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For most politicians, the phrase 'coeurl got your tongue?’ is almost never meant literally, though Ser Aymeric would beg to differ by the night’s end.
Mayhap even sooner, if the red haired miqo’te between his legs had anything to say. (Or rather ensured that he had nothing to say.)
“Ser, have you nothing to say for yourself?” G’raha Tia asked, looking up from his work with the expression of a cat that had gotten into the larder. “You were so full of comments earlier.”
Before he could offer one of the aforementioned comments, the coeurl got their tongue to draw another moan from the Commander.
“Oh? Nothing? Mayhap I should make my point more clearly. You seem to be misunderstanding~”
Aymeric sent a silent prayer to Halone that he may survive the night.
“Still? And to think that you claim yourself a Commander of the People when you cannot even muster up a single word?”
He followed his message to Halone with another, feverishly asking for confirmation that this was not a hallucination or a wet dream. To think that just a moon ago, a single dinner had led to this.
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It had begun auspiciously, as almost anything involving the Warrior did. With the return of the Scions and the Warrior herself, it was a political race to meet, invite, or otherwise occupy the Warrior and her friends.
Of course, while he would never dare say it plainly, Aymeric was quite pleased that the Fortemps’ good work had ensured the Warrior and company (mainly the Warrior) had chosen Ishgard as their first destination once they had returned from their excursion across worlds.
In favour of remaining in the periphery of society whilst they recovered, the Scions had been invited to a low-key dinner taking place in the house of the Lord Commander himself. (The table was more than large enough to fit all of the company that he would expect to receive, even if he required a few extra chefs to ensure that the entire party would be fed.)
But, as was the case with most casual communication with the Warrior, a somewhat crucial piece of information had remained unwritten on her hastily scrawled letters to Aymeric.
“G’raha Tia. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” This time, the forgotten detail presented himself alongside the Warrior in the form of a red haired miqo’te. According to the Warrior, his was the latest addition to the Scions’ ranks. With some luck, he wouldn’t require too much extra sustenance.
Across his tenure as Lord Commander, Aymeric had learned that first impressions, while important, regularly failed to give more than a passing view of what was beneath. Many a time had a lord met him with smiles and platitudes only to follow them with earnest requests to ‘go fornicate yourself’. (Though not put so plainly.) Aymeric hoped that the miqo’te in his foyer was not one of those cases, and that his choice of de-armouring himself would not give the other a poor first impression.
And what a first impression it was. The snow dusting G’raha’s ears hardly dulled the handsome face that lay beneath, and his sense of style (namely that it appeared he tripped and fell into a fabric store) had an odd charm to it. “Please forgive our lateness, a caravan was waylaid by bandits on our path and we stepped in to assist.”
“Ah, all is forgiven. The Warrior herself is hardly known for her punctuality.”
“Hey! We left on time!”
“As did the rest of your comrades, who are all present.” Aymeric offered a pair of fire crystals to both of them. “And G’raha Tia, was it?”
G’raha took the crystal with an easy nod as the Warrior brushed flakes of snow from her garments.
“Aymeric de Borel.” He held out a hand that the Tia shook with confidence. “Pleased to make your acquaintance as well. Now, if you two aren’t indisposed, the rest of the Scions are waiting in the dining hall.”
“Great!” The Warrior kicked off her boots and pranced into the dining hall with the vigor of a woman who hadn’t averted the Eighth Umbral Calamity a week prior.
“Ah, energetic as always.” Aymeric turned to G’raha, who was enjoying the crystal’s heat by holding the crystal to his pink cheeks with a sigh and closed eyes. His ears twitched in delight as his body received the life-giving warmth.
Goodness. He’d have to call the knights in for thievery if G’raha continued being this charming. The only thing preventing an insidious blush from crawling onto his cheeks was a lifetime of tamping down his desires whilst he worked under Thordan.
Unfortunately, ever since Estinien had taken off to do whatever Estinien did, those desires had found little opportunity for relief. Even more unfortunately, a miqo’te shaped shovel seemed to be digging right into it.
“Ser Aymeric, may I use a pair of your house slippers?” The Lord Commander was dragged back into the world of conversation with G’raha’s request. “I’m sure that the Warrior and etiquette are never uttered in the same sentence, but I’d like to pretend that I have a scant bit of decency left.”
“Please, just Aymeric. I won’t have a friend of the Warrior standing on formality within my household.” It was only with the assistance of a particularly boring tariff debate earlier that day that he kept his composure. (So long as his gaze remained on some unattractive part of his body. He hadn’t found one yet.) “And yes, use any pair that strikes your fancy.”
“My thanks!” There was the wiggle again. Were miqo’te always so damn cute? “I would hate to get your carpets dirty the instant I arrived.”
