ffxv_kinkmeme | Prompt Post Round Six

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Prompt Post Round Six

Welcome to Round Six of the FFXV Kink Meme!

CLOSED for prompts | OPEN for fills

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This is surprisingly cute.

The first time they notice that something is strange about the countryside is when Takka tries to remove Prompto from his diner with a broom. Prompto is understandably put out, but he is a peace-loving guy, and only briefly complains before he lets himself be escourted outside at handle length.

"Is there a problem?" Ignis asks when they arrive outside.

"Kweh," Prompto says, more confused and exasperated than actually hurt.

"I see," replies Ignis, and turns to Takka to repeat the question. After all, Prompto can be a little clumsy, and while asking him to leave would have sufficed, property damage would have been a good enough reason to want him out.

"Your bird just walked into my diner."

"Kweh," Prompto conceedes, and then asks, "Kweh?"

"I don't think not wiping your feet is the issue at hand."

"... wait, you understand what it's saying?"

Prompto bristles. "KWEH!"

"He," Ignis emphasizes, "may have a bit of an accent, but that is no reason to use that kind of language."

I'm sorry, someone who is better at this please do another? XD

+++

I.
The first time - the time that was supposed to be his first time - he didn't even get to drop his pants. What the felt through the fabric was enough to make her raise an eyebrow, snort, and leave. He moogled penis sizes obsessively for three days, and couldn't come up with an explanation - he was in a pretty okay range, nothing to laugh about, really.

II.
He found about about the expectations tied to the rest of his body a few years later. When the clothes came off, the disappointed, "Oh..." was enough to ruin the mood already, and the explanatory, "You're a big guy, so I thought..." didn't help, either. This time, Gladio left.

III.
"You know what they say about the sword of a man..."

IV.
Sometimes Gladio felt like he was the only person on this app who sent dick picks to avoid bad dates.

V.
"This was... alright, I guess? Sorry, I just..."
"Yeah, I know."

-

+1.
It was just like the first time, Ignis' hand sliding down to cup the bulge in his pants. Gladio waited for the laughter, and there it was, the other man chuckling into his chest. Only he didn't walk, instead proceeded to tease, lightly breathing, "Thanks Gods," and "This is perfect."
It was.

Sorry for the probably dumb question, but just to clarify, how many mouths are involved in this process? One or two? Thinking about filling and it would be kind of awkward if I got this wrong XD

Traffic is terrible in the capital so Ardyn gets to work by train every day. Sometimes people notice him and say hello, even children and you just know the Chancellor is freakishly good with children going out of his way even to hand out small gifts sometimes.

Being immortal is a blessing because every injury heals immediately, it turns into a curse though if Aldercapt is present and you have to fake whichever handycap for several weeks.

Ardyn is walking with a cane now which looks hot enough, sometimes he forgets though and has to find creative ways to excuse his behaviour.

Kudos if he hits someone with the cane at least once.

lol this could be hilarious.
is it bad i imagine second ardyn as kind of a doofus who one day strolls into camp going 'hey sasuke, i somehow remember you, are you my son?'

So I just found out my country has a dating site for sugar daddies/mommies (income above threshold only) and sugar babies/boy toys, needless to say I had a hilarious idea:

2000 years make you bored and indifferent, so Ardyn signs up as sugar daddy, but on their first meeting his boy toy turns out to be... Prompto. xD

The Chancellor then takes it upon himself to have his mad fun embarassing Prompto in front of his friends by calling him out as his sugarbaby including vague hints he was giving Prompto money (which he actually does bc it's funny to him) for services (that don't exist).

He keeps up the trolling for a good while.

If you want to you -can- go into the actually sexual direction, but it's primarily meant to have sassy ardyn trolling prompto who wants none of it.

Special kudos if prompto eventually trolls back.

(CW for implied self-harm.)

It's summer, so there is nothing strange about the sunglasses Ignis is wearing. The shadows under his eyes are nothing knew, either. Still, it isn't rocket science to connect the two, the former a haphazard attempt to hide the latter.

Ignis promised everyone dinner, said it would be ready by seven. By half past eight it is, carried in hands covered in band aids.

"You okay?" Gladio asks, because who else would ask? Noctis and Prompto are too busy being sixteen, and at this point the age difference still matters. "Yes, of course," Ignis says, because what else would he say?

It is an unspoken rule that when he is working, Ignis has control over the radio. He never switched away from the news before.

He leaves the room when they talk about the news, those news specifically, needs to get this or that, always needs to check one thing or another that is always well out of hearing range. A feeling creeps up on Gladio, settles like ice in his stomach.

Ignis is late for training. Gladio doesn't know if he should ask, if it would help, what to do if he actually answers.

Ignis is late again, and Noctis starts asking if he is alright. Of course he is.

He has lost weight, or so Prompto says before he, too, asks Ignis if he is alright. Of course he is.

It's when he starts spacing out during combat practice and stops rolling up his sleeves that Gladio decides that he has to ask.

No, Ignis </3

You know that scene in Howl's Moving Castle where Howl starts oozing slime everywhere because his hair got messed up? Yeah. I want that with Ardyn instead of Howl and Scourge goo instead of slime.

I'm seeing this like that one episode of Family Guy where Peter regenerates an evil twin.

"I am Nydra, and I am decent."

He wears polo shirts and flipflops, combs his hair, full of regular wildlife instead of daemons (having coeurl whiskers flapping out of your eyesockets isn't an improvement). Sits politely in his own chair. Endorses Prompto's individuality, tells Aldercapt and Verstiel to fukken simmer down, Jesus H Christ it's a glow in the dark pet rock and you can't even fit inside it you gangly old fuck, just leave the damn thing alone. Fusses at Noctis by nagging him like a meddling old grandma. "When I was your age I would have murdered three of me before breakfast, when are you going to take the end of all life seriously? Here, I knitted you a sweater, it gets cold at night. Don't you take that tone with me, young man."

Pffffttttahahaha, nagging granny Ardyn is the best fucking mental image.

I don't really care who it is, tbh.

The "slight femdom?" is because I don't actually want her to be a dom, just... she knows what she likes and what she wants and she's not shy about giving instructions to whoever it is to help them learn how she likes it. Because I'm also totally here for soft!lover Aranea.

Thank you! The poor boys need some comfort, don't they. <3

Ignis didn't quite realise it until Gladio took a swing at him – then all it needed was a look in his glazed, narrowed eyes, and he knew what was wrong. Confusion: annoying, but not disastrous. If only they hadn't used up the last of their smelling salts on a hunt earlier that day.

