Chapter Text
He knows the rules. Z’ahzi, dressed in his all white armor, the seal of the democratic republic newly established sitting right over his heart, kneels in the wide, open hall of the cathedral. He was told to be in his best and he would never disappoint the Lord Commander. Not when he had so lovingly placed the silver hairpin around his ear, the blue earring now the same as Aymeric’s token gems themselves.
A staple. A claim. A proclamation. He is under Ser Aymeric de Borel’s banner. He is not yours to touch.
The thought makes Z’ahzi shiver, head bowed low as the saints loom above him. He is on display for the Gods, ready for judgement from the Fury itself. Halone, his deity, has never left him bereft before, sticking to his side as the snow sticks to Ishgard’s cobblestone. He knows this is where he is meant to be, offered as a hero and painted as the lover the Commander was never allowed to have. Always in secrecy, always behind closed doors, now free to bloom and grow and shine like the Light Hydaylen had blessed him with.
Maybe that’s why Aymeric stands before him, his own regalia changed for the occasion. Blue and white and black mixed with the gold of the prophets, the bishops, the clergy. Z’ahzi can only see his boots, but the gold that’s reflected there is a marvel to look at. It winds upwards in a dragon's image, spiraling around the leather with its claws and maw morphing at the top. It’s tail trails downwards, wrapping around until it melds together into a golden band around the sole, the ( very high ) heel accented with two small wings.
He would never have noticed unless he was here, willing for his sacrament.
Z’ahzi keeps his head down. Aymeric had told him before they began, gentle hands tender as they fixed his hair into place, holding his jaw in a means of comfort. “You cannot look up at me until I say so,” he began, softened eyes half-lidded. “Nor can you speak. When you take the goblet of wine, you will thank me before drinking. And when you do,” He had paused, leaning down so as to let lips barely brush his own, soft and inviting and tinted with gloss. “You will swallow.”
“Z’ahzi Nunh,” Aymeric starts, voice boisterous and loud; the voice of a politician, strong in conviction and purpose. It brings him back to the present, willing the heat curling in his belly to leave so he may focus.
Please.
“House Fortemps Knight and bringer of peace to the Dragonsong War, do you take unto thee the commitment to our congregation, our Saints, and the duty of Halonic worship?”
He knows the words, has been reciting them for the past hour in his head. “I willingly submit myself to the Fury for judgement and clearance so that I may follow Halone and serve Ishgard as a member of Her clergy.”
Aymeric’s next words are shaky, barely restrained. “Then rise, Z’ahzi, and take your place at Halone’s side.”
Golden eyes look upwards in awe and reverence as the light behind Aymeric shines in a halo’d ring around his head. It’s blinding, and Z’ahzi keeps his stare level. It isn’t until a shining goblet is offered before him that he snaps from the daze of his lover shrouded in light, hands outstretching to gracefully accept the wine. “Blessed thanks to you, Lord Commander.” The words taste sweet as Aymeric’s eyes darken. He breathes out, velvet and hitched, “
Drink.
”
Lips part around the cool metal, dark red wine flowing down his throat and settling heavy in his stomach. It’s warm, and the answering hum he gives is purposefully exaggerated, fingers curling over Aymeric’s own as he swallows mouthful after mouthful. The cup shakes, and Z’ahzi fears the other will drop it in his haste to be done with this, but the moment it tilts upwards and the last bit of wine touches his tongue, the Elezen tosses the goblet to the ground, the loud clang ringing out in the ornate, vaulted halls.
There is no pause after that, the Lord Commander’s hands pulling Z’ahzi up and close. He presses their bodies together as he half leans down and the Warrior of Light is pulled to bend knee; a Knight to his Lord, a servant to the Most Holy.
