mare lamentorum

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #stormblood #stelmaria #magnai #wolmagnai #warnings #nsfw

warnings: questionable bdsm etiquette ; kink, so much kink (steppy, degradation, praise) ; femdom ; spanking ; snowballing ; consensual non-consent ; cunnilingus ; pegging

general: i just want that twink magnai destroyed ; welcome back magic diq stel ; stormblood spoilers

idiom

• to intentionally not give someone or something any attention

The stone floor’s chill sinks deep into Magnai’s flesh, his scales so cold as to burn. Uncomfortable, but manageable.

The real issue is the sharp heel pinning the soft meat ‘twixt thumb and forefinger to the floor. He isn’t quite sure how he arrived at this vantage point, but most like it’s the doing of the miqo’te woman wearing said heel. He’d made some demand which she refused. Easy enough to recall… except for the part where he’s now staring at his palace’s ceiling.

The Warrior of Light, a nondescript little creature save her shock of voluminous amaranthine hair, towers over him, mismatched eyes narrowed. Her red dress trails over his armor, the myrrh and floral scent of her throwing his nerves into a maddening buzz.

His men keep to their posts, silent, staring at the walls. “Chain her up and throw her in a cell for the desecration of Azim! She has no authority over your most radiant brother, not even after victory in the Naadam! We sit the Dawn Throne, not she!”

Magnai’s commands fall on deaf ears; the sight of him debased, on blind eyes.

“Leave us,” says the woman, soft voice edged with steel. “I shall see to the bleating of this poor, wayward sheep.”

They obey, quicker than they’ve ever moved for him.

“You are not in charge here.”

“It would seem that I am, Magnai Oronir.”

Stelmaria removes her foot from his hand, leaving a throbbing ache, then places it on his crotch instead, over the thick leather, and presses hard with her toes. The throne room goes spinning, vision going dark momentarily as every mote of his prideful xaela awareness settles on his swollen, aching cock—the well-made boot lazily drifting up and down with each throb of his veins.

“We had heard rumors of your proclivities, woman, but to flaunt the evidence so shamelessly—” He muffles a yelp as the boot bears down, cock hardening further and beginning to seep fluid.

“Shameless? Says the grown man who wants me to degrade him before his men? You’d lick my boots if I asked wouldn’t you?”

He swallows hard, trying to keep the tremble of desire from his imperious tone, “No.”

“Lick.”

The offending article approaches, but she wobbles, a bit off-balance. On instinct, he steadies her at the haunch, before realizing his mistake and dropping his hands.

“Now you’ve done it, little man.” A quick turn and Stelmaria's off to the throne—his throne—which she occupies with a lazy, sprawl after delicately stepping out of her smallclothes. The dress and boots remain on. “If I am forced to retrieve you from the floor there will be consequences.”

A shiver runs through him at the idea of ‘consequences’. Deliberating for a moment, he decides to obey, joining her at the throne.

“Kneel.”

He does so, nerves taut in anticipation.

“Lick,” she repeats.

“No.” His face burns as his heartbeat quickens. Any faster and it feels as though it may burst apart at the seam.

“Why not?”

“The sun does not engage in such shameful behavior as—”

She loops her long, slim legs around his shoulders and drags him down, under the skirt, against the wet heat of her core. He wastes no time, using nose and lips to pull her swollen clit into his mouth and sucking hard. Her entire body jerks, hips rolling as she moans. The warrior's pale, calloused hands wrap around his horns and yank roughly, correcting his angle and position, and making him grunt in a wonderful mix of pleasure and pain.

Reminding him that every moment of this is subject to her whims.

She cries out under his swirling tongue, breathing heavily and pressing herself hard onto his face. He remains steady, but his arms feel empty; he wants to grasp handfuls of soft flesh, delight in this creature trembling under his power, but he does not.

He cannot do anything without a command.

“Touch yourself until you cum.” Her voice is infuriatingly steady for the amount of effort he’s putting into this.

He would make a token protest but her grip is unrelenting; he's unable to take his mouth off her. The absurdity of it, the taboo nature of stroking his own cock while still in his leathers, lips and tongue greedily slurping at the warrior of light's hot cunt makes it all the more arousing.

If he disobeyed now, stopped everything, what would she do? She might step on him again, kick him between the ribs like a filthy dog, or maybe...

A strangled cry and he cums all over the foot of his throne, hips thrusting into the stately furs he uses to soften the otherwise hard seat, palm dripping and slick.

