest?” he asked. “Yes, I owe you that much. Forgive me if I sound a child.”
Meteor’s face cinched with impatience. G’raha sighed. Putting it all into words, that was the most difficult part. To speak his heart, his innermost thoughts, what man wouldn’t hesitate when forced to reveal it all before his most elevated hero? He’d known it was Meteor’s due, though, were G’raha to make this fair. He deserved to know.
“Two hundred years I dreamt of you,” G’raha confessed, “and for another hundred I waited. And so, having been granted the chance at life anew, I meant to give you my all, to build a brighter future with you and be at your side always. Oh, and just these weeks home from the First have been glorious, no matter the danger that lies ahead.”
Meteor angled his head, a warning that he was prepared to interrupt if G’raha didn’t get to it. G’raha paused to put his thoughts back in order.
“And I thought,” he went on, a growing knot in his throat thickening his voice, “truly thought that was enough. To see your face every day, to lend you my aid where able, what more could I ask for? I was but one of many in your vast circle of admirers, and yet I considered myself blessed. I still do.”
“G’raha.”
“Apologies.” That baffling strength again, the one that prompted people to lay themselves bare. “What I mean to say is, it’s not enough.”
Meteor stared, blue eyes uncomprehending.
“I only realized this recently, mind you. When I saw you with another.”
‘With another?’ Meteor mouthed to himself, his brow furrowing.
“Estinien,” G’raha explained. A light flickered behind Meteor’s eyes then, revealing a rapid train of thought: ‘he saw us, he knows, that’s why I’m here, why he’s mad.’
“I was willing to stand aside,” G’raha explained. “I knew that, should you set your eyes upon someone, I could bear it—so long as you were safe, so long as I could have just a scrap of your time for myself now and then.” He placed a hand over his own heart, smiling sadly at the floor. “Or so I thought. But when I saw you and him—”
“Nothing happened between us.”
G’raha frowned at how quickly he denied it, but he was not there to put Meteor on trial. There was no need for argument and defense, only rehabilitation.
“And nothing will,” G’raha assured him. “As much as I admire him, I find I cannot abide another man’s hands upon you, not even his. And there are so many that would reach for you. It is…maddening.”
Meteor surged forward, his face twisted with fury, but the tethers held him on his knees. G’raha had frequently entertained a fantasy of Meteor knelt before him, a fairy-tale vision in armor and cape as he swore a vow of protection or fealty, whatever it was G’raha in the moment found most appealing. This angry man looked not so romantic but no less tempting, and between his sneer and balled fists G’raha thought he saw a little room for repentance.
“Know that my admiration for you far outweighs my anger.” He offered a merciful smile. “If you were to but ask me for forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?”
“Yes,” G’raha encouraged breathlessly, “and I would happily give it to you. Without a second thought.”
The way Meteor stared at him, his gaze flitting from one red eye to the other, showed little promise. That was no expression of remorse. Only horror.
“Something’s wrong,” Meteor said, looking pained. “Something happened to you when you merged. This isn’t you.”
G’raha felt the heady excitement in him fizzle out, doused by those cruel words. It certainly fell short of ‘I’m sorry’.
“I assure you, it is.”
When his call to G’raha’s senses failed miserably, Meteor switched tactics.
“You don’t own me. It’s not for you to interfere even if I were to—to be with another.”
That simple remark sparked such an anger in G’raha that his hand darted forward like lightning, clutching Meteor’s jaw as all the monstrous urges which filled him riled and twisted in renewed fervor.
“Another?” he echoed in disbelief. Was that not why they were there? Did the Warrior of Light truly not understand, had he not made it plain enough? “There will be no other. You’re mine.”
He closed what few inches remained between them, prying Meteor’s lips open with his own and forcing his tongue inside. Meteor struggled, vocalizing wordless dissent into G’raha’s mouth, but he lacked the upperhand. G’raha moaned into him hedonistically. The sweet sounds between them—denial and pleasure, submission and control—echoed off the Ocular’s crystal surfaces, and it was exhilarating, having the advantage over such a rugged creature. He was taller than G’raha and built more powerfully, and yet he’d been chained like an attack dog at his master’s feet. That chasm filled with viscous evil rumbled. He dismissed it as the sound of his own rushing blood.
He sucked hard on Meteor’s tongue as his hands dipped into his tunic, unfastening the ties so that it could fall open to bare stomach and chest. The man ran hot. His skin was a fire against G’raha’s hands; his abdomen quivered beneath roaming palms, the chest expanded with an intake of breath, rising to meet G’raha’s fingers as they threaded through the soft curls of hair there. Day-old stubble burned like sandpaper against G’raha’s face. He quickly lost track of himself, so taken by the metallic taste of that tongue, of the smell of heat and sunlight trapped in his hair. Meteor did not jerk away, and in fact delved deeper into G’raha’s mouth despite himself. It was close enough to ‘forgive me’ that G’raha’s righteous anger quickly began to ebb.
