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industriallyinsecure · 4 years ago

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Shitty drafts collection- Prosciutto

A small vent-ish drabble. I’d recommend listening to Ship of Fools by Grateful Dead while you read, but you don’t have to :)

You stood with Prosciutto in the center of the living room, lightly swaying to the music that came from the portable player. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist to keep you secure against his lithe frame. Your tears stained the yellow fabric of his dress shirt, turning it a horrible mustard color. But he didn’t seem to mind.

You held him even tighter with each sob that wracked your body, trying your hardest to not smear his shirt with your snot and salty tears more than you already had. One hand traveled up your back to rub soothing circles into your shoulders.

It was pitiful, or at least you felt it was, to show up on his doorstep looking like someone had shot your dog. Shot in the heart was more accurate. It’s not every day that you get stood up on a date you might’ve been too excited for. A small, selfish part of you was happy that Prosciutto was in Firenze for the weekend.

He was always your comfort, your rock to keep you grounded. It bordered on embarrassing how much you were coddled and pampered by him. Not that you didn’t return it, but he hardly needed comfort. Where you were weak, he was strong. Strong for you.

Your next whimper and suppressed sob was met with a soft hush, his lips pressing a tiny kiss to your hairline.

The disc in the player skipped, cutting the song short and botching the next one before cycling through to another one. Prosciutto hummed, a smile pressed against your forehead.

“Remember this one?” He asked quietly, the hand on your shoulders slipping back down to the small of your back to join the other one. You nodded, too emotionally fried to tease him for his music taste. Truth be told, the soft nature of the songs he liked were comforting as well.

Sometimes it was hard to believe that he was a grown man. You fondly remembered the little boy on the playground, dressed in his cute sock garters and suspenders, holding you protectively to shield you from the bullies that pushed you down. The little boy who would always include you in silly little games even if it got him made fun of by the other boys he was friends with. The little boy whose cheeks got red if someone mentioned that he always held your hand, yet never let go.

No, he was an adult. He was busy with a job down in Napoli while you stayed in Firenze, tending to the flower shop that his grandmother had trouble running by herself. You didn’t have time for playground games or sitting on the bench and holding hands while the sun set. You yearned for those simple times where you couldn’t understand how complex your feelings were, where that soft buzzing in your belly and the heat on your cheeks was blamed on playing outside too much. As much as you loved him so dearly, more dearly than a friend should, he would never be yours.

But for now you would settle with this. Settle for familiar comfort. Settle for gentle swaying in his apartment after you tried (and miserably failed) to get over your feelings for him. Settle for the warmth he gave you with each little kiss to your forehead, each gentle circle of his thumb, and each loving embrace. Because he was your protector, the one who was strong for you.

He was your best friend.

#not a shitpost #drabble #prosciutto #angst #maybe? if you squint a lil #could be considered fluff?#it’s not very good but it’s something

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khiroptera · 5 years ago

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Yknow what I'm currently in love with? Aziraphale wearing braces on his shirt. Especially if Crowley is struggling to remove them afterwards 😏😏. No but fr a man with braces on his shirt is a fittie and I can totally imagine Aziraphale with them

ahh, braces is the UK/AUS term for suspenders, yes?

BIG agree, i think suspenders are pretty hot. @batherik made a nice illustration a while ago basically saying that aziraphale’s actually very likely to be wearing suspenders, as a belt might wear away at the bottom of his vest.

and ever since, i hc aziraphale with suspenders. AND sock garters. and i’ve also entertained the idea of him in shirt stays. basically aziraphale wears all the sexy strappy bits of men’s undergarments LOL

#mail #good omens

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gwinforth · 5 years ago

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My theory is that Valery doesn’t wear undies when he stays in Chernobyl.

I think you are 100% correct, really, honestly, look at him. He’s too distracted and just utterly unfussy about how he looks, and … isn’t bothered by the constant bouncing? Easy access anyway :p

Would you like a random ficlet that contains the underwear headcanon? it might also invite us to consider what people wear! and why! sort of.

valoris/explicit-ish

thanks to @hereliesnils for the proofread

You wore your nice suit for the boys from the IAEA, Valery said over his shoulder as Boris washed his hands, and Boris told him he could look less like a garbage collector, particularly in front of visitors, and Valery, smarting from the whip, indicated with a stammering rejoinder that this wasn’t Paris, and it wasn’t fashion week, to which Boris replied the suit was Italian, not French, and Valery took this as the fuck-off it was and reminded him that the suit was as good as ruined, because dry cleaning wasn’t part of any decontamination protocol. And Boris, who enjoyed winding him up on very rare occasions, such as when the relief of being alone was outweighing the gravity of the catastrofuck outside, said, if it’s contaminated, we’ll have to get me out of it as quickly as possible, won’t we?

That redirected the course of Valery’s anger right into confused, chin-hanging arousal, and Boris raised his eyebrows at him in the bathroom mirror.

The site visit had gone off fine: they probably hadn’t seen the satellite installation a few clicks southwest, and if they had, they had been polite enough not to mention it, and probably none of them were Langley spooks or Circus acrobats, or whatever they called themselves - and if they were, the KGB would have a good rifle through their pockets and keep them away from the phones.

Playing host had been the easy part (here is our giant pile of shit - I understand you’re professionally interested in giant piles of shit?), the helicopter ride was nothing much, and swipe though Boris might at Valery’s sartorial choices, Boris had to admit that Valery impressed people, in his odd way: most people, when weighing Valery up as either an eccentric genius or a mad tramp, decided that anyone who went around looking like that must be something special indeed. And Valery lived the part, wandering around with answers spilling out in long pearly strings of philosophical physics.

He had stuck to the line, mostly.

So, a success. Still, the relief of seeing their bumpers bounce away had put Boris in a lightened and sovereign mood, like when the distant in-laws motor off after a fortnight’s occupation of the fold-out, and he broke into a grin as he left the washroom.

“May I?” Valery asked.

Boris gestured at himself with a flourish, presenting the suit and his body to Valery.

Valery unbuttoned Boris’s jacket in one long unbroken drag down his chest, knuckles firmly planted against his sternum, his solar plexus. He gave more pressure as he inched them down Boris’s stomach, and when he reached the last button, he smoothed past Boris’s waistband, below his belt, accentuating the interest Boris’s dick was already taking in the proceedings. Didn’t quite touch him, just ironed either side, in twin strokes that ended at the crease of his thighs.

Boris released a growl as low and slow as Valery’s hands were moving to grasp at Boris’s hips. Were they playing footsie?

