Just to clarify: Weapon = short for 'Daemon Weapon' weapon = any form of object used for combat Shield = the position, Sworn Shield shield = the object
-xv-
Noctis never acts upon his feelings - at least, not in the vicinity of Gladio or Ignis. Not only are they in the service of the Crown, and thus employed by the King, they are also Noctis’ Daemon Weapons. He has heard horrible tales of Meisters being cruel or even abusive towards their Weapons, and while protecting Noctis may be Gladio and Ignis’ duty, their happiness and wellbeing are, in turn, Noctis’ responsibility. By seventeen, Noctis has come to call them his friends, and he would rather pine after them forever than risk harming or pushing them away.
Nyx is sympathetic to his plight in the way that Noctis imagines any sensible older sibling would be.
“Well you’re not old enough to drink yet,” they muse, lounged out across the sofa in their apartment as Noctis flicks a pair of throwing daggers at the wall, summoning each blade back to himself as it hits the target. They’re Nyx’s favourite pair, and while Noctis has known the Glaive for some years now, it still amuses him to think that Nyx both wields and is a set of daggers.
“How ‘bout we get takeout and watch a crappy movie?”
That sounds good to Noctis. “We’re getting kebabs.”
“We always get kebabs,” Nyx groans, shoving him with their foot. Noctis’ next dagger pings against the TV before disappearing behind the cabinet, but Nyx just rolls their eyes.
“And that is why I can never get any signal,” they sigh.
On the plus side of Noctis never being able to admit his feelings towards Gladio and Ignis because they’re his Weapons, they are his Weapons. Granted, they spend most of their days in their human forms, Gladio training with the Crownsguard or chest-deep in textbooks in the library, and Ignis attending council meetings, writing reports, cooking, or organising Noctis’ life for him, but when their schedules slot together, they are inseparable. While they can often be found out in the east grounds of the citadel, Noctis would hesitate to say that they train. Fighting is often involved, but wielding any old blade is incomparable to the feel of a Weapon in his hands. Gladio is still something of a challenge to manoeuvre - he really is more of a wall than a shield - but Ignis’ polearm form is a breeze.
They spar, Noctis wielding Ignis against Gladio’s thunderous blows and then ducking behind the Shield’s very literal defence when Ignis brandishes his daggers, but it’s not about who wins or loses. It’s about afterwards, when Gladio is flopped on the ground after fending off Ignis’ I-could-murder-the-councilmen assault, when Noctis is flattened underneath him after misjudging a warp with the shield and almost crashing them through a window, and when Ignis is seconds from collapsing but still fussing over them both, glasses askew and one of his gloves lost who-knows-where.
“You both okay?” Noctis wheezes, laughing when he tries and fails to shove his Shield from on top of him. “Gladio?”
“Fine,” Gladio grunts, exemplifying a giant, dumb cat chilling after a batting a toy mouse a few times. “Gonna take more than a few daggers to scratch me.”
“I felt you wince.”
“Yeah ‘cause you almost threw me through a window -”
“Hey, I tripped -”
“You winced, Gladio?” Ignis interrupts. He sounds a little breathless, and yet a simple readjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose seems to negative any exhaustion that he feels. He glides over and motions for the Shield to sit up, but Gladio just huffs at him.
“I’m fine, Iggy. No harm done. I just want a shower.”
“Like we don’t know that already,” Noctis mumbles, and Gladio rolls his sweaty, two-tonne body over him because he’s an arsehole, that’s why.
Ignis is right to show concern. No matter how indestructible a shield, lance, dagger, or blade may seem, Daemon Weapons are not invulnerable to harm. Human forms aside, which can bleed and break just as any other person can, Weapons can withstand damage beyond what would shatter their inanimate counterparts. This does not mean that they cannot be broken; Ignis could bend or snap given enough force, and Gladio can be chipped, scratched, cut, or worn over time.
He can be permanently injured too, as Noctis learns far beyond the walls of Insomnia, fishing rod propped against one shoulder and Gladio looming over the other. There’s a sharp breath and the swirl of Gladio shifting as the coeurl pounces; Noctis ducks, blue sparks of his armiger colliding with the amber light of Gladio’s shield, and the coeurl’s colossal body crashes against them. Black paint shreds under its claws. A snout of fangs and blood tear into the shield, vile saliva splattering Noctis’ face, and his yell resonates with Gladio’s as they shove the monster away, royal magic flaring as Noctis lunges with his sword.
The Crownsguard unit drive the coeurl away, the lakeside serenity tainted by gunfire and blood. Gladio refuses to transform back until they are safe within the citadel, so Noctis squashes himself into the back of the car with the shield thrown over him like a blanket. It is then that he notices the extent of the coeurl’s attack; the grazes and chipped paintwork will be no worse than scratches and bruises that Gladio has suffered before, but coeurl’s incisors have inflicted a gash that gapes open across the top of the shield.
