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Magnai, the most radiant brother of the Oronir, has always expected to find his Nhaama among the Xaela. After all, the Dusk Mother herself gave birth to the Xaela and colored their scales with twilight. Thus, it only makes sense that his Nhaama be part of the Xaela as well.
However, as he considers this new khagan of his, resplendent under Azim’s sunlight, he slowly begins to wonder if he was wrong all along. He always pictured a dancer in the morning mist, elegant and demure in all the ways that a perfect wife should be. This Warrior of Light, this outsider, is not exactly what he pictured. If anything, she is violence honed to a keen point, as demonstrated in the Naadam and in the battle against the imperials.
Moreover, Nuven Alerion may be an Au Ra, but her cream-colored scales mark her as part of the Raen rather than the Xaela. Few Xaela respect the Raen; no self-respecting Xaela warrior would deem the Raen as anything other than cowards. They fled the steppe towards other lands and bear little of their original Auri culture. If she is from Eorzea, then her ancestors must have been one of the few who were driven far to the West, across the seas. How shameful it must be to bear that blood. She is nothing like Magnai, born of the sun on his righteous homeland.
Yet, in spite of her responsibilities to the West, Nuven still visits the steppes every now and then. His scouts report back to him about any sightings of her. She visits the Mol most often, which makes sense given her status as an honorary member of the tribe. She will also stop by to do trade with the Qestir at Reunion. She will even visit the Dotharl. Magnai knows little of what she does there — the Dotharl do not tolerate even the mere presence of Oroniri scouts — but his scouts tell him that she comes bearing baby clothes and toys. He cannot fathom why.
But even rarer still, she will visit the Dawn Throne to talk to some of his brothers and sisters. Never him though. She has never returned to his throne room ever since he released her back to the Mol before the Naadam. Instead, she spends her time talking with insignificant people such as the culinarian or the children play-fighting by the lambs.
He sees her now, teaching some of the children Eorzean fighting stances. They drag out a training dummy to work on, and she starts battering the dummy with a series of punches and kicks. When one of the children offers her a wooden practice lance, she uses it with surprising ease, bearing down upon the dummy up with such force that Magnai thinks it will break sooner rather than later. Her movements are fluid that they seem almost like a dance, and his breath catches in his throat. Under the light of Azim’s sun, she seems like a mirage, dancing from one stance to the next with deadly precision.
Without even knowing, he drifts closer to the group, enamored by her unique fighting style. He does not recognize many of the movements. In fact, he doesn’t even recall ever seeing her fight with a lance like this. In battle, she wields a little book to channel her magic through. During the Naadam, he had to dodge a number of flames that she threw at him, one after another with unrelenting speed. But this? This is entirely new.
The sight must be new to the rest of the Oroniri as well because soon, a crowd forms around her. She doesn’t seem to mind though. Instead, she calls out to the children and says, “And this is why we want to have a stable stance to begin with. If you lose your center of gravity in the middle of a fight, you will quickly fall to your feet and be at the mercy of your opponent.” She hefts her lance in hand and stabs with brutal efficiency. The dummy topples over, and both the children and adult onlookers cheer.
She stands there, panting slightly, before she bends down to put the dummy upright. “That’s how we trained in Gridania,” she laughs. “Different from the techniques I’ve seen here or in Doma, but the basic theory is similar.” Nuven glances at the children as she says, “Who would like to try next?”
The children clamor around her, begging her to choose them, and she laughs again. It is a beautiful sound that rings through the air, and Magnai swears that it is so ethereal that it could be used as a song. He can barely hear her laughter over the riotous sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears though. But among the crowd, he suddenly goes up to her and asks, “Would you care to duel with me, khagan?”
Nuven glances back at him, forehead glistening with sweat that she’s worked up from her practice, and she stares at him with an odd look in her eye. “This is rather unexpected of you,” she replies flatly. It’s nothing like the tone she used with the children. In fact, it is very much the opposite. However, the absence of his title feels like a heavy weight in the space between them, so Magnai can’t help but clear his throat and raise his brow at her. It only serves to earn him a snort and an even drier response as she says, “Ah, my apologies, the title. Most radiant brother, this is uncharacteristic of you. Wouldn’t you rather spar with someone from your own tribe? Someone who isn’t — how did Daidukul put it — a woman?”
Magnai is absolutely, positively flabbergasted. Even though she earned the title of khagan from the Naadam, he has still never experienced this level of sheer disrespect from any of his fellow countrymen. He sputters out loud, “You mock me.”
Nuven laughs at that — far closer to her first, ethereal laugh — and sets down her lance as she says, “I do. Pity it’s taken you this long to realize.”
“You and that wretched udgan are the same,” he snaps.
The curve of her smile does not even waver as she hums, “Sadu of the Dotharl? Yes, I do get along with her better than you. Perhaps it is because she can put aside her ego long enough to converse with me, especially compared to you.” She falls silent for a moment too long before she tacks on, “Most radiant brother.”
There are a couple of sniggers behind Magnai, and he whirls around to glare at the onlookers. He does not know who it was, but he swears that if he finds out who, they’ll be scraping dung off the ground for weeks. The crowd immediately quiets under the weight of his baleful glare, so he drags his gaze back to Nuven and hisses, “You overstep your place, outsider.”
The smile doesn’t leave her face. In fact, it stays placid and soft as she says, “Only a moment did you call me khagan, little sun.” Magnai bristles at that. Such a blatant show of authority over him in his own tribe, in the Dawn Throne itself, should be unforgivable. But instead of feeling true fury, he instead feels some strange emotion unfurling itself in his chest.
