Prompto doesn’t growl like he wants to, in case Ardyn takes the water away. It’s cold and tastes like dirt, just like all the water out of the taps here; he doesn’t care. Ardyn laughs at his eagerness and gives him a second cup when he finishes the first.
“I expect that to hold you,” Ardyn says. “I would prefer not to have to repeat yesterday.” Prompto just nods. He won’t move again. He might go insane if he has to take another day of being frozen like that.
The chimes ring, and Ardyn picks up the needle, and there’s pain. Prompto doesn’t move. He stays still while more white ink goes up the back of his arm, and while Ardyn looms over him to start on his shoulder. Even when Ardyn jams the needle too hard into his shoulder blade, right into the bone, he only grunts at the pain.
The incense and the chimes, the heavy air, are starting to get to his head again. He thinks he’s almost hit it, that empty place where he can ignore what’s happening to him, but then Ardyn starts praising him.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, as he taps ink into Prompto’s shoulder. Prompto can’t even see the color of the ink anymore, and he doesn’t know why that makes it worse, but it does.
“You haven’t even cried.” Ardyn’s voice is as sticky-sweet as the honey, and has about the opposite effect on Prompto’s stomach. Keep breathing, he thinks, don’t move, you know you can get rid of it later. If there is a later, some treacherous part of his mind supplies, but he ignores it. He’s gonna get through this.
“Most do, eventually. It’s such a shock to the body. But, ah, of course, you were made to handle such shocks.”
Prompto’s left hand curls into a fist. He concentrates on the chimes, on the needle. Not on Ardyn’s words; if he’s careful, he thinks he can let his voice pass through him like yesterday. He just wants to go away again. Go away and not come back until Noct is there. Or maybe just not come back ever. Let Noct forget about him, so he’ll never have to explain any of this. Damn it. He takes the deepest breath he thinks he can, and lets it out slowly. Takes in another, lets it out. Counts the pinpricks of pain sinking into his back and tries to slow his heartbeat to the rhythm of the needle.
Ardyn runs his hand through Prompto’s hair and says, “Noctis will love it, I’m sure,” and ruins any hope of mental escape.
A long, long time later, Ardyn says, “It’s complete.”
Prompto cracks his eyes open. His muscles, especially in his shoulder and his hands, are screaming from how tight he’s been holding himself. He’s sweating all over. Even his hair feels damp and gross.
Ardyn’s back over at the side of the blanket pile. He pats Prompto’s wrist like he’s congratulating an animal on a trick. “Very well done.”
Instead of leaving him, this time, Ardyn massages yet more oil into Prompto’s skin. It stings on the freshly opened places, and Prompto hisses, but he doesn’t move. Even when the healing magic seals in the ink, he doesn’t move, except to close his eyes.
Ardyn’s hands leave him and Prompto feels the ropes release. He doesn’t realize at first that it means he can move now. He lies still until Ardyn’s soft laughter jolts him. Then he tries - makes some attempt at trying. His hands don’t work right, or his arms, or his legs. And Ardyn’s too close.
“Very good,” Ardyn says. He leans forward and grabs Prompto’s wrist, and drags him closer with surprising strength. Prompto is sitting up with his back pressed into Ardyn’s chest before he really knows what happened. Ardyn holds his right wrist in one hand and bars his left arm and his chest with the other. He doesn’t need to bother. Prompto is still fuzzy on the concept of voluntary muscle action.
Ardyn extends his hand out, angling it so Prompto can get his first good look at the tattoo. From the back of his hand, past where he can see his shoulder, a stylized, skeletal animal leaps down his arm and wraps claws around his wrist. His barcode is still clearly visible, tucked in between its chin and one claw. The lines are more organic than on Gladio’s tattoo, with more texture and depth, but it’s very clearly done in the same style.
Prompto feels sick again. “What…”
“The behemoth of Niflheim,” Ardyn says. “Reworked for the Lucian court.” Prompto has never hated being short quite as much as when Ardyn’s behind him. His chin is digging into the top of Prompto’s head. Too close, too warm, too much like intimacy.
Prompto gets it part of the way. He knows the crests of both countries. What he doesn’t get is what kind of sense it makes to put on him. “Why…” he starts, and stops when Ardyn drops his wrist and his hand comes up towards Prompto’s face. Fear freezes him as hard as Ardyn’s spell, if only for a second.
Ardyn just puts a finger to Prompto’s lips. “A gift for the Lucii,” he says. He’s speaking into Prompto’s hair and Prompto can feel his breath. “From the court of daemons to the court of death. I thought it best to make it explicit; after all, we wouldn’t want Noctis to get the wrong idea about what you are.”
Prompto shudders. “I won’t tell him.”
Ardyn’s drawl is mocking. “You’re certainly not the only one with the privilege of speaking to the king.” He runs his hands over Prompto’s shoulders, possessively, gripping both his wrists when he reaches them. “He’ll get the message.”
Prompto’s frozen again. When Ardyn stands up, Prompto falls forward, catching himself on his palms and then just… sitting there, staring. At the new addition, and his old barcode neatly avoided by its lines. Ardyn pats him on the head and walks out. The MTs each scoop up pieces of Ardyn’s setup and follow, leaving the cell bare and cold again.
