ffxv_kinkmeme | Prompt Post Round Five

Welcome to Round Five of the FFXV Kink Meme!

Closed for prompts | OPEN for fills

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New Prompts are Closed for this round. Please wait until 11/13/2017 for Round Six.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

Coffee or no, I sleep like a babe myself once I finally hit my bed. I wake when it’s dark again. Well, as dark as Insomnia gets.

My head pounds, and somehow the silence of my apartment makes it worse. Hyperaware of my own breathing, of every creak of this old place. Despite the lack of dreams, my chest aches, and I half wish that I’d taken Clarus up on his offer, just so I’d have a distraction now. Never do well when I do too much thinking.

Last night, I fell into bed fully clothed. I peel off my shirt. I can’t stop myself from staring at my unmarred skin. No scars, no bruises, nothing. I trace over the smooth skin. Is it something I’ll get used to? It’s been nearly a decade since the Trial, but I still haven’t—every time I stand back up again—the first time had been—

Don’t dwell on things that can’t be changed.

I force myself from bed by habit. Even if it is night, there will be no more sleep for me. Shit, I probably don’t even need it. People die without sleep, but I am not among those who can die now.

I drag myself to the kitchen. I eat and drink at my small dining room table. Cup Noodles and chamomile tea, but it’s better than rations.

Anything is better than rations.

My apartment is nicer than most in the city. Larger. Three bedrooms, one for guests that I never entertain, another I use as a combination study/gym. Full kitchen. Bath and a half. Nice, matching furniture I let Jared and Clarus choose for me when I couldn’t be bothered. They chose earthy, comfortable things. I spend more nights crashed out on the couch than the bed. On days I bother to come back here at all.

It would be easy enough to convert the dusty spare bedroom into a nursery.

I go still, chopsticks halfway to my mouth. It’s true enough, I suppose. The kid would fit well into the physical space of my life. I have plenty of room. Plenty of gil only used for charity and weapons. I could afford to send him to the fancy noble schools that Noctis and Gladio will soon attend.

He’d be provided for.

(I can’t shake it, that tiny twist in his brows as he’d tried to learn my smile. The fantasy of raising him. Of caring for him as he obviously needs to be cared for.)

But money isn’t the problem, not the way it is for so many in the city.

I’m gone constantly, at whatever remains of a Front in the front of this War. Regis and Clarus would ask too many questions, and he might still end up in the Labs. I’m not equipped to be a caregiver the way a child like that would need.

All of them sting of base excuse, but I cannot—No. It’s simply enough that I cannot take the boy in. Even if I play that I might like to, it could never happen. Growing up in a facility like the one I gave him to—I know. I know that life without parents is difficult, but it can be worse to have the wrong parents. The kids who’d show up covered with bruises, flinching and spitting and angry.

I’d never known my parents, but I’d also never known what it was like to be betrayed or disappointed by the people who were supposed to protect me.

It isn’t as though the choice is between myself and the Orphanage. Someone will choose him. Someone who will inevitably be a better choice than me.

I finish my cold noodles and barely clean what mess I’ve made of the kitchen before I nab my keys.

The Citadel is almost empty this time of night. Crownsguard at the doors half-glance at my ID. Given I train most people who come through these days, I’m not an uncommon sight. It still chafes they’re not more vigilant. I’ll have to put them through their paces, later. Some kind of test. If I can break through our defenses undetected, so can the enemy.

My desk is beside the training grounds.

Clarus and Regis had wanted to put me in the administrative part of the Citadel, for sentiment’s sake. They wanted to have me within arm’s reach, in order to better monitor me I assume. I’d insisted on being near my Crownsguard.

If they’re expected to die for Crown and Country, the least I can do is oversee their training when I can’t train them myself. Be near enough to know that I am no paper-pusher throwing their lives away.

I settle at the sturdy old desk, the one I’d carried from the old Marshall’s office to a spare armory. I’d claimed the armory for myself. I could take the old Marshall’s desk for tradition, but I could never take his place. I perch on the carved wooden chair and groan. It never gets any more comfortable, filling his seat.

I pick up my failed report.

Another stack of paperwork is waiting, but—

Can’t think on it now. That stack is worse, by far, than lying by omission on my own paperwork. It can’t be put off anymore. It’s my job, and if I wait any longer, then it will become Clarus’s. I won’t dump it on his lap. So as quickly as I can, I finish my report:

Tightened security. Unsure of reason. Impossible to breach new defenses without new intel. Increase in MT activity outside of the Empire. Potential for stronger types of MTs outside of the Empire. Unsure of implications.

