[ But when's he going to get the opportunity to hear about how Square Soft was on the verge of bankruptcy when they released the original King's Knight, and a few decades later, its mobile game counterpart? Noctis brought this upon himself, yet he won't even reconcile himself with the consequences.
Ignis's head lolls some, considering the argument, finding it insufficient, and still waiting. Even impatient, he doesn't rise, calm under all the turmoil churning through him. But he's a masochist first and foremost, an adherent of cynicism second, and it's that very power posed that lapses him back into silence. Watching Noctis, he can can nearly catch more than the jut of his kneecap as he sprawls out in the seat, chin propped on the seat as he taps the screen. Looking at him, he wouldn't seem a day over twenty, even though ten years have already come and passed. There's a vicious brunt of power in him, however sleepy and lackadaisical he is now; if he'd merely flicked his hand up, he could send Ignis slamming three floors down, or flat against the wall if he didn't go right through it. Admittedly, the notion of it is attractive, even though he probably wouldn't last the free-fall.
That's what sets him on edge, alight through this wait: Noctis is the ferocity of the sun contained is such a flimsy-looking vessel, and Ignis has never known anyone else like him. Truthfully, he's certain he'll never meet anyone like him again for as long as he lives.
When Noctis drops his foot at long last, Ignis's gaze drifts up to meet him, absinthe-green and intent. Noctis's sleeve still hangs ajar as he pulls out the collar, and Ignis's stare morphs into something contemplative, surprise briefly clicking in the back of his throat. ]
Any other man might have their reservations, your Majesty.
[ But as always he's mesmerized, breath smooth and even for all the pandemonium in his heart when Noctis casts off the last vestige of his modesty, entirely naked underneath. Oh, fuck.
Ignis retains enough semblance of composure to lean in and dip his head to present his neck. The skull pendant he's been gifted in what feels like eons ago is still hung off its chain around his throat, since he's an incontrovertible sap who couldn't forego the fealty he's sworn to his king to save his own life. ]
[ Noctis is not the only one who has changed in the past decade. Become stronger, better. Ignis, who had already been a force to be reckoned with before the ten years had passed, has only grown more deadly with time -- a man never to be crossed. Noctis might be powerful, but Ignis is dangerous, a man who in all likelihood has already plotted out an adversary's demise with all the care of a supervillain that's just waiting for one damn good reason.
Noctis knows all of this and then some -- like how displays of his power get Ignis harder than an entire library holding a century's worth of lost secrets, and how Ignis is losing an inner battle with his more prideful self.
Might be the collar, Noctis decides. Or the fact that he's three shirt buttons and one elegant roll of his shoulders away from being in his birthday suit. But then Ignis leans forward like a cherished, obedient house pet, and Noctis brushes his fingers over the little skull pendant over his throat fondly before leaning forward, the strap pressed lovingly over his throat before it buckles firmly, nicely. It's snug but unforgiving, every swallow a reminder of ownership, the presence of an item that keeps his love essentially leashed and under his thumb. Or foot, if one wants to be pedantic about things. ]
You're a man who belongs only to me. [ He continues that train of thought out loud, his hand coming to grip his chin, thumb pushing between those comely, plush lips to brush over his tongue, inviting affection, veneration. ] Take your clothes off.
[ Might just be the havoc Noct's wreaking on his sanity, solemn and quiet as he goes about systematically unraveling him, his his shirt practically melting off of him, his equanimity built the same way when he raises the collar so it glints and catches the light, steel-wrought at the center, then leather the rest of the way through.
But he's long-since relinquished his life to Noctis, years and years before he'd prepared to die for him, so taking up some physical manifestation of that bond isn't that damning on his soul. It ticks on his throat, an omen fleshed-out with each breath, and he's got to swallow to compensate for the weight the collar imposes on his neck. Languorously sweeping his tongue over his thumb inviting itself into his mouth is a given, long strokes as he lavishes his attentions on it.
Orders are orders, though, and he eventually halts those ministrations to duck down, peeling off his shirt first, carefully folded and deposited to the side. Then his pants goโ he doesn't stand for it, merely looping off his belt and tugging it out, one leg, then the next, to be folded and set aside.
