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Bellyachin'	By : WonderMint Category: Final Fantasy XIV > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 2107 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy FFXIV: ARR is owned by Square Enix and based on the creation of Hironobu Sakaguchi. May they ever walk in the light of the crystal. I own no right to the characters and settings herein and seek no profit therefrom.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
A/N: News flash! We are not worthy to receive our first fanart! Drop what you are doing RIGHT NOW and go look at Fadeddreamss beautiful, pitch-perfect illustration from Chapter 8: The Janitor.

Inktober #8 by Fadeddreamss
https://instagram.com/p/80L-lCqvpU/
This chapter took a lot longer than usual to write. That's because I am embarrassed to death by it, and terrified to boot that it's unrealistic, or too romantic, or any number of other nonsense fears. I've had to take numerous breaks to write on other projects just to keep my panic level down.
As of the posting of this chapter, Chapter 1: The Maid and Chapter 2: The Nurse have been expanded and re-done. Dialogue that was hinted at is added, and emotions and thoughts that were left ambiguous have been made accessible. Nothing is changed, story-wise, so you shouldn't feel compelled to read it if you don't want to.
As for my other works, I have added a chapter in The Mad Dinner Party, and posted a one-shot that is probably going to have a second chapter anyhow, called Silence, in which Haurchefant and Aymeric get up to shenanigans. Yes, this chapter is very intense and required a LOT of breaks. Please don't hate me.
Allora: I agree! I mean obviously, because I made him do that. I'm really proud of how much he's grown, though. A far cry from running after Estinien like an adorable baby brother. Cute though that is, I can't help but feel like Alphinaud has been through enough now to stand tall once he remembers he has friends at his side.

Darkness hung like a death shroud over Camp Dragonhead, barely repelled by the signal fires and torches that made effort to turn night into day. The evening was young, not quite the hour for witchery, but the superstitious minds of men of Ishgard were never easy as long as the stars shone forth. Stars were portents of dread and doom, augurs of ill fate. Any manner of evil deed could be concealed under the cloak of night. Any manner of depravity, or sin.
Alphinaud no longer believed in sin, as it happened. Which was well, as he planned to commit a great many sins this night. And like the best criminals, he would have an accomplice to his misdeeds.
His accomplice was staring at him, now. Waiting silently, like an assassin who had found his mark and waited only for the time to strike.
Alphinaud stirred slowly from his slumber. He was a little sore and stiff from having crumpled into a corner of the plush armchair, but he had slept restfully. It was as if the trials to come had been surmounted already, and he had nothing left about which to worry. When he opened his youthful blue eyes, they fixed immediately on the thief that had stolen into his chamber under the mantle of night. And he smiled.
“You could have awoken me, you know,” he said, voice still sluggish from sleep. He twisted around in the chair to sit properly, arching his spine and throwing his arms over his head to grip the chair's back and stretch languidly. It was a beautiful feeling, decadent, every muscle in his slight torso giving a warm chime of greeting. He hardly remembered having taken time to truly enjoy such a simple pleasure. Not recently. Not since his house of cards had come crashing down.
The other man ignored the complaint, taking it as a rhetorical point and of no concern. He had also ignored his chair, opting to shove aside the bread and wine and sit on the low table directly before the younger man. He cut a dark silhouette before the fire, a man composed of shadow and sinister implication. It took some time for Alphinaud's eyes to adjust to the glare enough to see his lover's features, watching him with heavy, veiled eyes and a subtle smile that even he could not read.
He tried again, unable to muster any irritation just now. There were better things on the agenda than pouting. “How long have you been there?”
Ser Aymeric judged the question worthy of a response, if only just. “Hmm. Half a glass, perhaps.” He swirled the wine glass in his hand and frowned at it as if he were reading the phase of the moon, and Alphinaud noted that its mate sat empty beside the bottle. Empty and clean. It was his own glass from which the man sipped, and he was torn between concluding his knight to be deliberately provocative, or merely efficient. Regardless, provocative it was, a small mark of ownership that the younger man felt happy to concede. He did, after all, plan to offer far more than wine.
The commander's pale eyes fell on him again, somehow simultaneously intense and soft. It was almost a sin in itself, the way the man looked over him, and Alphinaud stretched his limbs again under his gaze merely because it added to the tally of their misdeeds.
Aymeric returned a low, amused rumble as he watched, missing nothing with his hawkish eyes. “My comments as to your attire were intended in jest. I did not expect you to humor them, though I count myself... most fortunate that you have,” he said. There was a dark hush in his voice, though Alphinaud did not think it for fear of discovery. “Haurchefant was quite right. You are... a sight to behold.” He smiled, but it was full of shared mischief rather than the lord's mock, even if both were colored with prurient delight. He did not restrain his eyes from wandering hungrily, nor conceal his interest in the sight.
And well that he didn't. It was half the reason that he had chosen to wear his too-small pyjamas, guessing from Haurchefant's delight and Aymeric's interest that it might spark his lover's imagination. He was pleased to have been right. With his knight's heated gaze on him, he hardly remembered that he had been nervous. Instead he felt empowered, the master of his lover's desires.
The other half was practicality. “I thought it prudent,” Alphinaud said lightly, the ghost of a smirk passing across his face. He leaned forward to take the glass from the other man's hand, as he had seemed to have forgotten his interest in it. Their fingers brushed briefly, causing Aymeric's notice to redirect to his hand, then his pouting lips. “It is far easier to remove, after all.”
Aymeric could make no reply save for a low growl, and now he could see the man's teeth bared darkly, nearly a snarl. But he was not goaded into action, as Alphinaud had expected. Absently, he took a sip of wine, interested more in the knight's attention to the movement than the long silence of the drink. He was still being watched with a predatory fascination. He could not begin to understand why the wolf had not swept forward to claim its meal, for it was entirely clear that he had nothing else on his mind.
