
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13408653.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Final_Fantasy_XIV
  Relationship:
      Ardashir/Gerolt
  Character:
      Ardashir, Gerolt
  Additional Tags:
      Cunnilingus, Fingerfucking, Watersports, Vaginal_Sex, Trans_Male
      Character, Come_Eating, Nipple_Play, Lactation_Kink, Multiple_Orgasms,
      May/December_Relationship, Unsafe_Sex, Size_Kink, Omorashi, Size
      Difference, Age_Difference, Overstimulation, Mild_S&M, this_is_just_real
      nasty_tbqh, no_betas_we_die_like_men
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-18 Words: 3617
****** mouthing off ******
by jonphaedrus
Summary
     Ardashir is talking at him.
Notes
     i am not even going to begin to apologize for this, but i will go
     ahead and warn yall that this is REAL fucking nasty. this is some
     nasty stuff. its great.
     happy birthday to my bestest most favorite <> in the whole entire
     world
     edit: this got jossed because the xiv timeline is hot fuck and i
     thought ardashir was about 19 so if you wanna read it as being post-
     whatever point in the xiv timeline thatd be please go right ahead
See the end of the work for more notes
Ardashir is talking at him. Which wouldn’t normally be any more annoying than
it always is, but Gerolt has never been great at reading, and Jalzahn’s letters
are nigh on as incomprehensible as his fucking talking, which is bad enough.
And he can’t listen to Ardashir ramble and read Jalzahn and make any sense of
either at the same time, so Gerolt grabs Ardashir by the waist and drags him
over, picks him up, and sets the young man on his lap.
“I was talking,” Ardashir snaps, but Gerolt ignores him, tugs the laces out of
the front of his breeches, pulls the opening wide wide, and slides his hand
down Ardashir’s underclothes to grab his clit. Ardashir makes a strangled
noise, claws at his wrist. “Gerolt—“
“I’m reading, so shut up for a minute, you little pest.” Ardashir isn’t
actually angry enough to stop him, he never really cares, he just makes a scene
for the point of it. He sags, leans, gets comfortable in Gerolt’s arms, and
spreads his thighs so Gerolt can work. He’s not wet yet, so Gerolt leans over
his shoulder to read. At first he just tugs a little bit, rubs the tip of one
finger over the head of his clit, sliding beneath the hood. And then he starts
pinching, tugging, rolling, to see how Ardashir wants it tonight.
Tonight, Ardashir moans loudest when Gerolt grabs his clit, pinches, and
twists. So he does that, only harder, a few more times, until the brat is
bucking into his hand and sobbing. It gets him wet, though, which is what
Gerolt wants. Ardashir always shuts up so much faster with something inside
him—doesn’t matter which hole. He shuts up fastest with Gerolt’s big cock
plugging up his throat like a cork, but Gerolt isn’t hard yet and doesn’t
relish the idea of Ardashir complaining about a flaccid dick in his mouth. No,
this is easier—as soon as Ardashir is wet, Gerolt stops reading for a minute to
slide one finger inside him, his tiny tight cunt clenching down at the
intrusion and his voice hitching, high in his throat.
Ardashir is so easy to take care of. His sex drive has been wearing Gerolt out
to the point he barely even drinks any more, but at least he’s easy to take
care of. A finger in him and pinching his clit and he’s boneless, plaint, and
blessedly fucking silent. Or, well, if not silent, at least wordless. He might
be yelling, but it’s not coherent.
Gerolt gets about five minutes of peace, and then Ardashir starts up again. “I
could simply read it to you,” he points out. “I could even translate what
Jalzahn is saying rather than you attempting to prove you can translate it all
on your own. I know that you have the capability but we have other things to do
tonight, Gerolt.”
Gerolt undoes the buttons of Ardashir’s coat, pushes his cravat aside, rucks up
his shirt, and slides one hand in to grab his breast. He has tiny little bee-
sting tits, barely anything at all, totally flat against his chest, but his
nipples are long, hard, red, and so sensitive—when Gerolt pinches and squeezes,
Ardashir’s words go slurry and he twists in Gerolt’s lap, writhing, grinding
down against his cock, all whimpery and whiny and moaning.