Not until he dared fiddle at the waistband of Meteor’s trousers did the other break their kiss, eyes blinking with alarm, lips red and swollen.
“Wait,” he said hoarsely. G’raha refused. The momentum had taken him, there could be no waiting. He needed to be filled with Meteor, his taste and scent and everything besides, and to wash away any lingering thought he might have of anyone else. He caught the soft lobe of Meteor’s ear between his teeth and pulled, his own ears twitching as the man released a low and needy ‘ahh’, and dipped his tongue into the shell—oh, how Meteor shivered, how he keened and bucked as G’raha teased him—while unfastening the belt and cords of his trousers, but not yet pushing them down. G’raha lowered his mouth to the crook between neck and shoulder and bit hard, just the smallest release of frustration against the skin. Meteor flinched.
“Wait,” he said again, but it was weak, hardly even a whisper, as he pushed his hips forward. “We shouldn’t, not like th-this.”
He was determined to be difficult, then. G’raha stepped back to reclaim his staff and slammed the heel of it into the floor. The glyphs of his binding spell glowed cold as the tethers around Meteor’s wrists retracted into the floor, yanking him backwards, while two more sprouted to catch hold of his legs. The vehemence with which Meteor fought him before had lessened. Still, he resisted on instinct, and as surely as he pulled so too did G’raha feel that unpleasant tugging at every particle of aether that made him up, but it wasn’t as violent as before. Meteor’s conviction had halved, and the stamina of his muscles gave way before that of G’raha’s spell. He hit the ground on his back and stayed there, already looking spent.
G’raha had told himself that their excursion would be an impartial carrying out of justice, but seeing the Warrior of Light laid flat before him was more exciting than he’d anticipated. The great Champion of Eorzea was his to do with as he willed, bound and prone in that sacred place for however long he wished it, for none could trespass there in his tower. He let his mind wander as he circled Meteor, deaf to his appeals to G’raha’s reason, and allowed himself to imagine hours of sweat and burning muscle, of a mess of oil and cum between them, until his own breath ran short.
Never had he thought of himself as a conqueror. He had no taste for the subjugation of places or people. This, on the other hand, made him so hard that it hurt: Meteor not quite begging but beseeching, helpless to G’raha’s magic. Something living within that chasm, more deeply hidden than any other, urged him to lay a dictatorial heel upon Meteor’s chest and make demands, to grasp the hero’s face and force his cock passed those swollen lips, watching the outline of it invade the confines of that throat, but G’raha, shivering with both disgust and thrill, couldn’t yet stomach such debasement of his hero. Maybe another time, if Meteor begged him to. If he found a way to make him beg for such things.
For now he lay his staff on the steps that led to the scrying glass and retrieved the oil from their pack.
“What are you doing?” Meteor asked again, less angry than anxious. Ignoring him, G’raha removed his own shirt and lay it folded on the floor. Then, blowing out a breath, he kicked off his boots and unfastened his own belt, approaching Meteor again as he did so. Meteor’s throat worked at a swallow, resurfacing that image into G’raha’s head again: his hands holding either side of Meteor’s face as he bucked angrily into his mouth, punishing, demanding contrition. No, he told himself. Not now. Correction, not punishment. Absolution without retribution.
He removed the last of his clothing and tried not to smile as Meteor’s blue eyes raked him over with an odd mixture of lust and trepidation. Hands trembling, he grasped the waistband of Meteor’s trousers, already loose from having been unfastened before, and shimmied them down his legs. And he did hear the man’s protests, but they were all very vague and far away when he saw the way that cock sprang free, fully erect already and glistening at the slit with precum.
He’d meant to say something reassuring. Instead, feeling a painful throb pulse through his own erection, he dove forward and caught the salt of precum on his tongue, his ears pricking forward as Meteor sucked in a sharp breath.
“G’raha, don’t,” Meteor panted, straining against his tethers. “Look at us. Look at what you’re—”
His words devolved to guttural nonsense as G’raha grasped the base of his cock and took the rest into his mouth. He was hard as a rock, the skin like fine silk in contrast. What an unbelievable pleasure, truly a dream come true. Long had G’raha wished for the chance at this privilege. He removed his hand so that he could swallow the full length, struggling at first, but he managed it, breathing steadily through his nose as below him Meteor squirmed and shouted. He stayed that way awhile so that he could relish the taste and feel. His hands massaged the other man’s hips, then bravely slid under to cup and squeeze at Meteor’s ass. For that Meteor snapped upwards, forcing the head of his cock further in, to which G’raha gagged but held strong, savoring every second he allowed himself this freedom with his most coveted warrior.
