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beauvoyr · 6 years ago

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Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 18 & 19

flowering | 18 & 19

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, asphyxiation, no beta we die like men, pre-Omen trailer route, pre-demon Noctis Chapter Rating: M Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership. Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: What kind of friend is he anyway? The shittiest, lowest kind. The kind that’d fuck your mouth with your head to the wall, that’s what. The kind that’d press his fingers over your ribs like a pianist over his keys, memorising the erotic way you shudder under him. The kind that wants to substitute your pillows just so you’d hold him instead. Exactly the shittiest, most fucked up kind of friend.

XVIII flowering: gluing eggshells together

loud voices are never good omen. byron favours speaking in soft tones with underlying firmness that warns those unprepared never to challenge him. shouting marks an unworthy man and it is a level he strives not to stoop for as long as he lives.

in this house of statues, he knows nobody speaks to you. save for the outsiders, your lecturers, the manservants mute themselves in your presence should they encounter you. your commands are acknowledged by way of a bent waist, head lowered, mouth stitched shut. hearing voices carried from your room right into the hallway is a phenomenon that has byron picking up his speed twofold, careful enough to balance the tray of tea and tidbits as he marches into your room, nary a knock.

“twenty, and that’s final.”

unless your room had transformed into a haggling hypermarket overnight, it sounded like an unfair deal coming from quintus. truly a rare sight to see father and daughter gathered in the same space, byron takes a moment to pencil the details in his mind. you, besieged, behind your desk with your fingers woven through your hair, shutting your eyes, shutting out the world. quintus, machiavellian, a proud figure in the heart of your room, unsmiling, uncaring. it has byron stepping aside when quintus gathers himself after seizing victory in one of the many wars he fought for lucis, even if it’s a war he waged with his very own daughter.

locking the door behind him, byron deposits your teatime tray and strides to your desk. you’ve curled in on yourself, legs drawn to your chest, all balled up on your chair. a hatchling truly unprepared for the world beyond the fragile shield of your eggshell. the pathetic sight makes byron drop on his knees before you, gloved hands unraveling the knot of your legs to be placed on the floor once more. “milady, what’s wrong?”

“everything.”

he doesn’t need to see your face to hear the tears in your voice. “everything, milady?” he tries again, softer, resting his hands on your twitchy thighs. “what did your father want from you? twenty of what?”

“not twenty of what.” your head shakes, arms that are shielding your face gradually dropping to unveil a face full of forlorn, reddening eyes brimming with unshed tears. “twenty, byron, twenty.” you stop, sucking in a deep breath, trying to pull your legs to your chest once more—only, byron has his hands on you and he fights your desperation to curl in on yourself again. “—let me go, byron—“

“not until you tell me twenty of what, milady,” he breathes, tone going softer than before, barely lined in warning. “now, tell me: twenty of what.”

you could’ve kicked him, planted a foot in his face if you struggled hard enough. break his teeth, break his nose, break everything for all you care. but you don’t. all you do is to look at him, helpless, hair mussed up, broken, choking low in your throat, lost, tired of fighting your frustration. “twenty,” you cry out, voice cracking, and byron’s fingers dig into your thighs at your next words: “father’s marrying me off at twenty.”

IT HAD ALWAYS BEEN THE same routine in any council meeting. Councilmen and women alike, dressed in their regal uniforms, discussing Lucian politics in this chamber. Sunlight streams from high above the paneled walls, bringing light to the ebony carvings on crystal chandelier. Fire from two elaborate torches lent feeble warmth in this air-conditioned place, not that Ignis minds it. Even in his waistcoat, he barely feels the cold. Ballpoint skittering across feint-ruled paper in an elaborate script Noctis had long deciphered under his tutelage, Ignis pens in points from today’s discussion for his charge’s digestion.

Hands clenched, Quintus’ jaw barely rocks with each heavy blow of his word. “We cannot dismiss the fact that each day brings us closer to Niflheim’s machinations.”

Gentle-faced Estelle, Countess of Cimlain, is never known to raise her voice in the presence of the king. But her voice is clear as her stand on the matter. “We’ve discussed this time and time again, Andronicus: We will not reinstate the military. There is no need for them in this world, as Lucis is taking a peaceful stand against the war.”