Nuven tracks his every movement — the rise and fall of his chest, the clenching of his fists — with her careful eyes. It’s so methodical, almost clinical, and he wants to shake that smooth, still smile off her face and replace it with… He’s not sure what, but he’d take admiration, desire, love, anything other than that nothingness. She shrugs and says, “No matter, I jest.” She spreads her hands out wide and continues, “I would welcome the opportunity to spar. What weapon? Or shall we fight barehanded?”
“You carry around that tattered book like a lifeline. It would be unfair for me to pit my battle-axe against those flimsy pages,” he scoffs.
Nuven raises a brow, irked for once. “I must remind you that those flimsy pages got me through Bardam’s Mettle and through the Naadam,” she says stiffly. “I also trained as a lancer first, a healer second.”
That explains her skill with the lance. But why depart from that reliable weapon to something made of paper? “A healer out of all things,” he grumbles. “I did not see you use any spells of that sort on the battlefield.”
A spark alights in Nuven’s eyes as she says, “What, does me being a healer rub salt into the wound of your pride? No, there is no need to answer. Your eyes give it away.”
Magnai draws himself up to his full height, towering over Nuven’s short stature. “There is no wound,” he informs her. “For I will best you in this sparring match with mine own hands. Come, khagan. Prove your worth.”
The circle of onlookers widens to accommodate the two of them, and they begin by slowly circling around each other. Magnai knows that she’s capable of doing violent things — the Naadam, the Imperials, and the liberation of both Doma and Ala Mhigo notwithstanding — so he cannot afford to make the costly mistake of underestimating her. However, it is undeniable that she is smaller than him. A mismatch of form, he thinks, to have such a small frame and size in comparison to such spirit. But perhaps he can use that to his benefit. He towers over her; t’would be simple to pin her down until she admitted defeat.
And so, he surges forward to make the first move. He throws in a punch or two that she easily avoids, ducking underneath the first and stepping back for the second. She moves like water, slipping into foreign stances without hesitation. It distracts him, and she uses the opportunity to dart in and land the first blow. He reacts quickly enough to move, so it lands on his shoulder instead of his face. The crowd cheers in response, and Magnai’s cheeks burn scarlet.
“Dozing already?” she asks him, voice soft enough for only the two of them to hear.
Magnai closes the distance between them to say, “I am not defeated yet. Not by a single blow.”
He starts going on the offensive again, throwing in punch after punch. and when he is close enough, he tries to knock her off her feet with a sweeping kick. He lands his first blow to her solar plexus, knocking the breath out of her, but she quickly retaliates by stealing a swift kick to his thigh. He lands another blow to her shoulder, her left arm, and to her stomach, but for each blow, she returns it harder and harder until bruises begin to blossom darkly on his skin. At one point, she scrapes her knuckles against his scales, and she leaves traces of her blood along with every punch she pulls with her right hand.
Their fight brings them closer and closer until he has to parry her blows with his forearms as he waits for another opening. But she is beautiful as she fights, eyes blazing brighter than Azim’s sun, and Magnai begins to feel an infernal heat licking through him. Instead of searching for an opening, his eyes are drawn to the way her hair slips out of the leather thong she ties it up with, the way her lips twitch up when she lands a solid hit, and the ivory white of her scales underneath the sun. It is utterly disorienting, and so, quick as levin, she darts forward and uses all of her full weight to knock him back. He’s stunned at the sheer boldness of the move; had it backfired, he easily would’ve been able to overpower her.
But he is not quick enough to avoid the sheer storm that is Nuven Alerion. She straddles him, using her weight and her muscled thighs to keep him down, and although he squirms against her, it only serves to ignite his body with a heat that he cannot allow to burn. She pants, hot and heavy into his ear, “I believe that is my victory.”
Magnai sucks in a long breath, but that is an utter mistake because at such close quarters, all he can smell is nothing but her. It is absolutely maddening. He struggles upward again, but she snatches his hands and pins them above his head. Her grip is of iron, impossible to break, and it brings her face dangerously close to his own. “No one likes sore losers,” she whispers.
It takes all of his willpower to keep from rutting up into her and taking her right there in front of the entire tribe. Thankfully, she rises up and acknowledges the cheering crowd, but as Magnai slowly hauls himself up, he sees only her, beautiful and resplendent in her victory. It would be so easy to bend her over. tear through her leggings, and sink into her wet heat. He swears that he can still smell her, all sweet musk and wood and that electrifying scent of aether that always drifted around her.
He needs to leave, cleanse himself so that he cannot smell her on his skin, rid his mind of the fantasies that circle around and around without end. Magnai gets up fully and stiffly says, “The victory is yours, khagan. It was an honor to spar with you.”
“Thank you,” she says, and the minute he receives that acknowledgement, he flees.
Magnai returns to his quarters to collapse on top of his furs, still feeling that heat crawl through his veins. He palms his growing erection as he thinks about her and only her. Her scent is indelibly marked on his memory, and he cannot escape it, not there and not here. No matter how much he strokes himself or how many times he swipes his thumb over the engorged head of his cock, it’s just not enough. He tips his head back and swears out a half-dozen curses. She cannot be his Nhaama; she must be some devil sent by Azim to test his mettle. But still, he thinks of her and feels as though he is losing his mind.