Instead, the older man placed his palms on the table behind him, leaning back with a little stretch of his spine, and continued to watch him with unconcealed lust. His head leaned back enough to expose his throat, flashing pale in contrast to the dark clothing he wore. Whether it was an intentional display or not, it was almost as if the knight were making a counter-offer. Alphinaud let his own gaze flash over him, appreciating anew the beauty and grace he held, pleased to see the tightness of the man's trousers matched the fervor restrained in half-lidded eyes.
For a space neither man spoke. It was something of a battle of wills, and yes, Alphinaud wanted to respond. It would have been simple to rush forward and take what he wanted. Aymeric would deny him nothing, that much had been clear since their first encounter. But what he truly wanted could not be taken. He needed to be claimed, and for that, he would need to outlast the man's patience, wear him thin and break his will until he was broken in turn.
A thin shudder of fear passed through him. He could scarce tell it from anticipation, save for the coldness in his belly. But it was similar enough that it did not dampen his desire, only fused into his resolve and bolstered his courage.
Perhaps the other man noticed... or perhaps he finally broke. He released a reedy sigh from betwixt his lips, wet and warm and singing of some manner of pleasure. As if in defeat, he let his head fall forward over his chest, dark hair trailing over his eyes and concealing them in wry shadow. “I have answered your summons,” he said. His voice was as dark and lusty as his gaze had been, though he still carried his restraint. “I await your command.”
It was not a surrender, but a counterattack. Sweet Menphina in the Sixth Heaven, but Alphinaud was tempted. He had been unable, before, to watch the man please himself, in the darkness of that fated closet. He imagined whispering an order, knowing full well his knight would obey. He imagined watching him unbutton those black trousers with a blush to match the fire, eyes lowered with shame and excitement as he gripped his own cock. He thought of lips parted to pleasure and eyes squeezed shut, frightened and ashamed and ecstatic and demeaned. Would he put on a show for him? Or would he try to hide, try to resist the onslaught of pleasure made twice as forbidden for bringing it upon himself? The thought of what he would look like when he finally spilled into his hand had the younger man blushing instantly, uncomfortably hard himself and no longer certain what he wanted to do about it.
No, he thought, shaking his head suddenly to clear the sweet vision from his unfocused eyes, fighting hard to remember his moorings. He would remain steadfast. He had made a plan for battle, and he would see it through, no matter the guileful words of his foe.
Quickly, Alphinaud gulped the remainder of his wine. It fortified his courage and distracted his senses, the rush of alcohol stinging his throat and sounding shrill as beaten brass. It was an act of disrespect, but it drew the other man's attention. Aymeric's sharp eyes narrowed and cleared, sensing a decision had been made and needing only to hear the words perched on the younger man's tongue.
The glass was discarded, set upon the floor rather than the table, forgotten as soon as it left his fingers and left to mourn its usefulness. He did not forget his fear, only held it close. It was vibrant and cool, a trembling thing as a willow in the wind. He did not forget his fear, only caressed it as a lover, and whispered softly into its ear.
And so it was that the tactician gave his order.
“Take me,” he said. Aymeric drew an involuntary gasp, eyes widening slightly as if he had not expected that precise answer. Before he could react, Alphinaud pressed on, as if the words would poison him if he failed to whisper them all. His face burned with the exertion, as though from a fever. “Possess me... Tame me... Make me yours. And...”
The knight was moving now, the wolf springing upon him with such a snarl as to make it seem like the last sight he might see. But he was drawn instead into his embrace, clumsily but with strength enough that it made no matter. Lifted out of the chair and held aloft to be crushed against a warm chest, where he could hear the man grunt with the exertion of the sudden action.
He was aware of movement, of the world spinning while he stayed fast in place, held steady by the titan that protected him. He had to struggle to collect himself enough to finish his sentence, but finish he must. He unburied his face from the rich fabric that ensnared his senses, flailing until he caught at the knight's neck and held fast. The man stopped for a still breath, and he whispered upward at the curious eyes that peered down at him in the gloom. “And when you have finished... stay with me until the dawn.”
The soft lips that he was lifted to meet were worlds away from the lust that seemed to be consuming them. It was a short reprieve, tender enough to make him want to sob, speaking of emotions they were both too busy to give name to. A promise.
Whatever their frenzied, clandestine relationship could have been called, it was certain that they cared for each-other. Alphinaud felt no surprise at the fact, just a sensation of steadiness. It was like a conjurer had once described the feeling of communing with the earth. There was believing things to be true, and knowing them for facts. Feeling them as steadily as the beat of his own heart was something entirely different.
As it happened, though, they frequently had other things on their minds. Almost as soon as the sweet kiss was begun, it was ended. Aymeric tipped him unceremoniously onto his bed, where he landed on all-fours like a coeurl that had been tossed into the air.
Aymeric did not allow him the time to recover his footing. He steadied one armored knee on the bed and grabbed at the younger man, pulling him by the hips until his back was to the knight's chest. It was an odd position to find himself in, fully-clothed but prone, the taller man bending over him possessively and pressing against him in a manner most suggestive.
Quite against his will, Alphinaud felt a spike of fear travel through him, and his own shuddering breath betrayed him. He went icily still in the man's hold, gritting his teeth and waiting for the emotion to pass. Aymeric, too, stilled his actions, perhaps reacting to some invisible signal. Without the threat of movement, the heat pressed against his back became reassuring, simply an embrace.
