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Emet-Selch leans on the walkway railing, one arm flat against the iron while his other hand curls around cold metal. His gaze drops far, far below his feet, down to the Musica Universalis and the crowds of mortals filling the markets. A mash of voices clutter the air even at this height; with several hundred guests in attendance the string quartet near the shuttered market board is well and truly drowned out. Some of the guests are already dancing, but the majority are still enjoying the dinner buffet provided by the Crystarium’s horde of culinarians. Emet-Selch would’ve joined in on the feast were he not enamoured by the costumes passing underneath him -
Ridiculous and gaudy and gods, how he misses the theatre!
All Saints’ Wake is a holiday native to the Source. Why the Crystarium celebrates it is tied up in Emet-Selch’s ideas about the Crystal Exarch and his Crystal Tower, but he will let the enigma keep up his charade for a little longer. Had it been any other holiday he may have raised a point of contention, but this happens to be one of his favourites.
The Rejoining can surely wait for one measly party.
Decorations clutter the space below him: towers of pumpkins, strings of paper bats and spiders, torches in the shape of bombs, and garlands of leaves in all colours mix harvest and spooky themes in a delightful display of colour. Emet-Selch is particularly fond of the anatomically-incorrect skeletons propped against lampposts; some have even been squeezed into costumes of their own, adding joy upon joy. Cauldrons of neon, bubbling liquid decorate every table in the Wandering Stairs, and carved jack-o-lanterns adorn the bar itself. Melted wax pools at the base of many of the candelabras; he cannot be sure where they found so much black wax but he is impressed despite himself.
The guests themselves are equally eye-pleasing, though the quality and dedication to their costumes varies. For every fully-costumed mortal there are those who simply donned a strange hat, or created glasses with bulbous noses or overgrown moustaches dangling from the bottom. Emet-Selch ignores these half-hearted attempts at revelry and focuses his attention on those who really understand the spirit of the holiday. Quite a few completely-white guests could be either ghosts or sin eaters - he assumes ghosts are more likely, given the very real danger the eaters still present - and he even spots a few attempts at green-dressed pixies, though no mortal can construct wings that do the fae folk justice. Most-common by far are mortals dressed completely in black: renditions of their own Warriors of Darkness, wearing patchwork armour and children’s toys for weapons.
With the night returned to Lakeland, Il Mheg, and Rak’tika it seems only natural that the legend of this shard’s fated hero would be on everyone’s mind.
Shame none of them can do him justice.
Leaning further, Emet-Selch finally spots a cluster of faces: the Scions gather near the far wall of the lounge, still delaying over their dinner as they crowd around two tables they’ve pushed together. If they find it strange for the holiday to exist on the First - or if any have begun to suspect the Exarch is more than he seems - they are not allowing it to detract from their celebration.
Well - most of them aren’t, at least. Thancred is among the number of guests who draped a cloak over his shoulders and called it a costume, but what can you expect from a brute such as that? The others are much more interesting: Urianger in his white robes, with a multitude of potions and herbs dangling from his belt, would do any chirurgeon proud; Y’shtola has somehow found a lantern-lit helm to pair with overalls and a rusted pick, evoking the miners of the south as Emet-Selch remembers they had once been decades ago; the girl Minfilia is some type of white, fluffy creature - Emet-Selch cannot tell if she is meant to be a cat or a Miqo’te, but she constantly fiddles with her cloth tail.
The Elezen twins wear some of the most intricate costumes in the room, though even at this distance Emet-Selch can tell Alisaie is embarrassed by hers. She is one of the many Warriors of Darkness, wearing chainmail and leathers spray-painted black, and if she at least chose the correct weapon it is undoubtedly a heavy and cumbersome costume to keep on for the night. Her brother looks much more at-ease, though where he found a replica of the traditional dragoon armour out of Ishgard Emet-Selch cannot even begin to guess. The boy has dyed the outfit a deep shade of red - an odd touch, but it is still an impressive costume.
