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It must have been early - but not so early that G’raha Tia was the only soul up and about Saint Coinach’s Find.
The scholar was usually the first to bed and the first to rise, but this particular morning he had let himself sleep in a bit longer to compensate for the extra bell-and-a-half he’d spent perusing a new tome the group’s adventures had produced. By the time he slipped from his tent, Cid himself was hammering away at something, making it plain to the Miqo’te that it was late enough to bang away at sheet metal without attracting the ire of one of the Sons.
In other words - quite late.
The Garlean defector gave G’raha a wave as he passed by and then went back to his business. G’raha, starting to feel a bit ashamed of his lateness, made his way to the camp’s makeshift mess hall.
In truth, it wasn’t much of a hall. The tent looked the same as the others, just a bit larger. Perhaps a bit more worn. Inside, the team stored provisions: meats, fruits, starches best kept away from the elements and chilled accordingly by magic or magitek, as they were able. A while back, some of the Sons had also outfitted the tent with an unassuming table - most often covered in notes and tools - and a counter with a modest stove, so those calling the camp home could prepare meals together instead of sulking back to their humble quarters or relying on a campfire.
When G’raha stepped inside, he was alone. He scrunched his nose and pondered what that meant; had the others already come and gone? Or were they not yet up? His sense of time well-muddled, he knocked about the rations and selected a fresh loaf of bread and a bit of marmot meat.
The sight of those items sitting on the counter, waiting to be made into something worth eating, made him reconsider. With his hand on his chin, he thought perhaps he’d muck up the cooking of the meat, or find it too bland without the skills of a culinarian. Would it be too tough to cut into something suitable for a sandwich?
Ah, but a hand on his neck cut off his thought process.
“Finally, I catch you on your lonesome.” A second hand wrapped under his arm and clamped just beneath his collar bone.
He strained his chin up but didn’t turn. “B-beg pardon?”
“Don’t feign ignorance. I’ve seen the way you eye me.”
Naturally, G’raha sought to utilize the fool’s deflection strategy: laughing. “Er...I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, f-friend.”
“'No idea.'” A scoff. “Well, perhaps your body does.”
G’raha’s heart was racing. He knew full well he’d spent many nights setting an embarrassingly lusty gaze upon the Warrior from across camp, but never had he thought his affection would go noticed - much less exploited.
But before he had time to process the implications, another thought made his hands tense up. He and the Warrior, with hands wrapped around his neck and chest, threatening to explore other regions, stood right in the middle of the most oft-visited tent in all of Saint Coinach’s Find.
G’raha flushed red and held his eyes shut, pressed his chin into his collar. “My friend...I pray you not tease me so…”
The Warrior’s hand drifted from his chest to his abdomen. “We both know you crave a bit more than teasing.”
“I - “
“Undo your trousers.”
Lips pressed into G’raha’s neck, and soon he felt the full breadth of body against his back. “W-what?”
A tiny, hot kiss landed just beneath his hairline. “Don’t be shy.”
Shy? He wish he could have willed that trait to his nether regions. To his chagrin, his cock had responded to the Warrior’s presence with enthusiasm. Looking down, he knew there was no hiding the want his clothes had failed to conceal...and as time went on, he wondered whether he had the will or wherewithal to keep himself from obeying. “We are in the middle of camp,” he said.
The Warrior laughed and sent a hand to his pelvic region, just above his base. The pressure made him grind his teeth. “Would you have me do it for you?”
Oh, how he wished he could have run away. He nearly managed to pant out an excuse, but when a single finger traced the outline of his arousal, he craned his head back in excitement and pushed the air out of his lungs. Wordlessly, he found himself working at his belt, his smallclothes until he stood in the middle of Saint Coinach’s Find with the Warrior of Light at his back and his cock mere ilms from the counter on which he was supposed to be preparing a late breakfast.
“That’s right,” the Warrior said. “You’re larger than I expected, G’raha.”
He blushed, knowing the right words would melt him completely. “What are you doing?”
“Put your hands on the counter.”
Wincing, he leaned forward and set both palms down, just a bit more than shoulder width apart. He hung his head in shame, but dared not open his eyes. It felt like a dream, like an accidental fantasy.
“Did you sleep well, G’raha Tia?” The Warrior leaned into him, embraced him around his waist.
“W-well enough, I suppose.”
“Did you dream?”