Occasionally, Nuven visits the Azim steppe when she has time.
Cirina tells her that she is not required to, but as the new khagan of this steppe, Nuven oddly feels a sense of responsibility over it. She may not be Xaela, but she is still Raen, and that tenuous cultural tie keeps her coming back. By this point, Cirina has learned not to argue with her, and so, Nuven drifts along the steppes, doing whatever needs to be done.
She herds some sheep for the Mol, spars with some soldiers for the Dotharl, and runs a few errands for the Qestir. Now all that’s left is to visit the Dawn Throne and see what the Oronir have to ask of her. There are a few children who ask her to show her some stances from Eorzea, and she’s more than happy to oblige. They’re sweet children, eager to learn, and they pick up the new stances quickly. The art of the lance is straightforward, and the differences are naught but slight differences.
But then that wretchedly insufferable Magnai had the nerve to ask her to spar. It’s not that she dislikes sparring — it keeps her sharp — but when she pinned him down for the final blow, she swore that he looked ready to ravish. She can still remember the texture of his scales digging into her palms as she gripped his wrists and the way he sucked in heavy breaths when she squeezed her thighs around him. Nuven lets out a puff of air as she sighs, and she consigns herself to finish whatever duties the Oronir have for her. She finds a lost lamb, and she watches a baby while the mother takes a nap. She cooks a stew while the culinarian goes off to practice with a training dummy, and finally, a scout asks her to take his place while he recovers from a shoulder injury.
The scout told her that his partner was supposed to meet him just outside the Dawn Throne, so she descends down the winding steps. The sun is low in the sky, likely an hour or two away from dusk, and the weather is pleasant enough. But oddly enough, the figure standing where she was supposed to be is familiar.
Magnai almost jumps out of his skin when she taps him on the shoulder, and he quickly says, “Are you on your leave, khagan?”
Nuven tilts her head to regard him and replies, “Almost. I am to replace a scout for the first patrol and then I am free to leave.”
Magnai swears under his breath before he draws himself up and says, “I see. I will have to have a word with Khudus later.”
They set out across the grasslands with nary a word between them, but as time passes, there’s something odd in the air between them. Magnai of the Oronir is a proud man, and he rarely hesitates to speak his mind. But right now, he is stiff and overly formal with her, responding to her questions with as few words as he can. Perhaps if it was Daidukul or another member of the Buduga, Nuven could understand, but it’s Magnai out of all people.
“You’re oddly quiet,” she comments.
He doesn’t even look at her as he snaps back, “Then should I sing and dance for you, khagan? We are scouting, no more and no less.”
“You’re just being snippy now,” she grumbles. “Is your pride that wounded?”
He does not reply. The wind picks up amidst their silence, and Nuven can’t help but notice his scent. It’s warm, spicy with something that she can’t fully identify, and there’s a slight herbal tinge to it. There’s a part of her that wants to get closer, to let him sink into her and curl around her very bones. The longer she inhales it, the warmer she feels. The scent is intoxicating, and it’s enough to make her head spin. “You’re in rut,” she accuses. There is no other possible explanation.
Magnai whips his head up and snaps back, “I am not!” However, his eyes are dilated so wide that Nuven can barely see the yellow. Instead, his eyes are black with desire, and his nostrils flare as he takes in her scent. She’s not in heat herself, but she knows too well that his rut is likely making her smell more appealing than usual.
She jabs a finger at him and asks, “Then how do you explain the scent, little sun?”
“I am not little,” he protests. Nuven has to hold back a laugh; the nickname Y’shtola gave him is all too apt. It only furrows the frown on his face, and he grumbles, “You mock me.”
“Regardless of your feelings, you are in rut,” Nuven says with an air of finality. “We’ll have to take you back to the Dawn Throne so you can work it out.” She leans in to take a closer look at his scent and inhales. It makes her breath catch in her throat, and the beginnings of a feral want starts to curl her way in her chest. Even though the Au Ra are not completely guided by base urges, the scent of someone in heat or rut is still intoxicating, especially for someone who is still unmated and single.
A growl rumbles low in Magnai’s chest, and he reaches out to brush his hand along one of Nuven’s horns. His touch against such a sensitive part of her sends shivers down her spine, and she can’t help but keen at that simple touch. “Get away from me,” he seethes. Nuven flinches away, and Magnai slowly lets go of her horn. “If you are perfectly aware of my impending rut, you should know that was a poor decision,” he says, tone a little more softened.
Nuven turns her back to him. She needs to be able to think straight. Between the two of them, she’s the only one with enough sense left in her to make proper decisions. But she misses his touch, and his scent is starting to become inescapable. It clouds her mind, making her think of nothing else but him.
“I cannot believe it came this soon,” she hears Magnai grumble. “And to think that it was triggered not even by another Xaela but a member of the Raen.” Nuven whips back around, ready to snap at him. She has had enough of him painting her as a complete outsider, but she stops when she sees the way he looks at her. “To think that my Nhaama could come not in the scales of twilight but in Azim’s own white,” he continues. “But perhaps that is destiny, for if the Oronir are Azim’s children among Nhaama’s creations, then my Nhaama may be of the moon walking among Azim’s.”
Nuven narrows her eyes and says, “Do not let your rut addle your mind. Also, you really have to stop this unfortunate habit of declaring every woman to be your Nhaama. Did you forget Y’shtola’s words so easily?”