Easy enough to strip it of the reality of being shot through the chest by a sniper. Strip it of the babe and the woman who gifted him to me. I write around the necessary parts and give only the information that will benefit the War Effort.

I’m an old hand at this. Have to be, even if the taste it leaves in my mouth is reminiscent of that black sludge an MT leaves behind. Never purposefully got it in my mouth before. But you don’t do the type of intimate fighting I do without tasting the fruits of your labor, as it were. Reap the seeds we sow, etc.

When I finish, I stretch. The chair wasn’t designed for comfort, but neither was the role of Marshall. For all that I tease Regis about ceremony, mine is a role that leaves me elbows deep in a War most barely believe exist.

I move on to the notices to families. While I was on my own doomed mission, one of my strike teams fell in the outskirts. Maybe a week ago. Skirmish with MTs that turned bloody when they brought in magitek armor. Seems like every time we turn around, the Empire is developing new ways to massacre us.

These notices shouldn’t have sat on my desk this long. My temples throb as I pull out the nice pen from its case. I thought it’d been an unnecessary extravagance when Clarus bought it for me.

Congratulations on becoming the youngest Marshall in history: here’s your shiny pen.

“Being Marshall means that sometimes, your pen is going to be mightier than your sword, Cor,” Clarus had said, looking nearly as old as Regis. “Can’t have a disposable sword.”

I know now it wasn’t intended for me, but comfort for the families. If I’m whipping out this pen, it means I’m penning letters to a family. They deserve something better than cheap, ballpoint.

Not quite going through the motions. Too personal for that. I trained them. Saw them when they came in. When they got their blacks. When they got their first assignment. Just wasn’t here when they got their last one.

I’ve written enough of these over the years I don’t have to deliberate what to write or how to write it. The only deliberation is why the hell I’m here—solid, whole, after so many should-have-been deaths—why the hell I’m the Immortal, when so many good people under and above me have died. How many more will.

Lucky me. I have surgeon’s hands. Could have gone into medicine if I wasn’t so intent on killing. Even Clarus used to be impressed by the steadiness of my hands.

(Now, it’s more how much of my hand can fit in him, but the thought has no business here. Later, maybe.)

It’s only because of that inherent steadiness my hands aren’t shaking when I finish sealing the last letter. Are their deaths on me? For the tightened security? For the backlash? For the fact I saved Prompto rather than find the secret of the MTs?

Shit. Shit. Shit. I press my steady hands to my eyes and I don’t cry. Shit shit. How many future deaths will be attributed to—

No. I stand from my chair. Time for training. No more of this. No more questioning. No more feeling sorry for myself. Past is past. Time to attend the present.

I spend the rest of the day in the training grounds. Teaching. Sparring. Practicing while the youngest pretend not to watch. Hours pass and sweat slicks my skin, my lungs raw and aching. It’s a good feeling until I notice Regis watching from the doorway. I should have been more vigilant, if I didn’t notice him come in. Maybe I’m losing my edge.

He isn’t uncommon here. Still has to keep in fighting shape and has a vested interest in the men fighting the War with him.

On good days, I can convince him to help me train them. But today his face is grayer than it ought be, and with barely maintained regality, he leans against the wall. Clarus keeps telling him to spend more time off the knee or it’s going to further deteriorate. Regis has his pride, as we all must. Perhaps he must have more than most. As monarch. I dismiss my katana. “Your Majesty.”

His eyes crinkle in a smile, wrinkles writ like fine spiderweb across his face. “How long has it been? No need to stand on formality.”

I relax, or put effort into it. “Did you receive my report?”

“Yes. Thank you. I had wondered—well. It’s being looked into. In the meantime, it’s for the best you and the rest of the Guard remain in Insomnia. While we decide the best path forward.”

A perfect opening to tell him what I can’t but should. I bite my tongue. The rest of the Guard pretends not to watch as Regis reels me in for a hug. I’m not much one for casual displays of affection—but Regis is. When he permits himself, I permit him. Astrals know, he allows himself so little. I wrap my arms around him and try not to startle at how thin he feels. The Ring—that damned ring, wearing away at Kings until they are naught but dust. “When we began getting reports about the increase in activity, we were worried about you,” he murmurs.

He needn’t have been. But it would sound empty without telling him why, so I hold my tongue. We are at War—were I anyone else, he would have cause to worry. For all that I am Immortal by reputation, to most it is only that—reputation. Regis lets me go reluctantly, and I fail to notice when he wavers without my support. “I’m well enough.”