At length he felt bold fingers trace along his neck. The touch made him shudder, too close, too vulnerable. He leaned his head backwards, instinctually shying away, whereupon he found a hot breath in his ear. “Alphinaud...” there was a note of pleading there, almost a whinge, that made his insides turn to vague mush and reminded his body that he wanted. “Pray do not force yourself. Allow me to please you, anything you wish. Only say the word. Please,” he urged, the last word finishing in a whimper, and he could feel that note of desperation express itself as firm pressure against his arse. Aymeric was attempting a remarkable amount of restraint, but an evening of watching and waiting had nearly broken him. He was now subtly rubbing himself against the younger man, and Alphinaud could not help but respond in kind. He arched his back against his lover, pushing backwards and straightening until he could sit up against his chest. He could feel the effort it was taking the knight to simply breathe, and still he shewed restraint. Dizzy and numb with emotion, the young Elezen lay his head back against his companion's shoulder, parting his lips and turning toward a kiss that he simply trusted would occur.
It did. Aymeric was clutching him now as he pressed with his hips, one hand seemingly afraid to pass beyond the edge of his short blue shirt, the other grasping his thigh as if to anchor himself through a storm. Alphinaud stretched backwards in a similar manner as he had earlier in his chair, hooking his hands around his knight's neck to arch into his embrace. Drawing the man to him, pressing backwards and reassuring him that it was all what he wanted, even if he wasn't quite certain himself. He expressed himself with his lips, pushing insistently against his lover's tongue, reveling in the taste and sighing with pleasure at the heat pressing against him from behind. He answered with his body, responding to the slight undulations of the knight's hips with small, shy backward thrusts of his own, daring and suggestive and seeming to fill his lungs with heavy desire. But when he drew back moments later, it was with a faint tremor and a hesitant gaze.
“I will not allow my fear to stop me from claiming what I want,” he said quietly, his lashes fluttering in uncertainty as he looked over the taller man's face. “Nor should you.” Aymeric seemed frozen in place, regarding him in turn as if he didn't quite believe that he was truly there, perhaps some figment or night-demon sent to tempt him to carnal dreams.
A quick kiss was placed to the bridge of his nose, before the taller man leaned close to nuzzle against the spot with his own. “You needn't rush so. But... I will not disobey you.” The knight blushed as he said it, his face heating quickly enough for Alphinaud to feel so near to his own skin, and it was as if his mere obedience were an admission of some deep secret. “Just promise that you shall tell me if there is aught amiss.”
He supposed he could agree to that compromise, and found that in so doing a small weight was lifted from his heart. “You have my word. And... you have me.” He finished the declaration with a defiant smirk, ill-accustomed to showing such weakness and needing to goad the man to action. In action, all hesitance could be forgotten. It was a simple thing to do now, needing only a few words to prompt the knight to grind against him with one final growl of need before he was shoved forward onto the bed to sprawl, bereft of dignity and shame both.
With an indignant huff, Alphinaud wiggled around onto his side to watch, wrapping his arms around his chest and curling into the slightly-mussed blanket. Rather than following him, the knight had sat upon the bed's edge to work at his own clothing, resolutely refusing to look at the pale-haired man whom he would soon make his own. Alphinaud would ordinarily have felt the need to assist, but just now the inactivity suited him. Meekness was part of the costume, he told himself, and he intended to play his role to perfection.
Patience was a barbed rose. Apprehension once again morphed into anticipation, coiling in his belly as a simmering heat and making him restless. “You would truly do anything I asked of you,” he asked to fill the space between them, breathing oddly slave to the sounds of metal and fabric under the knight's hurried fingers. It was always safest to ask the questions to which he already knew the answer, and something about Aymeric's insistence on the fact made him wish to press for more. It was like an itch in the back of his mind, the politician in him sensing a deeper truth to be ferreted out, grabbed between his teeth and shaken.
There was an odd sound, the spring of clockwork as a metal clasp slipped and rebounded from its owner's grasp. Aymeric swore succinctly under his breath, making Alphinaud smile at the secret lapse. He realized he quite liked it when the older man swore. It was as if his mask had slipped, just for a moment, and he could see the fallible man beneath the noble facade. He and he alone.
The circumstances under which he had first driven the man to swear may also have had something to do with the fascination.
But no words followed the declaration, merely a backward glance. The knight regarded him in something like guilty startlement, lifting his hand absently to his mouth as if he could not remember why he did so. A thin trickle of blood was beading along the pad of his thumb, and before it could reach its destination Alphinaud wriggled forward and waylaid it, bringing it down to his own lips instead. He darted out to claim the appendage with his tongue, tasting blood now instead of wine, copper and tang with long after-notes of sweat and dust to finish. Aymeric did not struggle, staring in apparent shock as he drew it further into his mouth, sucking and licking as if by doing so he could move the man to new heights of pleasure.
It may nearly have worked. Slowly the knight's eyes slid low, and his head dipped with a gasp of wet surprise. Instead of answering a question long forgotten, a quiet groan escaped his lips, so soft the younger man could have sworn it was a touch rather than a sound. “You cannot possibly know what it is that you do,” Aymeric gasped. That plaintive note was back, or had never left. In truth, he did know: it was a sweet torture, for them both. At length, Alphinaud allowed him the use of his hand, though he trailed his tongue out after it as if it were protesting his own decision.
There could be no doubt that the dark-haired man was utterly in his thrall. It was a most satisfying conclusion. His lover quickly raked his eyes over Alphinaud's prone form, taking rather than merely looking, indicating with thoughts out-loud that he returned to his work only with great reluctance. Then his focus was returned to his unruly sabotons, his thoughts quiet and still once again. But the question had not, evidently, been forgotten.
Aymeric spoke gently as he moved, as if he were watching a feather fall from the sky, hesitant to change its course even as he whispered to it. “If you are asking whether I would submit to you...” he seemed to trail off for a moment, stilling again even after a boot was removed and left unwanted on the floor. Alphinaud could see his mouth move silently in profile, a listless play of lips and teeth in pantomime of nothing. Finally he found his voice. “Then yes. Anything.” The admission seemed to leave him bereft of breath, blushing faintly and looking side-wise at the younger man as if unsure. As if he, too, needed to be pushed beyond some boundary, but could not yet even give name to it.