Stripped down to his underwear, it's more fastidiousness from there, fingers dipped around the elastic, and then he's peeling that off too, until he's stranded and entirely naked like he's readying himself for prostration before his king. Folding the last of his clothes to sit in a neat, neat pile, he leans in, mirthful and unashamed. Looks like the more brazen part of him managed to win this altercation, decked in nothing but that necklace and collar snugly set about his Adam's apple. ]
[ Ignis accepts the collar like it's been a part of him all along, and this gesture is merely a sort of homecoming, a belonging at long last -- physical mark of Noctis' ownership over him. A part of him wonders if Ignis truly thinks that way; for all of his years of serving the crown, serving him, his devotion and loyalty a profound feat beyond comprehension. For all his life, Ignis has been by his side, and Noctis has become so dependent on him that his absence is unfathomable.
He watches steadily as Ignis obeys, divesting himself of clothing with a careful ease that has him enthralled. He appreciates the way he moves, graceful with an innate sensuality that commands attention and holds it, fastidious and yet still strangely alluring when he kneels before him, brazenly naked and shameless. His gaze drifts down to his cock, then back up to the collar that settles snug at his throat, the necklace catching the light for brief moments. Anything else, Ignis asks with the smooth assurance of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and why, and Noctis' fingers brush lightly over the arm of his chair in absent response. ]
On the bed. On your back, and spread your legs. [ Noctis, drunk on power, intoxicated on the control Ignis cedes to him, continues. ] I want to see you get yourself off.
[ That's not it, exactly. Digressions notwithstanding, he's not a particularly lascivious man; it's Noctis that ekes all of this sentiment out of him as his fingers coast, superiority reigning in his more emboldened moments, the likes of which only pose a threat when he's down on his knees, near-recumbent. (But he's always subservient one way or another, prostrated to his king. There's no genuine distinction between serving him in the throne room or their personal chambers beyond semantics.)
It speaks to his emotional intelligence, or lack thereof, that he takes all the watchful scrutiny, Noctis's eyes glimmering too brightly from his throne, with an archly beleaguered look, less than decency beneath the fringe of his lashes. He's had ten years to get over the hurdle of his modesty, but there's a fraction that always steals in unbidden when Noctis's gaze drifts, the overlarge collar of his shirt gliding off one lanky shoulder, and Ignis's brain short-circuits. He's smitten. ]
Bold request. Your command over debauchery remains as unflappable as ever.
[ Another premonition, as intrinsic as it is abrupt: he's about to get screwed over. But through the bedlam in his mind, Ignis smiles, leather like elastic, testing the stretch of his throat when he rises to the soles of his feet. ]
It's nothing you haven't seen already.
[ But this proclamation stands as the farthest thing from a refusal when Ignis comes up by the side of the mattress and readily slides onto it, smoothly laying himself out. His languidness is corroborated by the smooth glide of his knees driven apart, propped up just enough to spot-check Noctis through the gap. Methodically, his fingers snake down in light of the absolutely hedonistic look Noctis takes with his dress shirt draped liberally over him, the flimsy material of it stopping just shy of his knees, and then Ignis pauses, hands splayed down by his pelvis, a few inches clear of making the first move. ]
[ Ignis moves like water, all fluid elegance and sleek grace, deigning to lower himself onto the bed, every inch the spoiled, favored paramour who knows exactly what kind of sway he has over the king. Ignis obeys, and Noctis studies the way the lines of his body unfold into something even more beautiful, spreading open like a flower to the sun, a retainer to his liege, a lover to another.
He's impossibly tempted, meeting his eyes through the vee of his knees, and from here Noctis can see the curve of his cock and the shape of his balls, savoring the teasing glimpse of a more precious spot underneath, shadowed but carrying within it a world of temptation. Noctis is hungry for him, the promise of a thorough ravishing hanging between them if only Ignis offer up what is commanded and gives what is desired of him. Aching for him, Noctis pushes himself off of the chair, never looking away from those glittering green eyes. How can he, when Ignis lays himself out before him like an offering, inviting him to feast and to glut himself on his lover's submission?
Padding over to him, the shirt hanging off his pale shoulder precariously, casting a languid contrast to where Ignis lies without a stitch on him, and he climbs onto the bed to settle on his knees by his feet, deigning to watch and passing down orders where Ignis is within reach. His hands come to rest on his kneecaps, gently parting his knees so that any illusion of modesty is thoroughly disabued. No, Ignis is here for his pleasure only, a slave to Noctis' whims unless decided otherwise, and he gently pinches the inside of his thigh. ]
I didn't say you could stop. Stroke your cock nice and slow for me, make sure you get hard.
