It starts, Ignis thinks, because he didn’t get enough sleep.
Seven months after Noctis succeeded in defeating the Starscourge, Lucis’ goodwill from her neighbors has begun to thin. Ignis has somewhat unofficially taken on the formal role of Royal Advisor as well Head Councillor, and he’s being run ragged; they all are, really. With so much to do in the wake of the Long Dark, all hands are on deck.
Which is why Ignis forgoes sleep for nearly three days: an urgent diplomatic incident came up, and he and his team were firefighting to get it settled. He crashes at the end, not even Ebony enough to keep him awake any longer, but the next crisis appears before he can get a full night’s rest. In his sleep-deprived state he doesn’t notice that he takes an article of Noctis’ clothing rather than his own.
“Did you know that you’re wearing my shirt?” Noctis asks that night as he comes to bed, and nips his neck. His voice is unusually husky.
“I am?” Ignis is genuinely surprised. Nearly all of Noctis’ clothing is tailored, and Ignis is taller than he is.
“Yeah.” Noctis sucks at his neck. “It looks good on you.”
The throatiness of his voice finally tips Ignis off: Noctis likes seeing Ignis in his clothing. It may be a possession thing, or perhaps something else -- Noctis never was a very jealous lover, completely certain of Ignis’ devotion. Either way Ignis smooths a hand over Noctis’ hair, a smile beginning to curl at his lips. He pulls away slowly and makes a show of undoing the shirt buttons. “Then would you like to see it on me, sans all other articles of clothing?”
He can hear Noctis’ sharp inhalation, feel the sudden clench of his hands over Ignis’ shoulders.
“Yes, please.”
That was a good night, Ignis recalls. Noctis was practically wild for it, in his own gentle way; since then every once in a while Ignis will deliberately choose the wrong jacket to wear in the mornings, if Noctis is there to stop him from going out in the King’s garb, or otherwise he might take that same untailored shirt. Noctis now will sometimes offer his sleepwear for Ignis to wear about their rooms when they’re alone.
None of that compares to this.
“This is practically treason,” Ignis hisses at Noctis, who has a guiding hand slipped lightly into the crook of his arm. “If I get caught…”
“If we get caught,” Noctis corrects him, voice warm and low with amusement. He doesn’t seem stressed at all now, the madman, after he has confessed his fantasy and moved to put it into action. He was a stuttering wreck when he actually suggested it. “Even if we are, I’m the king, remember? I’ll order them to forget everything.”
“That’s not particularly reassuring,” Ignis moans into his palm. One good thing about being blind: he can plaster a hand over his face without compromising the ability to walk around, since he already can’t see anything.
“Do it for me,” Noctis cajoles. “Besides, I know you like the idea at least a little bit, or you wouldn’t be going along with this.”
Ignis stays silent. He does like it, more than he should, more than is proper. He’s the royal advisor, raised from childhood to support Noctis. He belongs below him, beside him, never in front; he should always be propping Noctis up, never pushing him down.
What if I want you to push me down? The insidious memory of Noctis whispering in his ear makes him shiver. Grab my hair, Iggy, yeah, just like that. Push me down, make me gag for it.
“Yes,” Ignis whispers, then clears his throat. “Yes.”
The echo of their footsteps change, the air cooling: they’re in a bigger space. Ignis paces his way to the throne easily, and just as easily ascends the stairs. He stops at the top. His feet want to move one way, habit which would bring him to the left of the king’s seat, but Noctis urges him straight forward.
“Here.” He guides Ignis’ hand to the carved marble armrest.
“Are you completely sure about this?” Ignis knows he's stalling. So does Noctis, because he snorts and pushes lightly at Ignis’ upper back.
“Sit,” he commands. Ignis sits.
He can hear the rustle of Noctis’ clothing as his king kneels in front of him, then feel the heat and pressure of his palms as he rests them on Ignis’ knees. Ignis realizes he's tense enough to nearly be shaking and makes a conscious effort to relax.
“All right?” Noctis’ voice has a tinge of nervousness to it now, too. Contrarily this calms Ignis down; he’s used to being Noctis’ anchor when the other man is upset.