Lips meet hungry and hard, the taste of wine shared sweetly between them. Aymeric keeps Z’ahzi’s mouth open and busy, sweeping his tongue across each of his lips, top and bottom, and delving inside to lick at the roof of his mouth. The Miqo’te can’t keep up, hands frozen and body strung tight. Everything is on fire - his lips, his cheeks, his chest, his thighs. It curls like a vice around him, lighting up in his abdomen and setting nerves on edge. Aymeric isn’t backing off, the small moments in between bruising kisses used to breath raggedly, once, before stealing it away again. It’s all open-mouthed pants and the slick sound of lips and tongues, loud squelches as they desperately try to get closer, Aymeric intent on pulling Z’ahzi’s tongue down his own throat if he has to.
“
Ah
- Aymeric.” He’s helpless to the growl that echoes against his lips, the hungry breaths puffing against his overheated skin. His armor feels too small, and his cock presses heavy and hard against the seam of his pants. “L-Lord Commander, I -”
“Open up for me, Knight.”
Oh
. Z’ahzi’s heart skips a beat. “I want to see your
dedication
to your Commander.”
Hands instantly reach to pull off his gauntlets, shucking the armor away so as to better feel the other. They latch to Aymeric’s belt and trousers, tugging desperately once, twice, three times before the buckle falls loose and Z’ahzi reverently falls back to his haunches, pulling Aymeric close by the back of his thighs, squeezing.
Red, wet lips part, reverent and in awe. Aymeric mutters a soft, winded “Gods,” before a half-gloved hand reaches to pull down his own boxers, the other gripping the base of his cock.
Z’ahzi’s mouth waters, hungry. Golden eyes look at the devastated, wrecked look on Aymeric’s face and decides he wants this man undone and let loose. He wants Halone to witness their sins, witness the culmination of want and love and everything Aymeric has been told was
wrong
. He smirks.
“Blessed thanks to you, Lord Commander.” Halone take me.
He swears he hears Aymeric pray as he swallows him down as easily as the wine.
His lover’s cock fills his mouth exactly as he wants it, hot and heavy and big enough to stretch his jaw. Soft, plush lips rub slightly raw against the Elezen’s skin, the subtle scent of sweat cloying his senses as they meet Aymeric’s dark black curls. Hands wrap around thighs with a vice-like grip, his throat spasming as the head hits the back a little too fast, too hard. Z’ahzi disregards it, forcing himself to open up and swallow once, twice. He can’t breathe, face growing hot and spit pooling at the tip of his tongue, collecting in the dip it makes as he tries to make room.
“Look at you,” Aymeric’s voice is wrecked beyond belief, cracking on the last word and damn near ragged with his breathing. Z’ahzi watches through blurry version as the Lord Commander sucks on his bottom lip, eyes wide and dark and full of so much want the Warrior of Light is sure he’ll drown in it. There’s no place he’d rather be, no one he’d rather be on his knees for, than the Elezen looking down at him in lust, in love, in trust. When was the last time Aymeric was able to do this freely? When was the last time he could indulge in his own wants?
To hell with prayer. He wants Aymeric to pray to him from now on.
A hand cups his jaw, stroking along his freckled cheek. The thumb, calloused and worn from the use of his sword, showing just how strong Aymeric really is - not just a pretty politician, as his appearance would have you believe - swipes up the stray tears Z’ahzi blinks away like they were something precious, special; a testament to his devotion in the face of this new religion of love.
The Miq’ote closes his eyes then, sliding off slowly before diving back in, the slick sounds muffled as he picks up speed. Aymeric gasps unbidden, hips rolling on the second bob of his head that quickly sends Z’ahzi moaning in surprise even as a wet, choked gurgle breaks from his throat. He has to pull off then, looking up through half-lidded eyes for confirmation, permission. Aymeric, to his absolute delight, had replaced the lip he had been biting red with his hand, his own cheeks stained a dark, deep rose. His dark brows are lifted upward just slightly, scrunched in the middle just so. He’s already lost to the feeling and his proud, hungry knight feels heat blossom in his chest.
“You can do that, y’know.” Fuck, his voice is strained and raw, aching and similar to the sound the salt rocks make when ground together. “Fuck my mouth. I know you want to . I want you to.”