[ And Noct's pulling the trigger on his self-control, setting off that stupid grin that rises unannounced on him, smug like he's the one in control, even after he'd gone and brought this crime of passion on himself. If there are devils around, they're jumping his back right nowโ he's like a man bewitched or possessed, watching Noctis as his cheek skims over his shoulder, fingers lounging in his lap. His voice punctures his concentration in its call, beneath it that flicker of adrenaline running through. He's got enough air in his lungs to squeeze out a reply, afterwards, legs spread just so. ]
If only.
[ Being barbaric better left for other people, but he's no less receptive, ankle twitching just so when Noctis pinches at his thigh. Concentration fits to his hands, one by the base, the other by the head of his cock. The ministrations themselves are slow, but Ignis's gaze, flicked up to meet Noct, isn't, when it's cast back down to pay scrutiny to the crass art of jerking himself off.
Over these ten years, he's missed Noctis terriblyโ to the point of piningโ but it might be worse still like this near to his king, fingertips ghosting by his knees as his hands take to himself, instead. The friction's only an issue in the beginning, with his hands falling short of chafing at himself. Assiduousness comes afterwards, languid with the strokes as the initial discomfort wears off; Noctis might be staring at him with a mortifying laser-point focus, but this isn't anymore extreme than nearly dying for his sake or swearing the entirety of his life to the king's service, so he'll live, palming at himself until the heat he's generated grows irascible, then further beyond that. Pardon his sighs as they elongate, breathy on the exhale. ]
[ It's not all that crass when it's Ignis, when Noctis cannot bring himself to look away from the way he strokes himself -- it's an art form, what he does with his own cock, and a part of him wonders if this is what Ignis does on his own, in the privacy of his room, quiet and empty, left to his own devices. What does he think about when he touches himself?
Noctis rocks back on his heels, affording him space when curiosity gets the better of lurid desires, voyeurism still in full, heated swing. He treasures how his breathing changes, sweet sighs threaded into every exhale, giving life to wistfulness and want, and Noctis' mouth is dry. He relishes his submission, his obedience a special sort of intoxication that Noctis can get used to. He presses soft kisses on the inside of his thigh now, soothing over the little pinch after getting comfortably between his legs, lavishly affectionate.
He doesn't touch his cock, not yet -- there is value in drawing out the hunt, stirring up anticipation, Noctis learns that better than anyone else where Ignis is concerned. He is a man to be discovered in degrees, loved in measures, adored and wholly worthy of attention. But the important thing is this, what is he like on his own, when he's not in Noctis' bed? ]
Show me how you get off when you're on your own. [ He says at last, pulling back again only to let him have his space, if not freedom. ] What do you think about?
Ten years, and the abstraction of it hasn't become anymore precise. The passage of time is acute on him; the age is in his bones, the certain lack of sprightliness he had ten years before in Noctis's entourage, counting down the hours, or the last moment he'd seen Noctis. What came after wasn't all that erotic as opposed to desperate, the haunted wait and all the hours that came between the highs of pleasure and the lows of despair after, fear cut up and partitioned only when left entirely to his own devices.
But that's no longer the case, when Noct's returned looking every bit twenty years old again, and he's scarcely had enough time to want for anything like masturbation when he finds himself in Noct's bed, and the servants scatter clear of the area to afford them their privacy. A whole wing to themselves, Noctis. It's the height of debauchery. ]
For ritual ablutions, or in my own spare time?
[ Just joking. His hand briefly twitches where it's collapsed around him, where he'd rather just gather Noctis to him and span fingers through his hair, afford him the fondness he'd sorely missed this last decade. Instead, he trains his gaze on the cut of his shirt as clung to Noctis's body, how the blocky material hides the curves of his body, voluptuous and only barely, barely modest. ]
I think a frankly absurd amount about the person I love. [ You brat. Ignis's head readjusts from its slant along his shoulder as Noct pulls up some. ] More specifically, what I'd like to do to him as soon as he's caught unawares. He's frightfully pretty when he's dozing off on the bed we share.
[ His strokes take a turn toward generous, framed just so, bold down the shaft. ]
I think about the way I'd like to take him apart, though he does a good job of dismantling me in a similar manner. It's all very messy. [ And he's glancing up through his lashes, eyes soft, expression softer. ] Might I ask you the same?
