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The march to Xadia was a strenuous one.
Viren felt the weight of it all—the uncertainty of their alliance, the constant pressure bearing down on him, and, most irritatingly, the unmistakable presence of Aaravos lingering somewhere behind him. That presence wasn’t just near; it seemed to seep into every crevice, a quiet taunt that needled at his focus and gnawed at the frayed edges of his patience.
Their relationship had been nothing if not tumultuous—a word that barely seemed to cover the frustration, the clashes, and the unending tension that simmered between them. He’d learned to brace himself against Aaravos’ ever-present scrutiny, his smooth voice dripping with a knowing amusement that left Viren feeling somehow laid bare.
And now, with every step they took towards the heart of Xadia, every spell cast and every strategy debated only seemed to wear him down further.
Aaravos' teasing, his subtle mockery, his apparent delight in Viren’s struggles—it all chipped away at his resolve, leaving him tightly wound, frustrated, and painfully aware of his own growing, neglected needs— so rarely afforded a moment to himself.
They were camped in a dim, echoing chamber of a cave system, the cool air swirling around them. Claudia had already slipped away, assuring him she’d be fine as she explored the twisting paths, enchanted by Xadia’s beauty, with Soren quickly following suit.
So here Viren was, pacing in his corner, every quiet footstep echoing with his restless energy.
He could feel the tension in his shoulders, his uneasy gaze flicking every so often to Aaravos’ astral projection, who seemed unbothered, absorbed in some book, the faintest of smiles gracing his face. The elf’s relaxed nature only stoked Viren’s frustration, a quiet reminder of how little their circumstances seemed to affect him.
How little he seemed to affect him.
It was infuriating.
Viren exhaled sharply, willing his shoulders to ease the tension building in his body, knowing it was rather useless. He needed space, time to himself without the elf’s unnerving gaze tracking his every movement, picking at every reaction.
But that, it seemed, was a luxury Aaravos wouldn’t grant.
“You know,” Viren began, his voice laced with a sharp edge of frustration as he glared into the shadows, “You don’t have to be present at every moment.”
The elf’s laughter echoed softly, its tone mocking yet gentle enough to sound almost affectionate.
“Oh, I’ll remind you, I don’t exactly have any other places to be,” he said, amusement clear in his voice as he cut into the other’s attempts at composure.
Viren sighed, the sound heavy with irritation as he pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture as much to block out the elf’s relentless presence as to compose himself.
His patience was wearing thin, resolve slipping through his fingers like beads of sand. He could feel the tension radiating in every corner of his mind, tightening in his chest, simmering with each of Aaravos’ taunting words.
“Don’t be so obtuse,” he snapped, his voice harsher than intended, edged with something raw he couldn’t quite temper. “I—I’m asking for a little privacy, if that’s not too much of a request.”
But Aaravos only smirked, his form shifting like smoke, sliding through the air with unsettling ease, movements graceful and languid. He almost seemed to relish in Viren’s frustration, leaning into him with a soft, knowing purr— and Viren found himself half-wishing he could feel the warmth radiating from him, knowing he would if Aaravos were truly there—Gods, he wouldn’t dare think of it.
“But I am quite content here,” The elf replied, each word wrapped in that silken tone that did nothing to soothe the other’s frayed nerves. His smirk deepened as he added, almost lazily, “By all means, Mage. If you must indulge, nothing’s stopping you.” His voice dipped, lilting with an insidious softness that made Viren’s skin prickle.
A surge of embarrassment flashed through Viren.
How had he sensed so precisely what he fought so hard to hide?
“You are insufferable,” He muttered, his tone laced with irritation yet softened by a hint of something else— something he was trying to ignore.
His resolve was slipping, his fingers twitching as he wrestled with the mounting urge inside him that was slowly simmering to a boil.
“Oh, please.” Aaravos’ voice cut through the room like silk, a faint smile tracing his lips. “It never concerned you before,” he said pointedly, every word drawn out with that maddeningly smug confidence.
Viren’s cheeks heated, a flushing from the buried memories as he fumbled for a response.
“I— That’s… That was different,” he stammered, defensive, his gaze shifting to the floor as he tried to steady himself.
Because it was different.
The live image of Aaravos, every detail of his whispy figure traced by the candlelight felt profoundly different from that small, familiar caterpillar form.
