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“Most Radiant Brother.”
It has been a time of peace, as much as there can be peace in these turbulent times. A tower stands across the Azim Steppe, radiating its eerie purple light, and the reports he receives from Doma detail the Garleans moving in strange ways. The Azim Steppe prepares quietly for war, even though no enemy lurks on their horizon, and Magnai has savoured the time that he has had between battles. He has ruled the Oronir for years now, though, and he knows when the air begins to change. He knows the feeling of the oncoming storm, the lightning beginning to churn the air, and he knows he must ready to either brace for the impact or charge to fight the storm. He feels it now, in the rookery master’s words as the man approaches him, expression still, even as the warm sun shines on their faces.
Selfish, he supposes, but he just wishes that they’d had a little more time.
“Yes, Rookery Master?” Magnai asks from where he stands, watching the warriors train. He lifts his chin, not taking his gaze off of the warriors, knowing that inside the crush of warriors, his Nhamma swings her shield, training with them in the ways that she learned in Ul’Dah across the sea. It is that knowledge that comforts him, not that he truly needs to be comforted.
“There is a strange bird on the horizon,” the man tells him, voice soft. “I have not seen its like before.”
Magnai stiffens. “How many?”
“Just the one. It should land shortly. It looks like those we saw when the Warrior of Light’s entourage first came to Othard.”
In his heart of hearts, Magnai knows what this means. It hasn’t been long enough. It has only been a few months. It could never be enough, and yet-
He sighs. “Bring the rider to me when they arrive. No guards. They are not a threat. I believe they come for my Nhamma.”
The entire Oronir and Buduga watch as a purple feathered bird - smaller than a yol, shorter wings, shorter beak, but with just as sharp talons - flies overhead to the rookery. There is a rider on board, but no one can tell who it is. Even so, they can see Magnai storming into his hall and they all know what that means. A bit of dread seeps into the Oronir that they will, once again, have to face a lonely Magnai.
(One of the children runs over to where their newest resident is practicing a new rotation with a training dummy.
“There is a visitor here, ma’am!” The child says, tugging at her empty scabbard. “The Most Radiant Brother is upset.”
The warrior pauses and sighs, lowering her sword. “Thank you, child.”
She knew this day would come too. It doesn’t make it any less painful.)
The rookery master returns to his entrance hall with the stranger in tow, and Magnai sits in his throne to stare at him. It is a Miqo'te man, small in stature, with bright red hair and eyes, his tail lashing in the air, ears flicking with his emotions as he looks around. He has a magic staff on his back made of blue crystal, but somehow, for all of the strangeness of his presence, he is...surprisingly non-threatening. He reminds Magnai, somehow, of Lord Hien. Not the same stature, but the gentleness. The kindness. A warrior, true, but one who would favour words than weapons.
This does not change his mood in the slightest. “Who are you to stand before the Oronir?” Magnai says, voice dark. “Speak your name."
“G’raha Tia, of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Most Radiant Brother,” the man bows before him. “May the sun continue to shine on you.”
“Such pretty words for a thief,” Magnai mutters.
G’raha rises and sighs. “By your expression, I suspect you know why I am here. I apologize deeply. I would not have come had we any other choice, but...she is needed. Badly.”
Magnai turns his head with a scoff. “You will have to explain it to her. She is no beast to keep chained to the earth. She goes where she pleases.”
“I am glad to see that.” G’raha bows gently. “I think a great deal of Ma'Ren, and I am pleased to see that she keeps such excellent company. She told us much of you, Magnai of the Oronir.”
The flattery does not soothe Magnai’s rattled nerves, but it does improve his opinion of this stranger a little more. He stands from his throne and beckons. “Come.”
He is at least a fulm taller than this man, but G’raha Tia keeps up the pace to follow Magnai out to the Dawn Throne. Out of the corner of his eye, Magnai notes that the miqo'te’s head is on a swivel, taking in everything around them. Perhaps, in another mood, the man would be asking questions, trying to learn what he could. In another rare mood, perhaps Magnai would even indulge him. But not now. Instead, the Miqo’te moves to stand beside him, cups his hands by his mouth, and sings out a sharp four note melody. The sound echoes across the camp, rendering many Oronir and Buduga to silence.