Beside them lingers the Exarch himself, recognizable only due to the staff he carries. His entire body is wrapped in bandages; gauze even covers the top half of his face. Only his jaw and fingers have escaped the cream-coloured linen; were he to adopt a limp and breathy moan he would easily be mistaken for one of the many undead wandering southern Amh Araeng.
Last - but not at all least - of this fascinating party is the Warrior of Light and Darkness himself, and Emet-Selch cannot quite understand the nerves that play through his stomach like frolicking butterflies as he alternates between staring and avoiding Osseriant entirely. The grey-skinned, black-haired Duskwight wears a high-collared, heavily-starched shirt, the neck of which is left open to reveal a deep crimson cravat. A fitted black vest covers his slim torso; the sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the elbows, revealing the man’s scarred, toned forearms, and his tailored, form-fitting trousers draw wandering eyes to all the right places. As formal as the get-up looks, two delicate daubs of red paint on Oz’s neck imply small punctures, and costume fangs glint between his dark lips every time he speaks.
What would it be like to kiss such a bite…?
Ridiculous. Nonsensical. An utter waste of time and energy.
Ignoring the butterflies in his stomach and the heat pulsing between his thighs, Emet-Selch decides to join the party.
By the time he makes his way down the winding staircase and through the shifting, laughing crowds most of the Scions have left their table to join the dance in the markets. He sees Thancred leaning against the market board, arms crossed as he watches Minfilia, Alisaie, and Urianger dance - with varying degrees of skill and movement - in the crowd of strangers. The others are still nibbling at the plates of treats spread over their tables, and it is easy enough to swoop among them and snatch a few sweets.
“I did not expect you to partake in such revelry,” Y’shtola comments blandly as she watches him claim one of the many empty chairs.
“Why would I not want to celebrate the Twelve allowing the saints into their celestial home?” Emet-Selch replies innocently, before popping a gummy candy into his mouth. “It is a worthy cause, and the decor is wonderful even here.” He lazily wiggles his fingers towards the nearest candelabra, the base of which is covered by a pyramid of smiling pumpkins.
The Miqo’te snorts before sliding out of her own seat, leaving him to smile innocently at Alphinaud, the Exarch, and Oz.
“Might I ask the nature of your own costume?” Alphinaud asks with a frown. Though his dragoon armour includes a domed helmet it had evidently proven too much for the boy, as it rests on the table like a strange relic from the Source.
“My own?” Emet-Selch shifts back in his seat, spreading his arms to display his black robes. Heavy gold and purple metal adorns the fabric in sharp, angular shapes; it feels familiar, strangely, to his Ascian robes, though the embellishments are far more intricate. “It is a bit removed from this time and place, but these are the typical robes of ancient Allagan mages.” He turns to the Exarch, whose expression is unreadable beneath his wrappings. “I don’t expect you are familiar with Allagan history, of course - being native to the First and all.”
The Exarch doesn’t reply, though Emet-Selch notices his fingers curl around his obviously-Allagan staff.
“Anyway, I enjoy the festivities and couldn’t help feeling strangely nostalgic.” He pops another candy in his mouth and smiles at the strange trio in front of him. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Oz replies. He rests against the back of his chair with his arms crossed and his head tilted to one side; Emet-Selch’s gaze repeatedly slides to the bright red paint on the Elezen’s long neck, to the strong jaw just above it, to the tender mouth with pointed teeth -
He gives the Warrior a sleepy-eyed smile as he rattles his collection of candy around his cupped palm. “Do you dance?”
One eyebrows arches. “I have been cajoled onto a dance floor on occasion.”
“And how would one proceed with said cajoling?”
“An unfortunate combination of deafening music and large amounts of rum,” Alphinaud mutters. He suddenly groans and twists in his chair, showing a broken spike of amour against his ribs. “Ah, blast! I left my adhesive in my rooms -”
Emet-Selch turns his attention back to Oz as the boy hurries away with his helm tucked under his arm. “Rum, was it?”