So it goes, Gerolt leaning forward to peer at the letter from the old buffoon
who reckons himself the realm’s best alchemist, and then Ardashir starts
talking again, and so Gerolt slides another finger into him. It barely fits,
mashed up against his tiny tight insides even when slick, but he makes due,
curling them to stroke up over the inside of Ardashir’s cunt, right over the
place that makes him shake and cry out. He swaps tits, pulling on the brat’s
other nipple until he’s sweaty and shaking and his hands are white-knuckled on
Gerolt’s thighs.
When he starts to tense up, though, like he’s going to come, a little slower
since he wasn’t already mindlessly needing a fuck when they started, Gerolt
eases off, stops playing with his tits, leaves his clit alone. He keeps his
fingers inside Ardashir, though, not letting up. One of these days he’s going
to get his cock all the way in Ardashir and break him wide open and watch him
howl and twist and piss himself with his eyes rolled back in his head when he
comes. Part of making that happen is keeping him stretched even when he’s
whimpering and clenching down, digging his fingers deeper into Ardashir until
they’re in up to the base knuckle and twisting them sideways to widen him the
other way.
“Gerolt,” Ardashir whines. His nails dig into Gerolt’s thighs. “I’m—why did you
stop,”
“I don’t want you squirting in your breeches,” Gerolt growls back. Ardashir
goes still, and then sniffs, horrified.
“I,” he says, “Would not.”
“You fucking would, you did it two days ago, and I’m not cleaning up the
floor.” Ardashir always makes such a mess. His cunt and ass might be vice tight
but he can’t hold his piss, because he’s a disgusting mess. “Wait until I’m
done.”
“Pull your hand out, then.”
Gerolt doesn’t. Instead, he stretches his pinky back to circle the pucker of
Ardashir’s asshole, and gets the younger man’s breath hitching into a single
sob. And he goes back to reading, still digging two fingers way up into him,
pressing on his ass gently, the pucker pushing back, pulsing, breathing with
Ardashir. He waits until Ardashir is calm, not quite about to come, before he
grabs at his tit again, twisting his nipples until they’re all swollen under
the callused pads of Gerolt’s fingers, until Ardashir is moaning to please and
stop and he’s all slick again.
He finally finishes the letter.
“It’s trash,” he tells Ardashir. “Old bastard’s gone batty.”
“He’s always been batty.” Gerolt hates how calm and collected Ardashir can
sound, even when he’s just been moaning and keening for nearly twenty minutes,
riding Gerolt’s hand like he’s about to burst, panting and gasping but still
cool-headed. “Now he’s just senile.” Gerolt sometimes forgets why he likes
Ardashir so much. It’s times like this, their mutual loathing for Jalzahn, that
remind him. That, and the kid can suck cock like it’s a sport and he’s a
champion. “Are you going to make me come or do I need to go deal with this mess
myself?”
“Quit your whining,” Gerolt tells him, and he pulls his hands back, grabs
Ardashir’s hips, and lifts the brat up off of his lap. Ardashir weighs nothing,
nothing compared to iron and steel and hammers, so Gerolt can throw him around
like a doll, and he dumps him onto the table.
In the dim half-light from the taper Gerolt was reading by, Ardashir’s eyes are
so blown they’re black. His skin, pale, is heated the heady red of a good plum
wine, and his lips are swollen from where he’s been biting them. His jacket’s
fallen completely off to the table behind him, and his shirt is all rucked up
above his tits, framing them, tiny and perky and red as hell.
Gerolt, not for the first time, feels a hot pulse of something inside him when
he thinks about what they’d be like swollen and heavy with milk. He’d spend
hours massaging them, making them stop being sore. He’d suck them dry. It’s
become the fantasy he wanks to when he’s busy in Hyrstmill on kettles and
Ardashir is off doing whatever the hell it is annoying smart-mouthed kids do—he
sits in his cabin and fucks into his (not-tight-enough, now he’s felt what it’s
like inside Ardashir) fist and thinks about Ardashir with his tiny tits bulging
and heavy and soft, but no larger, his long, red nipples dripping milk, begging
Gerolt to make them stop being so sore and achey. He would need a hand with
them. He would need Gerolt’s mouth.