As far as the size of him went, G’raha had known what to expect. It was one of his many guilty secrets: all the nights he’d spent as the Exarch watching his Warrior of Darkness through the scrying glass. He slept naked, and when G’raha’s luck ran high he would check in just in time to see Meteor tending to himself, pumping an impressively large hard-on as he lay upon a tangle of sheets. G’raha didn’t know whose name floated in that head at night. His only solace was that Meteor was on the bed he had provided, and that no one was around to watch when G’raha’s hand would dip into the folds of his own robes and stroke in time with his beloved, whispering his name repetitively as his free hand lay over the image in the glass.
G’raha pulled away with a cough, saliva wetting his lips, and dragged a long, wide-tongued lick along the veiny underside of Meteor’s cock. Below him the man swore. He looked to be grasping at whatever strength he had left to voice another argument, but betrayed himself by lifting his hips again with need.
G’raha uncorked the oil and dipped two fingers into it, smiling when Meteor’s eyes snapped open.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not for you.”
Before Meteor could argue, G’raha reached around to insert an oiled finger into himself, grimacing briefly before his face slackened with pleasure, and he took Meteor back into his mouth. He worked himself carefully as he sucked, his eagerness, and subsequently his pace, increasing steadily as he did so.
“Fuck, G’raha—ah, gods.”
He sucked hard, dragging his mouth back up the length, and pulled away with a wet pop.
“Call me by my name,” he gasped.
“G’raha—”
“My name,” he stressed, biting Meteor’s tender inner thigh in warning. That leg jerked. Meteor shivered.
“Raha,” he croaked, and G’raha sighed, sucking at the red mark his bite had left before returning his attention to his cock, worshipping it with slow kisses over side and head as he fingered himself harder. He’d practiced this along with his spells for several days now, knowing his body would need preparation beforehand if he wanted it to go right. The last thing he could stand was to seal their bond only to find his body unready and unwilling to take it.
So he scissored his fingers inside himself and sucked messily, coating Meteor’s length in saliva and mouthing greedily at his balls when he needed a quick break as his jaw became sore. All the while Meteor went on with his unconvincing ‘no’s and ‘stop’s, begging otherwise with his body and moaning when G’raha lapped up the occasional drip of precum.
Deeming himself ready, he straddled Meteor, drizzling a generous amount of oil along the man’s dick and massaging it in, then added more. Meteor bit his lip to stifle what would undoubtedly have been another moan, frustrating G’raha, who would have so loved to hear it. He raised up on his knees and grasped the slick shaft as he aligned himself to take it.
Meteor pulled again at the binding spell. “Raha, please, please."
But who knew what he was even begging for? Please stop? Please hurry? G’raha decided it was the latter and lowered himself, taking just the tip with a shudder as Meteor dropped his head against the floor in surrender. He paused there, allowing himself to enjoy the feel of it, the pressure of that tip inside him. It did hurt considerably, so he had to take a steadying breath before going on. Canting his hips, he slid down further, groaning alongside Meteor as he did so.
“You’re too tight. I can’t.”
“You can,” G’raha said, the ceiling spinning above him. “I have to have you, I have to.”
With another roll he took Meteor in to the hilt, gasping at the size of him. Only dazedly did he hear Meteor’s strangled groan. The Warrior of Light shook beneath him, twisting his legs, tossing his head to one side and sucking in air. Already a sheen of sweat had broken out across chest and stomach, outlining every dip and rise of muscle and slicking the hair at his temples. He wanted to push back, G’raha just knew it, but virtue and resentment withheld him. That was fine. G’raha needed no help.
He lifted himself slowly and pushed down again. The sounds Meteor made deep within his throat were beastly, completely animalistic. As he moved, adjusting his body, he felt the oil sliding between them, dripping down Meteor’s cock and over his balls, and with a careful hand G’raha reached to massage them in his palm. Meteor’s eyes shot wide open. His mouth gaped, his back arched.
“Ah! Stop…you have to…s-stop, this is wrong—"
Yes, it was wrong. He was positively sick with himself, sick with having manipulated and tricked Meteor, with what he had to do now, and yet that sickness in his gut fed a current of excitement through the rest of him. Just hearing Meteor beg drove him to move faster, fucking himself on his cock with reckless hunger. He let himself cry and groan and gasp. There was no one else to hear it, no one to save either of them, not Meteor nor G’raha from himself. So he slammed himself down, watching through hooded eyes how Meteor’s throat flexed with every suppressed cry, his teeth clenched so tightly that the cords in his neck bulged.