“A mistake on my part,” the Elezen replies, closing his eyes as a slight grin shifts his features. “I may have overindulged at the last Moonfire Faire - I don’t think Alphinaud is ever going to let me live it down.”
“Let us see what we can do to replicate it.” He raises a hand and waves it gently, gaining the attention of one of the many servers jostling between tables and patrons. “Two drinks, please - unless you’d like to join us?” He looks to the Exarch, who has never looked quite so uncomfortable.
“I unfortunately have business - that is, if you find yourself in welcome company?” He directs his question to Oz, who shrugs even as he meets Emet-Selch’s gaze.
“We’ll call it ‘company’ for now. Take care of what you must, Exarch - I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Two drinks, then.” Emet-Selch smiles before returning his attention to the Warrior across from him - the Warrior he suddenly has all to himself, as the Exarch grudgingly leaves them behind. “I didn’t think Hydaelyn’s chosen would indulge himself, but consider me pleased to find you so completely normal.”
Oz shifts forward, resting his arms on the table as he leans closer. His dark purple eyes are amused - a good sign, as good a sign as he’s ever given - though the cause of his amusement is still not obvious. “It has been quite some time since anyone called me ‘normal’, so thank you for that.”
“Positively pedestrian,” Emet-Selch says. He hasn’t had this much fun in decades, though there is a part of him that anticipates the eventual disappointment. Casual flirting shall stay casual, as it always does, but even this is a touch of spice he shall be sure to remember. “Though I suppose I am not the best judge of character. Perhaps you may yet surprise me.”
Rather than reply, the Warrior unwraps one of the small lollipops cluttering the table and pops it between his lips. His tongue dances between fang and teeth, darting around the orange candy in a display so unexpected Emet-Selch feels his mouth gape in response, before Oz pulls the candy free with a small pop.
“I am full of surprises,” the Elezen murmurs, his deep voice rumbling straight up Emet-Selch’s spine. He reaches across the table, holding the lollipop out in front of him by the stick. “How about you, Ascian? Or have you played your hand?”
He doesn’t hesitate. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he lowers his head to take the orange ball in his mouth. It is lightly damp and so, so sweet - but he isn’t thinking about candy as he swirls his tongue around it, as he laps delicately at the tip, as he takes it all in and sucks until his cheeks narrow -
He isn’t thinking about candy as he deliberately swallows.
Releasing the lollipop with one final, delicate kiss, he leans back in his chair and licks his lips. If he’d expected the Warrior to be flustered he is happily impressed: Oz pops what remains of the candy back in his mouth without any hesitation.
“I have plenty more tricks up my sleeve,” Emet-Selch purrs. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling at once stifled and overly-energetic seated at the table. The drinks arrive before he can suggest anything more, and though he sips his own he watches the Warrior drink his down in one long motion.
Bad decisions, reckless impulses, stupid desires -
This wouldn’t be his first mistake, and it won’t be his last.
“Might I claim a dance?”
Oz doesn’t say a word - he rises, the look in his eyes daring Emet-Selch to take the hand he offers, and though it’s a risk he grasps it; he allows himself to be pulled to his feet; he maneuvers around the tables and through the crowds to the dancefloor in the markets. The Scions are distant worries in this crush of bodies, under the darkness of true night and scattered lanterns and candles. His eyes are on the Elezen in front of him, on his lean torso and muscled arms and thick thighs, and as they find an opening in the crowd he drags his eyes from the Warrior’s body to his chiseled, beautiful face.
“I didn’t think Ascians could have fun.” Oz takes the lead even as he shifts closer; he stands only an ilm or so shorter than Emet-Selch’s Garlean frame.
“I am rather unique in my - tastes,” he replies, his heartbeat increasing as they both begin to shift and move in-time to the music. There is a heat pulsing through him that renders him pliant and agreeable; perhaps it is the decor, or the atmosphere, or the conversation - perhaps it is Oz’s ass in those pants - but he is suddenly set on this evening moving beyond the realm of simple flirting. “And you? What, pray tell, does a Warrior of Light and Darkness do for entertainment?”