But now, Ardashir is on his table, kicking down his breeches, toeing off his
shoes to the floor, and spreading his thighs, his hands planted on the wood.
Gerolt grabs him by the hips and hauls him to the edge of the table, presses a
kiss right at the dip of his sternum between his breasts, and then lifts him up
off of the tabletop, hooks Ardashir’s knees over his shoulders.
“You couldn’t care less about my breeches,” Ardashir says, grabbing Gerolt’s
head as Gerolt leans down between his legs, scraping his beard over Ardashir’s
slender thighs. Gerolt’s hands reach all the way around them without
stretching, and the hair on them is downy and almost-blond and soft, smooth,
like his skin is. Gerolt loves it. He loves how soft Ardashir’s body is, and
how deadly sharp the precision of his mind. “You just want me to piss in your
mouth.”
“Waste not want not,” Gerolt says, and spreads the lips of Ardashir’s cunt,
slides two fingers back into him, and presses the heel of his palm just above
the top of his pubic bone, against the bulge of his full bladder. Ardashir
hardly needs help—he can’t hold it. He pisses when he comes, and Gerolt loves
it. He loves seeing his partner, this internationally renown genius, gifted
beyond all imagining, uptight and perfect and controlling and idealistic and
stiff soaked in his own urine, flushed and crying, his cunt dripping wet and
his clit huge and hard. It gets Gerolt off just as hard as Ardashir’s puckered
lips and tight throat and talented, silver tongue on his cock does, just to see
him debased, humiliated, ruined. Gerolt would love to make Ardashir piss
himself in front of all the stupid Sharlayan scholars.
Maybe then they’d see what a nasty, spoiled, disgusting child Gerolt has to put
up with.
“Yes,” Ardashir moans when Gerolt gets his mouth on his clit, rocking up off of
the desk into his mouth. This close to coming his clit is tiny and throbbing
hard, and Gerolt licks under the hood, scraping his teeth over the top just to
hear Ardashir wail, his voice cracking two octaves higher than he speaks. “Yes,
Gerolt, please—“ his moans ratcheting up and up, keening wildly, holding onto
Gerolt’s neck for dear life, heels digging bruises into the muscles of his
back.
Gerolt loves eating him out. It’s not so much unlike making a weapon, where he
has to do all the right moves at all the right time and the end result is
beautiful—he has to curl his fingers just so, suck on Ardashir’s clit too fast
and too hard, tongue-fuck him, dig his fingers into his clenching ass, abrade
his thighs, and just make a mess of both of them. He loves licking into
Ardashir, feeling how hot and tight and soft he is inside, loves the slick mess
Ardashir turns into for him. He loves the way that, for once, Ardashir stops
knowing how to think or speak and everything that comes out is praise for
Gerolt.
“Your tongue is so good,” and “Oh, your fingers are so big, yes, fuck me with
them more,” and “Please suck on my clit please suck on my clit thank you thank
you thank you,” and “Oh, gods, I need to come, please, please let me, can I,”
when he’s close, begging, his hips thrusting into Gerolt’s mouth.
Gerolt slides a third finger into him, turns them so he can press up hard on
the inside of Ardashir’s bladder, digs his other hand in from the top, and
slides his mouth so he can probe Ardashir’s urethra with his tongue, pressing
into the hole. It’s tiny, but when he sucks on it, tongues over it, teeth
scraping over the hood of Ardashir’s clit the younger man shrieks, his voice
shrill and cracking, and comes so hard he bucks up off of the table. He’s
twisted, almost in agony, and he keeps riding the high, shaking, clenching so
tight he forces Gerolt’s fingers all back out of him, not enough room.
And he pisses, too. Squirts right into Gerolt’s mouth, hot and sweet. It’s
perfect, he loves it, groans into Ardashir’s mound and presses down harder to
get him to pee more, hot spurts of his own ejaculation right into Gerolt’s
mouth, rolling his hips down and shaking as he tries to get away, moaning
mindlessly. He’s gone over the edge and into another, and Gerolt starts to lap
him clean, chasing trembling, slides his fingers back into Ardashir, digs his
thumb into his urethra, pinches the sensitive skin between thumb and
forefinger, tugging out on him.