Then he shook his head and removed his other boot, as if nothing had been said at all. There was no longer a tremor in his voice when he continued, just a cool growl under-ridden with subtle, chocolate-smooth lust. “Though if you wish to have me instead, I'm afraid I would much prefer to show you the method than tell you.”
Alphinaud fought back mild surprise at the response. He had not precisely intended that interpretation of his question, though he had to admit that if it was good for the gander, it might be good for the goose. It was not something he had thought much about, in too much haste to be the one taken. Now that the proposal had been set on the table, in full view and acknowledgement of both parties, he found himself distracted by visions of possibilities previously ignored. Now, he wanted for a stick with which to beat them back.
It barely occurred to him that, whatever the commander had been shy about, this was evidently not it.
“It was quite enough to hear it told,” the knight complained as if he were remarking on the lord's habits at tea-time. “While I am grateful to Haurchefant's knowledge and friendship, I don't think I shall ever recover from the mortification. I would most certainly die ere I repeated a single word.” He shared a pained smile at his own expense, unclasping his cloak and tossing it, too, to the ground.
Now it was Alphinaud's turn to experience the mortification, thoroughly embarrassed by the thought even by proxy. It occurred to him, of course, that that might not have been the worst of it. “Thank every one of the Twelve that he did not see fit to show you,” he said acidly. It was humorous, but only in the abstract. He should rather have been uncontainably jealous had the mad lord so much as laid a finger on his lover, and to witness it in person might well have provoked him to violence.
It was all too forward as it was, too reminiscent of whatever relationship they had once shared. Naturally the meddlesome man would seek to intrude on their intimate business, regardless of propriety and common decency. He had to admit, of course, that he himself had no inkling as to the particulars of the process, only vague desire and vaguer fears. He had vainly hoped Aymeric's few additional years might have provided the necessary knowledge or instinct, but that was a silly thing to count on when both men had attested that the knight was as virginal as he.
It was something of a relief, then, if he thought about it hard enough. Of course, he had no wish to. Haurchefant made his head hurt on the best of days.
There were better things to think about.
Aymeric returned an enthusiastic hum of agreement, somehow voicing all his shame, anger, and appreciation all in a single note. “You have no idea how right you are.”
With a flail of crossed arms and a shrug of his shoulders, the knight's black tunic was doffed as well. Alphinaud was treated with a glimpse of his pale back, muscles corded with the movement of his arms as the garment slid free. At last his face was revealed, black hair soft and slightly tussled, turning almost shyly to regard him and leaning back on his elbows. He had managed to remove all but his trousers now, even his long gloves lying somewhere in a mess of steel and silk. The Lord Commander had shed his skin, and was now simply Aymeric. His lover, his alone.
His knight smiled, almost demurely, a faint blush making itself more at home on his cheeks. He could never quite tell if Aymeric was shy beneath his gaze, or merely fighting some inner theological battle. Fortunately, it was a battle Alphinaud always seemed to win. It took only a moment of returning his smile with significantly more mischief shining behind it, before the knight hummed a dark note of victory and crawled over to him, the wolf satisfied that the chase was ended. Over him, and upon. Earlier the man had clutched him close in a shadow play of things to come. Now, they knocked on the door to depravity. He looked up into Aymeric's eyes, to find the other man was gripped with a tempest of emotion. Concern, maybe, or the need to comfort. Lust, certainly, burning bright. Love, even, just perhaps.
Alphinaud found that he was no longer afraid, and quite forgot to remark on it.
Instead he registered a complaint, winding his fingers into the man's hair and pulling him close. It was not a kiss, nor a hug precisely. Simply the need for more contact. Closer, warmer. “And did Haurchefant's tutelage mention the need for trousers?” He arched upward, reveling in the warmth that reached him through his thin shirt, and spread his legs to wrap around Aymeric's hips and cling to him utterly. In truth, he too was guilty of the sin of too much cloth. But the knight's was for work, while his was for play.
“If you don't like them, take them off me,” Aymeric returned with a note of petulance. He growled the suggestion directly into Alphinaud's ear, a form of revenge perhaps for the reminder of recent trauma, which failed to spark even the tiniest repentance.
Ah. Their crimes had the same motive after all. The youth nearly groaned at the implication, conscious now of the desire that had been waiting at the edges of his thought all throughout the day. Now with his lover pulled close, he could feel the implications near to hand. His body now knew what his mind had pondered, making him feel his desire in currents, sweeping through him and over his skin, pulsing with strength and foreboding like the mythic rivers that flowed between the seven hells. He let his curious hands loose to slide between their torsos, tracing the man's chest and stomach and loving what he felt, listening intently to the short puffs of air against his neck that seemed to have something different to say at every brush of his fingers.
They had the freedom, now, to experience each-other properly. But he was fixated on what was still yet denied him. It took little time for his trembling hands to find the belt buckle and prize it free, then slip to a series of buttons which he managed not to break only by the expedient of using both hands. And then there was nothing to stop him from slipping the fabric from the knight's bony hips. He grabbed the band of his smallclothes along with the trousers and pushed, Aymeric cooperating now to shove them down his legs and kick them away, gone to the land of things that were not important.
And then some threshold seemed to be passed, because Aymeric was attacking him now, licking and sucking at his neck and shoulder with no restraint, making known the sharp sting of his teeth between tender kisses and the occasional possessive growl. Alphinaud surrendered immediately, no fight remaining or necessary. He surrendered to the feeling of being owned, allowing the man to claim him, reveling in his strength and assertive bites, welcoming the hands that finally knew what they wanted and encouraging them with his own. They wanted his clothing gone, and did not take long to achieve it. The dark-haired knight paused his ministrations only briefly, to push the small blue shirt over Alphinaud's head, and then to slide the pants off his legs, tossing away the last barrier between them and pressing their bodies together immediately. So hot. So present, an eternal now filled with heat and sweat and skin.