The last MT throws a bundle of his clothes at him as it walks out and bolts the door behind it. It takes Prompto a solid half hour before he can force himself to move far enough to put them back on.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL 3/3 Ardyn/Prompto non-con ritual tattoo
Date: 2017-12-26 11:57 pm (UTC)“I expect that to hold you,” Ardyn says. “I would prefer not to have to repeat yesterday.” Prompto just nods. He won’t move again. He might go insane if he has to take another day of being frozen like that.
The chimes ring, and Ardyn picks up the needle, and there’s pain. Prompto doesn’t move. He stays still while more white ink goes up the back of his arm, and while Ardyn looms over him to start on his shoulder. Even when Ardyn jams the needle too hard into his shoulder blade, right into the bone, he only grunts at the pain.
The incense and the chimes, the heavy air, are starting to get to his head again. He thinks he’s almost hit it, that empty place where he can ignore what’s happening to him, but then Ardyn starts praising him.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, as he taps ink into Prompto’s shoulder. Prompto can’t even see the color of the ink anymore, and he doesn’t know why that makes it worse, but it does.
“You haven’t even cried.” Ardyn’s voice is as sticky-sweet as the honey, and has about the opposite effect on Prompto’s stomach. Keep breathing, he thinks, don’t move, you know you can get rid of it later. If there is a later, some treacherous part of his mind supplies, but he ignores it. He’s gonna get through this.
“Most do, eventually. It’s such a shock to the body. But, ah, of course, you were made to handle such shocks.”
Prompto’s left hand curls into a fist. He concentrates on the chimes, on the needle. Not on Ardyn’s words; if he’s careful, he thinks he can let his voice pass through him like yesterday. He just wants to go away again. Go away and not come back until Noct is there. Or maybe just not come back ever. Let Noct forget about him, so he’ll never have to explain any of this. Damn it. He takes the deepest breath he thinks he can, and lets it out slowly. Takes in another, lets it out. Counts the pinpricks of pain sinking into his back and tries to slow his heartbeat to the rhythm of the needle.
Ardyn runs his hand through Prompto’s hair and says, “Noctis will love it, I’m sure,” and ruins any hope of mental escape.
A long, long time later, Ardyn says, “It’s complete.”
Prompto cracks his eyes open. His muscles, especially in his shoulder and his hands, are screaming from how tight he’s been holding himself. He’s sweating all over. Even his hair feels damp and gross.
Ardyn’s back over at the side of the blanket pile. He pats Prompto’s wrist like he’s congratulating an animal on a trick. “Very well done.”
Instead of leaving him, this time, Ardyn massages yet more oil into Prompto’s skin. It stings on the freshly opened places, and Prompto hisses, but he doesn’t move. Even when the healing magic seals in the ink, he doesn’t move, except to close his eyes.
Ardyn’s hands leave him and Prompto feels the ropes release. He doesn’t realize at first that it means he can move now. He lies still until Ardyn’s soft laughter jolts him. Then he tries - makes some attempt at trying. His hands don’t work right, or his arms, or his legs. And Ardyn’s too close.
“Very good,” Ardyn says. He leans forward and grabs Prompto’s wrist, and drags him closer with surprising strength. Prompto is sitting up with his back pressed into Ardyn’s chest before he really knows what happened. Ardyn holds his right wrist in one hand and bars his left arm and his chest with the other. He doesn’t need to bother. Prompto is still fuzzy on the concept of voluntary muscle action.
Ardyn extends his hand out, angling it so Prompto can get his first good look at the tattoo. From the back of his hand, past where he can see his shoulder, a stylized, skeletal animal leaps down his arm and wraps claws around his wrist. His barcode is still clearly visible, tucked in between its chin and one claw. The lines are more organic than on Gladio’s tattoo, with more texture and depth, but it’s very clearly done in the same style.
Prompto feels sick again. “What…”
“The behemoth of Niflheim,” Ardyn says. “Reworked for the Lucian court.” Prompto has never hated being short quite as much as when Ardyn’s behind him. His chin is digging into the top of Prompto’s head. Too close, too warm, too much like intimacy.
Prompto gets it part of the way. He knows the crests of both countries. What he doesn’t get is what kind of sense it makes to put on him. “Why…” he starts, and stops when Ardyn drops his wrist and his hand comes up towards Prompto’s face. Fear freezes him as hard as Ardyn’s spell, if only for a second.
Ardyn just puts a finger to Prompto’s lips. “A gift for the Lucii,” he says. He’s speaking into Prompto’s hair and Prompto can feel his breath. “From the court of daemons to the court of death. I thought it best to make it explicit; after all, we wouldn’t want Noctis to get the wrong idea about what you are.”
Prompto shudders. “I won’t tell him.”
Ardyn’s drawl is mocking. “You’re certainly not the only one with the privilege of speaking to the king.” He runs his hands over Prompto’s shoulders, possessively, gripping both his wrists when he reaches them. “He’ll get the message.”
Prompto’s frozen again. When Ardyn stands up, Prompto falls forward, catching himself on his palms and then just… sitting there, staring. At the new addition, and his old barcode neatly avoided by its lines. Ardyn pats him on the head and walks out. The MTs each scoop up pieces of Ardyn’s setup and follow, leaving the cell bare and cold again.
The last MT throws a bundle of his clothes at him as it walks out and bolts the door behind it. It takes Prompto a solid half hour before he can force himself to move far enough to put them back on.