Gladio is lucky not to lose his eye.
Ignis, in the calm yet terrible way that only Ignis can, flips his shit. The sight of Noctis and Gladio cowering in the infirmary must certainly be something, for when King Regis and Clarus arrive as stormclouds bring a hurricane, they linger almost awkwardly in the doorway, their concerned fury like a mild spring breeze up against Ignis’ tirade.
“I daresay you deserved that,” King Regis says after Ignis has worn himself out. Thoroughly chastised and quite the sight with gauze looped around his head, one eye temporarily beyond use as the stitches heal, Gladio says nothing from the bed, but Noctis mumbles his agreement. The nurses have no need to keep Gladio overnight, but maybe the infirmary will be the safest place for him while Ignis imitates the coeurl that almost blinded the Prince’s Shield by prowling the citadel halls.
“He’ll probably take a few days to cool down,” Noctis says - hopes.
“Optimistic of you,” Clarus deadpans, and the King laughs.
Noctis doesn’t. Gladio buries the visible half of his face into his hands.
Ignis does, eventually, forgive them. The conversation is typical Ignis-style again; while he does extract a promise that they will be more careful next time, he also endorses Gladio’s actions and offers an apology for his own behaviour. The freshly baked tart is unnecessary and yet gleefully accepted by Noctis, and though the whipped cream swirls are neat and professional in every way that Ignis is too, Noctis thinks he can read I’m sorry for blowing a fuse in front of the King in the dusting of sugar.
Gladio doesn’t receive an apology. The Shield concedes with a shrug, adding fair enough with a lopsided grin. This smile only widens when Ignis clicks his tongue and pulls out a brand new polishing kit from his bag, encouraging Gladio to transform - should you be able - so that something can be done about the damage to his shield form. The most prominent gash will only heal as Gladio’s human body does, but the rest are merely a matter of time, care, and no small about of elbow work.
As Gladio’s Meister, that responsibility should fall to Noctis.
“It’s no bother,” Ignis says, and Noctis shrugs before shoving another forkful of cake into his mouth. Gladio grumbles about lazy arse Princes and earns a stern glare from Ignis, but when his shield form is propped up against Noctis, slouched cross-legged on the floor, neither of them find any reason to complain.
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timeasmymeasure
[FILL] Re: Any pairing or gen, the bros are Noct's weapons (3/?)
Date: 2017-02-16 02:19 pm (UTC)Weapon = short for 'Daemon Weapon'
weapon = any form of object used for combat
Shield = the position, Sworn Shield
shield = the object
-xv-
Noctis never acts upon his feelings - at least, not in the vicinity of Gladio or Ignis. Not only are they in the service of the Crown, and thus employed by the King, they are also Noctis’ Daemon Weapons. He has heard horrible tales of Meisters being cruel or even abusive towards their Weapons, and while protecting Noctis may be Gladio and Ignis’ duty, their happiness and wellbeing are, in turn, Noctis’ responsibility. By seventeen, Noctis has come to call them his friends, and he would rather pine after them forever than risk harming or pushing them away.
Nyx is sympathetic to his plight in the way that Noctis imagines any sensible older sibling would be.
“Well you’re not old enough to drink yet,” they muse, lounged out across the sofa in their apartment as Noctis flicks a pair of throwing daggers at the wall, summoning each blade back to himself as it hits the target. They’re Nyx’s favourite pair, and while Noctis has known the Glaive for some years now, it still amuses him to think that Nyx both wields and is a set of daggers.
“How ‘bout we get takeout and watch a crappy movie?”
That sounds good to Noctis. “We’re getting kebabs.”
“We always get kebabs,” Nyx groans, shoving him with their foot. Noctis’ next dagger pings against the TV before disappearing behind the cabinet, but Nyx just rolls their eyes.
“And that is why I can never get any signal,” they sigh.
On the plus side of Noctis never being able to admit his feelings towards Gladio and Ignis because they’re his Weapons, they are his Weapons. Granted, they spend most of their days in their human forms, Gladio training with the Crownsguard or chest-deep in textbooks in the library, and Ignis attending council meetings, writing reports, cooking, or organising Noctis’ life for him, but when their schedules slot together, they are inseparable. While they can often be found out in the east grounds of the citadel, Noctis would hesitate to say that they train. Fighting is often involved, but wielding any old blade is incomparable to the feel of a Weapon in his hands. Gladio is still something of a challenge to manoeuvre - he really is more of a wall than a shield - but Ignis’ polearm form is a breeze.
