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Lamplight gilded the Rising Stones' common room in amber – long shadows pooling under empty chairs, the distant clink of tankards signaling a few stragglers still nursing their drinks. G'raha nudged open the door with his elbow, arms stacked high with freshly copied field reports... and nearly dropped them all at the sight of Kedare's broad-shouldered silhouette already halfway to the exit.
His pulse tripped over itself. Perfect timing.
"Kedare!" The name leapt from his throat an octave too high. The slight hitch in the warrior's stride would've been invisible to anyone else – but G'raha had spent months memorizing that gait. "Fancy finding you lurking about at this hour. Hiding from social obligations, or simply brooding poetically amidst the ale stains?"
Kedare turned just enough for lamplight to catch the scar cleaving his cheek – a familiar sight by now, but one that still sent an inexplicable thrill down G'raha's spine. "Leavin'."
"Ah, but not before hearing my latest findings on the Archmage's translation notes!" He slid neatly into Kedare's path, leveraging the stack of papers between them like a shield. The top sheet fluttered under his enthusiastic gesture, dense notes nearly obscuring the smudged diagram beneath. "The syntax of these newly recovered texts matches – are you grimacing? For shame! This is – wait!"
No force in Eorzea – not even an Archon's sternest reprimand – could halt Kedare's purposeful stride. G'raha chewed his lip, watching as the warrior cut toward the private quarters like a blade through silk. His fingers tightened around the reports before logic prevailed; he dumped the entire stack onto the nearest table with a disregard that would've made his mentors faint.
The notes could wait. This couldn't.
"Of all foes," he called, weaving past a precariously balanced stool, "I never took the Warrior of Light for one who'd flee from paperwork."
Kedare vanished around a corner, swallowed by the storage hall's gloom. G'raha bit his lip to stifle a grin and darted after him, boots skimming the flagstones as lightly as he nocked arrows. His pulse raced – not from exertion, but exhilaration. The thrill of pursuit. The chance to be noticed.
"Or is it merely my sparkling conversation?" He lunged ahead, spinning to block the doorway of an open storeroom with his arms spread. Shadows hollowed Kedare's cheekbones, turning his glare to something that should've been terrifying. G'raha only straightened, tail lashing. "I never imagined I'd be the one to best the dreaded Eikon-slayer."
Muscle memory saved him. He caught the warning tension in Kedare's shoulders a split-second before impact – then shelves shuddered, his spine met unyielding wood, and Kedare's palm slammed beside his head.
Heat flooded his cheeks. His breath came embarrassingly fast.
Yes.
G'raha hit the shelves, his breath catching – but that damned smirk never wavered. That alone should've made Kedare drop him.
He didn't.
He could feel the shelf digging into his palm, sharp as a knife's edge. Each exhale from those grinning lips fanned over him, warm and too close. Worse yet was the scent – dried ginger and faint traces of excited arousal. The stubborn crispness of it wedged under his tongue like a challenge. It lingered wherever G'raha had been.
Damn him.
He told himself it was just another battle, another test of control. G'raha had been a thorn in his side since the Shroud, his very existence designed to provoke. And the scholar knew it – knew exactly what he did every time he leaned too close or let his voice drop into that insufferable purr.
A deliberate shift of weight, then G'raha's hips brushed against his thigh, light as a challenge.
"Is the Warrior of Light finally ready to concede defeat?"
Kedare's pulse stuttered before he could stop it. His grip on the shelf tightened, wood groaning under his fingers. His free hand curled into a fist at his side, blunt nails biting into his palm as his lips pulled back to bare his teeth. The sharp pain wasn't enough to drown out the truth clawing its way up his throat–
He wanted him.
And G'raha, damn him, knew it.
He couldn't stand that smirk for another second.
Kedare shifted his grip to G'raha's shoulder – fingers digging into the collar of his tunic – and wrenched him around hard enough to make his teeth click. The crates stood just behind them, rough-hewn wood still smelling of fresh resin. He shoved the scholar face-first against it, using his weight to pin him there. No more grins. No more sly glances. Just the sharp hitch of G'raha's breath and the rigid line of his spine tensing under Kedare's hands.