[ Despite appearances, Noctis is not immune to Ignis' charms. He's hopelessly drawn to every elegant movement, to the way the older man opens up like a flower under him, those long, long fingers stroking his cock, sleek and bold and everything he's ever desired. This is even better his most lurid, unbridled fantasies, and Noctis moves over him, loosely straddling his hips so he's afforded a much better view. It takes all the self-discipline that he has not to reach down to clasp his hand, but he allows himself to be undone with Ignis' sweet words all the same.
The gentle joke doesn't go unnoticed, and he supposes that he's one of the very few people who can truly appreciate his lover's terrible sense of humor -- it really is awful, and he doesn't care. It's Ignis, and no matter how often he drives him up the wall, everything about him is precious, treasured, wanted.
His shirt rides up now, exposing the thick slant of his cock, flushed dark and hard -- his arousal Ignis' own doing. It's the soft green of his eyes, the tender expression that speaks more than even the most fervent verbal confession of love. Ignis is doing this for him, and he reaches down now, curling his hand over himself, guiding his cock up against Ignis' own, gently nudging so that their hands can wrap around both their shafts, the sweetness of initial friction sending a shiver up his spine.
This, he thinks. This is more than what he's asked for, and there is everything profoundly intoxicating about knowing that they've both earned this, making up for ten years of lost time. He softens, leaning down to kiss his mouth. ] I think of kissing you, again and again. [ He murmurs heatedly against his full, parted lips, as if Ignis could swallow his words if he tried, stroking both their cocks in long, slow pulls. ]
I think of taking you apart slow and tender, when I press myself onto you and watch you slide all the way up inside. I think of the mess we make, and how I'm happy to make it with you every time. [ Just as soft, his lips finding his way to his jaw. ] And then I think of how lucky I am to be loved by the most beautiful man in the world. The smartest -- the most loyal -- [ Every word uttered, punctuated by a deliberate, hard stroke. ] -- and how I love him so.
[ Catch Ignis dying under this cerebral monologue. A decade's gone by, and he's still the worst at keeping any kind of tact when Noct's lavishing praise on him, forcing his hand without lifting a finger. For Noctis's sake, he's going to pretend at composure when he's shook to his core by him. Even ruefulness comes and goes, gasps taking a breathy tenor as Noctis's mouth works up from jawline to cheekbone. ]
I sound no better than the common housepet.
[ Oh, but he's like a dog right now, inexorably beholden to his owner, following his whims out of sheer affection. The collar's a blatant sign of possession, but he was mesmerized long before they opted for kinky foreplay in the bedroom. This is a long time comingโ this is the culmination of living ten years through Noct's absence, knowing full well he'd failed to protect him. ]
Shouldn't I have a say in this? It doesn't seem very fair that I can't very well hold a candle to your brand of flattery.
[ Even with his fingers prying in and out and in, stirring his words into hoarseness. He's a masochist, alright. ]
Even though I love a man like no other. One that defies description. More than anything, I'd wantโ [ And here Ignis's breathing stutters into raggedness, as he's stroked into heated disrepair. ] โyou to take me apart. Only you. I'm already at my limit.
[ The laugh that ensues is rushingly loud, emphatic, the sort given when everything's gone down the shitter. Looks like he's a glutton for annihilation at his lover's hands, above all else. ]
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no subject
Ignis's head lolls some, considering the argument, finding it insufficient, and still waiting. Even impatient, he doesn't rise, calm under all the turmoil churning through him. But he's a masochist first and foremost, an adherent of cynicism second, and it's that very power posed that lapses him back into silence. Watching Noctis, he can can nearly catch more than the jut of his kneecap as he sprawls out in the seat, chin propped on the seat as he taps the screen. Looking at him, he wouldn't seem a day over twenty, even though ten years have already come and passed. There's a vicious brunt of power in him, however sleepy and lackadaisical he is now; if he'd merely flicked his hand up, he could send Ignis slamming three floors down, or flat against the wall if he didn't go right through it. Admittedly, the notion of it is attractive, even though he probably wouldn't last the free-fall.
That's what sets him on edge, alight through this wait: Noctis is the ferocity of the sun contained is such a flimsy-looking vessel, and Ignis has never known anyone else like him. Truthfully, he's certain he'll never meet anyone like him again for as long as he lives.