Stepping back, Ignis dodged the next swing and took a closer look. There was something different about Gladio – normally, under confusion, they were all over the place. They'd swing at an enemy one second, a friend the next, and a tree stump the one after. It was, generally speaking, more humiliating than anything else.

This time Gladio has his eyes fixed on him and him alone, hard with intent and a fury Ignis hadn't ever seen before.

A little way away, Noct shouted – out of irritation, it sounded like, but Ignis turned his head to look all the same. Gladio did as well, still with that expression, lips pulled back in a half-snarl, and Ignis made the snap-second decision to ram the butt of his lance into Gladio's chest, hard. In any other instance he'd distract with harmless taps and simply keep out of reach. Now something like fear made his throat dry, and heartbeat quicken, and instinct told him that he had to do anything to keep Gladio's attention off of Noct.

Gladio made a swipe for him, and his sword would have cut Ignis in two if he hadn't stepped back out of the way in time.

'Gladio's got himself confused,' Ignis called. 'I'll keep him distracted, you two get on with the hunt.'

Noct shouted his confirmation, not questioning why exactly Gladio needed to be distracted, and Ignis tapped Gladio on the shoulder again when he made to look around. Gladio growled, familiar frustration turned into something deadly; his next blow was enough to knock the lance clean out of Ignis' hands, send it across the floor and into a bush, where Ignis let it shatter back into the armiger. The ground was dry, dusty, full of rocks and bits of stunted shrubs. Ignis skirted around one such shrub as he summoned his lance back, just managing to deflect a blow that shot pain through his arms and made his fingers numb.

This wasn't normal at all. Gladio should have been distracted by something else now. Ignis just had time to flip back, out of the way, before another would-be death blow landed where he'd been standing.

He tried to disarm him, knocking his elbow, but Gladio brushed it off and nicked Ignis with the tip of his sword. Ignis hissed, stepping back, and was saved from having his ribs sliced in half by his lance that he'd managed to bring up last second. He was still knocked back, and a followup blow forced him onto his back, on the floor. His upper arm was bleeding heavily.

Gladio lifted his sword, swinging it down and Ignis rolled, stumbling as he tried to find his feet beneath him, and was forced to jump to avoid Gladio's next swing at his legs. His heart beat hard in his throat; that had been far too close. As this was, he knew, with certainty, he would not last long.

He'd trained for battle – for defence, for offence – since he was sixteen years old. He had natural talent paired with the conviction to work hard and excel, to prove himself, to be what Noct needed and more. He was exceptionally good. He would never be any less for Noct.

Gladio was Noct's shield. He had been trained to fight since almost as long as he could stand and hold a weapon. Ignis was exceptionally good but Gladio stood among the best – this was, quite literally, his job. Whenever he fought and occasionally bested Gladio in sparring, it was because Gladio had pulled his punches, let himself get complacent, lowered himself to Ignis' level for the sake of a decent spar. Ignis couldn't beat Gladio in a real fight any more than Gladio could outmanoeuvre him in the council chamber.

And now – all it would take would be for Ignis to make one slip, one mistake, and he'd be dead. Gladio, in this state, was not be capable of administering phoenix downs. And the last thing he needed was for Gladio to finish him off then turn on Noct.

Ignis could feel sweat on his palms, armpits, in the small of his back. He could hear his heart beat in his ears, and his rasping breath, but apart from that things seemed to have gone very quiet. He couldn't let Gladio be distracted by Noct or Prompto. Even if they could, for the most part, look after themselves, all it would take would be one small error and–

Another swing of Gladio's sword; Ignis rolled to avoid it, biting back a cry as he put his weight on his arm, the cut pulling and tearing further. Gladio's sword cleaved the shrub he'd been beside in two as he danced back, throwing one of his daggers and knocking Gladio on the head with the hilt of it. It should have stopped him, even for a second, but Gladio snarled and didn't stop, and there was no trace of the man Ignis knew in that sound.

They didn't have smelling salts. Would smelling salts even work on Gladio, given that this was unlike any confusion they'd been affected by before? If it had been confusion as they'd known it, it should have worn off by now.

A swing of Gladio's sword, and another, and another, and Ignis could feel the fear and odd resignation both settle in as he blocked and parried and avoided. He couldn't keep doing this forever – sooner or later, he'd be caught. His legs burnt with overexertion. His shoulders were stiff and aching from deflecting Gladio's powerful swings. How could he break Gladio out of this?

Gladio's sword cut through his thigh. Just a short, shallow wound, but the pain startled Ignis, sharp and fresh over the pulsing, dull pains of the rest of his body.

He couldn't keep doing this. It wasn't good enough to keep this up, not unless Gladio snapped out of it within the next minute, and even that was risky.

With a sharp swing of his lance he knocked Gladio's sword down, off-balance; he ducked under the next swing, then brought himself within reach to rap Gladio's right hand as hard as he could, aiming to break the knuckles.

Gladio let out a short yell – Ignis dodged back, but not before gaining another cut across his chest, from sternum down to reach his navel. The flush of hot blood on his skin, soaking into his clothes, came a second before the pain. Another desperate rap of Gladio's knuckles, then a blow to his elbow. Gladio deflected both and knocked Ignis down hard enough he bounced and rolled, stopping only as he got tangled in the thorny branches of a nearby shrub. He gasped for breath, kicking out at Gladio's feet as he approached, saving himself only barely from a blow that would have impaled him right through the ribcage.

Gladio still wasn't getting any better. His eyes were still furious, no hint of recognition.

Ignis picked himself up and ran.

He had to get him away from Noct. He was a faster runner than Gladio; he had better endurance. Perhaps if he could simply keep them running for long enough Gladio would come back to himself without them having to exchange any more blows.

Fingers scrabbling across his back, trying to grab him. Ignis forced himself to run faster, skidded across loose sand, jumped the tangle of roots in his way. Gladio was not pacing himself. This was a sprint. Already his throat was raw, his lungs burning – but he could do it. As much as he was wearing himself out, Gladio would be doing the same but faster.

The world fell from under his feet; he tumbled forwards, rolling head over heels, and lay there in the sand struggling to breathe, curled up on his side. His back was alight with agony. Every breath was a sharp spike of pain. He'd lost his spectacles.

Gladio's feet beside him: he twisted as Gladio bent down, knocking him over with a kick to the side of his knees. A hand grabbed his ankle as Ignis struggled to his feet, yanking him back down again.