"You–" G'raha started, voice jumping an octave, but Kedare cut him off with a rough press of his hips.
There.
Silence – beautiful, blessed silence – except for G'raha's shaky exhale against the wood. Kedare could feel the scholar's pulse rabbiting beneath his grip, frantic as a trapped bird. The realization curled hot in his chest, satisfaction carving through the anger.
He held there for a long moment, letting the reality of it settle between them – the heat of G'raha's back against his chest, the way his fingers twitched against the crate like he wasn't sure whether to grip or push away.
"Not so talkative now," Kedare murmured against the shell of his ear, deliberately calm.
G'raha shuddered. The reaction punched through him with visceral satisfaction.
Finally. Finally, the bastard had nothing to say.
The tension in G'raha's back unraveled beneath his hands, muscles twitching like a drawn bowstring. He could feel the scholar's breath stuttering against his knuckles where they pressed into the crate – harsh, uneven. Victory hummed low in his gut. He stepped back just enough to undo G'raha's belt and free his tail with swift precision, ties and fabric parting under his fingers like a challenge met. The scholar made a choked noise when his breeches pooled at his feet, baring him to the dim lantern light.
His damned confidence had been nothing but bravado all along.
G'raha's hands flexed against the crate, fingers curling as if searching for purchase. His damned tail – always lashing about with some smug remark – flicked in tight, erratic jerks instead, the fur bristling at the base. Pale thighs taut with the effort of holding still. Kedare dragged a thumb up the back of one, slow and deliberate, feeling the muscle jump under his touch.
His scent was everywhere – ginger and rain, the electric tang of aether that always clung to him. Kedare crowded closer, the heat of the scholar's body searing through layers of fabric as he palmed the curve of G'raha's bare backside, kneading hard enough to make him gasp. Flesh yielded under his grip, soft and warm against calloused hands.
A test. A choice.
"Say no if you don’t want it," he murmured against the shell of G'raha's ear, voice rough. His fingers dug in, possessive. "Or don't speak at all."
The scholar shuddered against him, pressing back into the touch instead of away. Answer enough.
Kedare exhaled sharply through his nose and bit at the spot where his shoulder and neck met. "Don't act surprised," he growled, feeling G'raha's pulse jump beneath his lips. "You've had this comin’."
The sharp crack of his palm against the bare skin of his rear echoed off the stone walls. G'raha jerked forward with a noise that was half-yelp, half-moan, his tail lashing wildly. Kedare's blood sang with it – the shock of pink blossoming across pale skin, the ragged hitch of breath, the way G'raha's fingers scrambled against worn wood.
He was done waiting.
He reached down to free himself from his own breeches, the act simple where his thoughts tangled. He'd fucked before – quick, efficient, nothing more – but never like this. Never with a man, never with hips he could span in one rough grip. The oddity of it flickered through him and burned away just as fast.
He didn't care.
G'raha's breath hitched when Kedare spat into his palm, the sound too loud in the close air. No oil, no finesse – just the wet heat of his fingers pressing where they shouldn't. The scholar tensed, a choked noise escaping him as his nails bit into wood.
Kedare worked a finger in without waiting, the tight heat clenching around him in protest. He ground the pad of his thumb against the base of G'raha's tail in lazy circles, feeling the tremors build beneath his touch.
"Still want it?" Kedare dragged his free hand up the scholar's thigh just to feel him twitch.
G’raha’s ears pinned back, his tail lashing. A quiet, bitten-off sound escaped him – not refusal, but not the eager assent Kedare expected either. Annoyance flickered hot behind his ribs.
His palm landed sharp on the unmarked cheek of G'raha's ass, the crack echoing off stone. "Words, Scholar."
G'raha jerked, a full-body shudder wracking through him. When he spoke, his voice was scraped raw. "Y-yes–gods, yes–"
The desperation in it seared through him. Kedare exhaled through his nose and scissored a second finger without warning, relishing how G'raha arched off the crate with a punched-out moan. His body resisted the extra digit with a tight, fluttering clench, but it didn't take long before the scholar was pushing back against his hand, his breath coming in ragged little gasps. Still too tight. Still not enough.