Across the camp, where the sheep are kept for milking, a voice rises to sing the same four notes, with an additional two at the end. G’raha Tia’s ears perk up with joy, and Magnai cannot help his smile. No matter how upset he is about her leaving, he is delighted that each day, he learns something new about his love. A signal. Perhaps they will have to come up with one of their own.
They only have to wait a few moments before the woman of the hour jogs towards them. She is, as always, radiant. She dresses in Oronir yellow and brown, her hair grown out into a braid, a little fat returned to her body. There is brightness in her, and she stands before them. “G’raha,” she smiles at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and hauling him into a hug. “Tis good to see you. Which of my mounts did you take?”
“The lanner from Nidhogg’s lair,” G’raha replies with a smile. “A sturdy thing.”
She smiles, although her expression goes serious. Letting go of him, she moves to stand by Magnai’s side. “Pray tell, this is not just a social call, is it?”
“It is not, but that does not mean I am not happy to see you,” G’raha smiles. “I am truly sorry. We delayed calling you as long as we could, without a body count, I mean.”
“I understand,” Ma'Ren replies, her shoulders still loose and relaxed. She takes Magnai’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Pray listen with me, my Azim?”
Magnai’s thought process is currently shifting between murder and brutal assault against this man who would take his Nhamma away, but he nods. “I would hear this explanation myself. I will not place obstacles in your departure, but I would know why.”
The guards outside the hall do not need instructing. The moment they see the expression on Magnai’s face, they step away from the door, moving further down, and start giving orders that the Most Radiant Brother must not be disturbed at this time.
(Magnai does not hear the added note of ‘his Nhamma will be leaving. We must be prepared for his mood, not only for whatever news is brought by this messenger.’ It is likely for the best.)
As the door swings shut behind them, Magnai sits on his throne, as is custom. As is of recent custom, Ma'Ren sits on the arm, one leg crossed over the other, her hands on her knee. G’raha Tia stands before them below the dais, arms crossed behind his back.
“Again, I am truly sorry. I did not wish to bring such ill tidings,” G’raha sighs. “There are so few good ones lately.”
Ma'Ren sighs. “You are not Exarch anymore, Raha. You need not carry the world on your shoulders.”
“Neither should you, and yet, here we are.”
Magnai’s head whips around to stare at Ma'Ren. “ This is the Exarch?” Magnai asks, not sure if he heard that right.
“That was my title in the First, yes,” G’raha Tia replies, his voice chipper as though he has not just stoked the fires of Magnai’s wrath with that simple confirmation.
Magnai is about to rise and grab his axe when Ma'Ren grabs his collar, hauling him back down into the chair. “He is my friend, my Azim, you cannot kill him.”
“You would have the man who stole your friends, who summoned you away from this world,” away from me goes unspoken, but he is certain G’raha hears it anyway, “who placed so much on your shoulders, and brought you to the point of near death in a moonless land...you would have him stand in my throne room, asking to take you again ?”
“Yes,” Ma'Ren replies fiercely, her eyes sharp, her fist tight in his robes, “because not only did he apologize and return me in as good shape as I was before, but he did so to save my life and that of this world. He returned me in as best condition as I could, and he has grown a spine to explain himself. And this is my duty, Magnai. We spoke of this.”
Magnai scowls but slowly sinks back into his throne. G’raha does not relax, but instead bows deeply. “Then it is to you as well that I owe a sincere apology. I wish that we did not have to ask Ma'Ren to return with me to Eorzea. She has been through a great deal, some of those trials at my hand, some at the hands of the Empire, and others at the Ascians. I can count on one hand the amount of times she has had a break, and most of them have been with you.”
“Once with you,” Ma'Ren replies. “In the Crystarium.”
Magnai’s opinion of G’raha climbs a little more. G’raha nods, although he doesn’t stop talking. “But our situation has grown dire. Truly dire.”
“Tell us, then,” he demands. “What will befall Eorzea if Ma'Ren does not return with you?”
“I fear not just Eorzea.” Those words instantly put Magnai on edge, and Ma'Ren sits even taller.