“C’mere,” Boris said, and yanked Valery full-body against him, so the strangely vulnerable hardness of his erection was dug into the pit of Valery’s stomach. Valery giggled like a schoolboy when he felt it, and he grasped Boris tighter, twisting them a little where they stood.

Two wolves fought inside Boris, etc etc. Boris wanted that affection more than he wanted anything - almost anything - else, he wanted to feel Valery’s laughter traveling through him on bristling, singing nerves. He wanted to love Valery. And he wanted to bite him.

He dragged Valery’s chin up to his own mouth, angled Valery’s head with fingers digging into the base of his skull, and pressed a kiss. Valery laughed again, under his mouth, because Boris had used his teeth on his lower lip, but it was deeper in his chest this time.

Valery tugged at Boris’s shirt between them, and frowned in confusion. He tugged again, a little harder this time, and Boris’s palm slipped off the back of his neck to smack at his hand between them.

“Stays,” Boris explained.

“Stays… on?” Valery asked, confused.

Boris’s impatience was the grip of his other hand on the bulge in Valery’s trousers. “I’m wearing -” he said against Valery’s jaw, and then leaned back. Kissing Valery was a lost cause when the professor was thinking; his face was prone to sudden paroxysms, his head tended to swivel and jerk with every accreting flash of intuition - it was a good way to gamble a few teeth. Instead of explaining, he started shrugging off his jacket.

Valery moved to help him. Jacket off, and a moment again of utter distraction - the suspenders. The way they made his chest a triptych of obscene thoughts, licking nipples until Boris came, or opening his shirt buttons just enough to tongue on the orbit of Boris’s navel until he was desperate and leaking and making undone sounds besides. Valery slipped his fingertip between the stretchy elastic and the hard plane of Boris’s chest beneath. He twisted his finger under the elastic, warmed by Boris’s body, and thought very briefly of something else. Then he hooked and shifted the strap, and Boris ducked his shoulder to slip it off.

Boris pulled him close again and plunged his hands into Valery’s strange and rumpled waistband, pulled his shirttails out in two handfuls, and got his hands up under the warm cotton to touch his furry stomach, his soft sides, poke rough fingertips between his ribs. Valery’s diaphragm jumped and his belly twitched at Boris’s fingernails; he ground against Boris’s hand when it returned to the crux of his legs and could have exploded when Boris’s lips, thin and soft, took hold of his earlobe.

Valery hauled Boris’s other suspender aside clumsily; hard to do with a big man licking out your ear and fondling your balls. His hands scrabbled for the two suspenders hanging like loose reins from Boris’s waist, used them to pull Boris tighter, a little to the left, and get his thigh planted solidly between Valery’s legs for adolescent, rutting friction. Boris pushed him off like a bastard, just as Valery reached that plateau of completely heavy and hard and buzzing.

Valery’s brain skidded again, as Boris stepped out of the trousers and flung them toward some furniture, somewhere, that didn’t count as the floor. (Pride forbid.) Valery boggled at Boris in his shirt, his underpants, and … a frankly baffling system of straps and cords and pulleys. It was like looking at a suddenly naked puppet. Valery laughed.

“Boris, what is all that.” He tried to hide his smirk with the edge of his hand as he traced the straps, clipped primly to Boris’s white dress shirt, as they ran down the outside of his legs all the way to his socked feet, where they were looped around like stirrups.

Boris regarded him regally. “Shirt stays. They keep your shirt tucked in.”

“And the -” A gesture, lower, to whatever was going on below Boris’s knees.

“Sock garters. They keep your socks up.” Boris turned one heel against the floor, showing the leather wrapped high on his calves, clipped to his black socks. “Some of us have to dress the part, if we want to be taken seriously.”

“Okay,” Valery agreed, aware that the time was fast approaching when he, Valery, would have to reveal that in his haste this (okay, every) morning, he hadn’t put on any underwear. It had been only sturdy Soviet seamstress engineering keeping him from springing forth fully-formed and sodomizing Boris with Zeusian rapacity. (Valery is blurring a few aspects of myth together here, forgive him, the blood’s all gone elsewhere.)

Somehow, the awkward straps were the most tragically, anxiously geriatric thing Valery had ever seen. Imagine being that worried about your socks.

Boris turned and strode to the bed as if he didn’t look like a crash test dummy filling in for a man. Valery watched him with another smile. The insistence between his thighs had cooled off a little - this was too much fun. He followed, still smirking, and sank to his knees in front of Boris, who lounged back on the bed.

“Go on, then,” Boris said, almost bashing Valery’s nose as he thrust his leg in Valery’s face.

Valery took hold of his skinny calf and examined the garter cinched around his leg. He thought about chewing the stupid thing off, and then thought about the bill Boris would send him, one way or another. He kissed the spot between Boris’s kneecap and the garter, and another on the inside of his knee for good measure. He slid the stirrup of the shirt stay around Boris’s left foot and yelped as it struck him like a snakebite, suddenly freed of tension. Boris snorted as Valery recoiled.

Valery shoved it away, ignoring the searing welt on his bare forearm, and worked the clasps on the hem of Boris’s shirt. Once the teeth were loose, he gave Boris a fond little stroke through his briefs, and moved to the other side. He was ready for the snap this time, and let the stay sneak down Boris’s leg slowly, trapped in his palm, from hip to wiry-haired thigh to slim ankle.

“Do you have a corset on under the shirt, too?” Valery asked. “How do you expect to tryst on a schedule while wearing all this?”

“Get on with it,” Boris said.

Valery dragged off the second stay and turned his attention to the garters. Unclip, unclip, unclip, how many fucking clips were there, pulled Boris’s socks off, and thought about shoving them in Boris’s mouth when Boris said “Don’t ball them up.”

He draped them on the carpet and stood up. He stood on the toe of one of his own socks, dragged it off his foot by raising his leg, same maneuver for the other foot. He pulled his white shirt over his head, undid his fly, and unceremoniously dropped his trousers.

Boris blinked at him, suddenly naked as the day he was born, no fuss. “You’re not wearing underwear.” Vague accusation.

“Stop complaining,” Valery said. “And get yours off.”

Boris dragged his own briefs off, and Valery climbed on top, whipped them out of Boris’s hand, balled them up. Tossed them away. He was straddling Boris, warming Boris’s erection with the heat of his own, and he had one of the shirt stays in his hand. He rocked up against Boris’s body to lean over him, a straight face looking dangerous - Boris’s eyes rose skeptically to meet him - and Valery burst into helpless laughter.

Valery dragged his glasses off and abandoned them somewhere overhead as Boris grabbed him and crushed him against his chest. Boris’s shoulders started to shake too, dropping them into a moment of tangled arms and legs and bumping bodies, punctuated by little snorting laughs and sounds of skin on skin on mattress.