“All right,” Ignis confirms, and reaches searching fingers out. He touches silky hair before he finds the smooth slope of Noctis’ cheek to cup his face, tilting it upwards even as he leans down. Ignis misses Noctis’ lips the first time, their noses bumping, but Noctis corrects them with a laugh.
“So,” Ignis breathes in deeply when they part. He sits back and sets his feet firmly wide. “Come here.”
Rustle, rustle. Noctis is shuffling forward on his knees. Ignis bites back a concerned comment about the hard floor.
“Unzip me.”
The original king’s garb had a button fly, but Noctis always preferred the convenience of zips; Ignis himself requested a change with the tailors when they were redesigning the uniform. He regrets it keenly now, as Noctis’ clever fingers find the tab and pull it down -- the fumbling press and search for buttons would have been exquisite.
“Good.” The word is barely audible on a sigh. “Pull me out. Yes. Stroke.”
Noctis is so quiet. Ignis can’t tell whether the curl in is gut is from nerves or pleasure. He grows hard quickly in Noctis’ hand, even with the dry friction caused by lack of lubricant. He’s glad for it, actually, since without the slick sounds he can hear Noctis’ sharp inhale, imagine the way he’ll sway forward, wanting. Wanting and held back by Ignis’ lack of verbal instruction.
“Very good.” Ignis clenches one hand tight over the end of the throne’s armrest. “Let go.”
Noctis makes a little wounded noise as he obeys, and Ignis isn’t sure if the jolt he feels then is in reaction to Noctis or to the feel of sensitive skin slapping against rough fabric.
“Lick your palm.” By the Six, Ignis’ voice is already ragged. He needs to control himself. “Get it wet. Hold me, no, at the base, don’t move. Now.” He lets the anticipation build, feeling the warm wrap of Noctis’ fingers, the movement of his shoulders on the insides of Ignis’ thighs with his panting breaths.
“Suck me.”
He tips his head back at Noctis’ grateful moan, the hot wetness of his mouth as he takes Ignis in. Gods, gods. This is perverse, Ignis sitting where only Noctis has a right to be, clad in garments only Noctis has right to wear, Noctis the true king on his knees in supplication.
“That’s good,” Ignis murmurs, overcome. He grasps Noctis’ hair in a trembling fist at the back of his head and moves him how he wants it, slow and deep, listening to as much as feeling the way Noctis chokes a little, swallowing desperately trying to take him. “That’s so good, Noct, you’re so lovely, letting me use you like this.”
Noctis heaves out a sound that vibrates it’s way through Ignis’ core with a jolt. He pulls back hard, no finesse, and, fuck, his voice--
“Use me how you want,” he says, sounding as shredded as Ignis feels. He’s close enough for each movement of his lips to be felt on Ignis’ skin. “Push me down like you own me, fuck m--”
Ignis does push him down, if only to stop him from talking. He doesn’t know if he can take any more of Noctis, his king, begging for debasement at Ignis’ hands.
Noctis shuts up obligingly, face pressed into Ignis’ groin. His sparse beard rasps against the silk of Noctis’ underwear where it’s bunched tight over Ignis’ balls and prickles maddeningly against Ignis’ cock. Ignis can’t help the cant of his hips, the smallest thrust.
Noctis hums. He mouths at Ignis through the cloth, laving it wet, breathing hot over it as he nuzzles in. Ignis can feel the sweat coming up on his skin now: Noctis’ shirt begins to stick to his back and under his thighs, and his scalp prickles. He’s panting.
“Noct.” Ignis cards through Noctis’ hair shakily, pushing his bangs off his forehead and out of his face. “Noct, please.”
Noctis licks him this time, a long stripe all the way up the underside to curl impishly around the tip. “Make me.”
Something in Ignis snaps. He pulls Noctis’ head cruelly back, hand twisted tight, and pries stiff fingers off the throne’s armrest to tip his cock down.
“Mouth open,” he says, and nearly doesn’t recognize his own voice. “You’ll suck me until I come. Hands on my knees, yes, like that. Don’t move.”
