[ This is why they shouldn't get married, probably -- because Noctis enjoys Ignis' terrible, awful puns and once married will be a terrible blight upon anyone unfortunate enough to be in their combined company. He doesn't forget all the mornings he'd woken up to help with breakfast, and this morning, Ignis is a perfect vision when he primps and fusses and puts products in his hair just for it to look like the effortless kind of natural.

Then again, he really fancies that look, and the kiss is warm on his lips before he finally deigns to wander back to the closet, that suggestion going right to his dick. Shit. He can think of so many, many things Ignis can do under his desk, the taller man on his knees, that sinfully gorgeous mouth wrapped around his cock while Noctis attends to work and tries not to flush. Forcing Ignis to stay quiet, pushing his dick down his throat while he negotiates treaties, listens to presentations... the sky's the limit, isn't it?

Mouth dry, he turns back to him, two sets of freshly ironed shirts, one on either hand. Black, or black with pinstripes? ] I take back the offer to cook. You lose, that's you under my desk. And I get to wear pants -- and you're making sure nothing spills on my pants.