Boris pulled the thin top cover over their heads, so they were cocooned together and the lamp light through it was diffused rose-gold.

“Shh,” Boris said, still shaking. “Not too loud.”

“You shhh,” Valery managed, but he stifled his face against Boris’s chest, and Boris held him through a few more rounds of giggles.

Eventually composure returned, leaving them curled up in each other with fading smiles, still clinging tight, and Boris held his wheezing Valera and whispered some encouragement to him. That was their condition - a bout of joy was tiring.

Valery took them both in hand and watched Boris’s face. Boris’s eyes grew wary with the sudden awkwardness of an ingenue, as Valery’s thumb planted against the underside of his head. The gruff mask dropped, every time, and the delicacy, the core of gentleness you wouldn’t expect in such an imperious steel scaffold of a man, shone out from his eyes. Valery pressed a kiss to his lips and ran them together through his fingers.

He started them slowly, until the tension had built back up and the color was high in Boris’s cheeks; he picked up the pace, whispering, until Boris was straining red and dripping on Valery’s knuckles. Valery kissed him again and rolled them over so Boris was on his back, so the heat and weight of their bodies felt like a sweaty tight vice. He had his leg draped over Boris and his wrist was bringing them in quick flicks and jolts to an almost unbearable sort of tense; Valery felt logjammed in the pit of his stomach, he felt the tension in his thighs and groin and balls, and from the sounds Boris was making, the way he was almost bucking out of Valery’s hand, he was there too. He came in the next moment, one long shuddering clench of his teeth and stutter of his hips into Valery’s fist, and Valery came somewhere in the midst of worrying about Boris, keeping him wrapped in his fingers; probably as soon as the first hot rope of cum hit his belly.

Boris was a little dazed. The mask was still gone, he looked raw and open, and his look said kiss me.

Valery did, plastering their bodies together and getting his mouth on Boris’s - gentle, but everything, tongue, teeth, trying to wipe that look off Boris’s face, because he was the most beautiful man Valery had ever seen, and coming undone was no shame. He had a wicked thought. “Next time…”

He whispered in Boris’s ear.

Boris’s eyes shifted in their sockets. He smiled.

“With all your stupid straps on,” Valery elaborated.

#chernobyl hbo

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paperficwriter · 5 years ago

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Be Thou My Vision

Aziraphale and Crowley! In Paris! In 1899! And there are some homages to Moulin Rouge, which is one of my favorite films. Enjoy!

Paris, 1899, in the neighborhood of Monmartre, a steady snow fell and covered the rooftops, the cold wind carrying the sound of can-can music from the nearby red windmill. Crowley had dragged Aziraphale to the Moulin Rouge to mingle with the bohemians, but when someone passed him a bottle of absinthe, some sugar and a metal spoon, he had lost track of him.

Now, though, it was almost midnight, and on New Years, it was utterly inappropriate for Crowley to not be with his best friend (note: it was still easier to call it that - a friendship - than to label it as something different, or something that might get them too much attention from both the mortal and immortal worlds both. It seemed the popular thing to do among humans of similar presentation too, though Crowley had a feeling that would lead to some confusion later on…), especially since he was in the same city for once.

He took the steps of the apartment structure that had been built over a cafe two at a time, long legs demonically enhanced and leaving small sparks with each footfall on the landings, like struck flint.

When he got to the loft, Aziraphale was staring out the window, a book against his chest, his chin in his hand. Crowley followed his gaze out over the city towards the Eiffel Tower, barely visible in the snow as it thickened. Although he reclined on the purple chaise lounge that Crowley had acquired for him (because he insisted that he hated sleeping, that it was unnecessary, that he would much rather stay up and read), there was a tension to his shoulders, and he pulled a thick, velvet coat around himself.

Compared to Crowley, who was bare but for suspenders and cotton slacks, he was quite overdressed.

“What’s with the coat, angel?” Crowley asked. By his internal clock, there was still about five minutes. Plenty of time.

“It’s quite stylish, I’ll have you know!” Crowley jerked back like a dog that had been admonished. Aziraphale rarely snapped at him (not counting when he deserved it), and he must have realized it too, because he quickly said, “I’m sorry, dear boy. Really, it’s not you I’m irritated with.”

“Right.” Crowley sat down beside him, plucking the book away and putting it down on the shelf next to them. “So. You’re irritated with---”

“Your friends!” Aziraphale raised his hand with a flourish and then brought it down on his knee. “Those bohemian boys of yours! I walked in just behind you and they cut me off and said I…” He trailed off, pouting into his collar. Aziraphale trailed off, pouting into his collar. Crowley had a love-hate relationship with that pout; it was so utterly adorable and yet he would sink ships and burn bridges both when someone made his angel upset.“They said I looked like some bourgeois pig, with my fancy clothes and corpulence, as they put it.”

“Your French accent really is terrible.” Crowley tugged at his sleeve.

“I know! Do you think that helped?!” Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest, and the pout intensified to near-explosive lengths (Crowley would be the one doing the exploding). “I’m not an idiot,” he finally said. “I know I could change this form. I know that I could be less...of what I am, but I like this body, Crowley. And I don’t like when people make me feel like I should be ashamed of it.”

In the distance, Crowley could hear the sounds of people counting backwards in French. Champagne was being shaken, lips puckering, the cold bellringer at Notre Dame (who actually had a very fine back, but a shit liver) grabbing the rope and beginning to pull…

And Crowley threw his hands up to Hea-- well, he threw them up. And everything stopped.

Everything except Aziraphale, whose eyes focused on the snowflakes now hovering motionless in the air like stars. “Crowley, you know you are not supposed to do that! You’ll be reprimanded for sure--”

“Pah,” Crowley remarked, slouching onto the bed beside him. “If I can’t have New Years with you happy, then no one can have it.”

“That’s...a little dramatic, dear boy.”

“It’s the turn of the century, angel! Let them wait on their little bohemian revolution.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue at him, but didn’t actually make any further remarks on the situation. The world truly was so still when everyone wasn’t making such loud to-do’s about everything.

“I’m not going to let it start like this, with you not appreciating how beautiful you are.”

He could see the little jump in Aziraphale’s shoulders, and heard the sharp intake of breath. His round cheeks went a little rosy, and his warm hand found Crowley’s chilly one. “Crowley…” he whispered.

It wasn’t their first kiss. But given that about forty years before, when Crowley didn’t think there would be any more kisses ever (foolish, thinking a fight would end anything -- it never did, but it always felt that way at the time), now he would take it. He would delight in it, as he always did. Soft lips. A warm nose pressed into his narrow cheekbone. The smell of books and candlelight.