Noctis doesn’t, not until Ignis brings him back down, using the little hints of pressure Noctis gives as he tries to course-correct to guide his movement until his cock is once again engulfed in that wet sucking heat. It’s--it’s too much, honestly, but at this point Ignis can’t stop, and he pulls Noctis away again, then back, slowly and then faster and faster until he’s really just holding Noctis’ head still and thrusting up into him, completely out of control. He lets go when he comes because he still has that much of his mind left, but Noctis doesn’t back off. Instead he braces himself harder on Ignis’ knees and pushes forward until the head of Ignis’ cock hits the spasming back of his throat, and Ignis throttles back his yell into an airless whine, feeling himself coming and coming and coming--
When he comes back to himself Noctis is still coughing. He sits up sharply but keeps his arm movements slow as he reaches for his king; the last thing he wants to do is hit Noctis in the face. Noctis grasps his hand as he gives one last chest-rattling cough.
“I’m so sorry!” Ignis says. He realizes his cock is still out and tucks himself back in hastily, one-handed. “Are you all right, Noct?”
“Fine,” Noct says. He sounds like he’s been gargling gravel. “Really, I’m fine. Stop feeling guilty.”
“I,” Ignis says. “With my--and your knees, this floor can’t be good for them--”
Noctis gets up with a groan, proving Ignis’ point, before he leans over and brings their entwined hands up to his mouth. There’s still a wetness to his lips as he presses a kiss to Ignis’ knuckles, and he shivers.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I enjoyed it.”
He skims their hands down his shirt and the firm planes of his chest, around the jut of one hip and over… something wet…
Ignis makes a little punched-out noise when he realizes what that means, lust hooking thorny in his groin despite just finishing. Noctis liked it so much he came untouched, still in his clothing. Ignis made him do it, there on his knees with his mouth around his cock.
“I,” Ignis says. “We should go back to our rooms. We both desperately need showers now.”
Noctis doesn’t take offense at this like almost anybody else would; he knows how Ignis’ mind works.
“All right, love,” he says, and pulls Ignis up. He keeps pulling until he can brush his lips over Ignis’, a butterfly touch, before guiding him back to the stairs. Ignis is silently grateful for the support. His knees are still wobbly. He nearly trips at Noctis’ next statement.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: Crownless (1/1), King!Ignis/Noct - Oral sex on the throne
Date: 2017-01-10 03:41 am (UTC)---
It starts, Ignis thinks, because he didn’t get enough sleep.
Seven months after Noctis succeeded in defeating the Starscourge, Lucis’ goodwill from her neighbors has begun to thin. Ignis has somewhat unofficially taken on the formal role of Royal Advisor as well Head Councillor, and he’s being run ragged; they all are, really. With so much to do in the wake of the Long Dark, all hands are on deck.
Which is why Ignis forgoes sleep for nearly three days: an urgent diplomatic incident came up, and he and his team were firefighting to get it settled. He crashes at the end, not even Ebony enough to keep him awake any longer, but the next crisis appears before he can get a full night’s rest. In his sleep-deprived state he doesn’t notice that he takes an article of Noctis’ clothing rather than his own.
“Did you know that you’re wearing my shirt?” Noctis asks that night as he comes to bed, and nips his neck. His voice is unusually husky.
“I am?” Ignis is genuinely surprised. Nearly all of Noctis’ clothing is tailored, and Ignis is taller than he is.
“Yeah.” Noctis sucks at his neck. “It looks good on you.”
The throatiness of his voice finally tips Ignis off: Noctis likes seeing Ignis in his clothing. It may be a possession thing, or perhaps something else -- Noctis never was a very jealous lover, completely certain of Ignis’ devotion. Either way Ignis smooths a hand over Noctis’ hair, a smile beginning to curl at his lips. He pulls away slowly and makes a show of undoing the shirt buttons. “Then would you like to see it on me, sans all other articles of clothing?”
He can hear Noctis’ sharp inhalation, feel the sudden clench of his hands over Ignis’ shoulders.
“Yes, please.”
That was a good night, Ignis recalls. Noctis was practically wild for it, in his own gentle way; since then every once in a while Ignis will deliberately choose the wrong jacket to wear in the mornings, if Noctis is there to stop him from going out in the King’s garb, or otherwise he might take that same untailored shirt. Noctis now will sometimes offer his sleepwear for Ignis to wear about their rooms when they’re alone.
None of that compares to this.