—heated discussion, Ignis amends his initial monologue, pen skittering faster to keep up with the exchange of dialogue.

“My dear Cimlain, you say it’s peaceful only because you get to sleep soundly on your bed each night, blissfully unaware of the wars our Glaives wage against the Imperials,” Quintus remarks with barely a twitch of his wispy brows, knowing his words brought forth a round of shifty eyes hiding their guilt. “Believe me, if His Majesty permits my presence on the battlefield, I would have done the job myself.”

King Regis holds up an authoritative hand to silence any retorts from red-cheeked Estelle, regarding Quintus with the apathy of one whose ear had been plugged with this debate for many years. “Your place is not the battlefield, Andronicus,” he reminds him. “Your health takes precedence above all else. It’s best you spend your years waging your wars behind a desk instead.”

“Marshal Leonis commandeers the Crownsguard and Captain Drautos, the Kingsglaive.” Quintus nods the king’s way like a sleepy man nodding off at a boring meeting, entirely disregarding what he said. “Your Majesty, I’m not asking for much. I merely want to reestablish a small fraction of militia, starting with conscripting our young Insomnians to join the fray. The great Solheim was not built in a day, and I’m not expecting much from these men,” his hands wave about, eyes drifting from one face to another, taking in their expressions, “but give it time and it will surely flourish.”

Lukas clicks his tongue, earning an eyeful from Quintus. He is not known for his kindness, and it shows in his words. “We can all see that you are hungering for the power your family has lost, Andronicus.” His moustache bristles. “We do not condone Niflheim for their cruelty, yet it seems you are keen on letting Lucis tread the same path. You will be the downfall of our kingdom, mark my words.”

Ignis stops penning at that point, knowing the downwards spiral of the meeting has just begun.

“It truly isn’t a fruitful meeting without our friend Lukas resorting to ad hominem,” unsmiling Quintus says, ignoring the verbal lunge for his heart. “Because I care more about the result of our meeting, I choose to disregard the useless nonsense you spewed, and instead, focus on how to solve the problem we face.” Without much pomp, he turns away from the fuming man, facing a weary Regis. “Majesty—“

And he stops. Eyes screwing shut. A thumb on his temple. Pained.

A fresh wave of murmurs spreads through the chamber behind a hand to the lips. Ignis would’ve leapt to his feet if this occurrence was the first of its kind, but he’s lost count of it as the years trickled by. Headaches, dizzy spells, migraines, standard signs of a man overworking past his limits, past his age ordained. For all the cruelty Quintus inflicted upon you, he is but a mortal in the end. A helpless old man even in the face of the reaper himself. Capping his pen, Ignis quietly observes as Quintus’ forehead is slick with a sheen of sweat, soundlessly battling his agony. And, ever friendless, nobody moves to aid him through his personal war.

King Regis, the benevolent man he is, leans forward in urgency, settling a steadying hand on Quintus’ shoulder. “Dizzy again?” he asks to a soundless Quintus, who neither nods nor shakes his head at the question, eyes still shut. But King Regis knows. He holds up another hand to the rest of the Council, marking the end to the meeting.

As Ignis sweeps his belongings into his briefcase with the rest of the apathetic crowd thinning out, he hears faint murmurs from the king himself.

“What did the doctor say?”

AT THE END OF YOUR third rep of push-ups, the subtle burn in your upper arms whines for you to stop. Not the awful kind of burn, but the kind of burn where it feelssatisfying. Sweating enough to fill buckets for rainy days, the bridge of your nose slick in perspiration, shirt plastered to your back. Even the slightest twist has your muscles aching, crying for mercy. Gladio’s ruthless, that’s for sure, clocking in enough counts for you to pass out if you aren’t thoroughly prepared with your warm-ups. It hurts when he manhandles you just as easily, demonstrating his raw strength and power over you, a reminder that it took him years to get to where he is now: A Shield to Noctis.

But the ache lancing through is real. All sharp edges, knives cutting your nerves. This ache isn’t anything like your innards you eviscerated, this ache comes from an entirely different reason altogether. It reminds you that you’re very much alive, living and breathing with Gladio stretching you to your toes, big hands on your shoulders to put you in place, to put up with the pain you agreed. Your throat scratches with all the sounds you make, from tiny squeaks to big yelps, pushed past your limits with Gladio’s amber eyes promising you that this is just the beginning of what he started.