“We shouldn’t,” Aziraphale murmured, fingers hopelessly tangled in red hair and a suspender strap.

“That’s never stopped us before, angel.” It took two hands to get at the topcoat’s buttons. “You don’t have to cover up in all this.”

“What if someone is watching?” Aziraphale glanced both up and down, as if it needed to be clarified that he didn’t mean some passing Parisian pervert.

He managed it, starting on the next set, talking as he went in that rapid-fire sinister sensuality that was so very, very much his style. “No one’s watching, and I’ll file it as a divine temptation. There I was, in Paris, promoting terrible imbibing of hallucinogenic drinks, when what to my wandering serpent eyes should appear, but an angel in doubt.”

“I’m not in doubt! Don’t even joke, Crowley!” The demon kissed the center of his furrowed brows, nuzzled there with his face until he relaxed. “There’s no holy oath against a little insecurity now and then.”

“I still won’t have it, angel.” There. The last of the damnable buttons undone. Who had been in charge of the last change in fashion? His side, or Upstairs? He wasn’t sure, but something needed to be done about the next trend to come. Burying his face against Aziraphale’s chest and soft stomach, he squeezed, hissing, overcome very suddenly by how much he loved this body, loved all of his constant companion. Which was so much not like what a demon should do, and that made him all the gladder to express it.

Aziraphale squeezed his head and held him just as near in turn. “You’re being positively ridiculous. You make it sound like you found me drowning in tears like the lead in some...Sarah Bernhardt play.”

“You really think that after so many thousands of years…” Crowley gazed up at him with his golden eyes, and he wondered for a second what they looked like, the two of them, in this affectionate embrace that was only intimate when you really peered at it. What kind of painting might they resemble? Caravaggio? Lomi? Rubens? “You really think I need to see you crying to know when you’re hurt?”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, averting his eyes to his dress shirt and tutting. “I’m ruining your good time being so…”

“Vain?” he couldn’t help joke.

“Don’t!” This time Aziraphale smiled, and he gently slapped his cheek. It didn’t even make a sound. “Do you, though?” he asked in a whisper. “Do you really think--”

Another kiss, a kiss for ‘yes.’ A kiss for ‘of course, silly clever thing.’ A kiss for ‘forever, from the start of Day One until the End.’ That was true. He was glad to be kissing him instead of saying it, how there was always fondness back when Heaven resembled sunken gardens and nebulas and sun-warmed clouds and not Versailles. And how when he first slithered his way back after All That Unfortunate Nonsense, he saw him standing there at the Eastern Gate and thought, ‘maybe’...right up until She gave him that sword and he smiled like the sun and Crowley - Crawly - fled the scene to talk to that lady about the apple.

Could he really blame him for going doe-eyed when he said that he had just given it away?

“Show me.” Damn the angel’s endearing eyes and his pitiful smile.

“What do you think I’m doing exactly?”

“Show me more. Please. However will I be a true believer, and how will you be a true tempter?”

Crowley smirked. He had already lost. No amount of fussing over it would change that. Not that he wanted to. But he also couldn’t just give Aziraphale the satisfaction. With the wave of his hand, the shirt, the pants, everything but his sock garters and silky, knee-length drawers remained. They were open in the back, he could tell. Such was in the style. That was his lot’s doing. “Animal!” Aziraphale scolded, but he was smiling and blushing.

“How can I appreciate you when you have to layer a hundred garments over the good parts?” Crowley slid down to his knees, chin tucked but eyes up. He lovingly kissed the softest part of his thigh. “Let us pray…”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale studied each press of lips, caress of fingers, slip of tongue, and he seemed to melt on the lounge until he was picked up in the demon’s strong arms. He leaned up to rest his forehead against Crowley’s, and it tingled a little, like lightning in the air at the top of a tower just as the stormcloud rolled in. It was where his halo would be. Where it perhaps still was.

He missed his wings, but he wouldn’t tell him that tonight. Because he would manifest them immediately and someone would notice that time had stopped, because he would have his hands in them all night.

The bed creaked under their bodies, Aziraphale on his back and Crowley sitting between his legs. He snapped his fingers and what remained of his own clothing was tucked away. All of it would be in the dresser by the door in the morning.. “I think it’s like...when people walk out into the sun,” Crowley said, coming up to touch around his knee, to appreciate their dimples before moving back up, sliding on his belly like the serpent that he was, that he still was even after all this time. “They hate how it gets in their eyes...makes them ssssweat...turn red...but who could ever actually hate the sun? How it always glows…”

He gave a peck to each side of his chest, the dip of his neck. When his hand slipped into the folds of Aziraphale’s undergarments, he was pulled down into that body that was as giving as goose feathers. He pecked at his neck. “You’re soft, angel.”

“I know,” he said, and it might have come out dejected if not for the moan of pleasure as he found warm, hard flesh to put his hand on.

“Don’t ever think poorly of that. Not when it’s something I love about you. One of many things. Things I could very well die for.”

“Let’s...not talk about things like that now, dearest.” Aziraphale guided him into another kiss, and when he waved a hand downward, everything was gone, leaving them both blissfully as naked as they had come into the world (though perhaps looking a bit less humanish).

“Aw. I like the garters.”

“Really? I can bring them back.”

“No, no.” Crowley squirmed out of his arms and knelt, gazing down at his whole visage there. Without the world turning, the scrutiny of his eyes was a slow drag of a bow across a cello. “This is perfect.”

Aziraphale messily hugged the pillow beside him against his face. Now, he truly did remind him of a cherub. “I’m ready for you, love.”

He returned to lying on top of him, the kiss coming with his sharp teeth for just a second, only enough to make Aziraphale gasp in a way that amused him as much as it aroused. “One day, I’ll have you start to finish. With all the preparations that they like to do with fingers and oil and...other things, maybe…”

“And one day,” Aziraphale echoed, stroking his cheeks, “may I be granted the patience to handle the wait.”

Crowley entered the sanctity of him.

Blissful wet, and tight. Always tight. But didn’t they all love their ideology around virgins, about every touch being like the first touch? Not that Crowley was complaining. Aziraphale’s body always responded like this was a gift, like this was a union. It was never just fucking with Aziraphale. At least not now. Not yet. Maybe that would be a ‘one day’ too, when these moments weren’t years apart. Sometimes centuries.

When momentary indiscretions could be something as commonplace as tea time and duck ponds.

