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His Person

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With one strong hand he opens my mouth simply to fill it, the warmth of his liquid ardor lingering thick on the tongue like a long awaited elixir. I swallow it down readily, encouraged by the same hand massaging gently at my throat, all too eager, my oft reliable reticence always a laughably distant thing to me when held by the likes of the King. The pads of his fingers dip one after the other into the flesh of my neck with varying degrees of pressure, all pleasant, pulse thundering beneath them as his come slides unceremoniously down into me, a part of me, however briefly enjoyed. His kiss is lightning against my lips already sensitive with his baser attentions, but nonetheless welcome for it. With a tattered sigh not typical of me I taste him twice, savoring the slick of his tongue and scrape of his stubble against my clean shaven lip and chin, realizing only now, teetering on aching knees, that it is by his hand alone that I remain steadied. Don’t leave me tonight, Noct, I hear myself plead rather shamefully before I can rescind the words, my hands stretching upward, searching, twisting into his finely tailored suit jacket without a second thought spared for whomever had to press it for him.

Ignis, he purrs, and it could be described as nothing other than a purr, as I could feel it just as well as hear it, save the begging for my bed.