“G’raha, what happened?” She asks even more urgently. “Please.”
“I assume you noticed the towers rising out of the ground?”
Magnai nods. “We lost several warriors by approaching them and have resolved firmly to leave them alone until we learn more. However, we have heard their cries upon emerging.” Glory to Garlemald. Those words had been sickening.
G’raha nods. “We sought to explore them ourselves and sent in an expeditionary force to explore them - Fordola and Arenvald. Thancred and Urianger also went ahead to scout Garlemald itself.”
Those names mean nothing to Magnai, but Ma'Ren nods in understanding. “The former pair possess the Echo, as I do,” she explains. “But...what happened?”
It is not a pleasant story, but G’raha tells it. He tells them of how Zenos has stripped the entire Imperial city bare, working towards some monstrous grand tower, the people within becoming naught by slaves to sing for the glory of Garlemald. He tells them about what is inside the towers, kidnapped beast tribes held to drain them of all their belief to summon corrupted versions of their primals. He tells them about the perverted version of Bahamut that was summoned and how Arenvald was nearly killed in the attempt to attack it. Finally, he tells them that someone Ma'Ren killed is now walking again, but as an Ascian wearing his skin, and he is working with the former viceroy, who Ma'Ren definitely killed.
“If they can create Bahamut again,” G’raha presses, “'tis no leap to assume that they can summon more. As well, if Zenos is the one commanding these efforts-”
“Then he will not deal with none but me,” Ma'Ren growls. Her hands clench on her lap and Magnai reaches over to take her hand. She squeezes it tight and nods. “And this Ascian? Do we know who they are?”
G’raha shakes his head. “All that we know is that he is a sundered Ascian, and one of the Convocation devoted to Zodiark.”
“Nhamma, I can hear your teeth grinding from here.” Magnai squeezes her hand again and stares her down until he can see Ma'Ren unclench her jaw. “I know what you must do.”
Ma'Ren laughs bitterly. “I thought we’d have more time.”
He aches at that tone and rubs her knuckle with his thumb. “We shall have it again. After you save the world.”
She touches her forehead to his with a sigh. “Then I will leave on the morrow, and we will have to ensure this night is one to last for however long this takes.”
“Shall I grant you two some privacy?” G’raha asks, and when Magnai looks, the miqo'te looks rather uncomfortable at the intimacy. Wide eyed, stepping backwards, preparing to run. “I do not mean to intrude. If I can find somewhere to sleep, I will leave you until our departure.”
They will have a moment, of course. Magnai refuses to let this woman out of his sight without soaking in every single moment of her time that he can get. However, he also wishes to give a gift. Mostly to his Nhamma, who has taken precious time away from saving the world to be with him, and a little to this man, who has taken the burden of delivering the news to him. And perhaps taking care of her.
“My Nhamma. Do you trust him?” Magnai asks her, his voice a little softer.
Ma'Ren’s expression goes from bitter to a little confused. “With my life, yes.”
He does not imagine that G’raha goes pink at that, his scarlet eyes darting between the two of them. He is an intruder, yes, but Magnai is an adaptable ruler, and he also sees G’raha Tia for what he really is. An opportunity. Magnai pauses for a moment, tapping his fingers on the arm. He gestures for Ma'Ren to come close, and she leans down, her ear by his mouth. It takes all of Magnai’s strength not to bite the pointed tip, but he does not as he says, “You asked once about one to observe while you pay supplication to the sun.”
She stills, blinking for a moment, before she turns back to him, her smile tempting as ever, “I did.”
“Would this one be well-suited?” He asks just as quietly, feeling himself smile at the thought. “He seems rather fond of you.”
“He is,” she replies, “and if he doesn’t burn up from the embarrassment…”
“It would be a satisfying price for taking you away from me.”
“I’m for it. Although, if he is good, perhaps he should get a reward.”
Magnai makes a hum of consideration. “I am a jealous man, Nhamma. I find it...unsettling to share you in the same manner.”
“I thought perhaps a…” Ma'Ren taps her bottom lip, “less intense gift.”
Magnai weighs it, looks at her finger, and makes an affirming noise. “I accept.”