It should have been like in the cave, but it wasn't. Not at all.
Then they had feared. Feared each-other's gaze, shyness driving them to attempt to keep themselves covered even as they had coveted the skin of their partner. Feared judgment, from without and from within. Feared to admit to themselves that they wanted, and to their lover that they loved. Feared that they would die, and with them, the only good thing that had ever happened under the Fury's watch. Feared that they would live, but live without the other, knowing that paradise was only as far as their lover's lips, but that they would never see it again.
Now there was no fear, there were no barriers. No shyness, no secrets, no confessions, no blankets under which to hide. Alphinaud had his wish. He surrendered so completely that he had forgotten that he had anything to lose. His pride was an obstacle, his innocence an irritation that he would be glad to do without. His heart could not be broken because his brave knight kept it from falling, and the danger was trivial because Alphinaud would protect his love. There was no fear because there was nothing worth fearing, anymore. Everything paled in comparison to the feeling of Aymeric pressed against him, clutching him close and trembling himself as if they had pooled their thoughts and emotions between them, and were confused as to whose feelings belonged to whom.
It only lasted a moment, though. Because then Aymeric seemingly sorted out his thoughts, recognizing hunger as his own and desperate, and he acted. A kiss was nearest to hand and so Alphinaud received it gladly, opening himself to the man's tongue. It was not a gentle kiss, not giving or inviting as much as taking. It was rough and needy and even a little painful, too much teeth, more tongue than was strictly called for, and messy. Alphinaud loved it, loved the rejection of control and gentleness, loved the way the man's hand practically clawed down his side, leaving a cool sting where his nails rent a little too hard, not quite pain anymore because where Aymeric touched there could only be pleasure. Most amazingly, he loved the feel of the man's cock against his hip, ilms from his own, so hard now, so hot. If he had not had other things on his mind, he might have been tempted to grab it within his own claws, tease it and taste it and watch his lover squirm as he had their first time together. But no, not now, even as their hips seemed to undulate without either of their permission, the sweat between them just enough now to make their skin slide, so close, and oh, oh, it would be enough...
“Aymeric,” he pressed from his lips, the name emerging embedded within a long throaty moan. He nearly had to fight the man to have the use of his own tongue, and once he had it the sounds didn't all seem to want to convey the same message. Worse, his desire to submit made him strangely reluctant to insist on the very point. It would have been easy to give in. He was not expecting to have to resort to begging, not when the knight had seemed so eager to follow his orders.
It was a good thing he didn't need his pride. The knight was peering at him, eyes dilated and hair wild, the thistle crown of the fey prince, cruel and terrible and dangerous. “I need you,” Alphinaud said, the words transformed in the hot crucible of his mouth into a dark whinge of need. It was enough though, enough to cause the larger man to swear vividly through clenched teeth and break away from him, though the youth's fingernails rent long furrows in his back to slow his progress.
The cooling sweat on his stomach was insult enough without the loss of his lover to contend with. He stared after him dumbly as he slid to the edge of the bed, leaning halfway off of it to root around on the floor as though he had dropped a truffle into a pile of gysahl greens and feared a chocobo might come along at any moment. Alphinaud was treated to a view of the larger man's back and rear for his troubles, one of his legs bending artfully in the air to balance him, briefly transforming him into a great statue or painting from another era. It was as if he couldn't fail to be beautiful if he'd tried.
It felt like much longer than the moment it took.
And then his lover was back, twisting around with an object held in his hand, a small phial of some liquid. Aymeric moved to crouch over him again, but lower, straddling his hips now between his long arms, looking up at him without really seeming to see.
Like Alphinaud, he was too preoccupied with possibility. The eternal now had become the eternal future, the next moment in a long line of moments of which that they both knew the ending. The anticipation was palpable, shared between them like the air they breathed, hot and unsteady and scented with burning Coerthan spruce.
He had time again to fear, but he did not listen. He was too occupied by Aymeric, the cast of his eyes that was at once intense and demure, the lips that were parted too wide to be properly a matter of breath, too still to be in anticipation of speech. He was blushing furiously, and that suited him fine as well. Aymeric wore a blush like a refined woman might wear a pearl necklace. It seemed at home on him, not distracting from his otherworldly beauty but emphasizing the paleness of his skin and the fine features of his face, his softened eyes and narrow lips.
He was innocent, and he was a carnivore at feed.
His knight hesitated, running his hands over Alphinaud's legs nervously, gently nudging them into a bent position and trailing minute kisses over his thighs. “I cannot promise that it won't hurt,” he said. His voice betrayed his own fears, sparking in the younger man's chest suddenly and causing his anxiety to ignite. It burned briefly, quick and hot, but soon cooled to white ash. “But I have been assured that the pain will pass... agreeably.” Aymeric said it uncertainly, as if he weren't sure what it meant.
Alphinaud believed him anyway. “I'm not afraid of pain,” he said, feeling as though he forced the words from the depth of his lungs with great difficulty. He struggled to relax, to wait for whatever was to come. It was difficult to wait with stoicism, not knowing against what he steeled his nerves. He did not fear, but that didn't mean he wasn't nervous.
His lover seemed to hover on the edge of pressing for more, watching him with hooded eyes that failed to hide his simmering desire. The desire won out. “Very well,” he said softly. His voice had descended to its deepest register, the place where the lowest undertones could only be heard reverberating within the listener's chest.