He saw Gladio's shield lying a few feet away. Gladio must have thrown it at him, Ignis thought distantly, as he was dragged backwards. He rolled onto his back, ignoring how the sand and dirt were grinding into his wounds, and kicked Gladio in the face, following that with a blow from his lance. The swing was too short for any much power, and he'd hit Gladio with the pole rather than the sharp cutting edge, but it should have been enough to force him to let go of his leg. It wasn't; Gladio didn't let go. Gladio scrambled to his knees, catching the lance with his free hand and forcing it back down on Ignis, until Ignis let it go to send it to the armiger.

No longer supported by the lance Gladio tipped forwards, and Ignis got his feet between them to kick him over his head. He rolled onto his knees, but Gladio's large hand grasped the nape of his neck, fingers curling around his throat, and shoved him face-down onto the ground.

Ignis reached back and snapped Gladio's little finger. Gladio didn't make a sound. His grip tightened. Pain kicked through Ignis, terror as the vulnerable flesh of his neck bruised – he bucked, feet scraping the ground uselessly. White noise roared in his head as Gladio's other hand came round and clamped tight over his throat.

He couldn't breathe. Daggers appeared in his hands, but Gladio shook him hard, smashing his head into the ground. He felt his nose break, then one of his cheekbones as Gladio did it again – hearing the crack, hot agony slicing its way across his skull. He twisted, kicking, and brought a dagger to slice at Gladio's leg where he knelt with his knees either side of Ignis' hips, but Gladio let go of Ignis' throat to catch his hand and press it down against the floor until he was forced to let go, feeling the bones of his wrist grind together.

He tried with his other dagger, in his other hand. Gladio forced his head against the floor, shoving his face down until Ignis cried out, letting go of his daggers, choking on the dirt and dust getting into his mouth and inhaled into his lungs. Gladio wrapped his hand back around Ignis' neck.

Black crept over Ignis' eyesight. His heartbeat in his head rattled away like a toddler shaking a toy. White noise, and pain, and the feeling of consciousness slipping away from him.

Gladio let go, and it was all he could do to cough, choking and gagging around the swollen pain in his throat. There were hands under his armpits, hauling him along, until he was draped over something – a fallen tree branch under his hips. His hands lay limp on the ground, his body limp like a carcase on the butcher's block. His head was stuffed full of steel wool. His lungs burnt and burnt and burnt with every breath he scraped in through his bruised throat.

Gladio's hands on his belt. What was he doing? It wasn't attacking. It seemed almost like he'd snapped out of his confusion, but then, Ignis tried to think, were Gladio in his right mind he'd probably be more vocally concerned at the very least. He probably wouldn't be trying to undo and tug down Ignis' trousers.

Ignis got his hands under him, crawling on his forearms, getting blood into the dirt and dirt into the bloodied mess of his clothes and flesh. A hand fell between his shoulders, pinning him. He didn't have the energy to fight. His whole body was pulled backwards, hips scraping the branch beneath him. What was – oh. The hot touch of skin on bare skin. A hand pushing up his shirt, on his lower back, scalding hot.

Ignis lifted himself but was shoved back down again. His head cracked against a stone and his vision went dark for a moment. He could still feel hands on his skin, and something between his legs, forcing them to spread.

No. No–

He reached inside the armiger, and wrapped his fingers around a potion. Healed, he'd be able to fight back. He wouldn't–

If he took a potion, Noct would think he were in trouble. If Noct thought he were in trouble, especially since they were separated in battle, he'd come looking for him. If he came looking, and found them, and aggravated Gladio–

Ignis let go of the potion and dug his fingertips into the dirt in front of his face. He could summon his smallest daggers, keep them out of sight until Gladio was sufficiently distracted and then attack, only Gladio hadn't seemed at all bothered by broken fingers, or bruised knuckles, or blows to the head that should have given him concussion – what would the pain from his smallest daggers do? Where even could he reach that Gladio wouldn't intercept; what damage could he do that wouldn't make Gladio return it ten times over?

Hot skin on his, slick with sweat. He'd wanted this. They both had, or so he'd thought. Was that why Gladio was doing this now? Or was it purely this new type of confusion driving him?

He wasn't thinking straight, he decided, as broad fingers probed him, and he heard, as if from a great distance, the sound of spitting. His heartbeat made him feel sick. Or perhaps that was the situation. His head ached. The floor wouldn't stay steady beneath him. His vision was blurred even beyond the need for his spectacles. Fingers on him, in him, wet and slick, forcing him open. It hurt.

This was the confusion, the status effect. This wasn't Gladio acting.

He pulled a knee beneath him and rolled, flinging his body sideways. It broke Gladio's grip on him, but with his trousers tangled around his thighs and his head still spinning, drunk on terror, he barely managed to crawl to a stand before Gladio was back on him, slamming him to the ground with the full weight of his body.

Hands, back on his throat. His body, hauled back over to the fallen branch, laid over it like an offering. He couldn't breathe. He kicked, but Gladio's weight was on his lower back and he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and Gladio's fingers were tightening and tightening and then something blunt, hot, slippery against him – he opened his mouth but couldn't squeeze anything past the vice around his neck.

Gladio pushed, forcing the head of his cock in, then paused. Ignis could feel himself clench down hard around him, body twitching and shuddering its useless protest. It hurt. Not more than anything else – his broken nose and cheekbone, pressed hard into the dirt, grinding bone on snapped bone. The long cuts on his arms and chest. His throat. His lungs, his back. It was just one more hurt to the cacophony that already rattled around his body, inhabiting his bones like wood boring beetles. It still hurt. The pain clutched at his chest, his heart and lungs and guts.

This wasn't Gladio. This wasn't him.

At least, he thought, grasping for the idea as it swam in front of him, elusive, it was better than death – if only because this way Gladio wouldn't wake to find Ignis' dead body, past the point of recovery, and Noct wouldn't find Ignis' body and Gladio and have to decide what to do with him. This way he'd still be alive to return to Noct.

Gladio breathed out, hard, a forced exhale that Ignis could feel on the back of his neck. Then he pushed, pressing his hips down, rocking in and out when the friction proved too much, the pressure too tight. Ignis' back arched. The grip on his throat loosened and he wasted his breath on retching, short and shallow gasps that scraped his throat until it felt raw. He coughed, choked, sucked in air then retched some more. Gladio's fingers twitched, tightening fractionally, and Ignis couldn't stop himself whining out a cry in protest. It was interrupted as Gladio's hips rocked, pushing himself into him, hard.