“Gerolt, I can’t—“ Ardashir starts, and Gerolt hums, bites none-too-gently on
his clit, and sends him over the edge again, forcinghis hand to stay in this
time, stroking over that spot inside Ardashir that makes him tremble and moan.
“Keep thinking about getting my whole fucking hand in your tiny cunt,” Gerolt
murmurs, twisting his fingers, scissoring them, pulling Ardashir open, as wide
as he’ll get. “And fucking you with my fist. Then we’ll see how tight you are
after I’m done.”
“Fuck,” Ardashir swears, and cries as he rolls into another, his knees hitched
up past Gerolt’s head, digging into his skull, while Gerolt keeps eating him
out, sucking on his clit and watching his face as it turns ugly and red and
sweaty, his hair come loose and plastered to his face and neck and shoulders
and chest.
He’s so beautiful. So perfect and fucking beautiful, inside and out. He’s so
smart he could take the whole world over and half the shit that comes out of
his mouth Gerolt doesn’t even think is words, but he is perfect. And this
perfect, star-brilliant spoiled brat is Gerolt’s, every day of every week. He
loves it.
“Stop, fuck you,” Ardashir finally manages, voice shaking, shoving on Gerolt’s
head. “Stop it. Fuck.” Gerolt leans back, breathless, into the chair, lets
Ardashir’s legs slide back down off of his shoulders, and Gerolt watches as he
lays sprawled boneless in his dishabille on the tabletop, idly pulling stray
hairs from where they’ve stuck to his skin. Ardashir, he thinks, often enough,
is most beautiful like this, when all his walls come down and he’s just
himself.
Ardashiver eventually sits up to shuck his shirt, and Gerolt’s own nipples
twinge in sympathy at how red and swollen he’s left Ardashir’s. Gerolt will
make it up to him later—maybe when they go to bed he’ll pin Ardashir down into
the sheets and worship his tits until he comes just like that without even a
hand on his clit. Gerolt can wrap around behind him and slide his thigh between
his legs afterward, grind up into him, let Ardashir ride the friction and shake
apart in his arms with his poor achey little tits all swollen in Gerolt’s
hands.
“Ugh,” Ardashir says, as Gerolt shoves his own pants down, pulls his cock out.
“You really made a mess; I need to go piss properly.”
“Have to drink more first,” Gerolt points out. Ardashir drinks a lot more these
days, since Gerolt likes making him squirt when he comes. Ardashir scowls at
him, reaches for his cock with his feet.
Ardashir’s feet are smaller than his cock.
Gerolt really likes that.
He rubs the sole of one foot over the head of Gerolt’s cock, nudges the other
up the underside, and Gerolt thrusts up into it, grunting. It’s nice, nice to
see Ardashir back in control of everything again after Gerolt’s broken him
down, and he sneers when Gerolt swears under his breath.
“This is silly,” he says, sliding off of the table and onto Gerolt’s lap,
straddling his hips. He grabs the back of Gerolt’s neck in one hand, his
shoulder in the other, for balance, and leans up to kiss him. “You taste like
piss,” Ardashir mutters when they break.
“No shit,” Gerolt replies, grabbing his narrow hips. He can—almost—wrap his
hands around Ardashir’s waist. It’s such a near thing he sometimes tries to
stretch it. Ardashir tilts his hips back, pressing his feet against the back of
Gerolt’s chair, and slides forward, shifting back and forth to get Gerolt’s
cock nestled up in the lips of his cunt, still hot and wet even after Gerolt
cleaned him up. It feels so fucking good—he’s like burning velvet down there,
sucking and slick, and the sounds that Gerolt’s cock makes sliding through
Ardashir’s slick and piss and his own saliva are positively obscene.
Gerolt just sets the pace he wants back, Ardashir gasping encouragements into
his mouth, pulling him down and closer and clenching against him. Every time he
pulls the younger man up and the head of his dick grinds over Ardashir’s clit
he makes this little punched-out noise and quivers. Gerolt chases that, making
Ardashir shake all over as he chases his own high. When he’s getting close,
thrusting and grinding and tasting the heat of it in the pit of his stomach, he
lifts Ardashir up.
“In you, want to be in you,” Gerolt says, and Ardashir grabs his shoulders.