“I find interesting company,” Oz replies, again shifting closer. The tips of his fingers brush against Emet-Selch’s hip - just once, for a flicker of a moment, brief and unexpected enough for it to seem accidental - and then he leans close, shifting his mouth to Emet-Selch’s ear. “If you make me regret this…”
“I didn’t think you were one to be weighed down by regrets,” Emet-Selch murmurs back, and takes advantage of the opportunity to grind his hips against the Warrior’s.
Whatever he might have said next is cut off completely as the Elezen suddenly grabs his ass and pulls him forward, effectively locking him against Oz’s stomach and thighs. He cannot stop the breathy moan at the sudden pressure against his cock; cannot stop the shiver that tingles through his legs; cannot resist the urge to thrust - just once, softly, more a shift of the hips than a true attempt at anything more involved - before he remembers to keep dancing, to keep moving, to keep up the pantomime. Oz moves as well; he can feel the Elezen’s body twist subtly even as they are pressed together.
“I’d hate to hurt you,” Oz whispers. His fingers squeeze once before he lets go and allows Emet-Selch to pull back -
But he stays a moment longer, his mouth at the Elezen’s pointed ear. “I wouldn’t be opposed, if you’re in the mood.” The Warrior tenses, but Emet-Selch takes a step back. He smirks as he keeps dancing, buoyed about by the press of strangers around them, bolstered by the darkness and the relative anonymity it offers: he made his offer. He stated his desires - his willingness to give in to temptation - and what comes next is up to the Warrior of Light and Darkness. If this is as far as it goes, so be it - he has enjoyed himself, and the dance, and the gift of touch.
But, oh, if he were to be tempted with just a little more…
“You know where my room is?”
Emet-Selch blinks in disbelief. Surely not - “I do.”
“Go, and I’ll follow.”
He understands this game: questions will be asked if they leave together, questions that will inevitably lead to awkward conversations between him and the Scions. There is a moment where he considers appearing less eager than he is - propriety, and pride, and all that nonsense - but he ignores it. Raising a suggestive eyebrow, Emet-Selch demonstrates his willingness to obey by disappearing into a voidgate mid-dance.
He reappears in a room in the Pendants.
Slowly turning on the spot, he takes in the simple furniture and basic decor. Well-lit, warm, cozy - it feels very much like a place of comfort and relaxation, though not one immediately recognizable as belonging to Osseriant Rime. It is entirely too comfortable, even with the collection of weapons laid across the table to his left. Swords, daggers, and one wickedly-curved greataxe: this Warrior is multi-talented and no mistake, though as he hears a key in the lock Emet-Selch finds himself wondering just what type of hidden talents he might coax free.
The door opens and closes behind him as he resolutely faces the window, keeping his hands on his hips as though he is judging the room in front of him. A click as the lock slides back into place sets his heart thumping; it will not keep him in, but will guarantee they are not interrupted. Footsteps move behind him, slowly coming closer, and his cock twitches as he senses the tall frame of the Elezen behind him.
“Ascian,” comes the murmur, and then hands are on his hips, his ribs, his back - pressing cloth into skin, testing the body underneath, exploring the unknown - and he feels warm breath against his neck.
“Warrior,” he replies. Shivers are already tumbling down his arms, and as he feels the first delicate touch of lips below his ear he closes his eyes. Those hands pull his hips back, pressing his backside up against Oz’s front, and though they are both fully clothed it is obvious the Warrior of Light is even more excited than Emet-Selch. Allowing himself a small smirk, he snakes one hand behind and between them, grabbing the cock straining against the tight pants he’d admired earlier. “You know, I’ve always been curious…” He manages to undo the zipper one-handed, though he has to use a twist of aether to force the button to come free. “Whether the fabled Warrior of Light would prefer to take charge or not.” Undergarments block his attempt to slide his hand beneath the tight fabric; he makes a noise of frustration that is quickly stifled by the Warrior’s fingers wrapping around his neck.