The fingers tightened again. A dagger, any dagger – he sliced at the fingers, breaking open the skin of his own throat and soft underside of his jaw, but at least the grip disappeared. He could feel the heat of the blood as a trail ran down his skin, soaking into the collar of his shirt, but only distantly, because he could breathe, throat bobbing as he sucked in breath after breath, sobbing from nothing but the desperate need of it.

Hands on his hips, the rhythm of thrusts starting to come smoother, short and shallow. With no lubrication except his own spit, already dried, and Ignis' body tightened and twitching in pain, Gladio couldn't push in much further than a few inches. There was warmth on Ignis' thighs; it took him a moment to grasp it was blood.

He closed his eyes, tried to block out everything, but ended up unable to focus on anything but what he wanted to ignore: the weight of his body, the pain inhabiting it, his broken bones, split skin and bruised flesh. The pressure of the tree branch under him, scraping his hips raw. The weight of Gladio on him, hands on his hips, clutching. His knees keeping Ignis' legs apart. Gladio's cock in his arse, like a knife in his guts, tearing him open, smashing the tail of his spine, again and again and again with each grinding thrust. He clutched at the dirt in front of his face, feeling small, sharp rocks and bits of broken root. If Gladio wasn't going to kill him, he could weather it. If he fought back, antagonised Gladio further, then perhaps this would turn lethal after all. He just had to endure it. He could do that. People did this. It couldn't be that bad.

A change in pressure and Gladio pushed down, carried on pushing, forcing himself into Ignis, deeper, harder. Ignis couldn't stop himself twisting, squirming pathetically as he cried out, low and hoarse and slicing agony in his throat. Gladio's fingers dug into his hips, curling around the bones like he wanted to tear them out of him.

His lance, held at the right angle, jabbed backwards – Ignis' hands itched to take hold of a weapon, but he stopped himself. He didn't need a potion either. He'd endure this. He wouldn't make this scenario any worse than it already was. He could do it. This was just pain, after all.

Gladio's hips jerked, balls slapping Ignis' skin. He grunted as he thrust down hard, and Ignis bucked, his whole body one tight knot of agony. It clenched his ribs, made it hard to breathe. Another thrust and an exhale was forced through Ignis' mouth like it had been slapped out of him: a whining, weak cry, and Ignis clenched his teeth hard, pressing his wrist over his lips.

He'd do this. He was able. He was capable. He'd do this and he would be fine in the end. He just needed to wait for Gladio to come round and he'd take a potion and he'd be fine – he just needed it to stop, and quickly, he'd be fine when it stopped–

Another hard thrust. The pain built with the thrusts, stabbing. Another. Again. It broke some threshold he hadn't known existed; he couldn't will it away or distract himself. It built with each rock of Gladio's hips, again and again and it was too much – he couldn't do it. He needed it to stop. It hurt and it wouldn't be the same any more – the sly smiles he'd shared with Gladio, the teasing that had edged into flirting, both of them seeing it but neither prepared to be the first to point it out. Ruined, now, and it hurt and it hurt and how dare he not even be allowed to have that small, tentative thing.

It hurt and Ignis couldn't stop the way his gasps carried little noises, useless cries he couldn't hold back in his swollen throat. His head was spinning; he retched, spitting out a mouthful of vomit, scalding acid all the way up. He grasped his lance, but Gladio's hand fell on top of his, pinning it to the ground. He tried with his other hand, but Gladio pinned that one as well, and growled his anger. His legs kicked, scuffing at the ground, but uselessly; he couldn't find the strength to push Gladio off him. His spine felt broken, but he twisted anyway, trying to pull sideways. Too weak again. He couldn't do it; resolve was not enough. He felt snapped in half, pulverised, his hips and spine beaten and broken. But he needed to get out.

Too weak. Not enough. Gladio released his hands to grasp at his hips, yanking him up, impaling him further. With his hands free he grabbed his lance, but his wild jab back missed Gladio entirely.

Gladio grabbed his upper right arm, twisted and pushed at just the right angle. A crunching noise preceded the pain as Ignis' shoulder dislocated; Ignis screamed.

He couldn't do it – he couldn't – Gladio had his uninjured arm twisted behind his back, wrist on his opposite hip so Gladio could pin it while he held Ignis' hips, and carried on thrusting.

A moment, in agony, where Gladio lost his rhythm, then picked it up but harder. He was panting, and he groaned.

The sensation of wetness inside Ignis, barely discernible above everything else. Gladio let go of Ignis' hips and stood, leaving Ignis lying there, slumped over the tree branch, limp and shivering. For a second he felt achingly empty.

He couldn't see Gladio, but he could hear him pace behind him, dry leaves getting kicked up with each step. There was grit and bits of broken twig in his mouth, and the taste of dirt and blood and vomit. His right, dislocated arm had stiffened, but with his left he slowly, carefully, pushed himself up.

Gladio stopped pacing. He blew out a harsh breath and stalked towards Ignis; Ignis froze.

His skin itched with the anticipation of pain. He tried to hold his breath, but he couldn't, only fumbling with it and forcing it smaller and tighter and faster. He was panting, but couldn't stop.

Gladio stood just behind him and went silent. The expectation of a sword through his back tore at Ignis. Should he move? He'd never be able to escape, let alone fight back, in this state. But it was better than just lying still and doing nothing.

What would Gladio prefer? To remember killing Ignis by stabbing him in the back, or by cutting him down as he tried to run?

Perhaps if he took a potion, and he could surprise Gladio if he moved quickly enough, he'd be able to escape. Even if Noct found them Ignis would be able to warn him to stay away – and Noct could warp. He was unlikely to get caught once he understood the seriousness of Gladio's condition, if he even found them in the first place.

Gladio decided for him by walking away, heavy, slow footsteps. He started pacing again, never getting too far away. Hand trembling, Ignis relaxed his fingers from where they'd been about to grasp a potion. Instead he pulled his phone from the armiger, unlocking it, half expecting at any moment to drawn back Gladio's attention. Gladio remained the sound of restless pacing behind him. In the chat to Noct, he sent: Gladio still having trouble with confusion, otherwise we are fine. Will try to meet you at the Regalia soon. Hope you are both well.

The armiger really was an excellent place to store things – it meant he never had to worry about his phone getting crushed, or wet in the rain, or otherwise dirtied or damaged. It also meant that he never heard it, or noticed he had messages or missed calls, until he took it out to have a look. None of them did. Ignis stared dully at the screen, waiting for a response. Nothing came. That probably didn't mean anything.