They pull apart and Magnai says firmly, “Then I have a price, for letting my Nhamma go with you without any resistance from me.”
“Although it is less of a price and more of...incentive,” Ma'Ren grins. “You can always say no and there wouldn’t be any consequences, G’raha. We would not have you do this without consent.”
The man swallows, ears flattening a little with worry. “And what price would that be?”
“You are an observer, are you not?” Magnai gestures with his hand in a lazy flick up and down G’raha’s body. “My Nhamma says you watched her and the lands of the First for many years.”
“I am,” He answers hesitantly.
“Then I would have you observe,” Magnai gently tugs at Ma'Ren’s wrist as the woman sits on his lap. “Do you accept?”
It takes a moment for everything Magnai has said to click for him, but when it does, G’raha goes as crimson as his hair. “Oh!” His ears stand up on end, tail lashing with excitement, and, tellingly, his pupils widen. “You want me to- oh!”
“No consequences if you don’t wish to take part,” Ma'Ren repeats as Magnai slides an arm around her waist, “but...there may be something for you if you stay still and lay not a hand upon yourself.”
G’raha Tia blinks for a moment before he nods. “I...I can do that.”
“Can?” Ma'Ren asks, even as Magnai’s urging hand pushes her legs open.
“Want,” G’raha replies, taking a moment to wet his drying mouth. “I...want to do that.”
“Good boy,” she tells him, and her smile grows when G’raha makes a rather high pitched whine at the phrase. “If at any time, you want to stop, just say so.”
“Although I hope you do not,” Magnai replies as he begins undoing the ties of Ma'Ren’s robes. “She has been asking for something like this for some time. It would be a shame to refuse her.”
G’raha swallows. “Can I...dress down some?” The question is directed at Magnai.
Magnai nods. “You can. None will intrude lest they face my wrath.”
G’raha strips himself of his many layers, setting his bag and staff to the side carefully. He stands, ultimately, in a shirt, a thin pair of trousers, and his boots in deference to the cool air. The shirt hangs low and, in the centre of his chest, there is a reddish blue scar. It is intriguing, but Magnai only looks long enough to see that and that, of course, the man is already hard. Meanwhile, he focuses more on the prize undressing in his lap, baring inch after inch of dark grey skin.
“Always so beautiful,” he says, hands sliding up Ma'Ren’s rib cage. He does not dress down - no, that would ruin the moment - but he ensures there is plenty of space on his lap for her to sit. Ma'Ren tilts her head back, resting it on his shoulder to bare her neck, and Magnai bites eagerly at it, sinking his sharp teeth into it. Ma'Ren lets out a moan, her hands coming down to the arms of the throne, and Magnai slides his hand up to grip her breast, sliding his thumb over it.
When Magnai opens his slitted eyes to look at their observer, he cannot help how he smiles. G’raha Tia looks half undone just by watching. His hands clench in the fabric of his trousers, eyes wide as he takes the two of them in.
“Perhaps our spectator should decide,” Magnai growls, and Ma'Ren nods. He looks up and says, “How would you like to see her moan, boy?”
G’raha gulps, mouth hanging open for a moment, before finally, finally, he seems to rise to the occasion. “I would like to see her open up to you.”
“Ah, good boy, saying what he wants,” Magnai grins, and again, G’raha whimpers. It is a sweet little sound, one that echoes in the empty hall, and despite his preference staying firmly to his Nhamma, Magnai could stand to hear that sound again. “What say you, Nhamma?”
Ma'Ren grins. “You’ll have to work for it still, Azim.”
“I would not have you any other way,” he growls and sinks his teeth into her throat again. It is one of his favourite things to do, marking her neck in the shape of his teeth. He is a possessive man, yes, and he has waited so long to have his Nhamma that he must let the entire world know that she is his. He bites hard enough to nearly draw blood, but licks over the sore spots in apology. As he does so, he pulls her robe off her shoulders, letting it pool between them, and she lifts up so that he can throw it away. Then off come her trousers, shirt, and breastband to his tugging fingers. All that remains are her underwear, and even those will not last long.