They spar, Noctis wielding Ignis against Gladio’s thunderous blows and then ducking behind the Shield’s very literal defence when Ignis brandishes his daggers, but it’s not about who wins or loses. It’s about afterwards, when Gladio is flopped on the ground after fending off Ignis’ I-could-murder-the-councilmen assault, when Noctis is flattened underneath him after misjudging a warp with the shield and almost crashing them through a window, and when Ignis is seconds from collapsing but still fussing over them both, glasses askew and one of his gloves lost who-knows-where.
“You both okay?” Noctis wheezes, laughing when he tries and fails to shove his Shield from on top of him. “Gladio?”
“Fine,” Gladio grunts, exemplifying a giant, dumb cat chilling after a batting a toy mouse a few times. “Gonna take more than a few daggers to scratch me.”
“I felt you wince.”
“Yeah ‘cause you almost threw me through a window -”
“Hey, I tripped -”
“You winced, Gladio?” Ignis interrupts. He sounds a little breathless, and yet a simple readjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose seems to negative any exhaustion that he feels. He glides over and motions for the Shield to sit up, but Gladio just huffs at him.
“I’m fine, Iggy. No harm done. I just want a shower.”
“Like we don’t know that already,” Noctis mumbles, and Gladio rolls his sweaty, two-tonne body over him because he’s an arsehole, that’s why.
Ignis is right to show concern. No matter how indestructible a shield, lance, dagger, or blade may seem, Daemon Weapons are not invulnerable to harm. Human forms aside, which can bleed and break just as any other person can, Weapons can withstand damage beyond what would shatter their inanimate counterparts. This does not mean that they cannot be broken; Ignis could bend or snap given enough force, and Gladio can be chipped, scratched, cut, or worn over time.
He can be permanently injured too, as Noctis learns far beyond the walls of Insomnia, fishing rod propped against one shoulder and Gladio looming over the other. There’s a sharp breath and the swirl of Gladio shifting as the coeurl pounces; Noctis ducks, blue sparks of his armiger colliding with the amber light of Gladio’s shield, and the coeurl’s colossal body crashes against them. Black paint shreds under its claws. A snout of fangs and blood tear into the shield, vile saliva splattering Noctis’ face, and his yell resonates with Gladio’s as they shove the monster away, royal magic flaring as Noctis lunges with his sword.
The Crownsguard unit drive the coeurl away, the lakeside serenity tainted by gunfire and blood. Gladio refuses to transform back until they are safe within the citadel, so Noctis squashes himself into the back of the car with the shield thrown over him like a blanket. It is then that he notices the extent of the coeurl’s attack; the grazes and chipped paintwork will be no worse than scratches and bruises that Gladio has suffered before, but coeurl’s incisors have inflicted a gash that gapes open across the top of the shield.
Gladio is lucky not to lose his eye.
Ignis, in the calm yet terrible way that only Ignis can, flips his shit. The sight of Noctis and Gladio cowering in the infirmary must certainly be something, for when King Regis and Clarus arrive as stormclouds bring a hurricane, they linger almost awkwardly in the doorway, their concerned fury like a mild spring breeze up against Ignis’ tirade.
“I daresay you deserved that,” King Regis says after Ignis has worn himself out. Thoroughly chastised and quite the sight with gauze looped around his head, one eye temporarily beyond use as the stitches heal, Gladio says nothing from the bed, but Noctis mumbles his agreement. The nurses have no need to keep Gladio overnight, but maybe the infirmary will be the safest place for him while Ignis imitates the coeurl that almost blinded the Prince’s Shield by prowling the citadel halls.
“He’ll probably take a few days to cool down,” Noctis says - hopes.
“Optimistic of you,” Clarus deadpans, and the King laughs.
Noctis doesn’t. Gladio buries the visible half of his face into his hands.
Ignis does, eventually, forgive them. The conversation is typical Ignis-style again; while he does extract a promise that they will be more careful next time, he also endorses Gladio’s actions and offers an apology for his own behaviour. The freshly baked tart is unnecessary and yet gleefully accepted by Noctis, and though the whipped cream swirls are neat and professional in every way that Ignis is too, Noctis thinks he can read I’m sorry for blowing a fuse in front of the King in the dusting of sugar.
Gladio doesn’t receive an apology. The Shield concedes with a shrug, adding fair enough with a lopsided grin. This smile only widens when Ignis clicks his tongue and pulls out a brand new polishing kit from his bag, encouraging Gladio to transform - should you be able - so that something can be done about the damage to his shield form. The most prominent gash will only heal as Gladio’s human body does, but the rest are merely a matter of time, care, and no small about of elbow work.
As Gladio’s Meister, that responsibility should fall to Noctis.
“It’s no bother,” Ignis says, and Noctis shrugs before shoving another forkful of cake into his mouth. Gladio grumbles about lazy arse Princes and earns a stern glare from Ignis, but when his shield form is propped up against Noctis, slouched cross-legged on the floor, neither of them find any reason to complain.
-xv-