“This is practically treason,” Ignis hisses at Noctis, who has a guiding hand slipped lightly into the crook of his arm. “If I get caught…”
“If we get caught,” Noctis corrects him, voice warm and low with amusement. He doesn’t seem stressed at all now, the madman, after he has confessed his fantasy and moved to put it into action. He was a stuttering wreck when he actually suggested it. “Even if we are, I’m the king, remember? I’ll order them to forget everything.”
“That’s not particularly reassuring,” Ignis moans into his palm. One good thing about being blind: he can plaster a hand over his face without compromising the ability to walk around, since he already can’t see anything.
“Do it for me,” Noctis cajoles. “Besides, I know you like the idea at least a little bit, or you wouldn’t be going along with this.”
Ignis stays silent. He does like it, more than he should, more than is proper. He’s the royal advisor, raised from childhood to support Noctis. He belongs below him, beside him, never in front; he should always be propping Noctis up, never pushing him down.
What if I want you to push me down? The insidious memory of Noctis whispering in his ear makes him shiver. Grab my hair, Iggy, yeah, just like that. Push me down, make me gag for it.
“Yes,” Ignis whispers, then clears his throat. “Yes.”
The echo of their footsteps change, the air cooling: they’re in a bigger space. Ignis paces his way to the throne easily, and just as easily ascends the stairs. He stops at the top. His feet want to move one way, habit which would bring him to the left of the king’s seat, but Noctis urges him straight forward.
“Here.” He guides Ignis’ hand to the carved marble armrest.
“Are you completely sure about this?” Ignis knows he's stalling. So does Noctis, because he snorts and pushes lightly at Ignis’ upper back.
“Sit,” he commands. Ignis sits.
He can hear the rustle of Noctis’ clothing as his king kneels in front of him, then feel the heat and pressure of his palms as he rests them on Ignis’ knees. Ignis realizes he's tense enough to nearly be shaking and makes a conscious effort to relax.
“All right?” Noctis’ voice has a tinge of nervousness to it now, too. Contrarily this calms Ignis down; he’s used to being Noctis’ anchor when the other man is upset.
“All right,” Ignis confirms, and reaches searching fingers out. He touches silky hair before he finds the smooth slope of Noctis’ cheek to cup his face, tilting it upwards even as he leans down. Ignis misses Noctis’ lips the first time, their noses bumping, but Noctis corrects them with a laugh.
“So,” Ignis breathes in deeply when they part. He sits back and sets his feet firmly wide. “Come here.”
Rustle, rustle. Noctis is shuffling forward on his knees. Ignis bites back a concerned comment about the hard floor.
“Unzip me.”
The original king’s garb had a button fly, but Noctis always preferred the convenience of zips; Ignis himself requested a change with the tailors when they were redesigning the uniform. He regrets it keenly now, as Noctis’ clever fingers find the tab and pull it down -- the fumbling press and search for buttons would have been exquisite.
“Good.” The word is barely audible on a sigh. “Pull me out. Yes. Stroke.”
Noctis is so quiet. Ignis can’t tell whether the curl in is gut is from nerves or pleasure. He grows hard quickly in Noctis’ hand, even with the dry friction caused by lack of lubricant. He’s glad for it, actually, since without the slick sounds he can hear Noctis’ sharp inhale, imagine the way he’ll sway forward, wanting. Wanting and held back by Ignis’ lack of verbal instruction.
“Very good.” Ignis clenches one hand tight over the end of the throne’s armrest. “Let go.”
Noctis makes a little wounded noise as he obeys, and Ignis isn’t sure if the jolt he feels then is in reaction to Noctis or to the feel of sensitive skin slapping against rough fabric.
“Lick your palm.” By the Six, Ignis’ voice is already ragged. He needs to control himself. “Get it wet. Hold me, no, at the base, don’t move. Now.” He lets the anticipation build, feeling the warm wrap of Noctis’ fingers, the movement of his shoulders on the insides of Ignis’ thighs with his panting breaths.
“Suck me.”
He tips his head back at Noctis’ grateful moan, the hot wetness of his mouth as he takes Ignis in. Gods, gods. This is perverse, Ignis sitting where only Noctis has a right to be, clad in garments only Noctis has right to wear, Noctis the true king on his knees in supplication.