He pauses in his efforts long enough to look over her shoulder at G’raha. His eyes are like saucers, staring at Ma'Ren, not sure where to let his eyes linger. Magnai chuckles darkly and slides his hands up to cup her tits, letting them fill his palms. Like a lodestone, G’raha’s eyes are immediately drawn there and his jaw drops a little, transfixed.
“You would think he had never looked at you before,” Magnai teases, pinching her nipple with his thumb.
“Not li-ike this,” she keens, tilting her head back and resting it against his shoulder. “He’s respectful with his eyes.”
“Is he?” Magnai grins. “Have you ever looked at her with disrespect, boy?”
G’raha whines.
“Come now,” Magnai urges. “I understand. She is beautiful, isn’t she? Especially when she moves. Like this.”
He continues tweaking her nipple and slides his other hand down over her stomach. Ma'Ren’s entire body writhes on his lap, brushing against his cock, her muscles twitching. Every time he touches her, it is as though it is the first time again. She is so responsive, making a pleased sound even as she quips, “Do you think of naught but fucking me?”
“Oh, all of the time,” Magnai growls, his hand petting at her thigh as he kisses at her jaw. “But I am not questioning myself.”
The one questioned, of course, is still staring at though he is seeing a god made manifest. G’raha swallows, trying to gather his pretty words together, and he manages, “Once.”
Ma'Ren shifts on his lap and reaches down, holding Magnai’s hand still on her leg. He holds, of course, because he has a feeling he knows where his Nhamma is going. “When?” She asks, her voice soft. “Tell me?”
It is hard to say no to a request like that, even as G’raha looks like he’s going to sink into the floor. “I...at the Crystarium. In the Musica Universalis.”
Magnai raises an eyebrow but Ma'Ren makes a humming noise. “When?”
“You...got new armour,” G’raha continues, “and you wanted to try it on.”
Magnai can hear Ma'Ren laugh. “So you watched me change in the middle of the market?” She teases.
“She has no mind for decency,” Magnai adds. “Did her breastband nearly fall off when she took her shirt off?”
G’raha nods. It is not possible for him to blush more but he is definitely trying. “I looked away as soon as I could but I...do not forget a thing.”
“Ah, not so chaste as she thought,” Magnai teases. “Well, do not look away now, little cat. Do you like what you see?”
As he says this, Ma'Ren lifts her hand away and spreads her legs a little more, hooking her calves over his knees. With a rumble of pleasure, Magnai slides his hand down and touches her core. She is soaking, of course - she loves the attention, and he spreads a little with his fingers for G’raha to see. The miqo'te makes another whining sound, desperate and high, and his hands strain at his trousers.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Twelve above, Ma'Ren, look at you. ”
Ma'Ren huffs a laugh and rolls her hips into Magnai’s hand. “I would be much prettier if you started touching me, Magnai. ”
“So demanding,” Magnai says in a false complaint, amusement dripping from each word. “You are receiving compliments. Be grateful.”
He cannot see the look that Ma'Ren casts over to G’raha, but he has a feeling exactly which shade of desire is painted on her face, because the noise G’raha makes is almost unholy in its desperation. And Magnai thought he was noisy with his grunts and growls. With a song like that dropping from G’raha’s lips, perhaps he would be adequate company after all. It does fit what he asked, though, so Magnai rewards the action by sliding his thumb over her clit, brushing the calluses against her. She hisses, her head falling back and her hips rolling into his.
“Stay still, Nhamma,” he croons, “and enjoy the attention we give that you deserve.”
Ma'Ren moans, a little soft. G’raha does not move, not mistaking the comment for an invitation, and his tail lashes in the air. “Beautiful,” G’raha repeats, his voice high and adoring.
The wondrous thing of having had so much time with her is that Magnai knows exactly what Ma'Ren likes. He knows the right rhythm to stroke her pearl so her legs start shaking, her chest heaving and a high pitched whine coming out of her throat. He knows when to pull back so that she can summon enough mental capacity to banter back with him, so she can grind against him and he gets the pleasant sensation of his cock pressing between her cheeks. Her body has grown used to his presence, so his fingers slide into her with ease, her muscles giving way with each finger. The room is filled with her sounds: her moans, her slick, the gasping breath as she tries to get enough thought together to do anything other than just…take it.