And now he'd said that everything was fine he couldn't take a potion without Noct suspecting something was wrong. That had been a slight miscalculation.

He'd take one after Gladio snapped out of his confusion. So long as Gladio continued to ignore him, he didn't need a potion. This way he wouldn't draw Gladio's attention, and when he did take that potion he could tell Noct not to worry and they were on their way back at the same time. He'd need to change his clothes, but Noct and Prompto had never been the most observant, so there was every chance they wouldn't notice. And if they did he'd just have to bluff his way out of it.

His shoulder throbbed. Blackness welled up in his eyes and he blinked hard, taking deep breaths. Not long now. It probably wouldn't be long. How long had Gladio been confused for? Fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe. Should be ending soon. He'd need Gladio's help to reset his shoulder before he took the potion. That wouldn't be too bad. Gladio knew how to reset shoulders. He'd done it for Ignis before.

It was fine. It was fine. He bit his tongue, worrying it between his teeth until the tip tore off and filled his mouth with blood. He could feel blood run across his jawline, but his face was numb, and he couldn't tell where it was coming from.

Gladio stopped pacing. He paused, took a step, then stopped again. He let out a choked sound, and his voice was twisted and hoarse. 'Iggy?' he said.

Ignis pushed himself up into kneeling, swallowing to stop himself retching, willing his head to stop spinning and his body to not fail. He closed his eyes as he redid his trousers, and stood. He was swaying, rocking with the push and pull of his own breathing. 'You'll need to set my shoulder for me,' he said, and paused, swallowed again. 'Chop chop, now, Gladio. Noct and Prompto are waiting.'

*bites nails* oh shit....

I haven't been able to reply to all the comments but I just want to say thank you all so much! You all keep me going when writing Noct is like pulling teeth.

Sorry this took so long, this chapter wanted to be like 8000 words. Maybe in the AO3 rewrite....
______________

The investigation is ongoing, and Leonis is not quite confident enough to entrust the lives of royalty to his Guard again just yet. Noctis and King Regis have their Shields, but Ardyn does not. It’s Noctis who decides that this means that Ardyn now comes under the protection of his personal guard. He will accompany Noctis wherever he goes, so that Noctis’s Shield, and Noctis’s most trusted friends, can watch out for him as well.

The first few days prove enlightening. On the first night, when Scientia asks for dinner requests (the first time Ardyn has been asked what food he would like since the wedding), Ardyn says, “Any recipe that is not from Insomnia, please.”

The surprised burst of discussion that follows reveals two things: first, the kitchen has been sending Ardyn only attempts at Niflheimir cuisine, and second, the Insomnian idea of Niflheimir cuisine is at least four decades out of date and mostly based on famine recipes. Instead, Ardyn describes one of his favorite dishes, a heavily spiced, seared steak with onions and mushrooms, and Scientia promises to put his best spin on it.

When they settle down to eat, Ardyn is unreserved in his praise of Scientia’s cooking. He even gets a smile out of the usually impassive advisor, which in turn, earns him the merest hint of a smile from Noctis.

Noctis also gives him all the mushrooms out of his portion, an action that Ardyn finds so charming he catches himself smiling every time Noctis’s fork sneaks onto his plate.

That evening, when they retire as a group to Noctis’s rooms, there are three cots arranged around Noctis’s bed. Ardyn fully intends to take one of them and leave Noctis to whichever of his partners he finds most amusing, but somehow, among the activity as they all prepare themselves to sleep and Ardyn settles his MTs in the front room, his husband’s retainers arrange themselves in the cots. Ardyn and Noctis are left to the giant bed.

“Goodnight, Ardyn,” Noctis mumbles right before he drops off.

Noctis sleeps as deeply that night as he did the last, and when Ardyn wakes, his husband is nestled against his chest. It takes him several minutes to extract himself. Noctis clings like a limpet, and Ardyn is hard put to imagine waking him. If it weren’t for the thought of what his husband’s lovers might do, if they found them like this, he would not have even tried to leave the bed.

*****

On the second day, Noctis says, “I hate the waiting.”

Ardyn agrees completely. He’s had this happen before, when he was in his own duchy, but then at least he was ostensibly in command and needed for activities other than ‘being kept safe’. Here, King Regis is understandably protective of his son, and that protection extends to his son’s spouse - Ardyn is not such a fool as to imagine that King Regis cares this much for his well-being. Even if he’s gradually coming to accept that Noctis might.

“If we are important enough to shut down half the Citadel over, surely we are important enough to be involved in the investigation,” he says.

“You’d think,” Noctis agrees. He is sitting on his couch, his legs curled up, a video game controller hanging from his hand. He and Prompto had been immersed in a game, but Prompto had to leave the Citadel for his own responsibilities for a few hours; Ardyn had frowned at this. It was Gladio who explained to him, quietly after Prompto walked out the door, that it was as much for Noctis’s sake as Prompto’s; that Noctis needed someone who was not part of their world, whose entire life was not dedicated to his.

Noctis pushes a few buttons, frowns at the burst of tinny music from the game, and tosses the controller aside. “I mean, they’re trying to find people who want to kill us, right? We could be bait.”

“A romantic thought,” Ardyn replies. “I’m sure your Shield would approve.”

“We’ll have him hide in a closet so he can jump out and hit them.”

Ardyn leans back in his chair and smiles, to cover up the remembered pain that throbs in his eye socket at the idea of the Shield punching anyone. “Hardly the typical use of a shield.”

“He’s flexible,” Noctis mutters.

Ardyn snorts, and says, “One of many reasons you keep him around, no doubt.” It is perhaps too biting an observation for this moment, but he cannot help it.

“He’s my friend too, y’know,” Noctis says, frowning. “Not just a bodyguard.”

“Not just a friend, either.”

Noctis has the good grace to flush and look away from Ardyn’s face. “Not just a friend,” he confirms.

Ardyn thinks they might leave things there, but Noctis asks, “Why, are you jealous?” He still looks away, as though the answer to the question means nothing to him; Ardyn hopes it is only a mask.

Yes, of course, of him, Ardyn nearly replies, but his mouth says, “I prefer my partners more emotionally stable.”

“He’s not that bad,” Noctis says.

“Perhaps,” Ardyn says, rubbing at his cheekbone. “I’m sure he’s nothing but gentle with you.”

Noctis snorts. “Not exactly,” he says, though he mercifully does not go into further detail. Then he says, “Are you okay?”