The elf’s mere presence was a force unto itself— even if Aaravos’ familiar had been around during Viren’s more... private moments, its presence had always felt distant, removed— an echo of the elf rather than the real thing. And even if his familiar was perhaps an extension of the elf, he wasn’t there. There was a subtle detachment, a sense that he wasn’t truly being seen.
But now, with the elf himself here, be it a projection, the lines between observer and participant felt blurred.
Because this wasn’t just a silent, mindless familiar tucked away behind his ear anymore; it was Aaravos, with all his intensity and awareness, filling the space with his palpable, glowing intrusive presence.
But there was no use explaining that to him, he who seemed all too pleased by the effect he was having.
“Of course,” Aaravos replied smoothly, as though he could read Viren’s inner struggle with perfect clarity. “Don’t worry, you needn’t mind me.”
As if to prove his point, Aaravos turned with an elegant sweep, retreating to his chosen spot, his focus easily shifting to his book once again in hand.
It wasn’t just his unbothered demeanour that grated on him—it was the effortless way the elf dismissed the tension between them, as though it held no weight, as though he wasn’t affected by it in the slightest.
With a heavy sigh, Viren relented, turning away from the elf and moving toward a shadowed corner of the cave.
He settled himself there, back angled just enough to avoid Aaravos’ gaze. The cold stone pressed against his shoulder, grounding him as he tried to steady his breath, running an annoyed hand through his hair as he stubbornly sought some semblance of privacy—even if he knew it was a fool's errand.
But he was a desperate fool.
With enough effort—he decided—he could convince himself that his projection was just another shadow in the room. Wasn’t too far from the truth in fact, and one could argue he was a trick of the light. He would argue.
His hand moved instinctively, brushing against the growing bulge in his trousers. A sharp inhale escaped him, and he glanced over his shoulder— before catching himself.
No, he wouldn’t be doing that.
It didn’t take much to work himself up, breath hitching as his fingers fumbled with the laces of his trousers, his hands trembling as he freed himself, seeking relief from the tension that had built up from weeks. When his hand finally wrapped around his length, he bit down hard on his lip to stifle a groan.
Each tentative stroke was an act of reckoning—a series of decisions made only to be undone. His thumb dragged slow, deliberate, over the sensitive head, circling, teasing the bead of wetness that had already begun to gather there. It was a cruel motion, a taunt, and he swallowed hard against the groan that threatened to spill from his throat.
He could hardly remember the last time he was this pent up. This… desperate.
The rhythm built itself as though it had a mind of its own, his hand finding a pace that danced precariously on the threshold of too much, not enough.
But it wasn’t enough, he realised in drawn out frustration.
His mind soon scrambled for something—anything—to help him in his fleeting pursuit for relief, but the usual images, the comforting scenarios that had always worked, somehow felt distant and hollow.
Frustration prickled at him, sharp and unrelenting, and his thoughts churned in futile circles. His jaw clenched, the effort of keeping silent growing harder with each passing moment. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his mind to comply, to give him something—
And then, unbidden, his mind wandered.
To sharp, elegant features.
To that infuriatingly smug smile.
To the liquid grace in his movements.
To the way his voice seemed to curl around Viren’s thoughts like smoke—
Viren’s breath hitched realising exactly who he was imagining, and he had to bite down on a groan, muffling it against his teeth as his hand faltered for a moment.
No, he wouldn’t be doing that.
Even if the thoughts left him weeping pre-cum, making the glide of his had so much better as he bucked into his stalled hand.
Muttering a curse under his breath, he willed his hand to move again, this time almost defiantly, as though trying to wrest back control from the lingering image of the Star elf in his mind.
But the memory clung stubbornly, the phantom sound of Aaravos’ low, rich laugh echoing in his ears. The tension in Viren’s chest tightened, his breath coming faster as he fought to stave off the flush creeping up his neck.
“Slower.”
Viren froze, his hand pausing mid-stroke, half-curved upward, and slick with his own heat. His lips parted, but no words came out, just a sharp exhale at the sheer… audacity of the elf. The single word reverberated in the cave, slipping under his skin, as his grip tightened involuntarily.
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t comment on my technique, thank you,” Viren snapped through clenched teeth, his irritation flaring as he fought to regain his composure.
Imagining him was one thing.
Hearing him was another.