“You look tired,” he tells me without irony.

The Sleepless King, telling off the Immortal for not performing a function he technically need not perform. “I have a lot to catch up on. I’m starting to think I’m actually a Secretary,” it’s meant to be teasing, but the wrinkles around his eyes deepen as though it were an accusation. I sigh. “We all have our roles to play.”

His mouth twists downward. I always cut where I intend comfort.Yet another reason why I could never be a parent.

But Regis is graceful in all things, as I only am on the battlefield. “That we do. I shouldn’t keep you. I simply wished to remind you that you were missed.”

My throat tightens. “Thank you.”

He smiles at me before he goes. Perhaps I return it. The guilt claws at me. Never did like lying. I resume training, and if my recruits notice my renewed fervor, they’re smart enough to keep their eyes open and their mouths shut.

From: (Anonymous)

Sorry it took me so long to return, but real life's kept me on the toes for this past week. Coming back and discovering the next chapters was a much needed and very, very nice surprise, so thanks for that :).

Aww. Cor spending the night in his silent flat reeks of loneliness, as instant food and tea at nothing'o clock is wont to do. Especially with the silence bothering him.

I really like how Prompto keeps sneaking up on him when he least expects it. He just can't let this go, can he now? And while Cor isn't half-wrong that him being a no-show might be a deal-breaker, I really would encourage him to have more trust in his friends. Especially considering the fact that both of them have their own kids (I seriously doubt they would ship Prompto off to the next laboratory).

Cor growing up without parents is one of my favourite headcanons :) ~~As is Cor donating to charity.~~ (A boy who joins up with the army at age 13 hardly comes from a cozy backround. 13 years, army life and quite possibly a latent death wish don't speak of a nice family backround where he was loved and cherished. More like desperate choices and no one to talk him out of it).

No scars, no bruises, nothing. I trace over the smooth skin. Is it something I’ll get used to? It’s been nearly a decade since the Trial, but I still haven’t—every time I stand back up again—the first time had been—

Do share, Cor. I admit to attributing Cor's continued survival to potions and phoenix downs, but now you caught me, hook, line and sinker. What is up with that?

Congratulations on becoming the youngest Marshall in history: here’s your shiny pen. made me laugh, even though I suspected about the pen. They deserve something better than cheap ballpoint. then made me realize that Cor and I do have that much in common: I also have a fountain-pen I reserve for signing letters to the bereaved. It feels as if this is the least we can do.

Cor having moved his office to the armory to be near his Guard and as far away from the paperpushers is <3. He really cares about his Guard (probably too much). And he isn't a fan of bureaucrats, now is he? And ouch to his crisis of conscience because of the death of his men, because that's so very much in character and just what I would expect of a man who blames himself for the demise of his king in the game when he was just following Regis's wishes.

“Yes. Thank you. I had wondered—well. It’s being looked into. In the meantime, it’s for the best you and the rest of the Guard remain in Insomnia. While we decide the best path forward.”

I can't help but suspect that Regis smells a rat when it comes to Cor's report and all the stuff he's been omitting. Especially if Cor's an old hand at this. And Cor knows this, yet does nothing to change it and walks off with a bad conscience.

Aw, Cor. He has people telling him left, front and center that they missed him and were worried like shit and he can't accept it because he's drowning in his own secrets. (Which, at least in my experience, is quite believable and lifelike).

Regis hugging Cor and Cor worrying about Regis's health was lovely. Still. Someone should sit him down and make him listen to "Friends will be friends". And then make him own up every little secret he's ever possessed, because there's such a thing as being a private man and then there's such a thing as having so many secrets that they bury you. While problems seldom go away just because they are shared with someone else, sharing does make it easier to bear.

Oooh, this is lovely and bittersweet and intriguing and I really can't wait for more (luckily there is the third chapter to turn to :)). Thanks for writing this gem :)

- OP

From: (Anonymous)

Thank you~! I'm glad you're still enjoying it :D

Cor growing up without parents is one of my favourite headcanons :) As is Cor donating to charity. (A boy who joins up with the army at age 13 hardly comes from a cozy backround. 13 years, army life and quite possibly a latent death wish don't speak of a nice family backround where he was loved and cherished. More like desperate choices and no one to talk him out of it).

Yes yes yes. I firmly believe that if he'd had a stable upbringing, he wouldn't have ended up in the army so young. :)

Do share, Cor. I admit to attributing Cor's continued survival to potions and phoenix downs, but now you caught me, hook, line and sinker. What is up with that?

You'll see ;)