And then, of course, there is the lovely spectator. Magnai is slowly losing his ability to think in depth about things, not with how turned on he is, but he does have enough to applaud G’raha Tia’s patience. Apparently, he has had practise. His cheeks are red, his chest heaving and his pupils wide, torn between Magnai’s face and Ma'Ren’s beautiful body…but his hands are still. He does not touch himself, he does not take a single step. He just stares in wonder, trembling, his trousers tented with his own hard, leaking cock.
He is not, however, quiet.
“Twelve above, look at you, you are so beautiful, Ma'Ren,” G’raha gasps out. “I cannot believe I may look on you freely, you are a gift from the gods, you are beauty incarnate, you are magnificence and might and more.”
Ma'Ren, with what little thought she has left, is blushing at the compliments. No small wonder. Magnai is no fool, but he is not one as well spoken as this miqo'te, with his words like honey and heart pining desperately after this woman. That deserves a reward. Magnai crooks his fingers inside Ma'Ren to hear her sing out again in pleasure, but he does not retreat. Not this time. He is so hard that he might die, and he needs to be inside her. That it will give G’raha Tia the pleasure of seeing Ma'Ren come is another story all together.
Before long, her hand grips at Magnai’s thigh, her body clenching around him in the way he knows, her breaths coming quicker. “Azim, I-”
“Will you come for me, Nhamma?” He growls, moving his thumb faster. “Come for us, now, let us see you dripping from my fingers and his words.”
She just about gives herself a concussion with how she throws her head back into his shoulder, moaning as she comes. She gushes over his fingers, juices dripping down his hand onto the throne, and Magnai grinds his own hips against her as she clenches around his fingers. Fuck, he will never grow tired of this, of causing such pleasure in the one he loves.
Slowly, she stills, and they both look down from the throne. Somehow, G’raha Tia still has not come, but he looks like he would if either of them were to touch him. His jaw is dropped, his eyes wide, and his knuckles are white in the fabric of his trousers.
“Enjoying the view, kitten?” Ma'Ren pants out, her smile audible, and she lifts her hips for Magnai to slide his fingers out of her.
G’raha keens. “I- gods, you two will be the death of me . ”
“Maybe we are,” she teases back. “Can- can you stay still longer?”
Magnai leans forward a little, chin resting on her shoulder. “He can. Can’t you, kitten?” He does not say it as softly as she did. Magnai’s voice is harder, a little crueler, and G’raha shivers at the sound of it. He nods frantically, eyes wide, and Magnai laughs. “Good, because we are not yet done."
“I think we may truly kill him,” Ma'Ren laughs, but with his chin on her shoulder, he can hear her heartbeat thud.
“He will live, if he wishes to see that which you offer him,” Magnai replies. “And I am sure he has survived worse.”
“I am beginning to re-evaluate that,” G’raha gasps. “May I? Once, please?”
Ma'Ren turns to look back at Magnai. What a sight they make - her naked, him not, but looking at each other with all of the power of rulers. They have a silent conversation, but finally, they nod. “Once, through your clothes,” Magnai says.
It is a wonder how G’raha can even think with how red his cheeks are or how hard his cock appears to be through his trousers. He doesn’t seem to be thinking, anyway. His hand closes over his cock through the trousers and he strokes once, a drag from base to tip. Almost immediately, G’raha’s eyes close, eyelashes fluttering, and he moans loudly. Magnai shifts in the throne, watching, and Ma'Ren makes her own approving sound. He has seen other men in pleasure before, but it has never affected him quite as much as this seems to, watching G’raha get off at the sight of him and his Nhamma.
“Fuck, G’raha, look at you,” Ma'Ren says softly. “You could come just like that, couldn’t you?”
G’raha laughs weakly, reluctantly pulling his hand away. “Can you blame me?”
“No, we cannot,” Magnai replies. “And you have done well. A lesser man would be begging now.”
“‘Twas certainly something I considered.” His ears go a little flat to his head in shame, but Magnai will have none of that.
“Then we have done our job properly. You may approach, but keep your hands as they are.”
Slowly, G’raha takes a few steps closer to the throne, his throat bobbing with a swallow, stopping right near the dais. “And what, pray tell, have you in store now?”