Magnai draws himself up to his full height to tower over Nuven as he snaps back, “And what of it? Do you think I am incapable of pleasing a woman? Am I so distasteful a mate?”
“Do you really want to know the honest answer?” Nuven asks. She folds her hands across her chest and continues, “You truly possess one of the largest egos I have ever had the misfortune to meet. You boast and brag incessantly, and that is rivaled only by your desire to fight. You and your Buduga brethren disrespect women while constantly seeking for one of your own, and you fail to recognize strengths outside of the Oronir because your belief in Azim blinds you so completely.” She gestures to her own cream-colored scales. “And do not use the excuse of me being a foreigner because my own people believe in Azim and Nhaama as well. The only difference between you and me is that I do not lord my god over others for the sake of stroking my own ego. I do not care if they call you most radiant brother of the sun; you have failed to prove that to me, both during the Naadam and in almost every encounter we have had thus far.”
“Very well then,” Magnai finally says, voice tight and stiff. “I will prove to you that I am capable of more than you think me of. I can and will be an excellent mate and leader.”
“And how do you think you’ll go about doing that when you’ve been doing such a spectacularly horrible job thus far?” Nuven retorts.
Magnai takes a deep breath before he steps towards her, crowding her with both his height and his scent. “Join me in my rut,” he tells her. At such close range, it is impossible to avoid Magnai in every sense of the word. His scent makes her tongue feel dry, desperate for just a taste more, and she’s not even the one in heat. When she looks up at him, his eyes are ablaze with pride and need intermingled together. It almost makes her heady with power, knowing that she was the one to make him like this. And it’s not that he isn’t attractive. From an Auri viewpoint, he’s good-looking enough with those large horns jutting out from his head and those bright, flame-like eyes of his.
“Very well,” Nuven murmurs. She thinks of Magnai in the sparring ring, and her mouth quirks up as she echoes his words, “Come then. Prove your worth.”
They finish their patrol with haste, and Nuven watches as Magnai informs the next scout of the particulars. Then, he leads her up to the Dawn Throne. Oddly enough, when he takes her to his quarters, he doesn’t even look at hers. Instead, he begins rummaging around his belongings and starts packing a bag.
“I thought we were going to handle your rut,” she says, gesturing towards his furs.
Magnai looks at her aghast and says, “Do you truly think me such a savage that I would take you without any preparation?”
“Not entirely,” Nuven snips back. “But typically we would be naked and fucking each other right about now. You know, because you’re in rut?”
Magnai grumbles something under his breath as he stands up with his bag in hand. “We of the Oronir endure our ruts elsewhere so that our activities do not disturb or endanger the clan,” he explains. “I will provide for you throughout the entire rut, so do not worry about that. We simply must needs gather some supplies before we head out.”
“I feel like I should be the one doing that then,” Nuven muses. “Seeing as you’re the one in rut and all that.”
“I am not so addled that I cannot provide for a mate,” Magnai scoffs. “Do you Eorzeans simply lie in bed and wait for the heat to pass?”
Nuven considers it for a moment. It looks like Magnai is preparing for a siege rather than a rut. From past experiences, she just holes up in a room and tides herself over with tonics. Rarely does she share heats with others. Auri heats and ruts are not as bad as other races; Nuven has heard some tall tales about a Nunh’s heat. But still, most partners are inexperienced with things such as these, and it can be exhausting to keep up. However, Magnai’s preparations seem out of proportion to what Nuven expects. He even starts gathering up arrows in a quiver as well and slings a bow across his back in addition to the battle axe.
“Weapons as well?” Nuven asks. “Do you intend to spar in the middle of the rut as well?”
“For challengers,” he says shortly.
“Challengers?”
Magnai raises a brow and explains, “Ruts and heats are when we are most vulnerable. It is an easy opportunity to oust a warrior. It used to be more common in my grandfather’s age, and the Naadam has recently passed, so I do not think there will be any challengers. Still, it is always good to be prepared.”
Challengers. It all makes sense, given what she already knows of Xaela and Oroniri culture. The Raen clan she hails from is more matriarchal and solitary in nature than the Oronir. Moreover, Magnai is surprisingly lucid for a man on the verge of a rut. Perhaps this is more normal for the Xaela; for a Raen man this close to a rut, he would already be all over Nuven by this point. She drifts closer to look at what he’s packing, and Magnai lets out a small hiss. “Do not distract me,” he warns her. “Lest I take you on the ground here and now like some lesser man.”
Nuven looks at him, and he looks wild, wilder than she’s ever seen him. His breaths are ragged, and she can see that he’s breathing through his mouth to avoid taking in too much of her scent. He tears himself away from her and hurriedly throws the last of things into a second pack. He slings that over his back as well, and he looks like an overpacked chocobo with all the things he has to carry. When Nuven reaches out to carry one of the bags, he shakes his head. “Again,” he says. “It does not matter if I am in rut, I am still to take care of you throughout the rut’s duration. It may not be like the Eorzean way, but it is what we children of the Sun do.”
Nuven does not say another word and follows him out, back to his throne room. Magnai tersely gives out orders to Daidukul and Baatu in his absence, and Nuven catches Baatu glancing at her. To her surprise, he doesn’t seem resentful at all. In fact, he looks a little delighted at the prospect of Magnai sharing his rut with another, and Nuven has to stifle a laugh. Is Magnai that hopeless when it comes to the opposite sex?