He tried to keep his focus steady, to ignore his words. But to his horror, his hand obeyed, easing its pace until the strokes were languid, deliberate. Oh, the change in pace was agonising, drawing out the gradual pleasure until it was almost unbearable.
Viren cursed himself, hating how the one word from Aaravos seemed to seep into his mind, willing his reluctant body to obey.
“You have all the time in the world,” Aaravos murmured, the approval in his voice sending a fresh wave of arousal through the other’s body. “No need to rush.”
Viren’s head fell back against the jagged wall, his eyes squeezing shut as he tried to block out everything but the sensation of his own hand, a task that seemed impossible.
His strokes grew slower still, the pressure of his hand grounding, the slide of his thumb over the slick head igniting sparks behind his closed eyes. His hips shifted, chasing the friction even as he told himself he wasn’t. The rhythm he found wasn’t just indulgent—it was torturous.
Every movement, every stroke, seemed to echo the elf’s command, and the foreign pace felt so different, less like his own hand and more like—
“Better?” Aaravos asked, the amusement in his tone unmistakable, knowing exactly what he was doing, perhaps what he was thinking, his words once again breaking Viren from his haze.
“It would be, if you would grant me the grace of silence,” He bit out, his frustration spilling over as he tried to steel himself against the way Aaravos’ words flooded through his mind, each one a gentle prod against his fragile sense of composure.
But even as the protest fell from his lips, Viren couldn’t help the way his body betrayed him, couldn’t deny how frustratingly close he was already, somewhat appreciating the slower pace. Not that he would ever admit it.
Aaravos chuckled, the sound low and rich, sending a shiver down Viren’s spine. “I have a feeling that would be counter intuitive,” He murmured, smugness riddling his voice.
Viren tried to focus, but the faint glow of Aaravos’ projection against the cave walls crept into his peripheral vision, a maddening reminder of how close he had drawn. Desperation clawed at him as he fought to ignore it, to ignore him.
But then, in a moment of weakness, his gaze—like everything—betrayed him.
A flicker of movement at the edge of his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he instinctively glanced toward it—only to find Aaravos seated with infuriating poise, his luminous form perched nearby, watching.
Watching.
Their eyes met for the briefest, most agonising of moments, Aaravos’ searing gaze locking onto his with an intensity that made Viren’s breath hitch. Heat surged to his cheeks, and he tore his gaze away too quickly, his heart pounding as a perverse thrill ran through his veins.
The thought was fleeting but loud, an alarm bell ringing in the back of his mind. He should stop now, gather what little dignity remained, and end this farce before it spiralled further out of control.
But he didn’t.
Viren’s flushed deepened, a bitter mix of exasperation and unwilling—wholly unwilling— desperation that made his words falter. “I didn’t sign up for an— an active participant, mind you,” he muttered, glaring at the elf, though the heat in his voice betrayed him.
Aaravos tilted his head, his smirk widening, the faint glow of his projection casting shadows against the cave walls.
“Oh?” Aaravos purred, his voice a silken thread of mockery. “Would you prefer a more passive approach?” His smile deepened, the glow of his eyes brightening with amused malice. “I would be quite content to watch, after all.”
Viren’s jaw clenched as he fought to steady himself, though the words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them. “You know, ah—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re—en-enjoying this,” he stammered, cursing inward at the crack in his voice.
The elf chuckled, the sound low and rich, sending an unwelcome shiver down the other’s spine, body betraying him yet again.
“I am,” Aaravos replied without missing a beat, his gaze steady and unfazed. Viren felt his breath hitch as he processed his words, hating how he twitched at the immediate condescending chuckle that followed. “Oh, does that surprise you, Mage?”
The words died on his lips as Viren suppressed a moan, a small choked out whimper in its place.
Yes, the slow, methodical pace was driving him near-insane, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of it, even to himself. There was something so intoxicating about the way Aaravos watched him unabashed, so easily confessing his desires with that heavy silken voice.
Viren opened his mouth to reply, to snap back with something cutting or pointed—anything to regain some semblance of pride or control—but the words died in his throat.
“You have no idea how maddening it was,” Aaravos continued instead, his voice dipping lower, richer, like honey laced with venom. And then Viren heard it—that unmistakable edge, the subtle catch in his tone, the barely restrained weight of… want. Desire.
Aaravos was affected.
By him.