Ma'Ren chuckles. “Will you indulge me, my Azim, of what I asked of you so long ago?”
His response, without speaking, is to urge her onto the arm rest so he can undo his robes. She moves easily, lifting her chin a little to stretch and reveal the blooming bruises on her grey skin. G’raha can’t seem to decide where to look, but as Magnai pulls down his trousers and parts his robe to reveal his own hard cock, G’raha stares it down with wide eyes.
He smirks. “Such a vista to behold, hm?”
G’raha’s ears flatten again, just for a moment, but they rise again as the shame fades. “You are…rather well proportioned,” he settles on.
“I know,” he snorts, but he feels himself puff up at the praise anyway.
“His ego is big enough already,” Ma'Ren teases, but she climbs off of the arm rest. “His head shall surely explode if it swells any more.”
Magnai bites her shoulder in retaliation. “As if you are not a glutton for praise yourself, my Nhamma.”
Ma'Ren does not respond, but Magnai knows she is smirking. He knows. Still, he holds her waist as she climbs on top of the throne, above his thighs. He won’t be able to see G’raha Tia well at this angle, not at all, but he knows exactly how he can fix that when G’raha gasps. “You are-”
“Once, as we first came together,” Ma'Ren explains, “I asked him for this, just so.”
“And with one to watch,” Magnai adds. “Will you assist us?”
“Yes, please.” G’raha begs.
“Then let me hear you, little kitten. Do not be quiet,” Magnai reaches to hold his cock steady and pats Ma'Ren’s waist, “and watch closely.”
“Watch closely, little kitten,” Magnai orders. Ma'Ren slowly starts to sink down and makes a pleased groan, her head tilting back, her whole body a long line of beautiful grey skin, sweaty and warm. She always feels so good around him when he fills her, and Magnai cannot hold back his grunt of pleasure.
G’raha moans along with them, a desperate sound as he clings to whatever dignity he has left. From Magnai’s view over Ma'Ren’s shoulders, G’raha’s eyes don’t know where to settle. One moment it is on Ma'Ren’s face, which is, no doubt, a work of art in her pleasure. Another, it is the point where their bodies join, where Magnai’s cock fills Ma'Ren up. Another, on Ma'Ren’s breasts, another on Magnai’s thighs. Until, of course, Magnai finds the right angle to thrust up into Ma'Ren and she moans, which makes G’raha just stare at the whole scene in wonder.
Fantasies are not always practical. Ma'Ren’s hand holds tight to the arms of the throne for support, her feet on a ridge of the throne so that she can move, and Magnai has to half-sit on the throne that he might be able to thrust up into her. He grips onto her waist tight to keep her in place, one of her hands rubs at her center, and he can’t see a damned thing of Ma'Ren or their spectator.
But he has his other senses. He can feel how her tits bounce with each thrust, her breathing hard, her voice an ongoing cry of pleasure. She is a work of art, even without his eyes. G’raha, for his part, seems intent on committing her to memory, and has keenly followed Magnai’s direction to stay vocal. He gasps for breath in time with the couple’s own, and sometimes, he remembers his words to spill compliments to how Ma'Ren looks.
“She was made for this,” Magnai growls. “Made to fight and to fuck. Perfect. ”
Ma'Ren’s voice is smiling. “Speak for yourself, Azim.”
“I shall,” he thrusts hard into her and Ma'Ren just about wails with pleasure. “Though not with words.”
She is sensitive, thank Azim, and so it does not take long. Magnai can feel the clenching of her muscles around him even as G’raha says, “She is close, I can see it.”
Magnai cannot speak. He growls, gritting his teeth, and he fucks into Ma'Ren as if their lives depend on it. She comes with a howl of pleasure, her head hanging forward, tits swaying, and Magnai spills into her with a snarl of his own. G'raha keens with pleasure, but when Magnai can finally control his vision, G'raha looks just as desperate as before. He has, however, had to bite his hand, a little bit of blood at his teeth. Such restraint is admirable, and Magnai ponders it as he rubs Ma'ren's back as she comes.