Magnai then takes her to where their yols are yoked. Nuven moves towards her own, but Magnai stops her by saying, “Typically, it is traditional to share the same yol. Would you let me use your yol to carry the supplies and ride mine instead?”
“Look at that, the most radiant brother asking for permission?” Nuven laughs.
Magnai flushes red and snaps, “I would shame Azim himself if I were to take from a woman without the decency of asking permission.” When Nuven nods and gestures over to her own yol, he mutters another half-dozen curses and starts lashing down their bags to the yol’s back. Nuven climbs astride Magnai’s yol and waits for him to finish his work.
Magnai’s yol is larger than her own — something that he would probably brag about — so there’s more than enough room to accommodate the two of them. However, Magnai saddles himself right behind Nuven and circles her waist with one of his broad arms. At such close quarters, Nuven can smell him and only him and it is dizzying. He’s warm, no doubt warmer due to his rut. She can feel the blood pulsing in his wrist from where it makes direct contact with her bare skin, and Nuven can’t help but flush.
The yols take off with a flurry of feathers, and they circle around the Dawn Throne once before Magnai settles on a spot nearby the river. He guides them down to the landing, and the minute they touch down, Magnai has to tear himself away from Nuven. He does not meet her gaze, not even when she calls out his name, and focuses on setting up the yurt instead. Nuven ends up tethering the yols down nearby, but Magnai will not let her do anything else that will let her out of his sight.
Nuven is loath to admit it, but Magnai is beautiful to watch while he works. His arms ripple with corded muscle that flex as he hoists up the yurt and pulls out the furs. He gathers two large kettles’ worth of water from the river, and he starts organizing the food he brought from the Dawn Throne. She inches closer and closer, and she can see the way his tail lashes at the scent of her. Again, it makes her feel so powerful to see how she brings him so low with her presence alone. It’s an odd feeling that stirs in her chest, and when she breathes in, she’s taken with the desire to have him, as much as he is willing to offer.
Finally, Magnai straightens up and looks at her directly, yellow irises burning like Azim’s sun itself. “This is the last chance,” he tells her. “Tell me to stop, and you can leave me here to rut alone. But if you are willing to spend it with me, then I swear on the Dusk Mother’s moon that I will provide for you in every way I can.”
Nuven’s only answer is an action; she tips her head upward and drags him down by his horns to capture his lips. He lets out a soft moan when she curls her fingers around his horns, and he kisses her back, all teeth and tongue. His scent circles around her, filling her with so much warmth and desire that it almost makes her feel like she’s in heat herself. She drags one hand down, tracing the pattern of scales that start along his angular jaw and down the column of his neck. He groans again, collapsing into her, and he murmurs, “You are insufferable, utterly maddening, and yet, I want nothing more to fuck you, to fill you up again and again until you are begging for my cum.”
He hoists her up to carry her to the furs, and his hands curve around her buttocks, squeezing possessively. “Do you know how provoking you were this entire day?” he says, nearly seething. “So close to me yet so far away, impossible to touch, your scent filling the air to be inescapable.”
Nuven curls her tail around him as she tells him, “You have me. Now, do what you promised me.”
Magnai lets out a growl, rumbling through his chest, and he deposits her down on the furs. He rummages through the bottles that he lined up beside them and selects one. “Here, a preventative tonic,” he says. “I did not think you would want to be saddled with a child.”
“Thoughtful,” Nuven muses. She uncorks it and downs it in a single gulp. It’s bitter, but the minute she swallows, Magnai descends on her and pushes her down into the furs, now fully ready to rut.
Magnai finds himself fully succumbing to Nuven as he desperately and ruthlessly takes kiss after kiss from her. His clothes feel suffocating against this oppressive heat that burns beneath his skin, and he tears them off one by one, heedlessly throwing them somewhere behind him. He scatters biting kisses against her skin, and he shoves his hands beneath Nuven’s breeches to shove his fingers into her wet, wet heat. She smells beautiful, scent curling around him like an embrace, and he accepts that even if she is not his Nhaama, he would not find another woman as beautiful and strong as her on this earth.
“Please,” she gasps, bucking her hips up. “Let me take these off.”
He acquiesces, shoving her breeches and underpants down and falling to his knees to taste her. Auri men were far bigger than their female counterparts, and he would have to prepare her well to take him. It would’ve been easier if she was in heat as well, but Magnai is willing to take what he can get. He licks a stripe up her slit and hears her sigh, and he wants more, more, more.
He sucks her clit while he works one, then two fingers into her. When she twists artlessly against him, he uses his other hand to keep her pinned down. He licks and sucks against her, tasting her as he goes, and he feels like he cannot think about anything else other than her. The part of him in rut makes him want to shove himself into her right away, but the part of him that is still sober enough knows that he has to provide for her in the Oroniri way. His ancestors would not let him live if they knew he did not prepare his Nhaama properly.
Magnai pulls back just enough to watch as he works a third finger into her, and he wonders how she would react if he were to push in a fourth. He wraps his arm around her and tugs her closer to lick at her again, obsessed with the idea of seeing her take all four of his fingers. He sucks at her pearl while pumping his fingers in and out of her. She’s moaning openly now, and it sounds like music to his ears. She starts pleading for more, and he can do nothing but oblige as he tries to work a fourth finger into her.