“C’mon, ass up,” he swatted your back one time, just because he caught you drooping unsteadily in your planking. The sheer difference in size between you and him meant that one: He swatted you and it hurt, and two: It had enough strength to collapse your elbows and introduce your face to the hardwood.

Of course, Gladio remedied it with a hastily barked apology, bear paws wrapping around your hips to hoist you up once more, and he might have left a handprint Byron pointed out before your shower. But you liked it. Liked how each session ends with your lungs wheezing and your knees bruising, liked how Gladio cards his hands through your damp hair like a proud brother, always encouraging your every move—liked how he praised you even if it’s for the pettiest of things.

Good job for holding out longer than ten minutes.

Good job for those five extra stretches.

Good job for not puking.

Good job, lil’ lady.

You distinctly remembered making a face at that. “Little lady?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re one,” he supplied helpfully, looking like it was the most natural nickname ever. At your persistent staring, Gladio stops practicing his broadsword swings and shrugs, lips twitching. “What’s a man gotta do to get your real name? Just T. Andronicus or that Quintus Guy’s Daughter or Quintus’ Whatever ain't gonna cut it down the years.”

“How about Kaliva?” you proposed, sounding hopeful. “That’s pretty close too.”

The look Gladio threw you was an answer enough, returning to his sword swings once more. “Yeah, no. No name, no change.”

Well, at least you tried. If anything, it’s a lukewarm reassurance to hear him inadvertently confirming he hadn’t snuck his nose into all six of your private envelopes signed in your name.

The heavy double doors creak open, effectively bringing you out of your musings on your behemoth of a trainer. Gladio had run out earlier, babbling something about picking up someone and instructed you to stay put as he threw on a jacket and left. In the middle of your cool down stretches, you couldn’t help but to crane your head over your shoulder to spy on your new visitor. Is it Nyx again? The cheeky Glaive liked to pop in and out of his rounds, smirking at how you panted through your regimen. On days he felt gracious, he’d share tips on how to maximize your core muscles, and on not-so helpful days, he’d cross his legs at the ankles, leaning against the wall and chuckling at your wilting planking.

Your jaw almost unhinged when Gladio steps in, bringing with him a man the size of a boulder. Distinctly aged, his salt-coloured hair and shaved jawline is reminiscent of an obelisk in a museum. All regal poise, spine straight. Age is something he wears handsomely, despite the hardened finish of his eyes. Your gaze trails over the soft leather and gilded trims on his robes, memorizing the regal way he holds himself. Despite the difference in his ensemble, this is a variation of a getup you’ve seen father wore before.

He is man you certainly shouldn’t mess with.

Pulling yourself to your feet, you fold your hands over your thighs, bowing deeply. Manners first. “Good evening, sir.”

“At ease, young Andronicus,” the man commands, and you know you’re right if he’s the one calling you that. He comes to a stop with Gladio hovering closely by, eyes raking you from head to toe. You must’ve appeared disheveled, sweaty, awful for a first impression, but he says nothing of it. “I’ve heard of you from my son. Received your papers, in fact.”

So this is what Gladio talked about, the trial by fire. Realising the severity of the situation, you allow yourself absolutely no chance of being mistaken as a diminutive doll all shy and reserved, for he is part of the Royal Council. And men in the Royal Council surely must be statues in serving the king. You should do well to reflect your part too. “I’m glad you did, Sir Clarus. Gladio did mention that I should be expecting a visit from you sometime in the future.”

A curious light shines from within his granite grey eyes, a hand thoughtfully placed on his chin. He seemed to have not heard you at all. “…I must say, I wasn’t expecting to meet the controversial child of the Andronicus like this. Your existence had been a rumour, all this while.”

For you, it brings only the tritest of smiles. “Are you surprised, sir?” you say, all too aware of how he quirks a brow at your impudence. “I know how my father had repeatedly discredited me, just because I’m female. He has no plans to allow me to lead the House, but be rest assured I will.”

