Taste of Metal

By: Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-

Author Notes: Yeah, Kink Meme again. I know, I know.

Warnings: Blood Play, Knife Play, orgasming without sex (you go, Iggy. You are good at what you do.)

Kink Meme Prompt: Ignis loves to make art with his daggers. His past lovers have always shied away from it, but Noctis doesn't mind to be a canvas.

Bonus points if Ignis got into it because he loved Noct's scar from the Marilith. Bonus points if they don't heal it and they make it into a scarification kink. My eternal soul if Ignis can get Noct off without having to do anything but let his blades and voice touch Noct.

Ignis was a master of the daggers. He knew the way they felt in his hands, the power between his fingers as he gently caressed the steel. It had been his friend, his companion, his lover since he was just a boy of thirteen, a boy with too many hopes and dreams of protecting his prince.

Clarus Amicitia had brought him to the Crownsguard training center, opening the door to the armory, and allowed him his choice of weapons. There were bulky claymores, piercing rapiers, guns of every caliber. There were arrows with poison-tipped heads, maces and flails with blunt and spiked edges, even gloves with claws protruding from the knuckles. Any of them, all of them—whatever called to Ignis, whatever sung to him its sweet, intoxicating melody.

The daggers were what called to him. The perfect weight of them, the single wing upon the crossguards, the fuller that dipped deep and filled with blood; it was all so elegant and it spoke to Ignis. It called to him like a lover, and Ignis was not hesitant in reaching out. The King's insignia, the small piece of blue crystal that laced its way into the metal and glinted in the light, felt warm in Ignis's hand.

And they reminded him of the knot of scars across Noctis's back, the way the tang felt against his fingers.

They were perfect.

Those scars against Noct's back, the ones he hated so passionately and yet loved just as fiercely—they were art. Somewhere in Ignis's mind, somewhere forbidden and untoward, he could see those scars and remember the ways his skin had stitched back together, how beautiful it was to watch life fight against death. He had watched strength, salvation, mercy in those scars, and had fallen in love with them all the same.

When he later showed his daggers to Noct, the boy had smiled and reached out, running his finger across the blade. He didn't make a sound as the blade cut into his soft flesh, leaving a line of swelling red when he lifted his hand. Warm, sticky blood bubbled up to the surface and slid down Noct's finger, down his wrist. Ignis had dropped the dagger to grab his prince's bleeding hand. He had lifted it to his lips and felt that warm blood against his mouth, the metal taste of blood and steel.

He was careful, after that. He never allowed himself to use the daggers too close to Noct, because Noct was a curious boy and Ignis couldn't help but to remember the way his blood tasted on his tongue, how his skin parted as he lapped at the cut. The scar was still there on Noct's finger, a pearly white reminder to him, the one that spoke of a sinful shame that he could not fight.

He had done that.

And he had loved it.

Finding another who was interested in the same tastes as Ignis… it was challenging. By the time he was nineteen, there had been a handful of lovers who had touched him, who had taken him and he had taken them, but none were interested in the way the blade sung in his hand, how it begged to whisper its own sweet pain against their flesh. One lover, a young maid, had panicked when Ignis had so much as suggested it, and he had to pass it off as a joke before she would even let him leave her apartment.

She hadn't lasted. None of them had. It was too intense, too insane, too twisted and disturbing.

That had stung; did no one understand him? He did not want to make them hurt, had no interest in doing harm to them. No; he was a master of his daggers and he wanted others to feel that pleasure, to understand the hum of magic as he pressed the point against flesh and watched the skin part for him. He wanted them to feel the warmth as the blood began to rush, as he slid it down their skin.

He wanted Noctis to understand.

And he had. Noctis was the only one who had ever understood Ignis for who he was, for what he was, for what he loved.

Noctis took as much pleasure as Ignis could give in the twisted desire of metal upon flesh, of the sweet dragging of hard blade against the sensitive flesh at Noctis's back, the red lines like paint strokes against a pale, perfect canvas. Noctis could not see himself, could not truly understand how beautiful he was laid out against the black silk bedsheets. But Ignis wanted to let him know in other ways, even if Noctis could not see. No, it was Ignis's job to allow Noctis to feel it in every stroke of his blade.

"How does this feel, Noct?" Ignis asked as he gently leaned forward, letting his breath whisper against his lover's spine. He could see the movement under skin, the ripple of his bones against the pale milky expanse of flesh. Ignis had already poured potion across Noctis's spine, watching the traces of their last session disappear from his skin. Now there was only the cuts they had chosen to keep, the ones that were like branches from the trunk of the scar across his back, the leaves and bramble that were delicately engraved upon his skin in pearlescent sheen.

"Ahh, good," Noctis acknowledged, and Ignis smiled as he leaned down to lick and nip at the tender flesh. Noctis keened forward, his hips making a delicate arc into the bed. However, Ignis did not reach forward to run his hands along Noct's shaking thighs. No, instead he picked up the dagger and pressed against Noctis's shoulder blade, watching as the tip disappeared into willing flesh.

Noctis hissed as Ignis slowly pulled the knife down, blood gently dripping down his shoulders and toward the small of his back, where it dribbled down the gnarled flesh of a decade old wound and pooled. Ignis reached down and let his fingers swirl in the blood, letting his nail drag against the skin below. While the blood was beautiful, it was the knife against skin that gave him true pleasure.

"Tell me what you want." Ignis always asked, and Noctis always replied, so earnest and honest.

"Mark me."

Ignis leaned down and dipped his tongue against the parted flesh, listened to Noctis whimper against the sheets though he did not move. His hands knew the planes of Noct's back, the scars they had created together, and he knew exactly the place Noctis enjoyed the most. It was just under the healed scar tissue of the Marilith wound, where his spine had knotted and the magic of his line had coalesced to protect him.

The sounds Noctis made were like sweet music, a melody only for him. No one else would be allowed to hear the moans as he gripped his fingers in the winding sheets. No one else would be privileged to see the arch of his neck as he turned his head to look up at Ignis through thick lashes. No one else could watch as his teeth bit into the soft flesh as Ignis dug his dagger in deeper, the way Noctis begged for him, and for only him.

Ignis wanted to kiss those bitten lips, but knew not to until their ritual was complete, until his blade had run across the tender, baby-soft flesh and down to his side. He knew what Noctis wanted, what he himself needed, and he did not stop in his artistry until Noctis let out one last, shuddering gasp as he came onto the sheets, mouth parted and willing.

He tasted Noctis's blood on his tongue as he let go of the knife and kissed his lover's mouth, pressing his chest against Noctis's back. The warmth of the blood, the way Noctis's shuddering felt against his own body—Noctis was his canvas, his beautiful masterpiece.

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