When Noctis drops his foot at long last, Ignis's gaze drifts up to meet him, absinthe-green and intent. Noctis's sleeve still hangs ajar as he pulls out the collar, and Ignis's stare morphs into something contemplative, surprise briefly clicking in the back of his throat. ]
Any other man might have their reservations, your Majesty.
[ But as always he's mesmerized, breath smooth and even for all the pandemonium in his heart when Noctis casts off the last vestige of his modesty, entirely naked underneath. Oh, fuck.
Ignis retains enough semblance of composure to lean in and dip his head to present his neck. The skull pendant he's been gifted in what feels like eons ago is still hung off its chain around his throat, since he's an incontrovertible sap who couldn't forego the fealty he's sworn to his king to save his own life. ]
no subject
[ Noctis is not the only one who has changed in the past decade. Become stronger, better. Ignis, who had already been a force to be reckoned with before the ten years had passed, has only grown more deadly with time -- a man never to be crossed. Noctis might be powerful, but Ignis is dangerous, a man who in all likelihood has already plotted out an adversary's demise with all the care of a supervillain that's just waiting for one damn good reason.
Noctis knows all of this and then some -- like how displays of his power get Ignis harder than an entire library holding a century's worth of lost secrets, and how Ignis is losing an inner battle with his more prideful self.
Might be the collar, Noctis decides. Or the fact that he's three shirt buttons and one elegant roll of his shoulders away from being in his birthday suit. But then Ignis leans forward like a cherished, obedient house pet, and Noctis brushes his fingers over the little skull pendant over his throat fondly before leaning forward, the strap pressed lovingly over his throat before it buckles firmly, nicely. It's snug but unforgiving, every swallow a reminder of ownership, the presence of an item that keeps his love essentially leashed and under his thumb. Or foot, if one wants to be pedantic about things. ]
You're a man who belongs only to me. [ He continues that train of thought out loud, his hand coming to grip his chin, thumb pushing between those comely, plush lips to brush over his tongue, inviting affection, veneration. ] Take your clothes off.
no subject
But he's long-since relinquished his life to Noctis, years and years before he'd prepared to die for him, so taking up some physical manifestation of that bond isn't that damning on his soul. It ticks on his throat, an omen fleshed-out with each breath, and he's got to swallow to compensate for the weight the collar imposes on his neck. Languorously sweeping his tongue over his thumb inviting itself into his mouth is a given, long strokes as he lavishes his attentions on it.
Orders are orders, though, and he eventually halts those ministrations to duck down, peeling off his shirt first, carefully folded and deposited to the side. Then his pants goโ he doesn't stand for it, merely looping off his belt and tugging it out, one leg, then the next, to be folded and set aside.
Stripped down to his underwear, it's more fastidiousness from there, fingers dipped around the elastic, and then he's peeling that off too, until he's stranded and entirely naked like he's readying himself for prostration before his king. Folding the last of his clothes to sit in a neat, neat pile, he leans in, mirthful and unashamed. Looks like the more brazen part of him managed to win this altercation, decked in nothing but that necklace and collar snugly set about his Adam's apple. ]
Anything else?
no subject
He watches steadily as Ignis obeys, divesting himself of clothing with a careful ease that has him enthralled. He appreciates the way he moves, graceful with an innate sensuality that commands attention and holds it, fastidious and yet still strangely alluring when he kneels before him, brazenly naked and shameless. His gaze drifts down to his cock, then back up to the collar that settles snug at his throat, the necklace catching the light for brief moments. Anything else, Ignis asks with the smooth assurance of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and why, and Noctis' fingers brush lightly over the arm of his chair in absent response. ]
On the bed. On your back, and spread your legs. [ Noctis, drunk on power, intoxicated on the control Ignis cedes to him, continues. ] I want to see you get yourself off.
no subject
It speaks to his emotional intelligence, or lack thereof, that he takes all the watchful scrutiny, Noctis's eyes glimmering too brightly from his throne, with an archly beleaguered look, less than decency beneath the fringe of his lashes. He's had ten years to get over the hurdle of his modesty, but there's a fraction that always steals in unbidden when Noctis's gaze drifts, the overlarge collar of his shirt gliding off one lanky shoulder, and Ignis's brain short-circuits. He's smitten. ]
Bold request. Your command over debauchery remains as unflappable as ever.