Her thighs begin to tremble around him as she reaches closer and closer to her climax. Magnai curves his fingers upward while she sobs brokenly, and he feels her snap when he sucks one more time on her clit. “By the Twelve,” she gasps. “That’s too much, I can’t—”
Magnai doesn’t listen to her as he continues to lick into her oversensitized flesh, and when he’s satisfied that she can fit his cock, he flips her over. She gasps at the sudden movement, and he pushes her ass up for his taking. At the sight of her bent over like this, Magnai can’t help but groan. His rut fully takes him now, and he cannot think of anything other than fucking her into the furs. He lines himself up against her hole and pushes in with a single thrust. She’s so wet, velvet heat around him, and so tight.
He thrusts once, then twice, and thinks that he may not even last at all. He thrusts again and again until she’s whining and whimpering, seeking out his orgasm. When her knees slip against the furs, he grabs her tail and pulls her back onto his cock, earning him a soft yelp from her. Magnai comes undone against her, hands gripping onto her ass and blood rushing in his ears. Nuven looks so beautiful like this, and he bends over, pinning her down and biting her neck. His teeth scrape against her scales, and he drags his mouth across her shoulder until he finds a soft spot to leave a mating bite. When he bites down, he cums, twitching and thrusting erratically into her.
The climax affords him a moment’s relief from his rut, and he laves his tongue over the mating bite, trying to soothe the angry, red mark. Nuven rolls over, knees knocking together, and gasps out, “That was lovely. I can’t believe you sunk right in. It usually takes me longer to loosen up.” She giggles a little bit and spreads her thighs to inspect herself. But when Magnai sees his cum dripping out of her in white rivulets, it sends a spark straight to his half-hard cock. Azim help him, he’s hopeless.
He scoops up whatever he can, pushing his cum back in her, mind utterly lost. “You look so good like this,” he rambles. “Want to fill you up again, have you take everything I give you.” The sound of his fingers pumping in and out of her is positively lewd. He lines himself up once more and thrusts in again. This time, he’s lucid enough to rub small circles into her clit as he starts thrusting, and the sight of her face while he fucks her is unlike anything he’s ever seen. Her cheeks are flushed pink now, making her white scales contrast even more against her skin. “What a good girl,” Magnai pants, slapping her thighs and ass affectionately. “So fucking good for me, you feel divine. I need, Azim help me, you feel—”
He has never been hungrier for such carnal desires. Never has a rut burned in his blood this brightly. Magnai bends down to leave more stinging kisses along her neck and collarbone; he wants to mark her as his and only his. He rolls one of her nipples between his fingers, making her moan, and Magnai immediately decides that he wants to hear that again. He snaps his hips upward, keeping her well and truly fucked as he pinches her nipples.
“Give it to me,” Nuven says breathlessly. “Fill me up.”
Magnai looks at her, and she is blinding: sunlight and moonlight wrapped up into a single person. Her eyes gleam in the shadows, lit by the lantern he put up earlier, and her mouth opens, perfect for taking, for kissing, for ravaging. And he can do nothing else save to oblige her.
When Magnai is lucid enough, he dips a cloth into one of the water kettles and wipes off the sticky remnants of their cum off her skin. He tells her that she is the moon, glowing and beautiful. He even brings a balm to work into her scales, but his hands begin to stray across her body, dipping between the cleft of her thighs. His whispers turn hot and heavy, and he murmurs, “My Nhaama, do you think you can take my cock one more time?”
Nuven has no other answer than a breathy yes, and he starts working his hard cock into her. The rut makes him talkative, and he tells her, “There is nothing else like fucking you, my moonlight. I want to thrust into your cunt, your mouth, your hands, your thighs, anything you are willing to give me.” He punctuates his words with hard thrusts, and his hands grip onto her hard enough to leave bruises. He nestles her among the furs and rearranges her on his cock to make her more comfortable.
“Anything,” Nuven gasps out as she fists her hands in Magnai’s hair. “Anything you want, I’ll give you, please, I want—“
Magnai tells her that he wants to cum all over her, only to see how it paints her rosy nipples in white, but he also tells her that it would be a waste of cum, that he needs to breed her full. He slurs out, “I need to fuck you full, fill you with my seed and keep it in with my fingers. A shame we do not have knots like the Miqo’te, I could’ve made you come while you were knotted so that my spend has nowhere else to go but deeper.”
Sleep pricks the back of Nuven’s eyes, even while Magnai spills inside of her, and when she crests over another climax, it becomes impossible to ignore. Her eyes drift shut, and distantly, she can feel Magnai running the washcloth over her skin again. There are pillows placed behind her head and blankets settled around her, and Nuven nestles into them without any hesitation.
Her dreams are formless, slipping from one thing to another. In one dream, the sky is nothing but pure light, and she reaches out to try and touch the sky. Beneath her hand, the light twists and fades back into the night sky, and she smiles from the sheer beauty of it all. The stars shine bright against the black skies, twinkling like diamonds amidst the darkness. But something in her twists at the sensation of light, and she wakes up with her breath caught in her throat, something still burning on her tongue. For a moment, she still thinks that she’s floating betwixt light and dark, but when she fully opens her eyes, she only sees the flickering light of the lantern Magnai set up inside the yurt.
She can hear him softly panting beside her, so she rolls over only to see him furiously stroking his own cock. His eyes are screwed shut, and he has one clamped over his mouth to muffle any moans. A small wisp of pity unfurls inside her, so she reaches out for him. “You could have woken me up,” she whispers.
Magnai jolts, and Nuven takes the opportunity to crawl over him. She’s not wet enough to take him fully, so she leans down to hesitantly lick across the head of his cock. He groans, “You will be the death of me.”