“Does it matter?” The fingers tighten even as the other hand delicately closes around Emet-Selch’s cock, gradually applying more pressure through the robe’s thick fabric until he begins to harden.
“I knew I’d be pleased either way,” he replies breathily, managing not to pant by willpower alone. How he wants to thrust…! “One learns to be flexible when given ample time.”
“In that case…” Both hands squeeze and Emet-Selch gasps. “Any requests before we begin?”
Loathe as he is to break this position, Emet-Selch pulls free of those wonderful hands to face the Warrior of Light. His grey skin is flushed lilac and his cravat is mussed, but Emet-Selch reaches out a hand to his mouth. Two gentle flicks knock loose the costume teeth, and a simple pulse of power lengthens the Elezen’s real teeth into proper fangs. Oz raises a hand to touch them, a frown of confusion marring his otherwise-smooth face.
“A temporary gift,” he murmurs, dropping his hand. With another flip of his hand his Allagan robes vanish, leaving him standing - hard already - in his simple black undergarments. "Trick, or treat?"
“He’s eager for it, isn’t he?” Oz takes a step back and gestures to his open trousers, even as his gaze roams appreciatively over Emet-Selch’s pale torso. “Well? You made such a good start - keep going.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. “I was hoping it would be a treat,” he says, dropping to his knees even as he tugs at the tight pants and the undergarments beneath them. They quickly acquiesce and slide off the Elezen’s round ass, allowing his cock to spring free. Emet-Selch takes a moment to admire it before he wraps his hands around its base, moaning as he begins to stroke the length of it. Heat builds in his abdomen and between his thighs as he lowers his head, sliping the smooth tip past his lips and holding it there. His tongue laps along the underside and over the top as he gently, gently sucks.
“Shit,” Oz mutters. His hands run through Emet-Selch’s hair before resting at the back of his head. “Gods, but you look good with your mouth full.”
What a strange thrill of pleasure! What an obscene burst of pride! He takes more of that cock, near gagging himself on the length of it before pulling back to do it again, and again, and again. The faster he moves the wetter it becomes, and as his hands begin to pulse gently around the base he hears Oz groan.
“Keep taking it,” the Elezen growls. “Just like that, fuck!”
Emet-Selch moans, knowing the vibrations will only mess with him even more, and stops bobbing his head to suck hard mid-way down down the shaft. His tongue laps at the underside, pressing hard as it travels to the tip, and as the fingers in his hair tighten he again lowers his head down the length of that cock, taking all of it until it hits the back of his throat. He sucks hard, earning even more groans and moans from the Warrior, before he comes up for air. Using his hands to move the slick moisture up and around the shaft, he leans back to look up to the Warrior. “More?”
“You’re just begging for it, aren’t you?”
He arches an eyebrow as he grins. “I don’t believe I heard you complaining -”
Oz interrupts him by bending at the waist to kiss him. The Elezen’s tongue ventures deeper, mingling with Emet-Selch’s own as the man’s hands keep his head in place, and when they finally break apart he can only gasp.
“I love the taste of me on you,” Oz murmurs, swiping a hand against Emet-Selch’s bruised lower lip.
The heat racing through his core spikes at that, and Emet-Selch ducks lower to again wrap his mouth around the Elezen’s warm, wet cock. He sucks hard, bobbing back and forth before swirling his tongue around and around the tip - and then pulls back, opening his mouth to show Oz the sticky beginnings of a mess between his lips.
“Fuck -” Again the Elezen’s mouth meets his, mashing hard against him as he tastes and takes, claiming what is his as Emet-Selch waits, throbbing, needing, quickly slipping beneath a fog of desire - “Take it again - take it all, as deep as you can. I want to hear you moan.”
Working his head up and down the shaft as he’s told, Emet-Selch sneaks one hand down to his own tight undergarments and slides a hand inside. He gasps as his fingers touch tender skin, moaning with his mouth full as he begins to pull at his own cock.
