That's because I finished my finals this morning. It was pretty much a breeze.
[ Noctis says casually -- he'd been giving him cake and sex for the past three years, ever since he'd been legal enough to be tossed onto nearest flat surface and to give Ignis just about the greatest sex of his life, sweetness flavored with the spice of their kisses after the older man had set about religiously cleaning out the ovens, much to his chagrin. The one time Noctis employed a part time maid to clean it out, Ignis had regarded that a personal, profound insult and the ensuing sex had not been as great as Noctis had wanted it, and so this year will be perfect.
Store-bought cake from Ignis' favorite bakery -- he'd divined it from the way Ignis used to glance especially at it whenever they pass by, and then a schoolboy uniform for Noctis, right down to the exact button and design, and Ignis' own outfit (dont ask how he got it, he just did) waiting for him in their shared bed room. Shoes, vest, the same painstakingly ironed shirt and trousers, all fitting, all made to match.
He forces his attention back on the game, as if it's just another schoolnight, hiding the avid anticipation that buzzes in his veins, excitement tempered with nervousness and the hope that Ignis likes it, all the same. They've rarely ever tried roleplay, especially in this kind of setting, but Ignis had obliged with the whole Assassin's Creed thing, right down to sewing the costume for him, so he figures they can give this another shot, right?
He looks up, and with some stretch of the imagination can be mistaken for 15 again -- after all, he's still disconcertingly pretty, and if this is the moment that Ignis had loved and wanted him, well, he's entirely into it. He leans back, patting the couch. ]
You got something waiting for you in the bedroom. Why don't you check out what that is, then come join me later?
[ Gods, he hopes Ignis gets the idea, because if not, he's going to feel really, really stupid. ]
[ Subverting his usual antics, Ignis keeps up that bewildered look, half-shadowed in the corridor like he's got half a mind to step back into the recesses and redo his entry. The whole time he's scarcely moved, trying to reconcile Noctis, fresh-faced and smiling, with the sleeves-rolled-up-to-his-elbows sort of panache that's currently slowing down his sense of time. He makes an awfully nice sight, like the misshapen cakes Noctis used to make a little more than two birthdays ago. There'a reason he's kept to a hard-backed insistence to be the one to scrub off the mess after than some maid who wouldn't grasp the sentiment of it.
(But he's always stunned by the king's son, really, fifteen or twenty-one or eight years old behind his father's mantle, caught off guard and lured into terrible bouts of weakness when Noct bats his eyes, draped over the couch just so, hot with implication, which just goes to show you that schoolboys can never be trusted.) Anything less than total compliance now is going to shatter Noct's heart if it doesn't get to his own first, and Ignis tepidly coughs into one closed fist, well and truly embarrassed. ]
Then, if you'll excuse me.
[ How he's able to manage crossing the loft without losing his composure is a feat he can't figure out for himself, down the corridor and their bedroom. Fifteen minutes and some casually quiet interlude later, and he's headed back, just that side of modest, donned in the suit (the one that's always borne more than a passing resemblance to waitstaff). The cockatiel hair's gone, combed out for the softer look, even if he feels every bit the young adult and not the teenager he'd been, at the prince's beck-and-call for the weekly report.
So Noct's disconcertingly pretty. On normal days, he's typically better about separating his work life from the disgusting mess of fondness that gripped him in his presence, but there's no such restraint now, easing into the seat beside him on the couch, ]
Went snooping about my drawers for my unmentionables, did you?
[ Kidding, kidding. It's not like Noctis needs more than a shirt and a pair of trousers to get his measurements, boxed in like some crisply-dressed bird of prey after its target. His hand comes awfully close to riding Noct's knee, but only just so, falling short to afford the upholstery between them a good, firm pat. ]
[ Speaking of disconcertingly pretty, Ignis is a key contender for that observation as well. His hair, loose and soft over his forehead, lending Ignis a gentler, younger look that sends hearts racing. He's the very definition of pretty, with beautiful features. Noctis forgets what he's doing when the older man steps back into view after an extended period of silence -- a part of him had been deathly worried that Ignis would hate it, and it took everything in him to stay put, to put his faith in the fact that Ignis would indulge him everything and deny him nothing, and Noctis won't earn a lifelong enemy or be subject to Ignis' betrayed, insulted face the way he had the debacle with the part time maid.
