Hubris - 16. Excess Tension

The practitioner expected Barghast to stop when he reached the surface, but he didn’t. He kept running…or leaping…or whatever they did when they half ran half leapt through the air, the world flying by them in a blur of dark colors. Though he knew the Okanavian would not drop him - those arms held him in a vice with no wiggle room - his body instinctively clung to the lycan. He had no idea what direction they were heading in and at the moment he didn’t care. He felt his chest expand when he inhaled the chilly night air. Not so chilly when he was being held by a living, breathing furnace. It was only then he realized how lucky they were to be alive. He tried not to think of Cenya, tried to let the rush of wind push the thoughts away. He couldn’t suppress a shiver.

Only when he heard the rush of water did he realize where they were. They were alone surrounded by trees with only the river to break the silence. Barghast did not put the sorcerer down but lowered himself to the ground cross legged with the practitioner planted firmly in his lap.

Something was wrong with Barghast. He could sense it. Though they were now alone - nothing moved in the trees, no voices called out, no glittering black eyes watched them - the lycan remained tense. He strained his ears, listening. Was that a low growl he heard over the burble of water? The vibration he felt against his lower back confirmed it so.

“Barghast,” the practitioner started to say.

A sharp snarl in his ear cut him off. Crowe cried out. He startled forward before the Okanavian could rip his throat out. Underneath the fear…confusion. He couldn’t understand what he’d done to upset the lycan. After having just defeated the demon, he didn’t know if he had the strength to defend himself against Barghast. Or if he wanted to.

He didn’t budge. He was stuck. When he tried to move the lycan’s arms tightened around him a fraction, pushing the sorcerer deeper into his lap. What’s going on? What did I do wrong? The beginning sparks of a familiar pain. The reopening of old scars. Already he could feel tears of denial springing to his eyes. The black crush of panic pressing in on him from all sides. “I’m trying to understand,” he heard himself say in a pathetic whisper, “but I don’t understand. I don’t know what I did wrong.” He hated the mewling wine in his voice. It was not the sound the herald of Monad should make.

“Crowe.” The lycan’s fingers digits around his jaw, tilting his head back and back and up and up until he had no choice but to look into those eyes made of molten gold. The practitioner shuttered, ready to meet his end. Instead, he felt the Okanavian lean forward into their foreheads pressed together. When he gained the courage to look, all he could see was Barghast’s golden diamonds. Barghast said his name over and over again, the only word they shared. A tremor of apology, of shame shook his voice. His snout was cold to the touch. At a loss for words, Crowe could only gawk back stupidly. He couldn’t shake the notion he was still stuck in a dream…another illusion spun by the demon in the temple. But this was no illusion. The demon had been defeated, his slaves freed, and he was alone with Barghast by the river. And the lycan was rocking him gently back and forth as if trying to lull him to sleep.

Tannhaus’ words flashed through his mind: He’s just protecting what he thinks is his. But why the growling? He wished more than anything he could speak Okanavian. Barghast shifted a little, perhaps trying to make Crowe more comfortable. He lifted the practitioner’s legs onto the shelf of his lap to keep them from touching the dirt. The sorcerer was completely contained by the protective valley of his body. Calloused pads supported his neck.

“Crowe,” Barghast said again. Then he pressed his lips to the practitioner’s.

                                                                                …

He had to get away from the stench; he had to get away from these people; he had to get away from this place; he needed to be alone with his twin o’rre. If he didn’t he would do something he regretted - he would hurt someone. Not his twin o’rre of course…I’d hurt myself before I ever hurt you.

He still marveled at how light Crowe felt in his arms…the thrill of rediscovering a new revelation everyday. I could carry him everywhere. I could carry him all day.

He charged past the labyrinthine network of corridors, letting his sense of smell guide him through the unfamiliar place. He glanced down every few seconds to make sure Crowe was still tucked safely against his chest. I am a bad guardian. I have failed you once again…The thought twisted his stomach in uncomfortable knots. He shoved it to the side. Only when he was sure they were away from the temple would he give it later consideration.

He leapt up a flight of stairs into the night air. Down the steps five and six at a time. Through the trees, through the mist, away from the temple. For a moment he felt something loosen inside him…it almost felt like relief. Relief drowned out by the overwhelming chokehold of fear that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; that made him want to point his head up at the sky and howl to warn the world to stay away from his twin o’rre. The wind howled in his ears in tune with the snapping of tree branches as the freight of his body knocked them to the side like a steel battering ram. In it he could hear the scream of the one-legged woman as steel fingers sliced her open down to the bone. He could recall the crushing sense of fear he’d felt as rough hands dragged him up the spire to meet the same fate. But it was not Cenya’s face he saw in his mind or even his own. It was not his body the demon’s fingers sliced into. It was Crowe’s.