Finally, when she comes to herself a bit, she gently eases herself off his cock and down onto the floor, resting between Magnai’s knees. She smiles, her cheeks red with exertion, and she makes a beckoning gesture with her finger. “You’ve been so patient, Raha.”
(There is going to be a pool of Magnai’s cum on the floor there where it spills out of her, and he will be unable to look there without thinking of it.)
G’raha whines, eyes darting up to Magnai first. Magnai nods, slow and easy, and G’raha makes his way up the final steps of the throne. Up close, it’s even more obvious how turned on G’raha is. He is a mess and he’s barely even touched himself, trembling, flushed, hard and pressing against his trousers.
When he is close enough, Ma'Ren gently draws down the waist of his trousers, and up pops G’raha’s cock. He’s smaller than Magnai - who takes that as a point of pride - but he stands firmly to attention. Ma'Ren smiles and presses one kiss to G’raha’s hipbone. “Breathe, Raha. That’s a good boy.”
G’raha takes a very obvious breath in, even as his cock bobs. “I fear that I am dreaming.”
“Quite the dreams you have,” Magnai croons, voice on the edge of kind and cruel.
Then Ma'Ren swallows G’raha down, and the Miqo’te shouts with amazement. No small wonder - Magnai knows exactly how good Ma'Ren’s mouth is. She sets herself to work in an easy rhythm, sucking on thehead and taking him as deep as she can each time. G’raha has to grab onto Ma'Ren’s shoulders so he doesn’t fall over, trembling as his hips rock into her mouth.
“Twelve- ah!” G’raha gasps out. “Ma'Ren , fuck!”
Oddly enough, there is something appealing about it all. Magnai, despite not being a part of the interaction, is still in charge. G’raha’s eyes flick over to him every now and then to gauge his response, and Ma'Ren leans against his legs for support. And never mind the appeal of watching this messenger come undone from his lover’s touch.
When it looks like G’raha is about to crack, Magnai reaches over after a moment, catching a clawed finger under G’raha’s chin. G’raha’s eyes snap open and look up at Magnai, pupils wide with hunger. It’s certainly a pleasant look, and Magnai says firmly, “Have you been good, G’raha Tia?”
G’raha gasps out a breath and nods. “Please,” he begs, and oh, isn’t that a pretty sound.
“Then you can come,” Magnai smiles, not at all cruelly, and pats Ma'Ren’s shoulder with his other hand. “Take him, Nhamma.”
Within a few clever movements, G’raha comes with a sob, his chin still held in Magnai’s fingers, his nails in Ma'Ren’s shoulders, spilling down her throat. Finally, slowly, they ease him off.
He is about to collapse onto the stone floor, knees shaking, when Magnai catches him and sighs. “Here. Sit.”
Ma'Ren sits on one of Magnai’s knees while G’raha takes the other, leaning heavily against Magnai’s body as he slowly comes back to himself. The Miqo’te trembles still, running his hands along his knees.
“Would you believe me if I said I had not done that in a century?” G’raha jokes badly.
“You are not a century old,” Magnai sighs.
“His mind is, surprisingly,” Ma'Ren replies. “A quirk of his time in the first. But, Raha, are you referring to the act of three together or…”
G’raha goes pink, turning his face a little bit into Magnai’s chest.
“Raha. Raha.” Ma'Ren leans forward. “Pray correct me, but are you saying that you have not come in a century?”
“I had other concerns in the First!” G’raha says, voice muffled in Magnai’s robes.
“Azim above, man, how are you alive?” Magnai stares in awe. A century of celibacy…
“Okay, that just will not do, what the fuck,” Ma'Ren replies, shaking her head. “My Azim, I know what we agreed to at first but-”
“This will not stand, I agree,” Magnai raises an eyebrow. “How long were you to take here?”
G’raha looks overwhelmed. “Um...the night?”
“Then we shall be very busy this evening,” Magnai says firmly. “After our farewell dinner to our guests.”
G’raha goes even redder and buries his face in his hands. “I fear you will drown me.”
Ma'Ren laughs and reaches up to run her fingers through his hair, stroking at the base of his ears. He jumps at the touch before tilting into it, a purr slowly easing out of his throat. “You may fall, kitten,” she teases. “We will catch you.”