“No.” He had to bite his lip to keep himself from whining. To leave him exposed like that and make idle conversation - the audacity.
“Do you dream often?”
“No, I...I am a light sleeper.”
“I sleep very well, which I suppose is the reason I’ve not caught you like this before.”
Why not approach me elsewhere? He wanted to ask, but had no chance as the Warrior began toying with his tip.
“Ah!”
The tension had been more than enough to get him leaking precum - a shameful blessing, he had to admit. With it, the Warrior could easily wet his cock, letting two fingers glide down his shaft with maddeningly little pressure.
“Twelve have mercy,” he whispered, rearing his hips back to glean something harder.
“Hungry for more?”
“Can’t we - can’t we - somewhere more private?”
“I don’t think you’d find that half as fun.” The Warrior slipped a hand up G’raha’s vest and tested his nipples. The poor scholar could do little to hide his gasp, and soon he found himself being pinched, squeezed from behind, all with his warm cock stiff and largely neglected between the Warrior’s two fingers.
“P-please,” G’raha said. “Something more.”
“More?”
“I want more.”
“You’ll cease requesting a change of venue?” The Warrior’s fingers - all of them - curled around his base.
G’raha’s eyes rolled back, knowing it was only a matter of time before he heard footsteps, saw the lighting change as some poor soul flipped open the entrance of the tent. “Yes, I...I beg of you…”
The Warrior groaned. “G’raha…”
Once the stroking started, he knew restraining himself would take concentration. For a while, he clenched his hands, still set upon the counter, into white-knuckled fists. When that wasn’t enough, he locked his face into a debauched still of a scream, his mouth hanging open, his brows asymmetrical and tense. At first, he could hold his hips back, keep his knees from bending with each movement...but the more he strained his body, the more his voice broke free.
He called the Warrior’s name and knew anyone outside could have heard it. The shock kept him from coming then and there.
And then he felt that smile against his skin. “Ah, how could I forget,” the Warrior said. “You’re a singer, are you not?”
“I...I…”
“Pray, let me hear that private voice of yours. Nay, let the whole camp hear…” The Warrior kept slicking his length, but moved a hand from his chest to squeeze between his legs.
G’raha banged his fist on the table. “Gods damn you…” Soon, he had fallen to his elbows and bent over completely so his rear pressed harder into the Warrior. That gave him something to buck against. And buck he did. He was vaguely aware of his tail lashing about, but he had long been pleasure-blind, as anyone in his situation, he thought, must be.
With those determined, battle-hardened hands working him, he shifted an arm to sit before his mouth, knowing he’d need something to bite soon.
“Come for me, G’raha,” the Warrior said.
“I will.” His mouth was wet against the flesh of his forearm.
“Come with my name on your lips.”
“Ah...but…”
The Warrior squeezed harder and slowed until G’raha couldn’t keep himself from whimpering. “If you want to come, you know you must…”
Tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth, he parted his eyelids just slightly and eyed himself. Seeing those hands at his cock - the sight was enough to wobble his knees and push him to the final throes. And there he found no shame nor logic nor guilt to inhibit his desire to obey his inspiration - the one who had long haunted his pure and impure thoughts - the one whose visage fueled his aspirations and his nightly, sinful ministrations.
So he cried the Warrior’s name once, twice, thrice - until his seed spurted onto the cupboard in a row of quick bursts - and then dripped from his tip to the floor. His feet turned inward and once he’d finished singing, he clamped his teeth upon his own arm to finish riding out his orgasm. As clarity rode back into him, he realized he couldn’t recall feeling so embarrassed in his whole life.
Voices filled his ears.
“G’raha? Is everything all right?”
“What’s going on in there?”
“Has anyone seen - “
-
Ultimately, it was the very real orgasm he’d had that woke him from his cold-sweated sleep in the middle of the night. In his own tent, he was breathing heavily, staring at the roof, and wondering why now of all times he had managed to come from something that happened in a dream. He’d spent his entire adolescence high and dry, never finishing before waking and getting off with the help of his own hands.
A well-trained scholar, and now he sullied himself in slumber. What an accomplishment.
Once he had cleaned himself up, blushing even in private, he slipped outside to fetch some cold water from the selfsame tent he’d visited in his dreams. He couldn’t have been sleeping for very long, as the sky was yet heavy and dark above his head. The night air did little to help his fever.
Fate had it that once he found his way there, none but the Warrior greeted him.
“G’raha? What are you doing up?”