Nuven works one hand down to rub her clit, and she tells him, “Take what you need, Magnai. Even if I’m asleep.” Then, she opens her mouth to slowly fit him into her mouth.
“You have to be a dream,” Magnai hoarsely says as he starts to thrust up into her mouth. “A figment of my imagination sent to torment me.”
Nuven merely hums around his cock, and she focuses on keeping her breathing steady while she works herself up to her own climax. Magnai curls one fist into her hair and pulls, keeping up a fierce rhythm. She can’t stop drool from collecting in the corners of her mouth, but it only makes each thrust up smoother and smoother. Finally, Magnai yanks himself from out of her mouth and pulls her up until she can seat herself on his cock. He pushes up into her, and it’s harder to do since she hasn’t worked herself open for him. “Such a tight thing,” he swears.
“Faster,” Nuven insists. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
“Who am I to deny you,” Magnai says, gripping onto her hips and setting a faster pace for her. It feels like he’s cleaving her open, leaving her bare and reshaping her to fit him and only him. He mindlessly ruts up against her, spilling as soon as three thrusts in, but he stays hard inside her and keeps on going. He shoves her down onto his cock until he grows dissatisfied with the pace. He picks her up, still inside her, and rearranges her to how he wants her before he starts fucking her into the furs in earnest. She’s so slick, damp with both of their cum, and it’s so easy to thrust into her without any hesitation. And when he comes again, spilling deep in her, he does not even bother to pull out. Instead, he curls his broad arms around her and quietly hums her a lullaby until both of them return to blissful sleep.
Time becomes immaterial to Magnai, and he can barely keep track of the interplay between sunlight and moonlight outside their yurt. He only exits the yurt to refill their water kettles and to check for any challengers. Not that he thinks there will be any; the tradition largely died out by the time his grandfather sired his father, and it would take a fool to challenge both the khagan of the Azim Steppe and the khan of the Oronir.
The rut burns through him, but he holds himself together long enough to take care of Nuven. She is like the moon incarnate in his arms and luminous as the setting sun. It’s easy to lose himself in her, regardless of the rut, and although he knows that he only has a few days left with her all to his own, he thinks that it would be worth the endless longing afterwards.
By the time she wakes, he has the water kettle boiling for tea, and he feeds her small buns stuffed full of meat, small roasted roots, and slices of savory cheese. He feeds her, one bite after another, in spite of her protests, and when she’s all done, he passes her a mug of warm tea. While she sips and regains some of her strength, he runs his fingers through her hair, trying to unravel all the tangles he’s caused. Magnai can’t help but grow hard just by touching her and inhaling her scent, but he forces himself to focus on taking care of her. He rubs warm circles into her sore muscles and puts salve on any bites that broke too much skin, leaving red and purple in their wake. A small flicker of pride burns in his chest when he sees them though. Anyone would see them and know that she was taken. Mine, a deep part of him growls. Mine and mine alone.
There’s a spot just at the juncture of her neck and shoulder that he hasn’t marked yet, and he bends down to lick and suck at her smooth skin. She keens at his touch and sets aside her half-drunk mug to lean into him. Nuven curls up in his lap, stretching her hands up to run her fingers down his horns and scales, and her mere touch is enough to ruin him.
By this point in his rut, she’s still wet and blissfully easy to push into, thanks to all their couplings. Still tight, of course, but he can fuck into her without worrying as much as he did on the first day. Auri women adjust easily — a quirk of their biology due to their differences in size — and Magnai can hear the soft, breathless noises she makes when he first starts thrusting into her. Her thighs tremble around him as he fucks into her, forcing her to climb higher and higher with pleasure. His hips snap against her, and he can’t help but relish in the way Nuven scratches at his back, trying to find some purchase against the onslaught of feeling. He can’t see them but he hopes she leaves marks.
When he finally approaches his release, he comes to the sound of Nuven murmuring, “Let go, Magnai, come inside me and fuck me full. I want it, please, please, I need it.” She sounds so pretty, begging for his seed while she’s stuffed full of his cock, that he can’t help but obey.
Later, when she falls asleep, the rut still burns into him so he carefully eases her thighs open and slips back inside her. Magnai was too afraid to touch her before and chose instead to look towards his hand for release. But she gave him permission, and his hand is nothing compared to her and her alone. Magnai thrusts into her and the pure sensation of it makes him feel like she descended from the heavens above. He comes inside her again, and briefly, he wonders just how many times he’s spilled inside of her. It’s difficult to tell, too many but not enough all at the same time. He slumps back against the furs, breathing in the scent of her, and wonders what he’ll do when she departs. Because she will, of course, she will. Nuven Alerion has no ties to the Azim Steppe save for the title of khagan, and she largely delegates that to Cirina of the Mol instead. She has too many responsibilities, and to Magnai, the title of Warrior of Light almost feels like a shackle around her neck, collaring her to the fate of Eorzea.
The sight of her makes him possessive, and despite coming once already, he wants to bracket her with his arms and take whatever else she offers him. He wants to consume her with a hunger that startles him. It’s been a long time since he’s had a rut like this, and it has to be her . The source of all his troubles and his woes, this woman who toppled him off the throne by claiming the ovoos before him, this beautiful, insufferable woman who conquered armies and eikons alike with ease. Something stirs inside him that is not quite rut, but Magnai quickly stifles it before it has the chance to grow.