No, Ignis emerges, looking impeccable, and so much like what he had been those handful of years ago, when Ignis had been seventeen and had worked tirelessly to get Noctis to accept his destiny without fear. Noctis had rebelled a little then, hadn't he? And Ignis had pushed, and they had fought, even ift their fights never last past a day or so -- Noctis loves him too much to let him go. But the sight of him now makes his mouth dry, as he barely remembers to save his game before he sets to gawping. It fits, all of it fits to a charming tee, and if Ignis had been handsome before, he's gorgeous now, growing into his features, becoming more confident, and he fears Ignis can hear the way his heart so recklessly pounds, fierce and overwhelming.
Surely now, Ignis knows that Noctis intends to recreate the moment they had discovered the other is more than just a friend, attraction sparking to light like Prometheus had given them stolen flames of love instead, igniting a prodigious longing and desire that, on more than one occasion, renders Noctis entirely breathless. ][ Specs, a nickname relegated to his fifteen, sixteen, seventeen year old self, locked up like the rest of his too-small uniforms, and there's a familiarity to it that Noctis likes, and when he sits down, he makes space for him, only a touch disappointed that that warm, large hand hadn't landed on his leg.
Damn couch.
He scoots just a little closer, intent on keeping up this impromptu roleplay, and ridiculously pleased that Ignis has at least seen fit to play along. ]
[ Another good contender for unraveling his conscience: this tΓͺte-Γ -tΓͺte meted out when Noctis smiles just so, compelled to sweet-talk like nicknames and loaded questions, going for the killing shot when he hasn't even scraped his teeth over Ignis's jugular. He's close; their legs jostle against each other briefly, until Ignis readjusts so they're sitting side-by-side, kneecap to kneecap.
In the spirit of healthy competition, Ignis takes up the controller on the coffee table, fingers miming over the buttons (just muscle memory at the helm, honed from years of co-op challenges in the privacy of Noct's home). ]
Certainly. I'm not one to be taken lightly.
[ Like this isn't a loss by arrogance, when Noctis boasts the higher ground. Impertinence on the rise, but only just to affect a coolness that's no longer present in the face of great evil (and great love) like Noctis's batting eyelashes, long and spidering and dark. Ignis shakes the craftiness out of his shoulders for something a touch more genuine. Noct's seduced him tenderness, an act which apparently entails looking the man he did a few years back, who was admittedly a touch more neurotic than he's actually capable of being right now. He's long-since been broken in by love. The damage is done, and it's a fool errand's to try and be any different, but he makes a go of it, nonetheless. ]
How long has it been since I've eked a win out of you, again?
[ That's almost facetiousness right there. The image of Noct he's cooked up all day is a little different from the student persona Noct's currently affected, sleeves rolled up to bare the clear jut of bone beneath the skin of his wrist, the same one he thumbs across. Coincidentally, the same one that he kisses to bruise, when Noct's lured to sleep, folded up by his side as a dozing cat might. ]
I've got no choice but to show you up today as well.
[ The ball's in Noct's court and the real game hasn't even started. What a round. ]
[ No, Ignis definitely is not one to be taken lightly. Noctis still remembers all the times he and Prompto had dragged Ignis to the arcade, and the man had complained up until he whooped all their asses at the games they had worked so hard on, like it's some kind of magic, like he somehow practices in the secret of his home without their knowledge.
Honestly, they will never know. ]
Not as long as I'd like.
[ Noctis grumbles gently, like he isn't sitting with his knee pressed up against his, closer than he needs to be, like he isn't thrumming with anticipation, his mind more on the man beside him than the game he's playing. He's losing, steadily, but he doesn't care -- Ignis is playing along even though Noctis has just sprung this on him out of the blue; the man's improvisation skills is impressive, and he settles in with him, giving his knee a quick, discreet squeeze.
It's a clumsy form of seduction, perhaps -- but no less earnest for it. The ball is in his court, and Noctis waits until they've settled in to play (or, at least, enact a believable farce of it) before he decides to speak next, a script all laid out in his head. ]
Hey, Iggy? What do you do when you have a crush on someone, and you're dying to tell them?
[ There they go, the opening volley, a narrative that is reminiscent of the conversation they both had the other night, with Noctis curled up in his arms, practically curling like a contented cat, asking when Ignis had first realized he wanted him. Here they are, turning back the clock, re-setting the stage. Noctis is looking from his game to him, his expression a mask of innocent intent.