“...It would hardly be the first time.” Aymeric wearily eyed the Warrior’s snow-filled parka strewn onto the nearest table. It was already dripping. “Now, allow me to show you to the dining hall. We have kept the hungry waiting long enough.”
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The dinner passed uneventfully. (Though ‘uneventfully’ had a completely different meaning to the Scions than most other mortals, all would agree that nothing of serious note occurred during the meal.) Fortunately for Aymeric, Halone had blessed him with a seat next to the newly minted Scion,
Tataru had graciously (and serendipitously) brought several of Kugane’s delicacies - courtesy of Hancock, calling in a favour to celebrate the return of the Scions. Little did Hancock know that he had saved Aymeric’s kitchen the extra stress of sourcing an extra course.
As predicted, every last bit of food had been eaten by the Scions over two bells. (G’raha in particular had unashamedly eaten an entire plate of sushi without regard for miqo’te stereotypes.) The discussion had been interesting; Aymeric had the first-on-the-Source opportunity to be regaled by the epic of the First.
It was breathtaking and anxiety inducing - in equal parts. A story of a somewhat foolish scholar and an equally foolhardy hero was one that evoked memories of the Dragonsong war. (Especially memories of a certain Warrior making the objectively unsound decision to face Nidhogg himself with no more than her wits and seven of her closest allies.)
“And though I know nothing of what came after until I re-awakened on the Source, memories and soul intact, I have been informed *hic* that the First and her citizens remain whole and hale.“ A red-cheeked G’raha finished the tale as Aymeric refilled his glass. The servants and guests had all departed for the night, leaving only the crackling of the fire and Aymeric to accompany G’raha’s recounting of his time in the first.
At this point, only he hadn’t politely taken his leave. Earlier, a mildly buzzed Urianger had made his way to Astrologicum after learning of a Sharlayan astrologian who had begun lecturing and teaching the arts, followed by a blitzed Thancred drunkenly seeking some form of accommodation (whether or not it would be in another’s arms or in an inn bed was unknown, but Y’shtola quietly tailed him nonetheless).
As for the Warrior, she had departed with Tataru to schmooze about the Jeweled Crozier and mayhap strike some lucrative trading deals with some otherworldly materials. (What deals could be struck a bell before midnight, at least.) The Leveilleurs had chosen to retire to the Fortemps manor for the night after Alisaie’s great insistence that Alphinaud had done ‘enough politicking for two worlds’ over the course of dinner.
Thank Halone that only Aymeric and G’raha remained, so that only the three of them might witness the Lord Commander’s creeping blush and full fixation not onto the story, but the man telling it. Yes, he could recall the details if pressed, but Aymeric was finding another tale to tell in the idle gazes and the sparkle in G’raha’s eyes when he spoke of the Crystarium and its people.
Truth be told, he felt a similar way for Ishgard in spite of the far less united nobles. Rather unfortunately for him, he knew that a millenia of impending doom did nothing to unite this particular set of people.
The other voice stopped talking, and it took a moment for him to realize that G’raha was awaiting some response. “A fantastic tale.” He pushed out, unsure of what the question was. “One if I heard from a Bard’s mouth, I would have much trouble believing.”
If the miqo’te had noticed the swirling thoughts in Aymeric’s eyes, he didn’t react. “Ahaha... I have trouble convincing myself at times.” G’raha and his tail swayed as he took another swig from his glass. “A century of preparation. It could not have gone any better.”
The wine had worked its magic, weakening the usual bond between mouth and brain, spurring Aymeric to make comments more closely directed towards the storyteller than the story. For most of the night, he had managed to reign in any awkward questions, but even the strongest man could fall victim to the wiles of drink.
“...Are all miqo’te ears as expressive as yours?” The words left his mouth before he could ponder the possible cultural boundaries that he might cross with such an inquiry.
“Well, that is a rather sudden question, Ser Commander.” Said ears had perked up in response as his voice went somewhat terse.
“I apologize-”
“But yes! I believe so. Mine particularly. Even as a young child, many of my tribe members asked me much the same question.” He returned to his jovial self with a laugh. “But, Aymeric, I must ask why your honourable self found more interest in my ears than my journey!”
Since when had he gotten so close? The rough scent of crystal and wine filled his nose as those blood red eyes rooted him in place and peered into his soul.
* “And,”* G’raha’s voice turned into something deep and dark . “How your eyes never failed to wander too far from mine own. The Warrior, the rest of the Scions... no one else received the attention you have lavished upon me on this fine evening.”
G’raha’s wine-tinged breath overpowered anything else in the room as a wandering hand carefully laid itself upon his thigh and sent a shiver through the Commander’s body. By the gods, the Warrior knew how to pick them.