Ardyn has his fingertips dug into his temple, where it cracked when Gladio punched him. The wound is long healed now but he still thinks of it on occasion. He smiles. “Perfectly fine, thank you.”

“Sure,” Noctis says, though he frowns deeply before he picks up his phone.

*****

They are together so much, now, that Ardyn is developing an entirely new view on his husband’s life. He knew that Noctis liked video games and sleeping; he knew that Scientia did much of the housework, even though that could easily have been left to a lesser servant, that Prompto flitted in and out of the Citadel at will, and that Gladio dragged Noctis out to the training fields on a regular basis.

Until now, he did not know that when Prompto leaves and returns, he brings Noctis news of the haunts he enjoyed before he had to move back for his marriage. He did not realize that Scientia cooks like a gourmet chef for all four of them while listening to reports translated from text to speech on his phone. He did not see that even when Gladio is not at attention, he is constantly on watch, keeping the others from accident or danger.

They are not just close, they belong to each other in ways that are thoroughly unfamiliar to Ardyn. But then, much of Noctis’s life is foreign to Ardyn. Ardyn has never had what Noctis has: truly sworn allies, by their prince’s side not to further their own ambitions but for the sake of Noctis himself. Ardyn cannot fault him even slightly for choosing such men over the stranger he was promised to.

They let him into their circle slowly, carefully, with much confusion and rearranging of habits.

Ardyn finds that he can discuss any news story with Scientia and the advisor will be able to recommend him five pieces of background reading on it; he also learns of Scientia’s penchant for the worst puns on Eos. One night the two of them sit down and walk through three iterations of a recipe for Ardyn’s favorite chocolate cake; it doesn’t come out the way Ardyn is used to, but the last version is better.

He learns that Prompto will take pictures of anything if it sits still long enough, and sometimes even if it doesn’t. Prompto even brings him a small stack of pictures of the sunrise over the snowy mountains of Niflheim’s outer territories. He won’t say what he was doing there, but Ardyn appreciates the memories nonetheless.

Gladio does take him for the promised physical therapy, and Ardyn discovers that he is an excellent teacher, patient without being permissive. When they finish the lesson Ardyn can hardly walk, but it’s for soreness, not for pain. Gladio is also the one to hand him a stack of books, when Ardyn has grown beyond tired of his phone and watching his husband go over reports that he’s not allowed to look at.

Noctis, well, Noctis is harder. Unlike the others, Ardyn hardly ever has the chance to be alone with him; they each need a protector, after all, and the two of them together need at least one Crownsguard watching over them. He does learn, by observation rather than direct experience, that Noctis is freely affectionate when he feels comfortable; that he has a sly sense of humor that slips out just often enough that it’s a surprise each time.

Ardyn is not sure where he fits into all this. Joking with them is difficult, and sitting back will eventually make Prompto start giving him nervous, sidelong glances. He cannot get the hang of the games that Noctis and Prompto like so much, and he has never been inclined to cooking. And the thought never quite leaves him that he’s the intruder here. Every night when he takes to Noctis’s bed, he’s aware that there should be another there, and every morning when he pulls away from Noctis’s warmth against his side, he feels he’s stolen something he has no right to.

Perhaps it’s worse because at the moment he wakes, with Noctis’s black-silk hair tickling his face, he always feels as though he’s gotten everything he was ever missing.

On the fifth day, Noctis says, “You don’t like to be alone with me.”

Ardyn looks up from his novel. He is perhaps too invested in the story, because he catches his own brow furrowing, his mouth frowning before he can pull himself back together. Their isolation from each other was more Noctis’s desire than his own; surely Noctis would have asked if he wished to see Ardyn more often than once a week and at the occasional official function.

But he merely says, “My dear Noctis, I would not impose upon you so.”

Noctis sits at the other end of the couch, and curls up, facing Ardyn with his knees drawn to his chest. “Not an imposition,” he says. “What’s the book?”

Much to Ardyn’s discomfort, the book is one that Gladio handed him alongside a stack of Lucian history and Niflheimir poetry in translation: a ratty paperback romance entitled “The Queen’s Shield”. Noctis laughs quietly when Ardyn shows him the cover.

“That’s one of Gladio’s,” he says. “Surprised he didn’t do you a dramatic reading.”

“I was forced to beg his pardon on that front,” Ardyn says, hoping that he’s only playing along and the Shield won’t someday offer to act out the amorous adventures of Queen Diviner and Lord Vriesea Amicitia.

Noctis’s slight smile almost disappears behind his knees, but Ardyn catches a glimpse of it when he speaks. “Good call. Iggy’s way better at the voices.”

“I doubt Mr. Scientia would wish to spend that much time with me.”

“Y’know, you don’t have to call Iggy ‘Mr. Scientia’. He was messing with you.”

Ardyn is well aware. It had only seemed the less abrasive course to continue with the name the man had given him. “I also doubt he would appreciate it if I were to call him ‘Iggy’.”

“Nah, probably not. Ignis is fine though.”

They sit in silence. It is not uncomfortable, but Ardyn can feel his young prince’s eyes on him as he turns the pages. After a few paragraphs which he has to reread, having failed to take any of the words in the first time, Ardyn says, “I suppose I could do the dramatic reading.”

Noctis blinks at him, and Ardyn takes that as permission to continue. He picks a random sentence and begins reading: “‘What would you have me do?’ Lord Vrisea pleaded, his amber eyes welling up with tears…”

When Ardyn comes to the end of the paragraph, he lifts his eyebrow, and says, “To go farther might force us both to discuss things better kept behind closed doors.”

Noctis is looking at him with his head tilted, and when Ardyn stops, he unfolds himself and comes a little closer on the couch, motioning for the book. Ardyn hands it to him and Noctis finds the paragraph, reads a little beyond it, and laughs.

“Is something the matter?” Ardyn asks.

Noctis hands him the book back. “It’s your accent, isn’t it? I thought you were, like, being sarcastic all the time. But it’s just the way you talk.”

Ardyn says, in Niflheimer, “I talk like someone who can use more than one note in a scale.”

Noctis grins, and Ardyn’s heart performs acrobatics that it has no business engaging in at his age. “Say something else?” he asks. He drapes himself along the couch, so close Ardyn could touch him. It should be nothing, to reach out and stroke his husband’s hair, or to take his hand.

Often, when he’s asked to demonstrate another language, Ardyn can’t think of any reasonable sentence to make. This time he has no such difficulty. “You are beautiful beyond the telling of it, Noctis,” he says. “I regret that I ever thought you cold or unkind.”