[ Maybe Prompto does, honing his skills with a controller late into the night at the detriment of sleep. Practice as opposed to talent, repetition to inborn skill. But Noct's honed the precarious juxtaposition between the two, bent in such a way that his knee benignly jostles his, that Ignis is disrupted from thinking up witty improv on his birthday in favor of intensely contemplating Noctis's fingertips where they're compliantly settled over the analog sticks. They're fine, tapered from tip to knuckle, the same ones he's seen gliding over the piano like it's a rushing current, or pushing their way inside him, and he visiblyβ visibly rights to attention when one hand grasps around his knee. He's being played; he can't help but be played when Noct's so winningly earnest, prodded like so many piano keys, and Ignis swallows, gaze trained back on the screen. ]
There's no sense in bottling it up, after a certain point. I believe even a passing fancy would show itself, eventually. A certain look, or gesture. [ Essentially, the point of no return, like the months and months leading up to his own confession, maddeningly aware of the insurrection of pining for the prince's heart, and doing nothing to avert it. He can't live it down, even now; at death's door he'll be the same, working against any interest in survival. It's all self-destruction from here on out. ] If you can't bring yourself to let go of it, there's really only one thing left to do.
[ Oh, he's blessed without recompense, just like he's cursed by this exhilaration that clarifies itself in his face when he glances down at him. Ignis is no longer that young boy with a backbone that bends at the first sign of trouble, but he's still just as naΓ―ve. Pledging his life to Noctis hasn't rendered him the least bit immune to his charms. ]
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no subject
[ Noctis says casually -- he'd been giving him cake and sex for the past three years, ever since he'd been legal enough to be tossed onto nearest flat surface and to give Ignis just about the greatest sex of his life, sweetness flavored with the spice of their kisses after the older man had set about religiously cleaning out the ovens, much to his chagrin. The one time Noctis employed a part time maid to clean it out, Ignis had regarded that a personal, profound insult and the ensuing sex had not been as great as Noctis had wanted it, and so this year will be perfect.
Store-bought cake from Ignis' favorite bakery -- he'd divined it from the way Ignis used to glance especially at it whenever they pass by, and then a schoolboy uniform for Noctis, right down to the exact button and design, and Ignis' own outfit (dont ask how he got it, he just did) waiting for him in their shared bed room. Shoes, vest, the same painstakingly ironed shirt and trousers, all fitting, all made to match.
He forces his attention back on the game, as if it's just another schoolnight, hiding the avid anticipation that buzzes in his veins, excitement tempered with nervousness and the hope that Ignis likes it, all the same. They've rarely ever tried roleplay, especially in this kind of setting, but Ignis had obliged with the whole Assassin's Creed thing, right down to sewing the costume for him, so he figures they can give this another shot, right?
He looks up, and with some stretch of the imagination can be mistaken for 15 again -- after all, he's still disconcertingly pretty, and if this is the moment that Ignis had loved and wanted him, well, he's entirely into it. He leans back, patting the couch. ]
You got something waiting for you in the bedroom. Why don't you check out what that is, then come join me later?
[ Gods, he hopes Ignis gets the idea, because if not, he's going to feel really, really stupid. ]
no subject
(But he's always stunned by the king's son, really, fifteen or twenty-one or eight years old behind his father's mantle, caught off guard and lured into terrible bouts of weakness when Noct bats his eyes, draped over the couch just so, hot with implication, which just goes to show you that schoolboys can never be trusted.) Anything less than total compliance now is going to shatter Noct's heart if it doesn't get to his own first, and Ignis tepidly coughs into one closed fist, well and truly embarrassed. ]
Then, if you'll excuse me.
[ How he's able to manage crossing the loft without losing his composure is a feat he can't figure out for himself, down the corridor and their bedroom. Fifteen minutes and some casually quiet interlude later, and he's headed back, just that side of modest, donned in the suit (the one that's always borne more than a passing resemblance to waitstaff). The cockatiel hair's gone, combed out for the softer look, even if he feels every bit the young adult and not the teenager he'd been, at the prince's beck-and-call for the weekly report.
So Noct's disconcertingly pretty. On normal days, he's typically better about separating his work life from the disgusting mess of fondness that gripped him in his presence, but there's no such restraint now, easing into the seat beside him on the couch, ]
Went snooping about my drawers for my unmentionables, did you?