“Crowley...oh, my darling...my...Crowley…”

“Aziraphale…”

They could end it at any time, but they never did. They always left this part of themselves so very mortal at the end, so the natural progression could take over, so they could feel the other unraveling and know it wasn’t because of some magic trick.

Aziraphale was always ruined first. Pretty little thing, like he was starved for it, like it was a sweet treat that he had never had and might never have again. And, admittedly, then he might go back for seconds, as it were, but Crowley never pointed it out. All was the better for him.

When he spilled, it was like rising. And it only lasted a second, only ever a second, even when there were no seconds actually passing, like it was now. When he Fell, it was eternity. When he Rose, it was bobbing for just a moment and then settling back again.

But Aziraphale was always there, ready to hold him, to keep him from grieving.

“Go on,” the angel said now, his hair a mess across the pillows, curling up under the sheets like a cat. “I’m ready.”

“Oh, of course, if his Majesty is ready.” Crowley kissed his nose, closed his eyes, and the snow fell again. The music swelled, and bells began to ring out. Everyone kissed, and they did too, and just like this, so still, Crowley could swear he could actually feel the world turn.

#my paperfics #good omens #aziraphale / crowley #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale

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royalbratprince · 5 years ago

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[Cleaning out old drafts and such and discovered I’d never finished this, so! The prompt was: taking care of Ignis for a change. It turned into a long drabble.]

“Hey Igni–” Instantly Noctis bit off the word, cringing ever so slightly. It appeared that Ignis had actually fallen asleep in the chair in the hotel room, while taking off his socks. One sock was half-off, unsnapped from the sock garters, the other one untouched, his adviser leaning back in the chair with his lips parted and glasses slightly askew, gloves folded messily on the chair’s arm.

If Gladio and Prompto hadn’t insisted on going out for a drink first, he was sure the camera would have been up and snapping away instantly. As it was, Noctis was kind of glad that wasn’t happening.

Silently, with gentle motions, he knelt and very lightly drew first one sock off, then unsnapped the other from the garter and pulled it off as well. Carefully he also removed the garters themselves, sure that Ignis would have preferred a shower before getting into bed, but with that kind of exhaustion… maybe in the morning.

Removing the older man’s glasses slowly and carefully, he folded and then placed them on the bedside table before returning, hands on his hips, considering. With a sigh, Noctis supposed it couldn’t be helped. Reaching forward, he lightly squeezed and then shook Ignis’ shoulder. “I’m going to need your help getting to bed, Specs.”

“Mm?” It wasn’t anywhere near the standard alertness that the adviser normally showed upon being woken, proving how tired he really was. “You need help getting to bed, Noct?”

The slur in that cultured voice made the prince grin. “No, you do. You’ve worn yourself out. I can drag you or I can warp you, but I don’t think you’d like either of those options…”

“Ah.” Almost awake. Though not quite. Enough for Ignis to take the offered hand, leaning heavily on Noctis. Some part of him insisted that he remain awake, protest, get some Ebony and continue on with the evening. He still needed to shower, needed to double-check that plans were properly in place and the maps were triple-checked for tomorrow–

“Nope.” Noctis interrupted his thoughts. “Get some sleep, Iggy. We can handle you going to bed early for once.”

His expression begged argument, but the brunet didn’t protest beyond a light grunt and a mostly coherent, “You’re not going to let me sleep in my clothes like a criminal, are you?”

It surprised a laugh out of Noctis, supporting Ignis with one hand and pulling back the covers with the other. “Technically, we’re all criminals. It’s too hot to sleep in clothes, anyway. But we can stay an extra night and have room service change out everything so you can do this properly, if you really want.”

“Such exciting adventures.” The sarcasm was sharp even if his state of wakefulness was not, fingers not quite as nimble as usual when he started unbuttoning his shirt.

Smiling to himself as he worked on the suspenders and aided with the remaining buttons, Noctis couldn’t help the thought: at any other time, under any other circumstances, Ignis never would have let himself be lead to bed so early and so easily. It felt like a simple thing to show care, to try and match the level of it that his oldest friend had always shown him. That was impossible, really, but the attempt was worthwhile. It was even quite worth not making a quip about how quickly the adviser’s pants were shed in favor of slipping into bed. “Sleep, okay? I’ll take care of breakfast tomorrow.”

“You will not.” Ignis argued with his eyes closed. “You will order room service.”

“That sounded like an instruction to me.” Noctis grinned, getting only a soft sound of agreement for the effort.

#drabble #platonic fluff #((see; content!))#((...technically very old content but I just finished it so it's new now take that))#lookitmequeue

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amythegorillafromcongo · 2 years ago

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when you wear shirt stays, suspenders, and sock garters all at once you get torn into pieces like being drawn and quartered

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snowlikeash · 6 years ago

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note to self: draw connor detroit in his suspenders/shirt stays/sock garters and slap the lyrics to “electric barbarella” all over the photoset, no pairings just him in his fancy boy underoos

this is a power i won’t use lightly... i swear

ETA this is the schnit i’m talking about, it looks like bondage gear but it’s actually not and that’s hilarious to me (we all know about suspenders i’m just, like, look at this Stuff)

#PEOPLE SAY THEYVE HEARD ABOUT OUR DEVIATION #dbh #nature boy

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joseantoniooqkx018-blog · 5 years ago

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La Fea Verdad Sobre Vestidos A Crochet Para Niñas

Did you at any time delight in texture of yarns together with your hand or imagining how that fascinating color sample was developed in your favorite sweater? Then you will certainly rejoice Understanding the artwork of knitting. Knitting is among Plenty of suggests to indicate thread or yarn into fabric-weaving and crochet. It certainly is all about Resourceful creativity.

The Introductory Steps of Knitting

In contrast to woven cloth, knitted material is composed only of horizontal parallel programs of yarn. The lessons are joined to one another by interlocking loops by which a quick loop of one application of yarn is wrapped in excess of the bight of A further class. Knitting is often carried out potentially by hand, stated beneath, or by system. What would make knitting even more fascinating is The point that this artwork is generally merely uncovered.

como hacer punto- aprender-a-tejer

In notice, hand knitting is usually started off by forming a base number of twisted loops of yarn around a needle. This known as Cast On. A following knitting needle is then utilised to obtain By the use of Each loop in succession as a way to snag a bight of yarn and pull a size again Using the loop. This sorts a brand-new sew. Execute can carry on with the round (round knitting) or by heading forwards and backwards in rows. Knitting can be achieved by devices, which use a singular mechanical application to crank out almost equal good results.

