Fandom: Final Fantasy XV
Notes: Spoilers for Final Fantasy XV Chapter Twelve. BDSM. Mild breathplay. For a prompt at The Final Fantasy XV Kink Meme.
Summary: Aranea will happily grind all that princely self-control and repression beneath the heel of her boot.
Noctis is breathing heavily, knocked to the ground again, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, his skin flushed the loveliest shade of pink. Aranea can feel the heat in her smirk as she stares down at him, watching him push himself up on to his elbows, legs sprawled across the dirt.
He needs this; she can see it in the way Noctis’ eyes have grown glassier the longer they’ve sparred, can hear it in the way his taunts have given way to grunts and soft little growls that make Aranea want to pull his hair and taste the frustration from his lips.
He’s so close to losing it, and it’s the most delicious thing, all that rage and hopelessness and stubbornness and pride cracking at the edges. He needs it, needs her, and he doesn’t even know it, but Aranea’ll take good care of him all the same.
His eyes snap up to her face, flying wide with surprise, when the toe of her boot presses to his chest. It’s as easy to push him down as she knew it would be, and the back of his head thuds dully against the grass as she nudges him roughly on to his back.
Noctis looks younger like this, eyes as dazed as she’s ever seen them, lips parted. A flash of blue light washes over him as his daggers flare and disappear from his hands, a surrender he probably doesn’t even realise he’s offering her, and Aranea can see the flutter of his eyelashes as she eases more of her weight on to the foot planted firmly on his chest.
“You’ve had a long journey,” she murmurs. His expression is somewhere between wary and wanting, and it suits him perfectly. “And you’re not done yet.”
He frowns distractedly, his hand reaching for her calf. “I know,” he huffs, and for a moment there’s clarity creeping back into his eyes.
That just won’t do.
His breath stutters when she pushes down harder; she can see him struggling a little as he has to work for each inhale under the pressure from her boot. That fleeting clarity fades as quickly as it flared, and Aranea can’t help but wonder how long he’s been craving this, been needing someone to hold him down and turn him inside-out.
“Do you?” she whispers, smiling for the way Noctis’ fingers grasp weakly at her ankle, clinging to her like he’s frightened she’ll stop.
There’s no chance of that - she’ll see this mission through to the end, and relish every moment.
They’re skirting the edge of the floodlights, a little too close to the dark. The daemons have taken Tenebrae, and she and Noctis already shouldn’t be this far from the base camp they’ve set up at the train station; they can’t afford to stray any further. It’s not the most private of settings, but Aranea trusts her men to be discreet, and she’s sure Ignis and Gladio will usher away any prying eyes. So the location will have to do - a compromise between safety and seclusion.
His fingers slip from the shining leather of her boot when she drags the sole of it down over his stomach, his arm falling limply to his side. There’s confusion on his face, yearning, like he understands that he wants something but hasn’t allowed himself to realise what it is.
Aranea shows him exactly what his body wants, and his eyes roll up as her boot pushes down between his legs.
She can feel how hard he already is, his hips bucking, hair dragging against the ground as his head tilts backwards and his back arches up for her. So very pretty, and she nudges her toes against his balls, watching through her peripheral vision as the heels of Noctis’ own boots skid uselessly across the dirt.
His moan is loud; he’s a naturally quiet person but Aranea can only imagine how long he’s been bottling this desire inside. If any heads turn in their direction, she can’t bring herself to care, not with him spread out for her, and she rides the jerk of his hips, pushing her foot down again. Not hard enough to be spiteful, but enough that it’ll hurt - the right kind of hurt, the kind that’s not about pain but instead about pleasure.
The noise Noctis makes is close to a keen, animal and desperate, and Aranea feels herself throb beneath her armour, growing wetter with every helpless sound that she coaxes from him.
Noctis’ hands scrabble at the grass, catching at the flowers that frame the lithe lines of his body, their blue petals dulled to a dim grey in the untimely darkness. “Let me take you where you need to go,” she purrs, and he nods mindlessly for her like a puppet, begging for what she can give him.
And Aranea will give it all to him - she’ll give Noctis everything he needs to quiet all those angry voices in his mind with the sweet peace of submission.