[ Another premonition, as intrinsic as it is abrupt: he's about to get screwed over. But through the bedlam in his mind, Ignis smiles, leather like elastic, testing the stretch of his throat when he rises to the soles of his feet. ]
It's nothing you haven't seen already.
[ But this proclamation stands as the farthest thing from a refusal when Ignis comes up by the side of the mattress and readily slides onto it, smoothly laying himself out. His languidness is corroborated by the smooth glide of his knees driven apart, propped up just enough to spot-check Noctis through the gap. Methodically, his fingers snake down in light of the absolutely hedonistic look Noctis takes with his dress shirt draped liberally over him, the flimsy material of it stopping just shy of his knees, and then Ignis pauses, hands splayed down by his pelvis, a few inches clear of making the first move. ]
Will this position suffice?
no subject
[ Ignis moves like water, all fluid elegance and sleek grace, deigning to lower himself onto the bed, every inch the spoiled, favored paramour who knows exactly what kind of sway he has over the king. Ignis obeys, and Noctis studies the way the lines of his body unfold into something even more beautiful, spreading open like a flower to the sun, a retainer to his liege, a lover to another.
He's impossibly tempted, meeting his eyes through the vee of his knees, and from here Noctis can see the curve of his cock and the shape of his balls, savoring the teasing glimpse of a more precious spot underneath, shadowed but carrying within it a world of temptation. Noctis is hungry for him, the promise of a thorough ravishing hanging between them if only Ignis offer up what is commanded and gives what is desired of him. Aching for him, Noctis pushes himself off of the chair, never looking away from those glittering green eyes. How can he, when Ignis lays himself out before him like an offering, inviting him to feast and to glut himself on his lover's submission?
Padding over to him, the shirt hanging off his pale shoulder precariously, casting a languid contrast to where Ignis lies without a stitch on him, and he climbs onto the bed to settle on his knees by his feet, deigning to watch and passing down orders where Ignis is within reach. His hands come to rest on his kneecaps, gently parting his knees so that any illusion of modesty is thoroughly disabued. No, Ignis is here for his pleasure only, a slave to Noctis' whims unless decided otherwise, and he gently pinches the inside of his thigh. ]
I didn't say you could stop. Stroke your cock nice and slow for me, make sure you get hard.
no subject
If only.
[ Being barbaric better left for other people, but he's no less receptive, ankle twitching just so when Noctis pinches at his thigh. Concentration fits to his hands, one by the base, the other by the head of his cock. The ministrations themselves are slow, but Ignis's gaze, flicked up to meet Noct, isn't, when it's cast back down to pay scrutiny to the crass art of jerking himself off.
Over these ten years, he's missed Noctis terriblyโ to the point of piningโ but it might be worse still like this near to his king, fingertips ghosting by his knees as his hands take to himself, instead. The friction's only an issue in the beginning, with his hands falling short of chafing at himself. Assiduousness comes afterwards, languid with the strokes as the initial discomfort wears off; Noctis might be staring at him with a mortifying laser-point focus, but this isn't anymore extreme than nearly dying for his sake or swearing the entirety of his life to the king's service, so he'll live, palming at himself until the heat he's generated grows irascible, then further beyond that. Pardon his sighs as they elongate, breathy on the exhale. ]
no subject
Noctis rocks back on his heels, affording him space when curiosity gets the better of lurid desires, voyeurism still in full, heated swing. He treasures how his breathing changes, sweet sighs threaded into every exhale, giving life to wistfulness and want, and Noctis' mouth is dry. He relishes his submission, his obedience a special sort of intoxication that Noctis can get used to. He presses soft kisses on the inside of his thigh now, soothing over the little pinch after getting comfortably between his legs, lavishly affectionate.
He doesn't touch his cock, not yet -- there is value in drawing out the hunt, stirring up anticipation, Noctis learns that better than anyone else where Ignis is concerned. He is a man to be discovered in degrees, loved in measures, adored and wholly worthy of attention. But the important thing is this, what is he like on his own, when he's not in Noctis' bed? ]
Show me how you get off when you're on your own. [ He says at last, pulling back again only to let him have his space, if not freedom. ] What do you think about?
no subject
Ten years, and the abstraction of it hasn't become anymore precise. The passage of time is acute on him; the age is in his bones, the certain lack of sprightliness he had ten years before in Noctis's entourage, counting down the hours, or the last moment he'd seen Noctis. What came after wasn't all that erotic as opposed to desperate, the haunted wait and all the hours that came between the highs of pleasure and the lows of despair after, fear cut up and partitioned only when left entirely to his own devices.