The thought was absurd, yet undeniable, and Viren’s stomach flipped with something dangerously close to triumph—that for once, for once, Viren knew he had some affect on him.
“To listen but not see,” Aaravos continued, and there it was again, that teasing lilt that somehow managed to fluster the mage with ease. The elf’s gaze flickered over him, piercing, predatory. “But now that I can, I find myself wanting to touch.”
The word landed with devastating precision, sending an involuntary shiver down Viren’s spine.
His free hand clenched into a fist at his side, nails biting into his palm as he struggled to keep the aforementioned pace. But how could he, when Aaravos’ words painted such vivid, damning images in his mind?
“I’d–I’d advice you to— stop talking—” Viren managed to mutter, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.
He knew it was weak, knew that Aaravos would see right through him—and judging by the wicked gleam in the elf’s eyes, he already had.
“Ah-ah, focus on the task at hand,” He murmured, slick and authoritative— and the smirk that accompanied his words made Viren’s skin prickle. His gaze dropped, pointed and damning, leaving no room for doubt as to where his attention lay. “Remember Viren, slow.”
The honeyed command struck him like a lash, and a shudder wracked the mage's body in response.
He cursed himself for the whimper that slipped free—high-pitched and unbidden, a betrayal of the iron control he prided himself on. His hand faltered, the rhythm he’d built with such reckless determination crumbling beneath his self-loathing and the weight of his words.
Still, he obeyed.
His strokes once again grew slower, deliberate, each movement dragging him further into the abyss of sensation. His fingers tightened instinctively, as though caging himself, preventing the mounting pressure pooling in his gut from spilling too soon.
The shift in pace threatened to undo him, drawing out the pleasure until it felt unbearable, leaving him trembling and raw in the damp, heavy air. Each slide of his palm was excruciating, a torment of his own making, and yet he couldn’t stop now.
“Good,” came the muttered approval from the other, an almost dismissive acknowledgement that made Viren’s skin prickle with heat. There was no kindness in the word, no softness—just the casual satisfaction of a predator watching its prey dance obediently at the end of a string.
He hated it.
He hated how his body responded to every word, his praise, every subtle shift in gaze.
Hated the way his chest heaved with shallow, rasping breaths, his head lolling back against the cold stone and his thighs trembling faintly as the pressure inside him wrapped tighter, tighter still.
His teeth dug into the flesh of his lip, the taste of copper blooming on his tongue, but it did little to muffle the broken whine that clawed its way out. The pressure was building, coiling tightly in his stomach, ass he felt the surmounting need clawing at him.
Need.
The word echoed in his head like a curse, mocking him. He’d spent his life wielding it—manipulating, exploiting it in others—and yet here he was, utterly unravelled by his own treacherous desire. It was almost funny in its cruelty.
Almost.
His hand faltered for the briefest of moments, a stutter in the rhythm that made his breath hitch sharply.
He was trembling now, the tension in his body building to a knife’s edge, his strokes erratic and less intentional. The heat pooled low in his abdomen, spreading like wildfire through his veins, every nerve alight with unbearable sensation. He was drowning in it, consumed by the burn and the weight of the gaze pinned on him, sharp and relentless.
“Slower,” came Aaravos’ admonition, soft and deceptively patient. The word curled around him, insidious and inescapable.
But he couldn’t. Not anymore.
His body finally broke free, the trembling in his thighs giving way to jerking, stuttering movements as the pressure inside him reached its breaking point.
The walls of the cave seemed to collapse inward, the shadows spinning in dizzying spirals as his hand tightened unbearably around himself, the slick glide sending sparks of sensation into every corner of his being.
And then it snapped.
The release hit him, violent and unrelenting, forcing a guttural groan from deep in his chest as his body arched forward involuntarily. Warmth spilled over his hand in thick, unrestrained pulses, each one dragging another ragged sound from him as he worked through the shattering aftershocks.
His head fell forward, dark hair clinging to his damp forehead, and for a moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
Only the blissful haze of his relief.
When it was finally over, Viren slumped against the wall, not minding the uncomfortable surface. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain control. The world around him felt hazy, blurred at the edges, and he blinked slowly, trying to clear his vision.
And then it hit him.
Embarrassment.
Horrid, morbid embarrassment, the kind that clawed at his dignity and threatened to swallow him whole. It crashed over him in a wave so sharp, so jarring, that it left him reeling. His chest tightened, and his breath hitched as the realisation of what he’d just done settled like a lead weight in his stomach.