“That’s good,” Ignis murmurs, overcome. He grasps Noctis’ hair in a trembling fist at the back of his head and moves him how he wants it, slow and deep, listening to as much as feeling the way Noctis chokes a little, swallowing desperately trying to take him. “That’s so good, Noct, you’re so lovely, letting me use you like this.”
Noctis heaves out a sound that vibrates it’s way through Ignis’ core with a jolt. He pulls back hard, no finesse, and, fuck, his voice--
“Use me how you want,” he says, sounding as shredded as Ignis feels. He’s close enough for each movement of his lips to be felt on Ignis’ skin. “Push me down like you own me, fuck m--”
Ignis does push him down, if only to stop him from talking. He doesn’t know if he can take any more of Noctis, his king, begging for debasement at Ignis’ hands.
Noctis shuts up obligingly, face pressed into Ignis’ groin. His sparse beard rasps against the silk of Noctis’ underwear where it’s bunched tight over Ignis’ balls and prickles maddeningly against Ignis’ cock. Ignis can’t help the cant of his hips, the smallest thrust.
Noctis hums. He mouths at Ignis through the cloth, laving it wet, breathing hot over it as he nuzzles in. Ignis can feel the sweat coming up on his skin now: Noctis’ shirt begins to stick to his back and under his thighs, and his scalp prickles. He’s panting.
“Noct.” Ignis cards through Noctis’ hair shakily, pushing his bangs off his forehead and out of his face. “Noct, please.”
Noctis licks him this time, a long stripe all the way up the underside to curl impishly around the tip. “Make me.”
Something in Ignis snaps. He pulls Noctis’ head cruelly back, hand twisted tight, and pries stiff fingers off the throne’s armrest to tip his cock down.
“Mouth open,” he says, and nearly doesn’t recognize his own voice. “You’ll suck me until I come. Hands on my knees, yes, like that. Don’t move.”
Noctis doesn’t, not until Ignis brings him back down, using the little hints of pressure Noctis gives as he tries to course-correct to guide his movement until his cock is once again engulfed in that wet sucking heat. It’s--it’s too much, honestly, but at this point Ignis can’t stop, and he pulls Noctis away again, then back, slowly and then faster and faster until he’s really just holding Noctis’ head still and thrusting up into him, completely out of control. He lets go when he comes because he still has that much of his mind left, but Noctis doesn’t back off. Instead he braces himself harder on Ignis’ knees and pushes forward until the head of Ignis’ cock hits the spasming back of his throat, and Ignis throttles back his yell into an airless whine, feeling himself coming and coming and coming--
When he comes back to himself Noctis is still coughing. He sits up sharply but keeps his arm movements slow as he reaches for his king; the last thing he wants to do is hit Noctis in the face. Noctis grasps his hand as he gives one last chest-rattling cough.
“I’m so sorry!” Ignis says. He realizes his cock is still out and tucks himself back in hastily, one-handed. “Are you all right, Noct?”
“Fine,” Noct says. He sounds like he’s been gargling gravel. “Really, I’m fine. Stop feeling guilty.”
“I,” Ignis says. “With my--and your knees, this floor can’t be good for them--”
Noctis gets up with a groan, proving Ignis’ point, before he leans over and brings their entwined hands up to his mouth. There’s still a wetness to his lips as he presses a kiss to Ignis’ knuckles, and he shivers.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I enjoyed it.”
He skims their hands down his shirt and the firm planes of his chest, around the jut of one hip and over… something wet…
Ignis makes a little punched-out noise when he realizes what that means, lust hooking thorny in his groin despite just finishing. Noctis liked it so much he came untouched, still in his clothing. Ignis made him do it, there on his knees with his mouth around his cock.
“I,” Ignis says. “We should go back to our rooms. We both desperately need showers now.”
Noctis doesn’t take offense at this like almost anybody else would; he knows how Ignis’ mind works.
“All right, love,” he says, and pulls Ignis up. He keeps pulling until he can brush his lips over Ignis’, a butterfly touch, before guiding him back to the stairs. Ignis is silently grateful for the support. His knees are still wobbly. He nearly trips at Noctis’ next statement.
“Only if you promise we’ll shower together.”