“Bear in mind, there is a fine line between confidence and arrogance. Confidence will take you to places beyond your imagination, but arrogance will only serve to narrow your vision,” Clarus warns, making neither distinct disproval nor approval at your proclamation. “I mean no offense, of course. From a simple glance, I can see nothing of Quintus in you. But your words cut just as sharp as his.” He pauses, seeking your eyes in a resolute stare, a predator staring down a prey. “You aspire to best your father and become the next Andronicus serving His Highness Prince Noctis, yes?”

Hearing Noctis’ name from Clarus’ lips brings back that same nausea from before, nausea blooming in your heart. He’s testing you, you realize. “Yes sir. And I won’t stop until I will be the next in line to serve His Highness. That has been my dream from the start.”

At this, Gladio makes a face, eyebrows perched high on his forehead.

Clarus, presumably used to his son and some of the many odd faces he’s artfully mastered through the years, chooses to ignore it. Though his movements are minute, each action is calculated, never an absent gesture. Eyes travel from Gladio to you, from Gladio’s stanch silence, to your squared shoulders. He is summing you up, finding you a place in his mind. A temporary residence, where you can easily fall if you failed his trust.

“I expect to see you during the Prince’s Coronation Ceremony when he is finally the 114th King of Lucis,” he finally says, allowing himself the slightest quirk of lips. Then, his choice of word sharpens with the slant of his frown. “Whatever it is that you are trying to do, you best avoid your father’s eyes. You and I both know how shrewd he can be at times. Sometimes the best course of action in war is to retreat and reorganize your strategy.”

Of course he would know, wouldn’t he?

Clarus Amicitia must’ve sat at the table over a dozen of times stomaching father’s arguments and refuting them in councils. Father assaults him verbally, and Clarus deflects them as the steely Shield of King Regis. Judging from the way he speaks of father, he doesn’t seem to regard him highly, though he refrains from voicing out such thoughts in concrete. Fortunately though, Clarus seems like a sound man who doesn’t pass his judgment from father to you in the very same way. And you’re thankful for small mercies like this, thankful that he doesn’t reject you for your father’s mistakes.

“Thank you, sir,” you incline your head in a respectful bow, one he accepts with a nod of his own. “Your advice is well-heeded.”

Clarus doesn’t smile at you. He doesn’t need to smile when his words carried his sincerity. After all, a smile can be easily faked; one that father had taught you over and over and over again. He bids his farewell, turning away. “I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors, young Andronicus. We will cross paths again, soon enough.” Gladio follows him to the door, but Clarus only lifts a hand to stop him. “No need to see me out, son. Who do you think owned this training room before you?”

To his credit, Gladio only crosses his arms as his father left with little flourish, seeing himself to the exit without waiting for a farewell. As the doors clicked shut, you can’t say you’re surprised when Gladio attacks your hair with his hand—one that left you batting his arm in desperation as he musses up your already scruffy hair, limp from sweat.

“Look at you, being all adult with my old man around,” he grunts, though there’s no malice in his teasing. “Good job for not pissing your pants talking to him.”

Clarus is intimidating, yes, but the random encounter isn’t all too bad. At least he genuinely offered you some advice instead of putting you down. You chalked it off to being lucky, since Gladio’s a nice man and his dad, however terrifying he may be, should be a reasonably nice man as well. “Your dad’s cool—but kinda scary,” you admit, bringing his barking laugh rounding your statement. “Just…don’t tell him that, okay? It’d totally ruin all the front I put up just now.”

“Depends on your next answer,” is all Gladio answers, amber eyes winking in mirth. “Think you can drop down and give me five reps of push-ups?”

Try as you might, you definitely did a poor job of hiding your grimace. Gladio definitely saw that, arms crossed over his chest with a huff, awaiting your reply. The short little break you took barely did anything for your muscles, but if Gladio wants it done, you suppose you could try—even if you fail halfway. With a sigh, you head to the training mat. “I guess…I can try. Just—don’t chew me out if I can’t finish it, please?”

Gladio only pats your back good-naturedly, following you as you drop down on the mat and shifting into position. “That’s more like it, at least you’re givin’ it a shot.”