Knitting Versions: There's two primary versions of knitting; English and Continental. The difference between The two is in just how you preserve the yarn. In the English technique the yarn is held in the best hand. In continental knitting, the yarn is held whilst in the still left hand. By any means your organic and natural hand-choice, you must be from the situation to learn quite possibly system given that the mother character of knitting is basically ambidextrous.

https://aprender-a-tejer.info/blog/como-hacer-sandalias-de-bebe-a-crochet/

The 2 easy stitches are knit or basic and purl or Inappropriate. These two nominal stitches are actually comparable, even so, obtaining the obverse and reverse of an analogous sew. It's the variations and mixtures of both of these stitches that Develop all distinct sew styles that may be achievable in knitting. Generally, a knit stitch is shaped by inserting the needle Within the entrance about the loop with the still left-to-ideal point of view and pulling a loop of yarn By means of to variety a unique loop, even though a purl sew is formed by inserting the needle inside the entrance from your loop from the correct-to-remaining viewpoint.

aprender-a-tejer.info/blog/como-hacer-ropa-de-bebe-a-crochet/

A bit of knitting starts with the complete technique of casting on, which involves the Primary generation during the stitches around the needle. Casting on is The 1st step in knitting These stitches transform the primary row of stitches and just one selvage with the work, commonly the bottom or hem.

Different ways of Forged on are used for numerous effects; an individual may be stretchy loads of for lace, however Yet one more presents a ornamental edging. Provisional Solid on is applied once the knitting will keep on in Each and every Instructions While using the Stable on.

The human human body of the knitted piece could involve easy stitches or numerous hues and textured designs. The quantity of Energetic stitches stays similar to when Solid on Except stitches are additional -a boost or taken off- a reduce to ailment the products.

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Models to Knit (Method to On the net Cash): There are many individuals that sit in your home and publish superb knitting patters out of your household. Considering the fact that over time they've got collected and modified many knitting styles. They make an great revenue by furnishing/publishing the kinds on the web. After you have greater than more than enough exercising, even you could make some on the web profits.

Numerous models is often built through the use of knit and purl stitches in numerous mixtures. If only knits or only purls are utilised when Operating forwards and backwards in rows, The end result is called garter sew.

Alternating rows of knits and purls deliver about stockinette sew, commonly known as stocking or jersey stitch, the sew most often Used in Skilled clothes which includes T-shirts. Numerous combos of stitches could be utilized to range ribbing, cables, or other textures.

Once the knitted piece is concluded, the remaining Reside stitches are Stable off. Casting or binding off loops the stitches throughout one another so They could be faraway from the needle without unraveling the item. Although the mechanics are different from casting on, you'll discover the identical choice of methods and alternatives to acquire developed. Of the different methods basically probably the most flexible would be the Plain Bind-off plus the Suspended Bind-off.

Knitted clothes are most frequently created in pieces, in which by person sections of the garment are knit independently then sewn alongside each other when most of the parts are literally finished. Seamless knitting, where ever a complete garment is knit as someone piece is usually doable. Scaled-down merchandise, like socks and hats are often knit in one piece on double pointed needles.

Knitting may be conveniently realized recently as there are plenty of Web-sites on knitting and Moreover many publications for novices available inside the marketplace, where ever you'll find specific Guidelines. These Guidelines are really easy to abide by that even Kids would not uncover them complicated in any way. Demonstrate your creativeness, get your knitting applications and find out how to knit today!

#como hacer punto #bolsos de trapillo #aprender a tejer

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sage-fire · 7 years ago

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TAGGED BY: @trashkingizunia TAGGING: @gnzlngr @gravislux @baewind @argenteums

NAME: Ignis Stupeo Scientia NAME MEANING: Ignis means fire, Stupeo translates to roughly astonishing/ecstacy, and Scientia is science. So yayy. Fire erotic science boy. AGE: 22/32 GENDER: Male ETHNICITY: White NATIONALITY: Lucian

WHAT TIME DO THEY USUALLY GET UP IN THE MORNING?: 5:30

WHAT IS THEIR MORNING ROUTINE?: First and foremost coffee, and then shower, shave, get dressed, make breakfast, check his calendar for the day while he eats.

HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE THEM TO GET READY IN THE MORNING?: If he’s got the time, he can easily spend an hour getting ready. Being presentable is something important to him, and he will absolutely take the time he needs to. On the road, he speeds up his routine quite a bit – roughly cutting the time he needs to get ready in half.

WHAT TIME TO DO THEY USUALLY GO TO BED?: If Ignis had his way he’d be in bed by 9:30 every night. As it is, he’s usually got a lot of things to finish up and tends to retire closer to midnight – something he very much does not enjoy.

DO THEY FALL ASLEEP EASILY? DO THEY STAY ASLEEP EASILY?: He’s one of those people who has learned how to make themselves fall asleep – breathing techniques and things, so once he’s deemed it time to rest, his body rests. As far as staying asleep, he does wake up quite frequently in the night. Ignis is an annoyingly light sleeper and has a hard time sleeping in the same room as Gladio for this reason. And once he goes blind, that bit gets even worse as his hearing becomes sharper and his dreams become a tad less pleasant.

WHAT POSITION DO THEY SLEEP IN?: Ignis is a coffin sleeper. On his back, hands on his chest. He’ll also occasionally shift to his side in the night.

WHAT IS THEIR HANDWRITING LIKE?: Small, slanted shorthand. It’s hard to read not because it’s bad handwriting, but just because he uses so many acronyms and shortened version of words only he knows.

DO THEY PREFER TYPING THINGS OR WRITING THINGS?: Typing. He can type faster than he can write and often his brain is going too fast for his hand to adequately keep up

WHAT FORM OF ART (I.E. SCULPTURE, EMBROIDERY, PAINTING, ETC) DO THEY LIKE?: Iggy really has an appreciation for theater and acting, as well as classical paintings. They fascinate him.

ARE THEY AN ARTIST THEMSELVES? WHAT KIND OF ART DO THEY DO?: The only art he’d likely consider himself proficient at is ballroom dancing, but that was more out of necessity than desire..

WHAT ARE SOME OF THEIR FAVORITE BOOKS?: The Wrinkle in Time series, Jane Austen, and those interesting sci fi esque old stories, like 1982 and Flatland.

WHAT GENRES OF MOVIES DO THEY LIKE?: Oscar bait. Pretentious movies with a lot to say about the state of the world.

WHAT MUSIC GENRES DO THEY ENJOY?: Vaporwave, Prince, David Bowie (Blackstar specifically he loves). Fite Me.

WHAT ARE SOME OF THEIR FAVORITE MUSICAL ACTS?: RENT. He loves…. RENT. He also loves Matilda, Next to Normal, has quite the soft spot for Phantom, and although he found the storyline reprehensible he loves the music of Love Never Dies.