It felt so delicious inside him, so thick and unbearably hard. He wrapped a hand around Meteor’s neck to steady himself as he rode him feverishly, and the bliss that crossed the hero’s face, the faintest, gruffest whimper he couldn’t hold back anymore, drove G’raha to ride him even harder. Meteor at last let himself cry out, a sound which reverberated through G’raha’s hand, and then he cried again. G’raha grasped at his own cock and pumped desperately. The man wanted to be used, wanted to be choked and ridden, he could just see it on that handsome face.
A voice that welled up from the chasm like smoke bid him hurt, choke, slap. G’raha denied it, but it was incredibly strong, so he compromised by grasping a handful of unkempt brown hair and wrenching Meteor’s head to the side, forcing the side of his face against the floor. Meteor made no complaint. He only shut his eyes, his mouth slack to let free every wanton cry he’d held back until then.
“Let me up,” he gasped. “At least my legs, please.”
“Say it now,” G’raha urged. “Tell me first.”
Meteor made a stubborn show of curling his lips inward, but his eyes revealed temptation as he looked between them, and he could not stop a noise of longing as he watched G’raha’s ass slide down his wet shaft again.
G’raha applied a little pressure to his throat, just a tiny squeeze of encouragement. Meteor’s eyes rolled.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped at last, “I’m—”
G’raha yanked him forward, allowing the tethers a small amount of give with some mental encouragement, and plunged his tongue back into the man’s hot mouth. Those words, he could taste them, and they were so goddamn sweet. It was nearly enough to make him finish.
“Again,” he demanded. Meteor quaked beneath him, breathing hard as G’raha nipped at his lip, then dipped his head to drag the tip of his tongue along the column of his throat. Those blue eyes fell shut. Fluttered open. He was a man in the throes. He would in that moment say anything.
“Forgive me.”
G’raha couldn’t stop himself from letting forth a low mewl. His control wavered. The tethers around Meteor’s legs snapped, and so quickly did Meteor brace both soles against the floor, lifting G’raha off his knees, that he could do nothing but scream as Meteor bucked wildly upwards.
“Fuck, Raha, forgive me,” he said again, and the words sounded so like a prayer, every reverent syllable another pulse through G’raha’s lower belly. Meteor slammed up into him faster and deeper than G’raha had thought possible, and it was all he could do to stay astride him, stroking himself erratically as the oil between them squelched and smeared.
“I do,” G’raha gasped, screaming again as such a simple allowance prompted Meteor to slam up into him harder. “Just don’t stop, don’t stop, gah—!”
G’raha was the first to burst, even though he could have gone for hours, would have loved to continue into the night until his ass was bruised and hurting and Meteor wept from rawness. His cum shot across the other man’s chest and open mouth. Meteor startled, surprised but for a second before he licked it off his lips, rutting as heedlessly as a mutt, deaf to G’raha’s spent whimpers as he took his pleasure from his exhausted captor. G’raha was weak atop him. He could do nothing but pant and hold on as Meteor drove himself in again and again, until at last he lifted his hips as high as he could and pumped G’raha full, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself.
He dropped with a great shudder. G’raha’s knees hit the floor again, his tail slack along Meteor’s thigh as they both breathed hard. For a fleeting moment he felt that pulsing inside him still. He pushed down weakly, and Meteor convulsed.
“D-don’t,” he murmured. “Sensitive.”
G’raha laughed softly. Odd, how he could in that moment find something cute, but Meteor was. Or endearing. Maybe that was a more appropriate word.
He removed himself with care. Meteor’s cum dripped down his thighs, and Meteor watched, enraptured by every milky bead and trail that traveled along G’raha’s legs. He left the man where he was and cleaned himself as best he could before dressing again. He debated whether he should rub Meteor down too, but he liked the way he looked, all disheveled and a mess, the smell of oil and sex soaked into his skin.
G’raha left his wrists tethered but did not bother restraining his legs again.
“Now—” A belated shiver wracked through G’raha. “Ah. Now you will reflect.”
Meteor snapped his head around to balk at him.
“On what?”
“What you’ve done,” G’raha answered without conviction. He was too dazed, too satisfied, to say it with any venom.
“No. You forgave me, remember? Let me up.”
G’raha looked at him. He was aglow with a fine sheen of sweat, hair plastered to his brow. The splash of G’raha’s cum still glistened across his chest.
“No,” he answered with a lazy smile, and walked away, shutting the doors to the Ocular behind him. He did stay there, his Miqote ears picking up every growl and angry shout from the chamber until he was hard again. His only regret was that the scrying glass was locked in with Meteor and that he could not use it to watch the man struggle.
Next time, the chasm rumbled. Next time he would lock Meteor somewhere else so that he could use the glass to watch. But not before he learned how to make him beg on command.
Like an attack dog at his master’s feet, the voice encouraged. A knight before his Exarch.
G’raha bit his lip and touched himself again as, inside the Ocular, Meteor went on yelling.