FFXIVWrite 2019 | Prompt #25: Angel
@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast
FFXIV Write 2019 | Prompt #25: Trust | Rating: E
Warnings for: sexual content, NPCxWoL, religious imagery being applied to sex, my usual brand of dom/sub, and so on. Further warnings under cut because they’re all kink-related!
Do not press that Read More link if you are under age of majority!
Warnings (contd.): praise kink, dom/sub, usage of the phrases “good boy” and “ser” in a sexual setting, WoLxAymeric, gender-neutral WoL, Aym being made to admit his kinks, orgasm delay/denial
All those good to you? Read on! If not, please close the tab/press the back button!
The Warrior of Light is an untouchable entity. They are sacred, sanctified by divine providence and unprecedented might, and yet Aymeric watches them peel their clothing off piece as if he is worthy of such a sight. They smile at him while working at the clasps on their earrings, setting each piece of jewelry on his vanity without asking permission, and ask, “Do you trust me, Aym?”
“Always,” he answers in a rush.
Their smile grows a little lopsided (familiar and so much more attainable than the way they look down at him with the spirit of a saint taking residence in their bones) and they finish slipping the remnants of their smallclothes off. He very pointedly does not note how well their underwear hugs the muscle of their hips and ass when they turn from him to step out of them. Had Aymeric not been blessed by Halone and baptised into her service, he knows he would not have been able to resist such temptation as the curve of their bare neck. As it is, he salivates not unlike a beast at the pang of hunger that overtakes his mind for a long moment.
The Warrior is kind to him and does not leave him waiting, but Aymeric still feels underprepared for their lips on his. They touch him in a way that suggests he obey, guiding him to lay down and allow himself to relax, and it’s such a joyous way to give in to their will that Aymeric is all but lost before they begin. They pull back from him, breathing the same air with how closely their lips mirror his, and ask, “Tell me what you want, Aymeric. You’ll be good for me.”
Aymeric, for all his many virtues, is still a creature of need. When given such an order, he is all but helpless to resist even when the thought of voicing his wants causes his face to flush all the way to the tips of his ears. “Pray, grant me a moment to…” He falters, voice caught in his throat when his mind cannot avoid the many images of his dearest Warrior in states of undress and debauchery. “...think. A moment to think, if you please.”
“Take all the time you need, love,” they soothe, smoothing a hand down his chest to begin working at the buttons of his underclothes. “We have all night.”
Aymeric bites back a groan at the thought of them lounging around for hours on end, naked as the day they were born, and admits, “I have not given these desires much thought past avoiding them.”
The Warrior laughs goodnaturedly. “So they appear at inopportune times?” “Usually, yes.”
“Like when you’re at work,” they guess, “and leading negotiations, then. What are you thinking of? A warm mouth on you under your desk?” Aymeric jolts and they watch with a satisfied simper when his hands twitch toward the front of their pants. “No touching. We agreed I would do whatever you like after you tell me what you want most. Treat this like confession, Ser Aymeric, and tell me what trials trouble your soul.”
“By Halone,” he curses, “I doubt there will ever come a time confession will seem so innocently cathartic again.”
“Maybe I should filch one of those uniforms and see if the Fury smites me─”
Aymeric allows himself to imagine the sight of them in the familiar colors and cut of the church’s uniform but the image is quickly perverted to something far less innocent than the Warrior kneeling to pray. He wants them in his colors more than that of Halone. He wants to wrap them in the blue of House Borel and see to it that his claim to their hand is publicly known.
“Have something to say?”
He manages a quiet, nearly choked off, “My clothing. If you would be… amenable to wear it.”
They shuffle off of the bed to grab his customary coat, pulling it on without any other layers made to line the inside, and climb back on top of him. “This is rather comfortable. I may be so inclined to steal it again in the future.”
“I meant it casually, but now I feel nothing you touch will be left safe to Sunday confessionals,” Aymeric laments.
They shrug and reply, “I know you won’t be much for puritanical sermons after I finish giving you everything you need. Tell me more?”
“I would like to see you atop me more often, like now.”
“And?”
Aymeric swallows, knotting a hand in the sheets as if the feel of fabric could ground him more than the heat of his love sitting squarely on his hips. “You could order me to do what you like.”
They hum happily and lean down to pepper his face in kisses. “You know how to tell me to stop, right?”
“Wyrm, yes.”
“Good boy,” they praise. It’s a test, a new name they are not sure he will take to in the least and they enjoy the shudder Aymeric give them in response. “Did you like that?”
He hisses when they shift and press a little too harshly on the bulge in the front of his pants, sending a bolt of pleasure shooting up his spine. “I… yes.” They reward his honesty with a smattering of marks reaching from his jaw nearly down to his collarbone, each one light and easily healed by a potion or flash of white magic, until Aymeric stutters through an exhale and asks, “More, please?”
They draw further confession from him with each action─dirtying his coat when he admits to his wish to see how they take their pleasure, denying him the release he all but writhes for when he says he doesn’t want their session to end so soon, not allowing him to hide his face when his mortification in asking for their fingers becomes too much (a requested step beyond their usual go-to way of comforting him)─until Aymeric is near incoherent.
“Are you ready, my love? We need to bring you down.”
He nods and they give him one last push, feeling wetness spill over their hand as he cums. Aymeric is a vision beneath them, debauched as he is, and they wonder how Halone would create a man so divine and do aught else but keep him with her in the heavens. He shivers with aftershocks and they soothe him through it, cleaning up and making sure he is situated beneath the sheets the moment they finish sponging him down. It would not do to catch a cold from bad aftercare.
They toss his coat into the hamper and shimmy into a woolen robe before climbing into bed next to him. “Was that alright?”
He pulls them close and speaks with a slight slur born of tiredness when thanking them in half sentences. The Warrior pets his hair gently until he slips off to sleep before slapping their hands over their face and feeling their cheeks warm to the point of nearly steaming.
To do such a thing! To the Lord Commander, no less! Established relationship or no, they are so thoroughly embarrassed by their own words it’s a wonder they do not immolate. Aymeric enjoyed it, they rationalize, so I was not too terrible, perhaps.
They drift off to the sounds of his breathing and the thought that maybe (just maybe) they could have him do the same for them next time.
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