DO THEY PREFER THEIR MUSIC TO SOUND A CERTAIN WAY?: He likes music that is relaxing, something he can listen to and not be too bothered by.

ARE THEY A MUSICIAN THEMSELVES?: No. It was not a skill he was required to learn growing up, and so he didn’t. His paternal grandmother taught him a few things on the piano when he was very young, but he’s definitely forgotten them by now. Once he goes blind he briefly tries to pick the skill back up, as a way to acclimate himself to learning through sound, but only ends up learning a few simple songs – not having a teacher in the apocalypse made it a bit difficult to learn something so superfluous.

DO THEY ENJOY MUSIC FROM CERTAIN DECADES? IF SO, WHICH DECADES?: He has a soft spot for the 80’s, 90’s.

WHAT ARE SOME OF THEIR FAVORITE PIECES OF CLOTHING/OUTFITS IN THEIR WARDROBE? IF NOT APPLICABLE, WHAT DO YOU THINK WOULD BE SOME OF THEIR FAVORITE PIECES OF CLOTHING/OUTFITS?: Iggy wears sock garters and shirt stays and suspenders a lot of the time, and he loves his straps tbh. He really likes the way his white and blue striped shirt looks on him though.

HOW MUCH ARE THEY WILLING TO SPEND ON CLOTHES?: Quite a lot. Clothes are an important part of the way people view him and he sees it as a necessary cost.

WHAT COLORS AND PATTERNS ARE PROMINENT IN THEIR WARDROBE? WHAT COLORS AND PATTERNS DO THEY WEAR THE MOST OFTEN?: Courel print. And purple. Almost everything he wears has a cool tint to it.

WHAT KIND OF CLOTHES DO THEY LIKE?: Ignis quite likes shopping for suits. He’s well versed in all the terminology and was friends with his tailor (Cyril) back in Insomnia.

DO THEY WEAR MAKEUP? WHAT TYPE DO THEY WEAR?: No, he doesn’t wear make up. He does wash his face though.

DO THEY WEAR/DO YOU ASSOCIATE THEM WITH CLOTHES FROM A CERTAIN DECADE? IF SO, WHICH?: His clothes are like a modern, rich, flamboyant gay man who lives in a penthouse and has classy orgies in all the time.

WHAT FONT/FONTS DO YOU ASSOCIATE WITH THEM?: jfc I don’t know…. Times New Roman? I think he’d use that font a lot. Something clean and simple.

WHAT COLORS DO YOU ASSOCIATE WITH THEM?: On one side, I associate green and gold with him. On the other side, black and purple.

WHAT NATURAL ELEMENTS (GEOGRAPHICAL FEATURES LIKE MOUNTAINS, ANIMALS, SEASONS, LOCATIONS, PLANTS, ETC.) DO YOU ASSOCIATE WITH THEM: I associate him with winter, the forest, rain and foxes and steady rivers.

#whew i'm gonna put this under a read more in a sec lmao

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funkzpiel · 8 years ago

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How To Take Care of Newt Scamander

For @gramanderprompts, who had a bad day and needed some fluff. I present to you this. Hopefully it brightens your day (night? morning? I feel like no one lives in my timezone, lmao) - sorry I couldn’t get it to you sooner!

It’s after a long, arduous night of labor with one of the mooncalves that Newt finally gets to crawl into his little makeshift bed in his shack. He wants for nothing more than the climb the ladder and join his partner in their plush king sized bed – to be wrapped in the strength of Graves’ arms and actually rest for a moment. But he knows that in a few short hours, the artificial sun in his case will rise and the day will begin anew for his creatures. For some of them, that would mean feeding and being attended to.

So he can’t go up to the bed he so desperately pines for. His little cot will have to do; just comfortable enough that he’d be able to nap and just uncomfortable enough that he wouldn’t sleep for too long. He is too tall for the cot to be comfortable enough to sleep in for more than two hours. Exhausted as he is, though, he falls onto the thin mattress and fades away immediately.

He doesn’t wake when the seams of the case above him open. Doesn’t stir when long, elegant legs come climbing gracefully down the latter. Doesn’t see the fond look on his partner’s face when Graves comes to stand over his bedside and gently tuck back a lank, grimy curl from Newt’s brow.

He’s dead to the world as Percival gently loops his arms underneath Newt’s back and knees. Doesn’t so much as blink when his body is lifted easily from the cot and hefted into two strong arms. He does, however, curl into that familiar warmth – his nose tucked into freshly shaven skin and the heady scent of aftershave. His hands find the suspender straps that arch over Graves’ shoulders and latch onto them. Graves chuckles.

Gently, he carries Newt out of the case and to their bed. He tucks him in with a tenderness that only Dougal gets to witness; Graves unaware that the invisible little creature had followed him out of the case – eyes large and unblinking.

He waits on the edge of the bed until he is sure the young man will not wake before leaving him and venturing back down into the depths of the case. Not all of the creatures trust him as they do Newt, but they trust Dougal who follows Graves everywhere. Invisible to the human eye, of course, but the creatures know he’s there. He calms them whenever Graves’ approaches wrong – accidentally, of course, the man doesn’t intend to frighten anything. But he’s too sure footed, too imposing. Too used to having to convey confidence as a leader to know that in the case, he appears more a predator than a caretaker.

But the food goes a long way in removing that obstacle. He feeds the creatures according to the chart on Newt’s wall – only stopping for a moment to blink warily at the scrawled “werewolf” on one section of the chart – and doesn’t rest until every duty Newt would attend to in the morning is complete. And once he’s done, he makes sure that Newt’s new mooncalf is doing well on its first day in the world before returning to his lover in their bed.

He’s halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, his suspenders hanging loose around his hips, when finally Newt stirs in their bed – eyes slightly swollen from exhaustion.

“Wha-what?” Newt blinks, pouting cutely, confused from waking somewhere different from where he had laid down to sleep.

“It is…” Graves pauses for a moment to look at his watch, “Half past ten in the morning. Yes, I moved you up here. No, I did not let your creatures starve. Yes, your mooncalf is doing extraordinarily well. No, the Niffler did not get out. No, I won’t apologize for spiriting you away from your case before you ran yourself into the dirt and passed out in the Nundu’s territory or something equally horrifying. Yes, I know the Nundu are just misunderstood. Yes, I fed them too. And no, you are not allowed to go back into your case yet,” he says, rapid fire, interrupting Newt every time the man tried to open his mouth to question him.

“Well that’s terribly rude,” Newt pouts, arms crossed in the bed.