It wasn’t just the act itself that mortified him—it was the searing knowledge that Aaravos had been there the entire time, watching, lingering, enjoying the spectacle. The fresh memory of that rich, taunting chuckle made Viren’s skin crawl with equal parts shame and anger.
Compelled by a surge of morbid curiosity, his gaze darted upward—and froze.
Aaravos’ eyes, luminous and unyielding, were still locked onto him with a dark intensity that made his breath falter.
Still watching.
Viren’s heart lurched, his stomach twisting in a knot of humiliation so tight it threatened to choke him. The audacity in that gaze, so unrelenting and unashamed, made his blood run cold.
Aghast, he tore his gaze away, his movements sharp and hurried as though trying to physically escape the weight of Aaravos’ attention. He exhaled shakily, his breath uneven as he forced his trembling hands to move. Fingers raked through his hair, the motion futile against the storm brewing in his mind.
Eyeing some strange bio-luminescent cave bug, he muttered a small, inconsequential spell under his breath, cleaning himself up with quick, practised precision. The warmth of the magic barely cut through the cold knot of humiliation that twisted in his gut.
Composure.
Yes, he needed composure.
Straightening his robes and setting his jaw, he steeled himself to face the inevitable smugness positively radiating from the Star elf.
“Don’t,” he bit out, his voice low and taut as he deliberately avoided Aaravos’ gaze. The words carried more weight than he intended, clipped and raw, like a man grasping at the last threads of his pride.
Because he was.
Aaravos, predictably, didn’t miss a beat. His smooth, velvety tone carried that ever-present undercurrent of amusement as he tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Hm?”
“Just don’t,” Viren repeated, firmer this time, though his voice wavered slightly under the weight of his frustration. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Aaravos—not yet. The idea of meeting those sharp, knowing eyes was almost too much to bear.
“Of course,” Aaravos replied, voice smooth and entirely too knowing. He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to needle at Viren’s composure, before adding, “But if I may, I quite enjoyed the sight. That said, Mage, I do apologise if I made you feel uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intent.”
The words hit harder than they had any right to, lodging in Viren’s chest like a thorn.
They shouldn’t have affected him—not coming from him. Not coming from someone who thrived on disarming him, on twisting every interaction into an intricate game.
But the apology, unbidden and deceptively earnest, left him disoriented.
Against his better judgement, his eyes flicked upward, meeting Aaravos’ gaze. And there, just for a moment, was something unexpected.
A flicker of remorse? A trace of genuine concern? It was subtle—so subtle that it might’ve been imagined—but it cracked through Aaravos’ polished façade like a sliver of light.
Care.
It lingered just long enough to make Viren’s breath catch, the weight of it disarming in a way that nothing else could be.
Viren’s thoughts spiralled. Perhaps it was that fleeting glimpse of sincerity, or perhaps it was the raw vulnerability of the moment, but he found himself considering something unthinkable. A revelation, unspoken but insistent, clawed at the edges of his mind: he hadn’t truly minded the ordeal.
Not the attention, not the lingering gaze, not even the tension thick enough to choke on. If anything, he liked it.
But admitting that—to himself, let alone to Aaravos—was impossible. Unthinkable.
“You didn’t,” Viren said too quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. His cheeks burned hotter, the admission too hasty, too revealing. He cleared his throat, scrambling to regain a semblance of control. “Just—perhaps next time, you’d be so kind as to warn me in advance.”
Aaravos’ lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk, his gaze lighting with renewed amusement. “Next time?” he echoed, his voice lilting with mock surprise, each syllable a dagger to Viren’s fragile composure.
Viren hesitated, his chest tight, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
The heat of his embarrassment burned brighter, but this time, there was something more familiar simmering beneath it—a flicker of defiance. Slowly, he straightened, lifting his chin as he allowed a small, tight smirk to tug at the corner of his lips.
“Well, that is, if you’re not planning on giving me any privacy.”
Aaravos chuckled, the sound low and indulgent, his smirk widening.
“No,” he purred, his tone a perfect blend of arrogance and mischief. “I don’t think I will.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and charged.
Viren exhaled slowly, his lips quirking further into a reluctant, sardonic smile.
“Then... I suppose we are in agreement.”