Around the fourth or fifth day, Nuven notices that Magnai’s periods of lucidity are becoming more and more frequent. Honestly, she counts it as a boon; her limbs and joints are sore in spite of the balms and salves Magnai rubs on them. There are too many bruises and bite marks littering her skin, marking her as his, and even some of her scales are starting to peel and crack with such wear and tear. Nuven, however, feels utterly sated. She hasn’t gone through a rut or heat like this in ages, and she briefly regrets that she herself wasn’t in heat at the same time. That would have been truly wonderful.
Magnai makes her a final dinner of sorts, cooking a stew in one of the empty kettles and slicing one more bit of cheese for her to nibble on. “How are you faring?” he asks quietly.
Nuven examines her bare thighs and chuckles, “Anyone looking at me right now would think that I got on the bad side of a goobue or something.” She looks up at him and flashes him a quick grin. “But I, for one, am quite pleased.”
His expression softens at that, and the familiar pride in his eyes looks gentler than Nuven’s ever seen it. “I did promise you,” he says, tone veering just on the edge of gloating. “Have I proven my mettle then?”
“Perhaps,” Nuven lazily replies. She stretches her arms upward, trying to work out one last kink in her shoulder, before she settles down beside Magnai. “I am impressed by the way you’ve managed to do both this and your rut,” she says, artlessly gesturing to the yurt and the remaining supplies.
“Like I said, this is the Oroniri way,” Magnai returns. He ladles out two bowls of stew for them and passes one to Nuven. “Cooking is not typically a warrior’s purview, but when it comes to providing for a mate, it will be.” He hesitates, eyes flicking over to her. “And I plan on cherishing my Nhaama. All this and more are simple things to do for her.”
Silence settles between the two of them, and Nuven knows that there’s something unspoken there. She can’t deny the way Magnai made her feel nor can she ignore that painfully hopeful look in the curve of his mouth and the set of his jaw. But she cannot stay here; the Alliance calls for her aid in shoring up Ala Mhigo’s defenses against the Empire. Even if the Empire were to give up on Ala Mhigo, there would still be the issue of primals to contend with.
To distract herself, Nuven starts eating her stew. It’s hearty and flavorful, and she’s impressed that someone like Magnai made it. He’s surprisingly a hopeless romantic once you get past his prickly exterior. When she glances up again, she finds Magnai studying her features. He startles a bit, and his cheeks flush pink as he quickly returns to eating again.
“What will you do afterwards?” Nuven asks.
Magnai considers it for a moment before he shrugs and says, “Return to my duties, as will you.”
Nuven almost wants to shrivel up at the idea of returning to her duties. There is the matter of the Ala Mhigan border and this rumor of Zenos yae Galvus returning from the dead. There is also the matter of checking on the beastmen tribes and ensuring that no primal emerged in her absence. The Scions and the Alliance always have something new for her to do, and it seems like Eorzea is in dire need of a hero every single passing day. Sometimes, Nuven can’t help but resent people like Minfilia and Alphinaud for turning her into this figure that was larger than life. If she had things her way, no one would ever know her name nor her face, but nowadays, she cannot go anywhere in Eorzea without someone recognizing who she is.
Here, in this yurt, she’s only Nuven and nothing else. Magnai made it easy to forget about the world outside the steppe, and she knows that she will think back on these moments fondly. “For what it was worth,” she begins. “This was a pleasant break. Perhaps I assumed too much of you.”
Magnai laughs at that and says, “You are not the first woman to tell me that my ego is too large for my head. Just look at what that Dotharl udgan says to me every time I have the misfortune to cross paths with her.” He sets down his bowl and steeples his hands together as he muses, “I still believe that we Oronir are born of the sun while the others are born of the earth. We are not the same, them and I, but perhaps, there is more merit in our differences than I originally gave them.”
“It seems like you’ve done some thinking, little sun,” Nuven laughs. Magnai bristles a little bit at the nickname, but he stays silent for now. When the silence settles between them again, Nuven tells him, “I likely will not come back to the Azim Steppe for some time.”
“You do know that you have no obligation to stay here,” Magnai says, brow furrowed. “You may have won the title of khagan, but the authority lies with the Mol. In fact, any warrior of the Steppe would say that you have gone above and beyond what an outsider, even one with an honorary tribe, would be expected to do.”
Nuven’s lips twist down into a frown as she says, “Yes, I know, but I would feel guilty for leaving without another word. I claimed the ovoos, so I should bear some responsibility for that.” She waves her hand as she continues, “Regardless, I will not be coming back for some time. I’ll be needed in Ala Mhigo and… I did not want you to wait for me.”
“I did not spend my rut with you under any expectation of something more,” Magnai archly replies.
Nuven hurriedly says, “Yes, I know. You have been gracious and courteous this entire time, and it was an excellent experience. I doubt I will spend another heat like this again. I simply needed to make things clear.”
Magnai purses his lips together before he finally reaches over to lay his hand on Nuven’s lap. “You are always welcome here, khagan or not,” he says, soft and low. “And if you wish to spend your heat here, I will always welcome you, my moon.”
Nuven leans into his touch, and for one last time, she lets him fold his arms around her. This time, there’s no heat behind his touch, no ravenous hunger in his bones to sate. It is just the two of them, and Magnai quietly hums an Oroniri lullaby into her ear as he rubs warm circles into her sore muscles once more. Nuven’s eyes slowly slip shut as sleep overtakes her, and she dreams of the sun and its moon, most radiant and bright.