Aymeric's voice could provoke Alphinaud's desire like naught else, but when it sang of the knight's own, it was ambrosia. Without registering it he had lain his head back to revel in the thoughts sparked by the simple words. He was thankful for his lover's heated breaths just then, for they were his only warning against the tongue that began to tease his cock. Their long flirtation had been torturous, taking him so close to need and then cooling his blood. Aymeric's lips brought him fully to attention, made him whimper pathetically with desperation. There was no more patience, no more time, no water that could quench his thirst.
The man between his legs growled in agreement.
Another few moments, and he was aware of a movement of his lover's hands. Then a cool sensation pressing against his rear, tracing along the cleft of his arse. He nearly jumped away at the feeling, despite knowing that it was coming, but Aymeric's lips kept him in place, nervous but too aroused to care and waiting, waiting for the cool wet finger to enter him and resolve all the unknowns tumbling through his mind.
His lover took his time. He had thought the man had no more patience, but with a cock in his mouth he was surprisingly tame, lingering over every movement with relish. The slick finger seemed to be circling the area like a vulture, and despite himself Alphinaud stretched his legs wider in vain hope of hurrying its movement. Finally, after an eternity of slight movements of a devilish tongue, the searching stopped. The arrow found its mark, and slowly Aymeric pressed inside.
A tiny bit, less than an ilm, less a delve and more a peek. Alphinaud congratulated himself for not jumping at the sensation, merely emitting an undignified squeak. Not from the feeling, but from the expectation of things half-imagined. Only afterwards did the slight chill register, followed dully by the odd sensation of being unable to force the offending object out. The chill passed quickly, but the strangeness only increased as his mind fought to categorize the feeling.
Vaguely he was aware that the knight had stopped lapping lazily at his erection, but when he opened his eyes his lover's attention was only on him. He seemed concerned and a little awed at the same time, licking his teeth restlessly as he looked back. There was some sort of play happening within the theater of his eyes, as if he were a madman who could only pretend, for short intervals, to be entirely sane.
“Relax,” he whispered, longingly, achingly, and Alphinaud struggled to obey. The knight's emotions were his, the struggle happening within his own body now, and the only thing he could bring himself to fear was that the teasing might never end.
A deep breath in, held, and released. And Aymeric pushed deeper into him, gently, probingly, so smoothly it was nearly sex already even if he yet felt little pleasure from it. All metaphor and no substance, but enough that he felt his body wanting to respond even as it tried to reject the sensation. The hot mouth that renewed its torturous teasing seemed to be slowly recasting the sensation, making it seem erotic by mere association, making him hard for more.
“Does it hurt?” The man's concern seemed genuine, if for no other reason than that Alphinaud doubted that the intensity of his desire could allow him to speak unless he truly worried. As if to emphasize the point, he let loose a high-pitched whine when Alphinaud looked back at him, like a dog that could no longer bear to watch its master sit at table.
“No,” Alphinaud replied, but he found his breath wasn't working quite right. He stretched backwards against the bed and arched his back and neck, needing to use the muscles he yet had control over, needing to open up the space of his lungs because they were not drawing air like they should. “It's strange. I think... my body only objects because my mind is confused.” He felt as if he should blush as he said it, but he could not. They had passed the point of embarrassment long ago.
“My apologies,” Aymeric said, so quietly he might have missed it had the room not echoed as silent as a cathedral. “I did not have time to try it myself.” And he had been wrong, it was possible to feel embarrassment. He didn't feel the flush, his skin being too warm already, but there was that prickle across his skin. He shivered from the added feeling, all combining to make him skittish as the knight continued to slide deeper within him, moving slowly, searching.
And then, suddenly, the sensation transformed. It was alchemical, brilliant, the spark of inspiration. The alien pressure against his anus, the strange sensation of fullness, the occasional wet touches along his cock, all of them combined the moment that something was touched within him. His hands jerked spasmodically in the sheets and he moaned, loud and needy and with no room in his mind for shame. Oh, yes, he thought, panting now through his mouth in dull surprise. This was going to be very interesting indeed.
He thought he had said something to that effect, registered his astonishment in something other than low gurgles of pleasure. Only the other man seemed not to have heard anything, too busy staring in shock at the sight of Alphinaud's epiphany. It didn't matter, because he answered the young man's true command, the demand for more. He continued to search until he stroked the spot again, pressing a little harder and more deliberately, memorizing the feeling and the location.
Alphinaud could only writhe. The pressure on his cock returned, vengeful in its focus, making him suddenly incapable of holding his hips steady, making him need to press into the heat of the man's mouth even as the finger thrust into him. Then the intrusion vanished, making him whimper at the loss, clutching at the knight's soft hair, no longer capable of being satisfied by his tongue alone.
The finger was replaced by two. This, too, was uncomfortable at first, though for some strange reason the slight burn was recast almost immediately into pleasure, hot and forbidden and dirty. His mind had finally accepted that contact of this kind was sexual in nature, that the press of his fingers would bring him to ecstasy. And so it did, soon brushing against that hidden spot, the increased pressure of the second digit making the spark that much more brilliant. Alphinaud moaned wantonly, didn't care, needed more. And still the slick fingers worked within him, stretching now, widening and thrusting within him in imitation of what was to come.
When the fingers retreated again, there was a short space of silence within his mind. He had just enough time to realize that there were no unknowns left to fear.
And then a third finger was added, stinging boldly as it stretched him. The slick oil made it pass easily, if slowly and a little painfully. But it wasn't long before he was moved again to brilliant ecstasy. Discomfort was mere sensation, and sensation could be recast, reforged, beaten and molded and shaped. His entire lower body was awash in it, and it had all been tempered into pure pleasure, hot, deep, erotic. Aymeric's inexperience didn't matter. He was the smith, and he would bring his hammer to bear.