But that's no longer the case, when Noct's returned looking every bit twenty years old again, and he's scarcely had enough time to want for anything like masturbation when he finds himself in Noct's bed, and the servants scatter clear of the area to afford them their privacy. A whole wing to themselves, Noctis. It's the height of debauchery. ]
For ritual ablutions, or in my own spare time?
[ Just joking. His hand briefly twitches where it's collapsed around him, where he'd rather just gather Noctis to him and span fingers through his hair, afford him the fondness he'd sorely missed this last decade. Instead, he trains his gaze on the cut of his shirt as clung to Noctis's body, how the blocky material hides the curves of his body, voluptuous and only barely, barely modest. ]
I think a frankly absurd amount about the person I love. [ You brat. Ignis's head readjusts from its slant along his shoulder as Noct pulls up some. ] More specifically, what I'd like to do to him as soon as he's caught unawares. He's frightfully pretty when he's dozing off on the bed we share.
[ His strokes take a turn toward generous, framed just so, bold down the shaft. ]
I think about the way I'd like to take him apart, though he does a good job of dismantling me in a similar manner. It's all very messy. [ And he's glancing up through his lashes, eyes soft, expression softer. ] Might I ask you the same?
no subject
[ Despite appearances, Noctis is not immune to Ignis' charms. He's hopelessly drawn to every elegant movement, to the way the older man opens up like a flower under him, those long, long fingers stroking his cock, sleek and bold and everything he's ever desired. This is even better his most lurid, unbridled fantasies, and Noctis moves over him, loosely straddling his hips so he's afforded a much better view. It takes all the self-discipline that he has not to reach down to clasp his hand, but he allows himself to be undone with Ignis' sweet words all the same.
The gentle joke doesn't go unnoticed, and he supposes that he's one of the very few people who can truly appreciate his lover's terrible sense of humor -- it really is awful, and he doesn't care. It's Ignis, and no matter how often he drives him up the wall, everything about him is precious, treasured, wanted.
His shirt rides up now, exposing the thick slant of his cock, flushed dark and hard -- his arousal Ignis' own doing. It's the soft green of his eyes, the tender expression that speaks more than even the most fervent verbal confession of love. Ignis is doing this for him, and he reaches down now, curling his hand over himself, guiding his cock up against Ignis' own, gently nudging so that their hands can wrap around both their shafts, the sweetness of initial friction sending a shiver up his spine.
This, he thinks. This is more than what he's asked for, and there is everything profoundly intoxicating about knowing that they've both earned this, making up for ten years of lost time. He softens, leaning down to kiss his mouth. ] I think of kissing you, again and again. [ He murmurs heatedly against his full, parted lips, as if Ignis could swallow his words if he tried, stroking both their cocks in long, slow pulls. ]
I think of taking you apart slow and tender, when I press myself onto you and watch you slide all the way up inside. I think of the mess we make, and how I'm happy to make it with you every time. [ Just as soft, his lips finding his way to his jaw. ] And then I think of how lucky I am to be loved by the most beautiful man in the world. The smartest -- the most loyal -- [ Every word uttered, punctuated by a deliberate, hard stroke. ] -- and how I love him so.
no subject
I sound no better than the common housepet.
[ Oh, but he's like a dog right now, inexorably beholden to his owner, following his whims out of sheer affection. The collar's a blatant sign of possession, but he was mesmerized long before they opted for kinky foreplay in the bedroom. This is a long time comingโ this is the culmination of living ten years through Noct's absence, knowing full well he'd failed to protect him. ]
Shouldn't I have a say in this? It doesn't seem very fair that I can't very well hold a candle to your brand of flattery.
[ Even with his fingers prying in and out and in, stirring his words into hoarseness. He's a masochist, alright. ]
Even though I love a man like no other. One that defies description. More than anything, I'd wantโ [ And here Ignis's breathing stutters into raggedness, as he's stroked into heated disrepair. ] โyou to take me apart. Only you. I'm already at my limit.
[ The laugh that ensues is rushingly loud, emphatic, the sort given when everything's gone down the shitter. Looks like he's a glutton for annihilation at his lover's hands, above all else. ]