“You do like to be filled, don’t you?” Oz suddenly steps back, leaving Emet-Selch gasping in the sudden absence, and laughs as he catches sight of the hand beneath his stretched undergarments. “How long has it been, Ascian?”
“Too long,” Emet-Selch mutters, and though he attempts to stagger to his feet he finds himself held down, forced back to his knees as Oz’s mouth meets his - and then the Elezen’s hand is pulling at the waistband of his tight black garments, pulling them down around his thighs, releasing what waits within, and then - “Please!”
Oz chuckles against his mouth even as his fingers stroke Emet-Selch’s cock - and the feeling, gods! It has been years - decades - it has been so, so long since anyone touched him with an eye for pleasure. He cannot stop the whimper once it’s started, a pitiful sound that merges with his breathing until he moans on every exhale, until everything narrows to the hand around his cock.
“Tilt your head,” Oz orders, and Emet-Selch obeys without question. A warm tongue laps at the skin on his neck and he begins to shiver in anticipation - and then teeth pinch the skin and hold, the modified fangs sinking even deeper, and his hips thrust upwards of their own volition.
“Please, please, please -” he moans, lost between the desire and the heat and gods, he just wants to be fucked! “Please!”
“Tell me what you want.”
“You - you - I want you!”
A low chuckle sends vibrations through his chest and belly. “As great as you look with my cock in your mouth, I think you’d look even better with it in your ass. Get to your feet, Ascian.”
Never one to ignore an order, Emet-Selch glides to his feet. As he kicks off the last vestiges of clothing he watches Oz do the same to everything below the waist - and he doesn’t mind, truly, that the man keeps on his vest and shirt. The cravat is pulled off and discarded, revealing the sweat-slick skin beneath, and as Oz’s hand pushes Emet-Selch backwards it's all he can look at: that hint of chest, the scars beneath the collar, the dark grey skin enticing and taught and -
He catches Oz’s mouth with his own as they tumble onto the bed. Moans and murmurs and gasps; he’s paying attention to the tongue in his mouth, to the chest pressing against his, to the cock rubbing against his hip even as his own does the same, so when a cold, slick finger slides between his ass he is caught completely by surprise.
“Oh, gods -”
Oz pulls off of him, leaving him near-vibrating on his back. He stares at the ceiling as that finger presses deeper; his hands dive to the quilt below him and grasp handfuls of it as he raises his hips. “Deeper, gods, please!” A second finger follows the first even as Oz’s tongue licks his cock from base to tip, and Emet-Selch’s heels press into the mattress as he tenses from the dual sensations. He’s panting, heaving, fighting to draw breath even as he begs for more - more - more - and a third finger follows the second and it is glorious, the feeling of being stretched, of being full, of warmth shifting and moving and -
The fingers exit and he collapses to the bed, shivering as the sensations all come to an end.
“Come here.”
He stands without argument, allowing the Elezen to guide him up against the wall - to press his palms against the rough brick as he spreads his legs - and his breath catches in anticipation.
He’d started the night with flirting and now he is here? Here, of all places?
He should have tried flirting earlier!
The head of Oz’s cock presses against his slick ass and he forces himself to breath deep. “Do it,” he snarls, tensing his back against the anticipation of pressure. “Just do it!”
The tip slides in, controlled and slow, and he gasps in response - but Oz is not done there.
“Imagine Elidibus,” the Elezen says, still slowly - glacially - pushing his hips forward. “Imagine Lahabrea. Imagine Nabriales, and Mitron, and Igeyorhm - imagine all the ones I don’t even know, all your Ascian friends - sitting on the other side of this wall.”
Emet-Selch shakes his head, not understanding, but it’s impossible to argue with that cock in his ass. He slams his fist against the wall as he’s filled, and filled, and -
“Imagine them hearing you beg me for more,” Oz whispers, and with that he slides in the final ilm. “I want you to yell, Ascian. I want you to scream with everything you have.”
“And?” he gasps, quivering despite himself. “If I do?”