The hand on his jaw grips tight, fingers pressing to the soft underside of his chin, fondly playing with the blonde hair there. Such gentle actions are nearly forgotten with the needy, winded “Gods above,” Aymeric
whimpers
out flutters across the space between them. “I’ve never wanted anything more.” His demeanor changes instantly, the grip turning bruising as he presses forcefully against the hinge of the other’s jaw. “To have you, like this. To have your lips stretched around my cock in the halls of our Saints. You are divine; holy above all else and Gods, what would I do to show them all how
heavenly
you really are.”
Z’ahzi flushes hard under the praise, dick jumping in his pants. He can’t speak with his jaw pressed open, only groans appreciatively from the back of his raw throat, tongue lolling forward and dribbling spit across the ornate tiles.
Aymeric breathes in sharply. He preens.
I am your God now.
It’s only a matter of seconds before his Commander is guiding his cock back to his open, waiting mouth, wet and warm and starved for the taste of him. This time, when lips close around the head and tongue flicks against the thick drabbles of pre, Aymeric doesn’t stop himself from rolling forwards, hips smoothly thrusting in just an inch or two before backing off. Z’ahzi’s head feels light from it all, heart pounding in his chest as the speed picks up, jaw relaxing and throat opening as wide as he can to accept the length easing itself further in. Aymeric’s breathing grows heavy and loud, the sway of his armor echoing in the relative silence. It lulls the blonde into a trance, eyes closing once again to focus on the feeling of his lover thrusting into the back of his throat.
Faster now, Aymeric carding one hand through his hair, the other pressing against his cheek. His fingers tighten their hold simultaneously, twisting in his locks and tugging with every second that ticks by. Z’ahzi moans in encouragement, moans as Aymeric’s hips stutter, the muffled gags causing him to go faster, harder. The Miqo’te’s hands dig into the other’s thighs, eagerly leaning forward to take as much as he can, as hard as he can. “
Ahzi
,” Aymeric whines, so close now even as the Warrior grinds his own arousal into the seam of his pants. “Ahzi, Ahzi,
Ah-h-h-
zi.”
Come for me,
he thinks, knees aching and throat spasming around the warm cock in his mouth.
Make a mess for Halone to see.
The other man spends like it’s dragged from him, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum down the slide of Z’ahzi’s throat. He swallows eagerly, hands clawing into the back of Aymeric’s thighs to get every last drop. The man above chokes on a gasp, hands now both tugging at blonde strands as if to say no, enough , even as he continues to cum. Z’ahzi’s throat tightens around his cock, greedy as he sucks down everything the Elezen is willing to give - and then some. Halone, forgive me, he thinks, eyes opening as Aymeric grows soft and overstimulated, the last few weak pulses of his cock pitiful. This man was never yours. The Miqo’te takes a moment to breathe, skin like a wildfire as dazed eyes look up to see the setting sun blossom behind the other’s head, saintly and divine in a veil of light.
A perfect devotee to his new form of Sacrament. In this we pray.
“Aymeric,” he whines, his own hard cock straining the stark white of his formal pants. The name comes out strained, breathy and light and breaking at the edges. “Commander, I need you.”
A
clack
as knees fall to the tiled floor, two roughened palms cupping the sides of his face before lips are stolen in a bruising kiss. Aymeric wastes no time in staking his claim, tongue pushing past already lax and swollen lips to lick away at the taste of himself still clinging to his tongue, his throat. Z’ahzi groans, soft hums that continue to fall off into nothing as Aymeric does all that he can to remove the evidence of his own sinful sacrifice.
Of his sacrilege.
When he’s laid out beneath him, tiles cold at his back as Knight’s regalia is tossed aside, the last thing he sees is the halo of light from before, falling in dappled rays across his body and the purple, black, yellow bruises Aymeric leaves behind, eyes shining with nothing but want.
Amen.