Only when they were at the river - the only place that was familiar to him in this accursed land - did he stop, dropping into the soil with the practitioner still in his lap facing the water. He searched the line of trees. His ears twitched. His senses told him they were alone and yet every bone and muscle in his body remained tense, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice. The beast inside him lingered, eager for the opportunity. Only the breathing of the soul pressed up against him kept the beast at bay.

“Barghast.”

The murmur of Crowe’s voice, little more than a whisper, sounded like a gunshot in the Okanavian’s agitated state. He gnashed his teeth together with a snarl, jaw clacking shut. Only when he felt the practitioner jerk to escape his embrace did he realize the grave error he’d made.

The gravest of errors.

Bad pup! the seer snapped in his mind. How dare you snap at your twin o’rre!

Oh, he was a bad pup! The worst! A lycan who snapped at their twin o’rre should be given the worst punishment possible. They should have their ears clipped, their nails removed, their back lashed. There was no one to punish him. He was alone with his twin o’rre just like he wanted and now Crowe was understandably trying to escape him.

The thought of the twin o’rre leaving him - out of fear Barghast would hurt him - frightened the Okanavian more than anything they’d encountered thus far. More than the scouts who had dragged him through these unfamiliar lands while lassoed to the back of a horse; more than a bear who had pursued them down a waterfall; more than the demon with its razor fingers. Don’t leave me. I can’t survive without you. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m a bad pup!

He didn’t have the words to say the things he wanted to; the things he needed to. Not in a way the practitioner could understand.

Crowe shuddered against his chest. Barghast caught a whiff of pine - that wonderful smell the sorcerer carried with him no matter how filthy he got. There was something black beneath it like rotting berries: fear. The sound of strangled sobs turned his heart to ice. Had he ever heard a sound so small? So pitiful? The sound made him want to howl in misery but he bit it back. He felt the beast shift inside him at the whiff of fear. His blood boiled in his veins. He felt all the blood travel down to his cock. Felt his knot swell in its sheath.

The practitioner smelled so sweet in his arms. So small. So helpless. Even though he knew differently in the back of his mind. Gaia had crafted for him a warrior with great skill and even greater courage. A warrior who had saved his life twice now. Only in front of Barghast did he show his vulnerabilities, his fear, and the smell coming off him was intoxication. Always so intoxicating but never so more than now when the aroma of Crowe’s blood was stronger than ever. Barghast felt the head of his cock pop out of its sheath. The knot, still housed at the bottom of his shaft, swelled, making the thick spongy flesh of shudder and expand. A small voice in the back of his mind prayed the practitioner couldn’t feel it - it would only frighten him further. The beast inside wanted to take him. Wanted to take him right there. He clenched his teeth to hold back a snarl, feeling he would combust from holding the rush back. He imagined thrusting into the practitioner’s sweet silky little ass and plowing into him until he released into his tiny little belly. Filling him with his warmth. Connecting them in the way they were truly meant to be connected.

Until he heard the sobs. Until he heard the practitioner say, “I’m trying to understand, but I don’t understand. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

The words were as jumbled and alien to him as ever but the misery in them was all too clear. It hit him like a bucketful of ice water, snapping him out of his predatory stupor. The memory of their last encounter here at the river flashed before his eyes. Crowe had made those little noises then too. Noises of pain. A pain that did not show on the flesh but in the soul. The Okanavian reminded himself he didn’t know anything about the practitioner’s life before their first encounter in the woods. He didn’t know about the wars he’d fought through alone or the wounds he’d endured with no one to protect him…care for him. A life without me.

Only a second had passed, but it felt as if he’d sat there for hours, battling himself for control of his own instincts. Shame filled him. Made his belly curl in on itself. He whimpered, pulling the shaking practitioner deeper into himself. He wished he could pull him in all the way, carry him around inside his own body, protect him for the rest of the world. Yes, he knew Crowe was a capable warrior…it didn’t stop the instinct to protect the sorcerer even from himself.

And yet he couldn’t let him go.

He wouldn’t.

“Crowe,” he rumbled. He ignored the bolt of pain that passed through his heart when his twin o’rre didn’t turn around. His pain had transported him to another place.