“If you do…” Oz licks his neck, just over where he’d sunk his fangs into the skin minutes earlier. “If you do, I’ll bite you when you’re coming.”
“Fuck.” His ass tightens around that cock, tensing even as his eyes roll back. “Oh, fuck.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Oz begins to thrust, gentle at first, but quickly picking up speed. The slap of skin against skin fills the room as Emet-Selch pushes against the wall, bracing himself even as moans escape him. It has been so long since he was last fucked like this - since anyone took control - and what a delight to give over every part of himself! To follow along, to be used, to give, and give, and give! He rests his arm against the wall, and his forehead against his arm, and reaches down with his free hand to pull at his own shaft.
“Gods, your ass is perfect.” The Elezen begins to pound into him even harder, grunting as he thrusts deeper. “You take my cock so, so well.”
Pleasure and pride spread through him - he does, doesn’t he? As much as he enjoys being the one on top, he really, really loves taking it - being filled - being used - “Please - !”
“What was that? Tell me, Ascian - what do you want?’
“Please -” he gasps again, lost somewhere in the dizzying, mystifying space of desire. “Harder!”
“Say it louder, Emperor - I don’t think they can hear you!”
“Give it to me!” he begs, his free hand jerking his cock so, so fast. “Fuck me! Fill me with that cock - please, please - Oz, oh gods, Osseriant!” He moans, and keeps on moaning as that cock pounds into him again, and again, and again -
“That was good,” Oz pants. “But I’m still not sure you’re loud enough.” His speed suddenly increases and Emet-Selch staggers against the wall, pressing his chest against the brick as the Elezen moves even closer. “What do you want?”
“You!” His hand is flying now, squeezing and pulling at his shaft so quickly his wrist begins to spasm in response. “I want it - I want it - oh, fuck, make me come!”
“Oh, what a good Ascian! To take it all while following orders!” The Elezen slows down as he nips at Emet-Selch’s shoulders, leaving small puncture marks from shoulder to neck. With every pin prick bite a flash of pleasure and pain radiates through Emet-Selch’s entire body, and he jerks his hips backwards in response. “You’re being so good I might even finish inside you.”
Desire swamps everything else and Emet-Selch begins thrusting backwards, meeting Oz’s movements in time as his focus narrows entirely to the cock in his ass. “Do it - please - please!”
“Someone trained you well!” One of Oz’s hands pushes Emet-Selch’s head down even as they move back from the wall, giving him almost a fulm of space to rest his hands against the brick yet again. “Watch yourself come. Watch what I make you do.”
“Shit.” Gritting his teeth, Emet-Selch blinks away sweat as he stares down past his heaving chest, past his slick abdomen to his swaying, twitching cock. He can’t touch it from this angle but - but - “I’m close - I’m so close!”
“Me...too…” The Warrior is panting, grunting with every exhale, but he manages to keep his rhythm. “Fuck, Emet-Selch, you feel so good!”
That last is loud - so loud! - and the thought of everyone hearing them - of Ascians, and Scions, and strangers, and the Exarch - knowing who is fucking who sends Emet-Selch over the edge. “Yes - yes - gods!” He can’t keep his eyes open past the initial pulse, as pleasure overwhelms him and he spends over his stomach and thighs, as he gasps and groans and then Oz is doing the same, his cock twitching even as he buries it deep within Emet-Selch’s ass.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, panting in the afterglow, but all too soon the Elezen backs up. He feels the cock slide out of him and shivers in response, just as he feels the wetness at his rear begin to drip between his thighs and down towards his knees.
“Let me look at you.”
He turns towards the Elezen as he runs his hands through his own hair. There will come a moment when he wonders if this was the wrong decision - when he considers the implications of fraternizing with this enemy - but as the Warrior of Light and Darkness drops to his knees to lick the mess off Emet-Selch’s stomach he decides that moment is quite a ways away.
“I believe it’s my turn to choose,” he says, running his fingers through the Warrior’s dark hair as the man’s tongue laps against his flushed skin. “Trick, or treat?”