Kedare didn't have anymore patience for slow. He dragged his fingers free – ignoring the sharp whine that earned him – and spat into his palm again before slicking himself with rough strokes. The first press of his cock against that clenching heat sent a pulse of something feral through his veins.
"K-Kedare–!"
His name – sharp and shattered – nearly made him buck forward right then. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to ease in by agonizing ilms instead. Gods, the heat of him – tight as a fist, with muscles fluttering in desperate little spasms that threatened to crack his control wide open. A growl clawed its way out of his chest before he could stop it, vibrating against G'raha's spine where he braced over him. Sanity frayed when he bottomed out. G'raha arched beneath him, a litany of senseless noises spilling between clenched teeth. Sweat slicked the curve of his neck, catching the dim light as Kedare began to move – deep, relentless pulls that had the crate scraping against stone with each thrust.
"You–" A gasp, then G'raha tried again, voice shredded– "you could at least p-pretend–"
The rest disintegrated into a cry as Kedare snapped his hips forward at a sharper angle. Glass shattered – a vial of ink perched too close to the edge of a shelf the crate had been forced against splattered black across the floor – and for one wild moment, all he could smell was salt and iron and sex.
Fuck.
It shouldn't have been this good. Shouldn't have made his pulse roar like battle-lust to watch the scholar come apart beneath him – listen to those sharp, bitten-off sounds spill from too plush lips. But every time G'raha clenched around him, every time his cock jerked and dripped onto the stones between their boots–
Kedare gripped the scholar's tail without mercy. "You wanted this," he ground out, rolling his hips in a slow circle just to hear the answering keen, "didn't you?"
G'raha's wail shuddered through both of them.
He didn't let up. Couldn't – not when every snap of his hips punched another broken noise from the scholar's throat, not when the slick heat of him threatened to pull Kedare under entirely. He braced a forearm against the crate beside G'raha's head, the wood groaning under their combined weight. He was a mess beneath him, spine arched and ears flat. The sight of it twisted something low in Kedare's gut. He shifted his angle – just slightly – and the scholar nearly sobbed.
"There–r-right there!"
Every muscle in his body went taut, fingers scrabbling against the crate. Kedare didn't need the plea to know he'd struck gold. The way G'raha's entire body shuddered around him, the way his cock jerked–
Kedare slowed anyway. Just to watch the scholar's hips twitch forward in search of friction. Just to see his throat work around another desperate sound.
"Use–ah–use your hand," G'raha rasped, the words bitten off. "Please–please touch me, I can't–Kedare–!" The plea caught him off guard. So direct. So wrecked.
He shouldn't indulge it. He'd already won.
His hand closed around the scholar's cock before the thought finished forming.
Three hard strokes – just three – and G'raha shattered. He came with a sound punched from deep in his chest, his back bowing in a perfect curve as his body clenched around Kedare like a vise.
Mine.
The thought welled up unbidden, but he didn't have time to consider it before his own orgasm hit like a battering ram. G'raha squeezed around him – clenching in helpless aftershocks – and it ripped a wet groan from Kedare's chest, something primal and unbidden. His knees nearly buckled; his fingers dug bruising crescents into the scholar's hips as he emptied himself deep, hips jerking through each pulse.
Too much. Not enough. The world narrowed to heat and pulse and the ragged hitch of G'raha's breath beneath him. His vision swam – half from exertion, half from something he refused to name. Then it crested, leaving him hollowed out and clinging to the crate like it could anchor him. G'raha slumped against the ruined wood, his breaths still uneven but already hitching with returning energy. Sweat-damp hair stuck to his neck; thighs flushed red, tail limp – but the moment his breathing steadied, his godsdamned mouth opened again.
"That was..." G'raha began, lips quirking with exhausted mischief. "Quite the collaboration."
The words slammed into Kedare like a bucket of ice water.