Barghast could hold back no longer. He couldn’t stand to hear those sniffling sounds, the hitch of his twin o’rre’s breath. Just knowing he’d made the practitioner shed a single tear in distress made him want to howl at the sky. Instead he took Crowe’s face in his paw, making sure to be firm but gentle. You can’t escape me. I’m bigger than you. He tilted his head back until Crowe had no choice but to look at him. Even in the dark he was startlingly pale - as if he’d lived most of his life tucked away from the sun. The Okanavian was always afraid he’d leave a bruise when he touched the practitioner but he knew he was tougher than he appeared (only when he was around Barghast did he let his guard down; the lycan liked this). His eyes were so wide all Barghast could see were the whites; he looked as if he’d taken on the appearance of the wraith as he did whenever he summoned fire; Barghast understood this source came from within Crowe. Perhaps it was the same source that had healed his wounds the night after Crowe and he’d first met. It was not infinite. He’d seen what happened to Crowe when he used too much of it. This time it was not fury the wraith channeled but pain. A pain Barghast had inflicted.

Barghast's paw rested against the back of Crowe’s head, supporting his skull. He leaned down until his forehead touched the practitioner’s. He breathed in that smell. That intoxicating smell. “Crowe,” he breathed. His nostrils flared. He could feel his arousal leaking out of him in wet spurts. If Crowe could sense his arousal he showed no signs of it. Barghast could hear the excited tic of his heart. Gone was the rotten blackberry stench of his fear. Under the piney smell was the scent of something new: excitement.

Without blinking, Barghast traced the lines of Crowe’s face with invisible fingers, memorizing every pore. He itched to touch those delicate lips with his own, to know what the practitioner tasted like on the inside. He told himself he would not take his twin o’rre tonight. They had not known each other long enough; there was still so much to discover. It was too soon even for this. But he didn’t care. He wanted his wraith like he’d never wanted anything in his life. His wraith was all he’d ever wanted. Now I have you in my arms. I won’t let you go. The world can burn for all I care…Stay here with me where you’re safe…I won’t take you but I will taste you.

He shifted so that the practitioner was cradled in his arms. So that there was no chance a part of him would touch the ground. With a deep growl of hunger, he tasted his twin orre’s lips for the very first time.

                                                                                                …

Pinned between the lycan’s powerful thighs and chest, Crowe could only move his arms. Barghast had a hold of his legs. He sensed Barghast would not release him until he had his way with the practitioner.

The lycan wrapped his entire body around Crowe like a living shield. His lips pressed firmly against the sorcerer’s, hot tongue licking along his lips, already seeking entry. A hungry growl emitted from deep within his chest. The force of it - the desire in it - made his entire body vibrate. Warm fingers grazed at the back of Crowe’s head, being careful not to hurt him with the sharp tips of his nails. His touch sent shivers of pleasure up Crowe’s spine. Crowe’s body acted of its own accord, moving in time with Barghast’s - never mind the voice in the back of his mind that warned him against giving an invitation to a lycan. He opened his mouth to let Barghast in.

The Okanavian’s tongue was thick and hot to the touch. It overpowered Crowe’s, lapping at the inside of the mouth greedily. He rocked back and forth, moaning in ecstasy. Crowe had never drawn such a reaction from someone before by doing so little. There was no mistaking the hard warmth pressing against his rump through his robes. Or the warm moisture that seeped through the fabric of his breeches. Barghast’s hold on him was absolute. Unbreakable. As if afraid the gusts of wind that blew around them would blow Crowe away. Had anyone ever held him this way before…with such care?

All thoughts dissolved as Barghast continued to explore the inside of Crowe’s mouth with his own. He rocked back and forth, bouncing Crowe in his lap. The heat of his arousal rubbed against Crowe’s rump. Even though his eyes were closed the practitioner could feel the Okanavian watching him, unblinking.

Barghast continued to rock back and forth, his hips bouncing fluidly. The friction between them grew. Crowe could feel his own erection rubbing up against the lycan’s chest, sending thrills through his bruised and exhausted body. Barghast grinned down at him, clearly enjoying the sounds of pleasure he made. He licked at Crowe’s face. Licked at his forehead. The slightly hooked bridge of his nose. He nibbled at his earlobes. The one thing he didn’t do was hurt the practitioner. He was strong and his will would not be denied but he was gentle. He groaned into the sorcerer’s mouth, eyes thinning to slits as he climaxed. Crowe’s breath hitched as he joined him in the throes of pleasure. His robes were soaked with the lycan’s seed. A musky smell filled the air reminding him of Spring. With no energy left in his reserves he could feel himself tapering off into sleep.

At last Barghast’s grip eased up but he did not let the practitioner go entirely. Crowe sensed if he were to try and get up the lycan would pull him back down. So he stayed.

He’s just protecting what he thinks is his…

Does he think I’m his? Is that why he keeps calling me twin o’rre?

Before an answer could present itself he slipped into sleep.