“Which part? Stealing you and putting you to bed or interrupting you?”

“Do I have to choose?” Newt asks.

Graves laughs, a harsh and barking thing that Newt loves because he knows how rare it is.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Graves says mirthfully as he finally slides his shirt free from his shoulders, drawing Newt’s attention. The man is sweaty from work, his forearms down dirty from the enclosures and his cheeks smudged with dust and grime that makes Newt’s gut clench because it should be illegal for a man to stand dirty in the bedroom in nothing but pants and dangling suspenders. He has a faint sunburn on his nose and the tips of his ears, too pale from desk work and night raids. Newt shivers with want.

But he also never wants to leave the comfort of his bed again and he’s mostly sure that Graves had charmed the mattress somehow to make it extra fluffy – just to entice Newt to stay a little longer.

It’s working.

He shimmies a little deeper into the covers and watches as Graves sits on the bench at the end of their bed and goes about removing first his shoes, then his socks and garters. Newt whines, earning him a wry and knowing smirk over Graves’ shoulder.

“No,” Graves says, his voice an amused but firm purr in his chest.

“Rude,” Newt says, a twinkle in his eye.

Graves smiles.

“How about this,” Graves says as he stands, coming around the bed to stand at Newt’s bedside. He chuckles when the Magizoologist simply winds his fingers into his belt loops and tries to pull him into the bed. It doesn’t work. “I’m going to take a nice, long soak. If you’re still in this bed and actually resting when I come back, I’ll let you do whatever you want.”

“Anything?” Newt asks, eyes wide.

Graves takes his now slack fingers from his belt loops and brings them to his mouth, kissing their tips at first before taking the last finger into his mouth and sucking it, just once.

“Anything.”

“You tease.”

Graves’ gaze becomes a hot, hungry thing above him - and not the least bit apologetic.

“How else am I supposed to get you to rest a little longer?” Graves asks. “I’m filthy, any how. I’ll be just a moment. What’s another ten or twenty minutes in bed, hmm?”

Newt watches Graves disappear into the bathroom. He listens to the gentle thrum of water filling the tub. His eyelids droop even as he fantasizes about how he’s going to turn the director into a puddle of overwhelmed goo beneath him when he’s out from his bath. His fingers go slack even as Dougal gently disappears from the room and returns to the case, satisfied that Newt’s new mate can well and truly take care of their kind, bumbling Magizoologist. He lets go of his invisibility in the hall, confident neither man will ever know he got out.

It’s only then that Dougal spots Graves through the doorway to the library and not in the bathroom at all. The little creature freezes, pinned beneath the weight of the man’s stare from overtop the paperwork he has in his lap – clad in a bathrobe and dark rimmed glasses. With a wink and a slender finger at his lips, he goes back to his paperwork and lets Newt sleep.

Yes, Dougal thinks, he’s a good mate indeed.

#Gramander #Original Percival Graves #Percival Graves #newt scamander #Mini Fic

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moonraccoon-exe · 7 years ago

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Dear Astrals, I have a new found appreciation/kink for suspenders, thigh shirt stays and sock garters. FFXV Ignis Scientia has ruined me. Have mercy.

I know, right!?

I had only once seen something about thigh shirt stays, somebody once shared a pic on FB and I was like “BRUH that looks SO GOOD”, but that was like, pfft, 2 years ago or so, and I had completely forgotten, it was just a Eh thing.

But then Ignis Scientia crashed into my life and suddenly I’m stumbling upon fanart and apparently we ALL headcanon him wearing those. So...I’m just assuming it’s COMPLETELY CANON.

And I didn’t know I liked that until I saw him because MAN. On human females it seems like there’s only garters for sexual fantasies nowadays (correct me if I’m wrong), but on men it’s got a practical use, and it’s not any use, it’s a /formal/ use. Like, ohmygod, I can’t. It’s so DAMN CLASSY.

Ignis’ ‘casual’ attire is SO CLASSY that we only need to know what he tends to dress like to totally KNOW he wears garters when ‘formal’. At least in the Citadel.

I have a thing for that, too, dear person. It’s just so alsdksdf. So classy, so elegant, yet so damn sexy and sensual (which is not the same) at the same time. MAY THE GODS BLESS WHOEVER INVENTED THOSE THINGS.

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inevitablesurrender · 7 years ago

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Forgot to post this here; someone requested Ignis being taken care of. Fluffy drabble featuring sleepy Ignis. That is all you need to know.

Silently, with gentle motions, he knelt and very lightly drew first one sock off, then unsnapped the other from the garter and pulled it off as well. Carefully, he also removed the garters themselves, sure that Ignis would have preferred a shower before getting into bed, but with that kind of exhaustion… maybe in the morning.

Removing the older man’s glasses slowly and carefully, he folded and then placed them on the bedside table before returning with his hands on his hips, considering. With a sigh, Noctis supposed it couldn’t be helped. Reaching forward, he lightly squeezed and then shook Ignis’ shoulder. “I’m going to need your help getting to bed, Specs.”

“Mm?” It wasn’t anywhere near the standard alertness that the adviser normally showed upon being woken, proving how tired he really was. “You need help getting to bed, Noct?”

The slur in that cultured voice made the prince grin. “No, you do. You’ve worn yourself out. I can drag you or I can warp you, but I don’t think you’d like either of those options…”

“Nope.” Noctis interrupted his thoughts. “Get some sleep, Iggy. We can handle you going to bed early for once.”

His expression begged argument, but the brunet didn’t protest beyond a light grunt and a mostly coherent, “You’re not going to let me sleep in my clothes like a criminal, are you?”

“Such exciting adventures.” The sarcasm was sharp even if his state of wakefulness was not, fingers not quite as nimble as usual when he started unbuttoning his shirt.

Smiling to himself as he worked on the suspenders and aided with the remaining buttons, the prince couldn’t help the thought: at any other time, under any other circumstances, Ignis never would have let himself be lead to bed so early and so easily. It felt like a simple thing to show care, to try and match the level of it that his adviser had always shown him. That was impossible, really, but the attempt was worthwhile. It was even quite worth not making a quip about how quickly the brunet’s pants were shed in favor of slipping into bed. “Sleep, okay? I’ll take care of breakfast tomorrow.”

“You will not.” Ignis argued with his eyes closed. “You will order room service.”

“That sounded like an instruction to me.” Noctis grinned, getting only a soft sound of agreement for the effort.

#drabble #fan fiction #Final Fantasy XV #FFXV #fluff #Noctis Lucis Caelum #Ignis Scientia #SOMEDAY I'LL GET TO OTHER REQUESTS

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benzdeisel-blog · 6 years ago

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