He is looking deeply into Noctis’s eyes as he says the words, and when he finishes, Noctis is blushing, though Ardyn is certain he didn’t understand. It is then that he reaches out and puts his hand on Noctis’s.

“What did that mean?” Noctis asks, quietly. Ardyn nearly expects him to pull away, but he does not. Instead he laces his fingers with Ardyn’s and tightens his grip.

Ardyn smiles. “I shall find you a dictionary in the library, and you can tell me.”

Noctis sighs and leans his head heavily on the back of the couch. “My name sounds pretty cool in Niflheimer,” he says. “At least I got that part.”

“The Niflheimir accent can have trouble with those old Lucian names,” Ardyn replies. “I’m glad I did it justice.”

The quiet between them is deeper, perhaps more fraught, then before. If Ardyn were a sensible man, he would go back to his novel now, and not keep staring at his husband. Noctis is staring right back, however, and Ardyn is willing to be less than sensible for a little longer yet.

Noctis’s bedroom door opens, and Gladio comes out, walking quickly towards the door to the hall. “Be right back, Noct,” he says as he walks through the room. “Got a call from Iggy. Five minutes.”

The spell is broken and Noctis stands up. “Is he okay?” he asks.

“He’s fine,” Gladio says. “Training injury. Just a scratch.”

He returns less than the promised five minutes later, with Ignis leaning heavily on his side. The bandage taped to his chest, under his unbuttoned shirt, does not look like it covers ‘just a scratch’ to Ardyn, though he admits his healer’s eye is more sensitive to such things than a fighter’s would be. He stands and goes to Ignis and nearly sets his hands on him before his wrist is caught.

“Don’t touch him,” Gladio says quietly.

“I cannot heal him without touching him,” Ardyn snaps.

Ignis sighs and places his hand over the wound, taking a step back from Ardyn, and Gladio. “Thank you, it will heal itself. No need to waste the energy on it.“

Ardyn frowns. He can see no reason to put off a healing, unless the advisor is still untrusting of him. He speaks softly as he would to a patient. “It takes but a moment, and you'll feel very little."

“I would rather not take my chances with Magitek, but thank you,” Ignis replies.

Ardyn bristles, and he’s sure it shows. Perhaps being open with Noctis has made him too open in general. “I assure you it is not Magitek,” he says. “My healing is a gift from the gods.”

Gladio lets go Ardyn’s wrist, but rather than step back and let him work, he steps into Ardyn’s space and folds his arms. Ardyn holds his ground, schooling his face into a pleasant smile.

“I thought all you Nifs did with magic was Magitek,” Gladio says. Ardyn even manages not to flinch at the slur. “How did you get healing?”

“I prayed for it and I paid the price, the same as anyone else.” Ardyn does not wish to go into more detail than that. And meanwhile Ignis is standing behind Gladio looking pained. “At least let him sit down.”

It’s Noctis who guides Ignis to the nearest chair, around the nest of gaming system wires on the floor. As Ignis lowers himself into the chair, he asks, “How long have you had the ability to heal?”

“Nearly twenty years,” Ardyn says. “I trained as a doctor before I was given the blessing.”

“That matches the reports I’ve read,” Ignis says, almost to himself. “Well after Magitek became a household name in Niflheim. And you’re the first in your family to have the ability.”

“The rest of my family did not find healing to be a pursuit worth a ruler’s time,” Ardyn tells him. “I was fortunate to have both the aptitude and the sympathetic ear of the Astrals.”

Gladio scoffs. “That doesn’t sound like a thing they have.”

“It was not, admittedly, very sympathetic. Could you not just use one of your potions on him, if you won’t allow me to exercise my Astral-given abilities?”

“We don’t need to waste potions on this,” Ignis says. “Not for a simple cut.”

So Aranea’s guess at the start was right; they simply don’t have the inclination or ability to heal wounds that aren’t life threatening. That they balk at Magitek healing when their own healing is based in strange vials of liquid is a mystery for another time, perhaps.

“It will hardly take any effort on my part if the wound is not deep,” Ardyn says. “And it won’t scar.”

Ignis tilts his head at Ardyn, and seems to turn this over. “I may as well make the experiment,” he says. “You can let him, Gladio.”

“Thank you,” Ardyn says icily, and steps around Gladio to crouch down at Ignis’s side.

He slips the bandage off quickly, running his fingers under the tape to avoid it pulling. The wound is not terribly large and it’s a clean slice. Ardyn can tell at a glance that it was done with a sharp blade.

“What happened?” Noctis asks, when he sees it.

“I was overconfident while battling some of the Kingsglaive,” Ignis replies. “It seems Nyx and I are less evenly matched than I’d hoped.”

Noctis laughs. “You should’ve known better.”

Ardyn ignores the rest of their conversation, and presses his hand over the wound. Ignis’s body is, of course, unknown to him; it takes longer to perform a first healing than subsequent ones, and much, much longer than to perform healing on himself. So for thirty seconds or so he simply breathes, feeling the force of life within Ignis’s body. Then he concentrates on encouraging that life to come together again in a single whole; he feels electricity spark from within his own chest, running down his fingers to come out as white light against Ignis’s skin.

The actual healing takes only seconds. The clean cut comes together in a clean line, and then disappears. Ardyn hears and feels Ignis take in a sharp breath, and only then does he pull away and stand.

“How does that feel?” he asks.

“Like it was never there,” Ignis answers. He touches the new skin with his fingertips. “Impressive work.”

“It was very minor,” Ardyn says, brushing the compliment aside, though truly it pleases him to be praised for his work again after so long without having the chance to perform any.

“And it does feel like magic,” Noctis says. Ardyn and Gladio both look at him sharply; he shrugs. “I can tell it’s there, a little bit. It’s not like the MTs. They don’t feel like anything.”

“So I have passed inspection, then?” Ardyn asks.

“I guess you did,” Gladio says, slapping him on the shoulder.

*****

Prompto no longer even tries to be subtle about his attachment to Noctis, and will just as often sit in his lap as sit on the other end of the couch, even when Ardyn is present. The others are more careful about keeping their close relationship to their prince hidden. Ardyn wonders if they are aware that he knows, but he will leave it to them to bring up; he does not, after all, need any reminders of what could have been.

Their circumspection is admirable. It is a full week of the five of them living in each others’ pockets before Ardyn walks in on Noctis asleep on top of Ignis.