“Clean it.” Her strange eyes gleam in amusement.

His face burns like Azim himself in midsummer, “Woman—”

Stelmaria slaps him full across the face; his horns ringing from the blow, cheek stinging, blue mouth turning purple as the taste of iron spreads across his bifurcated tongue. “Clean. It.”

“No.”

A moment passes. They both smile.

“Then strip.”

He does so, but slowly and petulantly, staring at her flushed skin and heaving breasts.

The moment he finishes she stands to shed her own clothes, “Sit.”

His throne is still warm and the furs are sticky with cum. She wanders the room fully naked, sniffing random bottles of liquid until she finds whatever she's searching for and returns.

Her skin is pale as raen scales and beautiful when flushed, body perfectly rounded in all the right places—he's already recovering his stamina, length stirring back to life.

With one hand she hooks a leg behind his knee and presses it tight to his chest. The other hand scrapes a bit of pearlescent cum off his tanned skin then mixes it with the fragrant liquid from the bottle. Pausing a moment, she takes in his parted lips and panting breaths, the tension in his limbs and the flush on his face, the hardness bobbing against his stomach and the need in his gaze.

“Relax.” She runs her hand gently down his chest, kissing his throat, squeezing his cock, rubbing circles into his sensitive sack, down farther to where only his brothers touched him before; stroking across the tight rear opening with fingers and thumb.

He trembles like a frightened lamb, gasping against his vision melting into a haze. Should he desire an end to this, he need only grasp her tattooed shoulder firmly. She would understand his unspoken request with her strange mind magicks and leave him be; pretend this never happened.

It's the last thing he wants.

The hand supporting his thigh seizes a horn and pulls. In the same moment her fingers enter, spreading him open and setting every nerve aflame. He's never been with a woman before, only unemotional, mechanical trysts with willing brothers, and her smaller, more experienced fingers are capable of reducing him to a weak-jointed, sweaty mess in a matter of moments.

His need for release is overpowering; mind and body empty except for the heated coal smoldering low in his belly. He wants to cum hard and he doesn't particularly care how.

“Magnai.” Her fingers never stop moving, applying pressure to one particular spot over and over again, sending relentless waves of pleasure washing over him, strong enough he feels he might expire at any moment.

He stares at her flushed face, beautiful and pale, eyes star-bright yet distant.

“I'm going to fuck you now. Be a good boy,” she explains as a flash of her unholy magick sparks between them.

There's no time to gather himself before she's sliding in, stretching him to the absolute limit even after all the warm up with fingers and oil. Her fangs sink deep in his inner thigh as she bottoms out, her full length dragging across the spot inside him she'd teased to the brink only moments ago.

Hot cum spatters across them both as light explodes behind his eyes, whole body tightening around the aetheric cock inside. She moans and lowers her head to lick the mess from his chest, then kisses him, depositing it in his mouth.

Coughing and gagging, his protests are half-hearted at best—betrayed by his already re-hardening length bouncing between them—and unable to hide his amusement at seeing his blood on her lips.

The warrior fucks him mercilessly, alternating between pulling out to drive back in to the hilt and staying fully sheathed, grinding her hips at an angle that makes him whimper in delight, toned limbs shuddering uncontrollably.

He's reaching his threshold, but so is she; skin burning and sharp breaths coming fast as her gaze bores into him along with her magicked length. She slaps his ass with her free hand, setting his flesh stinging like a swarm of hornets.

That's all it takes.

Another sharp yank on his horn as she pulls out fast enough to bring tears to his eyes, magnifying his building orgasm into a full out of body experience. He floats out of himself, a mote of total delirium, a feeling he's never experienced outside of battle. She daubs his belly with dribbled liquid light, mixing with the pearl white of his own spend.

So lovely, watching her take her pleasure from him, shivering and biting back a moan. He pulls a taut nipple into his mouth just for the sake of it; damn the punishment.

The small gasp she gives chases the languid weight from his limbs and sets his heart galloping again.

“Magnai.” She tilts his face up to kiss him once more, softer and sweeter this time. “You did so good for me. So good.” More kisses. The drag of her tongue down the sweat coating his neck. “So good.”

Magnai Oronir, son of Azim, has never been so pleased to be proved wrong in his entire life. He must reconsider what he desires from his future Nhaama, but first—he requires more experimentation with the warrior of light.