For a space it seemed as if it would never end. But then it stopped, time snapping like a rubber-band and rebounding, over far too soon. Alphinaud groaned at the loss of his knight's tongue, a tone scarcely discernible from his wanton mewling of a few moments ago, save for the lower tone and the lack of frenzy in his gasps for breath. But Aymeric had no pity, withdrawing his fingers, slowly, gently, as if to tease him further. He was startled by the feeling of complete loss, of emptiness and cold. He needed to be filled, so far gone that the thought didn't even provoke him to shame. It was only through a monumental exertion of will that he managed not to beg senselessly, only opening his eyes and staring at his lover with wanton gaze and pouting lips, unable to withhold his lust even if he had wanted to.
There would have been no point. Nor was begging necessary, because Aymeric was as wild with want as he. He seemed barely able to contain himself, leaning back with legs spread and fisting his own erection with a slick hand. It was an amazing sight, enough to make the breath catch in Alphinaud's throat and stick like butter, enough to make him forget his own need and simply watch. The knight was beyond shyness, meeting his eyes easily and lifting his hips to give him a better view. He gave a few slow, torturous strokes, furrowing his brow and gasping through parted lips, coating himself thoroughly in oil and damnation.
It was nearly enough to make Alphinaud praise the Fury, for having delivered him such a man. But then the beautiful knight released himself and crawled forward, looking as struck with awe and anticipation as he himself felt. And then he was reminded that all that he did, he did in spite of gods and fate, and that the only one he should thank for Aymeric's love was the man himself.
Alphinaud could no longer watch. Instead he closed his eyes and focused on feeling, as if somehow the use of too many senses might short out his brain. He listened intently to the slide of Aymeric's hands on his hips, on his legs, moving closer to him and negotiating awkwardly to find an angle he liked. And when he felt a heat press against his rear, demanding entry, he relaxed and shifted his hips closer. A greeting, perchance even a request.
It was Aymeric's turn to groan in anticipation, a sound that he felt could have lifted him to ecstasy all on its own. And then he gripped Alphinaud's thigh and pressed slowly forward, and then even touch was too much to process.
His knight was too gentle, pushing only a little ways before stopping. It stung and burned, like the press of all three fingers but more insistent, more solid and more difficult to reforge. But it was accompanied by a spark of exultation, of victory and yes, finally, and all he could bring himself to care about was that he no longer felt so empty. A gurgling gasp was pressed from his lungs, followed by a low nasal keen for more.
He opened his eyes, registering the dulling of the stinging sensation and the way it seemed to be replaced with liquid heat. Aymeric was still, his own eyes squeezed tight in furious concentration, teeth gritted in a snarl as if the act pained him.
Perhaps it was painful, to exert such self-control. As it was, Alphinaud felt as though he might break from the tension. But he remembered the earlier command to relax, and so he did, frowning as if the task were a chore, and his thoughts were bent only on play. Bent only on the solid heat that was so near to filling him completely. So near to what he wanted, he knew. So near to breaking them both apart, and fusing them back together into a single whole.
“Aymeric,” he urged. Even the name took effort, trembling like a fly in a web. But the man looked at him, gave in to the need that the younger man felt even if he seemed to be leashing his own. And clutching his hip now to steady himself, he leaned forward and pushed, his face blank as if serene though he was twisted with the agony of restraint, tasting the feeling even as he watched Alphinaud for signs of discomfort. It was reminiscent of another time, in Aymeric's bed, when Alphinaud had lain hands on his friend and tested him, too, for hurt. But now, in his lover, he could see only overriding pleasure instead of pain, wonder instead of fear.
It was slow. An ilm at a time, each movement making the man shudder and flicker his lashes, though he kept his focus somehow. The younger man no longer minded the strange pain, it was only a signal. A sign that he was being filled. It made him answer back, a long, low sound escaping him as he felt the sensation shift, feeling the man's cock not just fill him but seem to exceed him, pressing somewhere deep, making him tremble to feel the length of him. And Aymeric, too, moaned out his pleasure, stopping now that his hips nearly touched the smaller man's thighs, biting his lip and shaking at the sensation, at the need to move, at whatever religious experience he was provoked to by the feeling of being buried so deeply in his lover's body.
And they held that way, for longer than either seemed to be able to bear. Alphinaud wanted to curse and cry, but he knew there was reason to it, shining through their madness. Instead he waited, relaxing through the pain and focusing on the pleasure, on the knowledge that they were joined, on the memory of just how Aymeric was capable of making him feel.
When Aymeric opened his eyes again, the madman was no longer able to pretend to be sane. He could see his need through the feral glare, as if the wolf would eat him alive, not even wait for his blood to run cool. He could feel it in the fingers that flexed around his thigh, squeezing nearly hard enough to bruise, even as the knight shifted to lay the leg over his shoulder and nuzzle it with a nose slicked with sweat and anticipation.
And just like his fear, Alphinaud realized that the pain was gone, naught but a manageable discomfort. They could wait longer, certainly, but he didn't want to. He wanted Aymeric.
Now.
He let him know. He tensed his shoulders and pushed, not having the leverage or the practice to fully thrust against the other man but accomplishing enough to make him groan deeply, to break his resolve and make him jerk his hips forward. He had thought the man fully buried within him but he had been wrong, the additional sensation knocking the wind out of him and making him grunt in surprise and delight. It wasn't pleasure yet, but it was sex, rough and hard and a little sore. He liked it on principle, wanted more.
It was not denied him. Aymeric took a moment to steady himself, placing his weight on spread knees and leaning on one hand. And before Alphinaud could wonder whether it was an uncomfortable position, he was blinded by the sensation of movement, of the knight drawing backward and retreating. Slick and soft and slow. And then he pushed forward, gently, unlike his loss of control a moment before but just as dirty and erotic. He seemed to be blinded by the action as well, his bright eyes losing focus even as they attempted to watch the younger man's face, his jaw going slack with the onslaught of feeling.