He tries to back out of the room silently, but Ignis’s head is already up, and he says, “Ardyn?”

“Yes,” Ardyn admits. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” Ignis says. “In fact, I wonder if you could help me?”

“How may I be of service?” Ardyn asks. He walks into the living room slowly, trying not to look at his husband’s head in Ignis’s lap.

“Noctis and I were looking over plans for the state-owned hospitals,” Ignis says. “Neither of us has ever been a healer or a doctor, though. Perhaps you could read over some of these reports and tell us if you see any issues with the proposal.”

Ignis nods towards the desk, pulled in front of the couch, where there sit two tablets displaying text files. One has headphones attached, the better for Ignis to listen to it being read out by a robotic voice. Ardyn picks up the other and scrolls to the top. It takes some time.

“Are you certain I’m allowed to know of these plans?” he asks.

“There’s no purpose to keeping a healer in the dark about hospitals,” Ignis says.

Perhaps Ardyn is coming to be more than just a hostage. He is pathetically grateful, after so long, to have even this chance to contribute to the running of a country. He looks at the couch, covered by Noctis’s body, and takes a step towards the chair on the other side of the room.

“Why don’t you sit over here?” Ignis asks. “Noctis will be happy to see you when he wakes up.”

A week ago Ardyn would have politely demurred. Now, he thinks that Ignis might be right. He picks Noctis’s feet up and settles into the other end of the couch to read through the papers.

“Your healing,” Ignis says, after a moment. Ardyn puts the tablet down and waits for the rest, though he’s relatively certain he knows what it will be.

“Is it possible to heal old wounds?” Ignis asks, and yes, there it is.

“It depends on the wound,” he says carefully. “The more recent the better, and of course the less damage the better. I cannot heal what is no longer there, but I may be able to improve impaired function.”

Ignis nods. “What about spinal damage? I know the nerves in the spine are delicate, but could an old injury like that be improved?”

Ardyn frowns, aware that Ignis cannot see it. “It depends, again, but likely not. If the nerves have healed wrong I would have to sever them and try to ask the body to remember the old connections, and the outcome could be worse than before.”

Ignis’s head drops, and his fingers move lightly over a strand of Noctis’s hair. “I see.”

“You don’t ask for yourself,” Ardyn says quietly.

Ignis shakes his head. “Noctis received an injury when he was a child that has pained him ever since,” he says. “The Oracle helped him, but the healing was not complete.”

“I doubt I could do now what the Oracle could not do then,” Ardyn admits. His hand curls gently around Noctis’s ankle, protective, and Noctis does not stir. He cannot help but imagine a younger Noctis, hurt badly enough to call on the Oracle. If her powers could not restore him fully then it is a miracle of its own that Noctis is even able to walk.

“Your own injury may be simpler to heal. Have you any vision left at all?” Ardyn asks. To his mind it is only a slight change in the conversational tack, but Ignis looks as though he’s surprised by the question.

“A little light sensitivity, on the right side,” Ignis tells him. “Not enough to be very useful.”

“It would take time and preparation, but I could likely bring back more,” Ardyn says.

Ignis’s hand is tight on Noctis’s shoulder when he says, “If you would be so kind.”

(Sorry for the "tiny snippets" format. It happens for reasons. ^^;)

-

He finds Ignis on a bench in the gardens, watching the sun set over the pond. "Mind if I join you?"

Ignis doesn't look up. "No, not at all."

They sit in comfortable silence as the sky turns from blue to orange to black. The lights are already on when Gladio finds his words.

"I'm not gonna ask you if you're okay. I can see you're not. I'm also not gonna ask what's up, because it's none of my business, but if there's anything you need, you know where I am. If you need to talk, I'll listen."

The silence that follows is different, tense, and it almost makes Gladio want to fill it with more words, even though he knows he shouldn't. It ends with Ignis saying, "Thank you."

"Anytime," Gladio replies, and then holds his tongue.

When Ignis speaks again, it's so quiet Gladio almost misses it. "It's this whole affair around the minister. It touches on some very unpleasant memories."

holy shit anon, this is so good, and painful, and raw, and just... oh man. Ignis trying to convince himself he can endure the pain and get through it all nearly broke me, but then his last lines at the end? That was fucking it for me ;___;

I can't wait for the next part, I have a burning need to know what happens next!

My god, anon this is utterly heart-shredding. Poor, poor Ignis. The raw pain I almost tangible!

I'm on tenterhooks waiting for the next part.

............yes please.

OP here! Honestly I'm thrilled that someone is even considering filling this! I was envisioning mouth-to-mouth contact, like a mama bird feeding a baby bird, if that makes sense? It doesn't necessarily have to be food; it can be medicine or whatever works!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 48 of 208

Prompt Post Round Six

Re: A/B/O Ardyn gets Noctis pregnant

Not-really-a-fill-but-I-could-not-resist-sharing-this: Any pairing or gen, Prompto is a chocobo

Fill: Gladio, normal-sized penis, 5+1

Re: IgNoct - platonic mouth feeding

Gen: Ardyn uses public transportation

Humour: Ardyn has a work accident and has to fake

Re: Ardyn vs Ardyn, Starfish Ardyn

Humour: Ardyn signs up to a sugar daddy dating site

Fill (1/2): Gen -- past noncon, present triggering

Re: Fill (1/2): Gen -- past noncon, present triggering

Ardyn's bad hair day

Re: Ardyn vs Ardyn, Starfish Ardyn

Re: Ardyn vs Ardyn, Starfish Ardyn

Aranea/Any - Someone going down on Aranea (slight femdom?)

Re: FILL: Ignis/Mindflayer [bonus scene! 2/2]

FILL: Gen or Gladio/Ignis - Confusion Spell, NonCon/DubCon [1a/?]

FILL: Gen or Gladio/Ignis - Confusion Spell, NonCon/DubCon [1b/?]

Re: FILL: Gen or Gladio/Ignis - Confusion Spell, NonCon/DubCon [1b/?]

FILL: 8a/9 Ardnoct arranged marriage AU, misunderstandings

FILL: 8b/9 Ardnoct arranged marriage AU, misunderstandings

Fill (2/?): Gen -- past noncon, present triggering

Re: FILL: Gen or Gladio/Ignis - Confusion Spell, NonCon/DubCon [1b/?]

Re: FILL: Gen or Gladio/Ignis - Confusion Spell, NonCon/DubCon [1b/?]

Re: OT4 Dark/corrupted king Noctis AU

Re: IgNoct - platonic mouth feeding