“Ser Aymeric, you may not be aware, but a century of leadership leaves little time to attend to one’s... desires.” His whisper was a sermon in the deathly silence. “And unless I have misread, you find yourself in a similar... predicament.”
Red eyes scanned Aymeric’s face, searching for an answer that had yet to escape his lips. “Mm, I take it my assessment is correct, then.” A satisfied hum. He’d found his answer.
The Lord, a man who had seen countless battles and had led Ishgard through one of the greatest revolutions in its history, the one who had singlehandedly challenged centuries of tradition and corruption, could only muster a weak nod.
G’raha’s eyes dilated.
“Then take me.” He purred, his breath a towel that smothered the last remaining sensibility in Aymeric’s addled mind.
Whatever latch had been holding Aymeric’s desire back had broken. Within seconds, he grabbed G’raha’s shirt and closed the last ilm of distance between them with a groan. Arms quickly found themselves wrapped around the Commander, attempting to draw him ever closer to the hearth-warm tongue-siren that was beckoning him forth.
His lips tasted of wine, a sterling vintage that was elevated far beyond the finest champagnes by the inimitable taste of G’raha. The sweet taste of him flooded his mouth, being claimed by a conquering tongue that would leave no tooth unturned in its quest.
After an eternal half minute of exploration, the pair released each other, breathless and heady with desire. “Where... where is your room.” There was only the barest fraction of red left in his eyes as G’raha spoke with pure hunger.
His room? It was... somewhere. The exact place eluded him, being crowded out by how their spit had mingled and stained the miqo’te’s lips, and how the euphoric taste of him was only another kiss away.
“I shan’t be able to keep my hands off for much longer, Aymeric.”
That was enough to spur him into action. While his servants had taken their leave for the night, he would rather not have to wake himself prior to their arrival in the morning to clean up any telling messes they made. (Even if he would have equal amounts of explaining to do in the face of him and a cat leaving the bedroom together.)
Later, Aymeric wouldn’t be able to recall the transitory time between the dining room and his chambers, only the feeling of G’raha claiming his mouth and neck as his own whilst he fumbled the door open. Whether or not the cat had pushed him onto the bed or he had landed upon the silks of his own volition was a question he didn’t care to remember the answer to.
All that he knew then was that he was mirroring his bedmate, stripping off his dinnerwear as quickly as possible and tossing them in some inconsequential direction. This was no time to be delicate about it, a point G’raha made wonderfully, just about tackling him onto the bed despite them only managing to get their top halves off.
While he may have been a hearth before, the newly exposed skin that had lain beneath G’raha’s shirt felt hot enough to warm the whole of Ishgard. Like a moth to flame, Aymeric took him once more, entwining himself into the other with fervor that was usually resolved for battle or prayer. A spike of arousal shot through him as he tangled into G’raha, the feeling of his partner’s own lust almost overwhelming him with need. Even if he wished to move, one of his legs had been wrapped possessively by G’raha’s tail, ensuring no nonsensical ideas such as leaving crossed his mind.
With the last remaining bit of misplaced courage, he allowed himself to speak. “Your tail is like your ears.” Well, there was never any guarantee that it would be intelligent or useful.
“They can be far more trouble than they are worth.” Came the reply, ghosted against his ear before G’raha eased himself down to Aymeric’s nearly bared hips, his tail releasing his leg for the moment. “But they may yet be a boon, telling all that my mouth cannot say.” A hot tongue crashed into Aymeric’s stomach, driving a flinch through him at the sudden touch quickly replaced by a pool of heat somehow deepening his already abyss-deep desire. “Delicious.”
Before Aymeric could even comprehend the scene, G’raha was already taking care of the remaining problems covering their bodies, all but ripping off their trousers and underclothes before tossing them away.
It was then that Aymeric came to the conclusion that his first impressions were spot on, or at least assisted by the haze of lust that had enveloped his mind. Lithe yet muscular, G’raha was ever a sight for sore eyes and for the ones that were functioning perfectly well. (Not to mention that Halone had seen it fit to bless him with a generously proportioned member compared to his size, one which was at full mast, the same as Aymeric’s.)
All at once, the Commander became the commanded, enraptured by the man before him. For a man a century his senior, he aged beyond well, and his legs were already sliding themselves apart to welcome him in. Even if he wanted to take the lead, the dangerous combination of a handsome man and wine was short-circuiting every part of Aymeric that wasn’t his base desires.
G’raha saw the spell that had overtaken him and sought to exploit it to its full potential, gently sitting himself on the bed and pulling his partner towards him. A hand, firm yet not oppressive, guided Aymeric’s head down to his cock, the Lord obliging without hesitation nor resistance. It allowed no rushing, however, hands willing to grab the head of hair to keep an eager mouth away until he allowed it. (Aymeric’s moan at that confirmed that he was beyond alright with this turn of events.)