[ Kidding, kidding. It's not like Noctis needs more than a shirt and a pair of trousers to get his measurements, boxed in like some crisply-dressed bird of prey after its target. His hand comes awfully close to riding Noct's knee, but only just so, falling short to afford the upholstery between them a good, firm pat. ]
no subject
No, Ignis emerges, looking impeccable, and so much like what he had been those handful of years ago, when Ignis had been seventeen and had worked tirelessly to get Noctis to accept his destiny without fear. Noctis had rebelled a little then, hadn't he? And Ignis had pushed, and they had fought, even ift their fights never last past a day or so -- Noctis loves him too much to let him go. But the sight of him now makes his mouth dry, as he barely remembers to save his game before he sets to gawping. It fits, all of it fits to a charming tee, and if Ignis had been handsome before, he's gorgeous now, growing into his features, becoming more confident, and he fears Ignis can hear the way his heart so recklessly pounds, fierce and overwhelming.
Surely now, Ignis knows that Noctis intends to recreate the moment they had discovered the other is more than just a friend, attraction sparking to light like Prometheus had given them stolen flames of love instead, igniting a prodigious longing and desire that, on more than one occasion, renders Noctis entirely breathless. ][ Specs, a nickname relegated to his fifteen, sixteen, seventeen year old self, locked up like the rest of his too-small uniforms, and there's a familiarity to it that Noctis likes, and when he sits down, he makes space for him, only a touch disappointed that that warm, large hand hadn't landed on his leg.
Damn couch.
He scoots just a little closer, intent on keeping up this impromptu roleplay, and ridiculously pleased that Ignis has at least seen fit to play along. ]
Wanna play with me?
no subject
In the spirit of healthy competition, Ignis takes up the controller on the coffee table, fingers miming over the buttons (just muscle memory at the helm, honed from years of co-op challenges in the privacy of Noct's home). ]
Certainly. I'm not one to be taken lightly.
[ Like this isn't a loss by arrogance, when Noctis boasts the higher ground. Impertinence on the rise, but only just to affect a coolness that's no longer present in the face of great evil (and great love) like Noctis's batting eyelashes, long and spidering and dark. Ignis shakes the craftiness out of his shoulders for something a touch more genuine. Noct's seduced him tenderness, an act which apparently entails looking the man he did a few years back, who was admittedly a touch more neurotic than he's actually capable of being right now. He's long-since been broken in by love. The damage is done, and it's a fool errand's to try and be any different, but he makes a go of it, nonetheless. ]
How long has it been since I've eked a win out of you, again?
[ That's almost facetiousness right there. The image of Noct he's cooked up all day is a little different from the student persona Noct's currently affected, sleeves rolled up to bare the clear jut of bone beneath the skin of his wrist, the same one he thumbs across. Coincidentally, the same one that he kisses to bruise, when Noct's lured to sleep, folded up by his side as a dozing cat might. ]
I've got no choice but to show you up today as well.
[ The ball's in Noct's court and the real game hasn't even started. What a round. ]
no subject
Honestly, they will never know. ]
Not as long as I'd like.
[ Noctis grumbles gently, like he isn't sitting with his knee pressed up against his, closer than he needs to be, like he isn't thrumming with anticipation, his mind more on the man beside him than the game he's playing. He's losing, steadily, but he doesn't care -- Ignis is playing along even though Noctis has just sprung this on him out of the blue; the man's improvisation skills is impressive, and he settles in with him, giving his knee a quick, discreet squeeze.
It's a clumsy form of seduction, perhaps -- but no less earnest for it. The ball is in his court, and Noctis waits until they've settled in to play (or, at least, enact a believable farce of it) before he decides to speak next, a script all laid out in his head. ]
Hey, Iggy? What do you do when you have a crush on someone, and you're dying to tell them?
[ There they go, the opening volley, a narrative that is reminiscent of the conversation they both had the other night, with Noctis curled up in his arms, practically curling like a contented cat, asking when Ignis had first realized he wanted him. Here they are, turning back the clock, re-setting the stage. Noctis is looking from his game to him, his expression a mask of innocent intent.
Happy birthday, darling. ]
no subject
There's no sense in bottling it up, after a certain point. I believe even a passing fancy would show itself, eventually. A certain look, or gesture. [ Essentially, the point of no return, like the months and months leading up to his own confession, maddeningly aware of the insurrection of pining for the prince's heart, and doing nothing to avert it. He can't live it down, even now; at death's door he'll be the same, working against any interest in survival. It's all self-destruction from here on out. ] If you can't bring yourself to let go of it, there's really only one thing left to do.
[ Oh, he's blessed without recompense, just like he's cursed by this exhilaration that clarifies itself in his face when he glances down at him. Ignis is no longer that young boy with a backbone that bends at the first sign of trouble, but he's still just as naΓ―ve. Pledging his life to Noctis hasn't rendered him the least bit immune to his charms. ]
What do you suppose that is?