“Yes, yes,” he says, and opens himself with his other hand, spreads his lips as
wide as he can. Gerolt lines him up and then tugs him down, and the first
stretch makes Ardashir sob, crying out, his eyes wide and his throat bobbing.
He stills, stretching, making room, and then—
And then the head, just barely the head, of Gerolt’s dick pops into him. He
thrusts up, up, into Ardashir, and the younger man is shaking, swallowing,
drooling from his open mouth. He’s pressing the heel of his hand to his
stomach, to where Gerolt is breaking him open. They still haven’t managed to
get him all the way onto Gerolt’s dick (and not for lack of trying) but even
this is so much. He’s so fucking tight and hot inside that Gerolt’s eyes are
crossing. It’s like flipping a switch inside, fucking Ardashir’s teeny tiny
little cunt. Everything is too much all at once, and Gerolt is so close to
coming he’s not sure he’s breathing.
“Yes,” Ardashir whimpers, biting his swollen lower lip, tears dripping over his
cheeks, “Oh, yes, Gerolt, put it in me, fucking. Come in me, I want you to come
in me, I want—“
Gerolt kisses him, feels Ardashir grab at the back of his head, arch up into
him, his tiny hard nipples brushing against Gerolt’s chesthair, the friction
making Ardashir shudder, and then grabs his hips and abruptly jerks him down.
It’s like fucking one of those fake-vaginas, all soft rubber inside a tube,
only tighter, impossibly tight. Ardashir weighs nothing and he’s hot and tight
as sin, and Gerolt fucks him as hard and as fast as he wants, digging deeper
and deeper as Ardashir’s eyes roll back in his head and he grins wildly,
panting a mantra of yes yes yes yes yes ruin my cunt come on fucking ruin it
and Gerolt finally pulls him as far down as he’ll go, until he stops, and
presses their foreheads together.
“Fucking,” Gerolt manages, and comes inside him. Ardashir’s breathing is
hysterical, and in the morning Gerolt is going to have welts on his back and
neck from his nails. Gerolt keeps coming, his cock hurting from how tight
Ardashir is, pulling out and fucking in again a little deeper. They kiss,
sloppy and wet, and then again, as Gerolt pulls him a little lower, moves his
hand over to feel the bulge of his cockhead inside of Ardashir.
“No deeper,” Ardashir whimpers. “I can’t,” Yet, yet, they both know it’s a
matter of yet.Gerolt’s cock is bigger around than the widest part of Ardashir’s
hand, and he can almost get that in himself. Soon enough. “I love your cum,” he
whimpers, kissing Gerolt again.
“Gotta piss,” Gerolt tells him, after he’s finished. Ardashir starts to say
“Pull out,” but Gerolt ignores him, and pisses inside him instead, pinches his
clit, and pulls.
And it’s like that he gets to watch Ardashir come apart, screaming with want,
his red nipples bouncing, as Gerolt pisses inside him, filling him up, making
his cunt so full he can probably feel it.
When Gerolt does pull out, urine and semen drip between Ardashir’s legs,
splattering the chair, to the floor. All over Gerolt’s pants, too.
“I thought,” Ardashir says, as Gerolt coaxes him back onto the table, spreads
his thighs, goes down to clean up the mess he just made (his favorite part,
when he can slide three fingers inside Ardashir’s cunt after he’s wrecked it
with his cock, and can taste himself mixed with Ardashir’s own slick and cum,
and eat him out until he’s all loose and pliant again), “You said you didn’t
want to make a mess of my breeches.”
“Yours,” Gerolt replies, sliding his tongue between his fingers to get his cum
out of Ardashir. “Never said shite about mine.”
Afterward, when Ardashir has left, trembling on wobbly knees like a newborn
fawn, naked and slightly bow-legged and wincing with every step, Gerolt picks
up the letter from Jalzahn, which has now been rendered almost illegible in the
most part from the sheer amount of bodily fluid that’s smeared the ink. The
last sentence is still legible, though—just enough to see that Jalzahn has
written that if Gerolt has any requests for an alchemist of his calibre, to
send them over.
Gerolt has an idea.
You old fuck, he writes, can you make a ploughing potion that gets tits milky.
Nobody ever said he was poetic.
End Notes
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