Despite the intense arousal clogging almost all sensible thought, G’raha managed to eke out a single question. “Ready?“
Aymeric nodded, eyes only leaving his prize long enough to almost beg for it with a groan.
“Begin.”
He obeyed without a second thought, wrapping himself around G’raha with practiced technique. While he had been away from the game for a while, there were some things you never forgot, such as the spots that made Estinien mewl. Aymeric silently pencilled in the unbelievable taste of G’raha’s precum next to it for a rainy day.
“Mmgh, you are a Commander?” G’raha groaned. “Where did you learn the skills of a practiced whore?”
Whether it was from years of bedding Estinien or simply a hitherto unknown eccentricity, the barb had dug up more of Aymeric’s arousal, compelling him to take all of G’raha, letting him tickle the back of his throat as he continued sucking.
“Gods.” G’raha moaned, eyes never far from the man below him. To say that he was doing good work was a severe understatement. A hand not his own gently spread his legs, and he soon found his own snaking into Aymeric’s hair and pushing down with every bob. Would that the others nobles find out that the mouth chastising them for their inability to cooperate was far better at coaxing out moans than unity from their old foibles.
Aymeric knew the game, as Estinien had played it well enough, and knew far better than to attempt reaching his own climax before his mate found his. There was a process to follow, and he was more than happy to, moaning like a harlot as G’raha forced himself just that little bit deeper into his throat. He did begin working himself open with his free hand, already suspecting what would come next.
After all, a century of wait was a century to fantasize, and only the unimaginative would consider only the mouth. G’raha must’ve privately relieved himself well before this moment, otherwise the night would’ve ended far quicker than either of them wished.
“Off.” The command came between moans, and by the gods, Aymeric’s immediate obedience set something alight inside him. (That, and Aymeric’s dumb smile as he gazed at G’raha.)
He couldn’t help himself, spreading Aymeric wide and positioning himself at the entrance. Both of them weren’t hiding their eagerness, though the last shred of sensibility made itself known from G’raha. “Have you taken before?”
Aymeric nodded.
“Hard?”
Aymeric nodded again, spreading himself a little wider.
That was all that G’raha needed before driving himself in with a grunt. Aymeric mewled like a ceourl, head thrown back as the invader immediately found that spot that made his nerves sing. He took a moment to acclimate to the desert-hot insides before sliding back and thrusting once more. Aymeric’s look of pure ecstasy drove whatever sense he had out as he began fucking him relentlessly, filling the room with rhythmic plaps and moans from the both of them.
After a century? There was nothing better that G’raha could’ve asked for, reaching up to tweak his Lord’s nipples and earn another howl. (Amazing. This man seemed better suited for a brothel than a forum.)
For Aymeric, it was all he could do to hold on for dear life. Words, thoughts, anything that wasn’t that red-hot cock spearing him becoming insignificant. At some point, G’raha had grabbed his wrists, keeping his hands near his own bouncing cock like some sort of dare to even try touching on his own. It was like there was some button within him that shut his brain off, and it was being destroyed by G’raha Tia.
All good things couldn’t last forever, and G’raha’s pace eventually slowed as he approached his release. “Aymeric, I’m almost there.” He ground out, unsure if the man below could even hear him. To his surprise, Aymeric clenched just that little bit harder, and his own cock hardened a little bit more. Words escaped him, but his body spoke loud enough.
“Gods! I’m-” With one final thrust, he spilled his seed into Aymeric, the Lord finding his own climax with a spurt of white all over his own chest.
For Aymeric, it was indescribable. His vision went white, and his entire body tensed to allow him his orgasm. There was nothing like it. Toys or fingers could never compare.
G’raha let himself bask in the afterglow sheathed in Aymeric for a few more blissful moments before sliding himself out and releasing his wrists. It left a cat shaped void in Aymeric that he was almost tempted to try filling with his own hands. The cum leaking out stopped him, it wouldn’t do to ruin the image before his Commander, would it?
Neither of them made a move to clean up. Instead, G’raha laid himself right on top of Aymeric, staining both of their chests with his semen, and started a deep kiss. This would not be the only night that G’raha visited his chambers, that was a guarantee.
Eventually, fatigue overtook them both. G’raha laid at Aymeric’s side, tracing little circles over his chest and purring happily as Aymeric found the wherewithal to gently caress his back. Temptation to speak for the first time since dinner crossed his mind, but as his bedmate succumbed to fatigue, curling against his side with another damnable wiggle of his ears, hell could freeze over before he interrupted this wondrous scene before him.
Why yes, the coeurl did have his tongue, and Aymeric wasn’t complaining.