Alphinaud had to touch him, had to tangle his fingers in his hair, had to tug just a little and draw his lover closer, make him lean over him until he could feel the heat radiating from his body. Alphinaud was his, lying helplessly below him as a victim or a meal, giving himself willingly and wanting it so badly that he was almost ready to carve out his own heart and offer himself to wolf's jaws. He groaned, thrilled by the submission alone, at the sensation of Aymeric slowly thrusting as he shifted his hips to meet him, again and again but too damn slow, not enough, not quite right.
He keened with frustration, a high nasal sound of need and annoyance, trying once again to push back, ending up marginally more successful even as Aymeric tried to hold him steady. Once again the motion prompted a response, a harsh thrust, more controlled than before but beautiful in its power and violence. Aymeric barked and growled at the feeling, tensing for a moment and panting with his eyes squeezed shut, looking truly feral now, truly wild.
“I can handle it,” Alphinaud panted, impressed that he could actually speak after such a primal display, after tasting the fruit of madness. “Aymeric, take me godsdamn—” and before he could finish his blaspheming the man had complied, drawing back once again to fill him savagely. There was a small pang of pain this time, the angle of the thrust seeming to drive deeper and remind his body how unused it was to the intrusion, but it was soon forgotten. The very motions themselves had become erotic, the dark pleasure of the knight above him filling him with desire, the harsh sensation of being so full and so used. He found himself keening from lust rather than pleasure, a high-pitched sound of invitation and triumph as Aymeric abandoned his restraint to drive deep, to finally take what he wanted, to look upon him as his own.
Until something changed. It was so subtle, the man above him shifting again, pulling him backwards to sit almost in his lap. And the next thrust struck home, hit that strange place within him that melted lead into gold, turning the strange feeling of being filled into the feeling of being truly fucked, and now there was no way for him to remain silent. He could only burrow into the sheets with clenching fingers and yell, unhinged and unrestrained, nearly every thrust making his body burst with ecstatic pleasure, the feeling like an orgasm that wasn't quite there but made his vision blur and his voice tear. And now there was no reason for Aymeric to hold back, he had found what he wanted. He could be heard as well, grunting and panting with the effort, his restraint now having shifted from the need to keep from enacting his desires, to the need to keep doing it, as long as he possibly could. His voice was not as wanton and wild as Alphinaud's, but it was no less impassioned. His sounds were quiet and plaintive, clipped like the wings of a captive bird, as if in resisting giving voice to them, he could resist the onslaught of sensation from his lover's willing body.
He could not resist for long. Neither of them could.
It was Aymeric who broke first, inevitable perhaps, though at that moment it had hardly been certain. Alphinaud had been right there with him, so close to the edge and with no need to harbor any restraint. But it had been the knight who had reigned himself in for longer, and so his resistance that faltered. He fixed Alphinaud with a look of regret between wild thrusts, regret and wild abandon, mouth opened to speech that would never come. The younger man did not share his disappointment, only his ecstasy. And by degrees his tight focus unwound, the uncoiling clock-spring making his rhythm falter, decaying into quick, shallow strokes. He could only seem to hold himself up at that point, too unsteady on his hands to do any more.
And then he seemed to object, to defy the mad dance of pleasure, long enough to grab Alphinaud's hand within his own and guide it to the younger man's erection. Loosely clasping his fingers around it before returning to his own work, cool blue eyes watching him with an intensity of focus that should have burned him alive had he not been alight already.
So he stroked himself, not embarrassed in the least, nothing wrong with bringing himself to pleasure in time with Aymeric's wild half-thrusts. If the feeling had been overwhelming before, it was mind-bending now, the dual stimulation seeming to interact somehow, two voices twining into a single song, a fast, sensual rhythm. Alphinaud lost himself in it, throwing his head back and moving in time, adding his own voice to the song.
And that was all it took for the wolf to lose his leash, snarl ferally and give himself over to delight. He moaned deeply, raggedly, repeatedly, taking in the sensation fully and seeming to fall apart under the onslaught. Then his hips jerked and Alphianud was awash in the sensation, filled now not only with the man but with his seed, the evidence of his ownership, scalding and twitching and deep.
Alphinaud had lost track, somewhere along the way, but it may have been that he screamed.
There was no striving or asking after this pleasure. It had filled him completely, every sense given over to hedonism and desire. He was bathed in it, unable to escape it if he had wanted to, no corner of his mind or body which was not devoted to ecstasy. If the brutal fact of the knight's pounding cock had not done him in, the sharp, direct singing of his own caress would have. But the sight and sound of his lover coming undone was irresistible, and his own orgasm had followed like light after a sunrise. He could only lash out toward the man, wrapping an arm around his neck and holding him close as he lost control over his body, convulsing and groaning as he coated himself with his release.
It was some moments before he could be properly have been said to be aware of anything at all.
But then he was, feeling the wet slide of the knight withdrawing from him gently, an odd slick motion made all the stranger for his sensitization to pleasure. And then Aymeric was holding him close, rolling to lay beneath him and clutch the younger man to his breast, heedless of the sticky fluids that squelched between them. The sweat that had coated them like morning dew began to cool, air brushing now against his back and lulling him like a caress. And Alphinaud lay his head down on the larger man's shoulder, and was content. No need to speak, no words necessary save the sounds of passion they had already exchanged.
Perhaps sensing this, the knight rumbled beneath him. A long, echoing hum of contentment that seemed to stretch all the way around him. A soft embrace, a single-note song of love.
It was precisely what Alphinaud had wanted. And he had no doubt that he would ask for it again. And Aymeric would give it to him.
His knight would give him anything he commanded. Anything at all.
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