The afterglow fractured. The mess on the floor, the bitten marks along G'raha's neck – none of it mattered now. The scholar whimpered when Kedare pulled out and turned away. He tossed a scrap of linen from a nearby shelf without looking. "Clean yourself up."
It had been efficient. He'd gotten off and he'd put the brat in his place. That G'raha's body had fit against his so perfectly and his gasps had sounded better than his incessant talking was neither here nor there.
A rustle of fabric, a bitten-off groan as G'raha cleaned himself up. "I do think we ought to compare research notes again sometime–" His voice was bright with renewed enthusiasm.
The door handle was cool under Kedare’s palm when he paused – just for a breath – and glanced back. G'raha had managed to half-dress himself, his eyes too bright despite the way he winced when he moved. He looked... pleased with himself. Like a cat who'd gotten both the cream and the canary.
And Kedare – against every instinct – wanted to wreck him all over again.
"You talk too much," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it. Not now. Not with the aftertaste of his skin still on his tongue.
G'raha's grin sharpened, all teeth and blatant satisfaction – as if he could see the hunger still thrumming under Kedare's skin. The parchment inked with answers he hadn't given aloud yet.
"Shall I assume that means you aren't opposed?"
Kedare conceded with a sharp exhale. "Later. If you're still walkin'."
He was moving before G'raha could open his damned mouth again – before those clever fingers found more purchase, before the laughter in his throat could take shape. The door slammed shut on that eager little noise of surprise. Let the brat sit with that. Let him wonder.
Somewhere between the ruined crates and his own quarters, Kedare realized the taste lingering in his mouth wasn't anger–
It was anticipation.
Silence rushed in like a tide after Kedare's footsteps vanished – thick, sudden, alive with the memory of what had just occurred. G’raha cataloged the aftermath with the detachment of a scholar and the fascination of a lovesick fool.
Ridges stood raised along his shoulder where Kedare’s sharp teeth had pressed too long to be anything but deliberate. His thighs ached as he shifted, the soreness a heavy punctuation to what they’d done. And higher – the scattered promises of bruises just starting to wake beneath his skin, likely to bloom by dawn.
A sensible man would’ve winced.
G’raha nearly purred.
He pressed a palm to his sternum, half-convinced his heart might punch through bone. The Warrior of Light – stoic, immovable Kedare – had fucked him against a supply crate. Fast. Dirty. Exhilarating. The phantom weight still lingered between G’raha’s thighs, an echo of possession branded into muscle.
He’d daydreamed about this, of course – during dull transcription shifts, beneath the drone of Rammbroes’ lectures – but imagination had robbed him. Left out how Kedare’s callouses bit into his hips. How the man’s voice frayed when pushed past control.
A shudder worked through him as he shifted, the raw ache of overused muscles making itself known. The pitch of his breath hitched when he pressed two fingers to the base of his throat – just to feel the racing pulse beating there. Evidence, more damning than any hickey or bruise.
… Not that he lacked for those either.
A laugh bubbled up, unbidden. He smothered it in the crook of his elbow.
Worth the burn. Worth the slick mess cooling between his thighs. Worth the way his smalls didn’t fit quite right after being wrenched down his thighs.
Kedare's swift exit was predictable – the man tolerated closeness only in bursts – but the absence of regret was new. G'raha pressed a thumb to the faint crescents his own nails had left in his palms. Next time, the sting seemed to say, he'll linger longer.
Would the warrior shove him into some forgotten archive aisle? Bend him over some nameless relic display? Or – gods – take him to bed, peeling him apart slow instead of devouring him whole?
His boot crunched down on glass, shards scattering in all directions – and reality rushed back in.
The storeroom looked – there was no kinder word for it – sacked. Splintered wood marked where they'd both held on to the crate, ink arced in smeared streaks across the stones, their mingled scents sharp in the closed space.
And Kedare had left the chore of setting it all to rights to him.
G’raha’s grin widened as he reached for a mop leaning against one wall alongside other cleaning supplies. He’d scrub the Rising Stones from top to bottom if it meant getting the Warrior of Light to himself again.