You only barely resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “Sometimes, I wish I don't.”

twenty and married, a fate worse than death. father trampled over your dreams once again, never caring if you had anything to say about it. a maid had shown up on your doorstep, one who refuses to meet your eyes as she mutedly dropped flimsy files on your desk, curtsying before she left. your treacherous fingers flipped through one of the dossiers, taking in the sight of a formal report with a passport photo stapled in the right hand corner. each file contained different pictures, different names, different information, yet they all bear the same trait: a man.

the knowledge sees your hand trembling, whether out of grief or rage, you aren’t certain.

this is father’s final slap to you: a choice you have to make, that is to select your own husband.

you make quick work of these dossiers, glancing through the eligible bachelors father had undoubtedly handpicked. they fall nothing short of a standard arranged marriage’s prerequisites: groomed handsomely, unparalleled intelligence, of acceptable height and weight and build, shortlisting their many talents and hobbies, detailing their age, current workplace, and their slew of achievements like trophies on a shelf. some wear their dark hair slicked back; others opted for a loosely trimmed touch, falling over their foreheads. some wore glasses, sharpening their overall appearance; others had eyes the sparkling colour of sea foams.

aether, flavian, icarus, scientia, xander.

proud men from distinguished families whom father saw fit to tame you.

you stomp out the urge to introduce these files to your fireplace, throwing them aside to be perused no longer. instead, you remove yourself from your desk, making your way to the television and switching it on. anything to get your mind off those things, off the thought of marriage, off the sight of men who’d hold you down and snatch the name of the andronicus for themselves. furiously flipping through the channels, past gossip talk shows, past cliché soap operas of poor girl meets young ceo and falls hopelessly in love, past music videos and blaring rock music, finally settling on crown broadcasting channel.

the newscaster, a peppy blonde in subdued makeup, prattles off three words per second as she’s already well underway a story. “—tigious day as prince noctis lucis caelum celebrates his sixteenth birthday in style at the caelum via. attending his birthday celebration is his majesty king regis—“

the scene transitions from the newsroom into a panning shot of a rooftop ceremony, all crisp glass and smooth silks hanging off the banisters, all bearing the royal crest of the lucis. it cuts into a voiceless shot of prince noctis interacting with guests, an aristocratic teenager clad in a bespoke suit of fine lines, receiving each and every hand with a smart shake or two. his bangs haven’t quite grown out yet, tapering in stunted spikes over his alabaster skin, and his deep blue eyes are too narrowed, too tensed to be enjoying this birthday celebration, but the imperfect image imprints itself in your mind all the same.

he isn’t ugly, no. he’s easily the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, even if you are only going by the unfairly monochromatic pictures in the newspaper. yet, there’s something about his profile that strikes a chord in your heart.

he looks tired. he looks like he’s been run haggard for his own birthday. he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. and he looks sad. but why is he sad, when he’s the prince and princes have everything they want in the world, and then some?

at sixteen, he looks like he’s suffering.

at sixteen, you are suffering.

sixteen and suffering. how awful. novels always made a big deal of being sixteen and how it marks the start of boyfriends and casual romances and a little fumbling in the sheets, but prince noctis doesn’t even look like he has the time to comb his hair. snatching the remote to switch off the TV with a click, you hold your face in your hands as you try to breathe. legs to your chest, toes curling into the cushion.

breathe in. breathe out.

here is the man you’ve been shaping your life after, but he doesn’t even know you exist.

how will he know, when you’ll be married at twenty?

NIGHT HAS LONG FALLEN OVER the city, shading skyscrapers in shadows. In your little chamber, you make yourself a thick mug of hot chocolate, sipping on the artificial sweetness to replenish your brain juice. After each training session, Gladio would always bring you back to your room, making sure you’re safely tucked inside your little box and messing up your after-shower hair. And, following his standard end-of-the-day statement, he’d always recite, “Same time tomorrow, lil’ lady,” before he retreats with a wave. It’s rather comforting to know he’s got your back if anything happens, though you don’t really know what to do with that knowledge for now.

Glossing over the documents in your Moogle Drive, you take another sip of your drink. A great many of the documents never made full sense to you, often containing jargons too complicated for you to understand lest you’re a scientist of Niflheim. Some seemed to be subject test reports on their monsters tubed in Fodina Caestino. Others aren’t any better, just full of codes and never a legible word. Unless you contracted external henchmen, say an underworldly character to decode this gibberish, you’re never going to get anywhere far. But the risks are high with these shady fellows, for their loyalty lies in those with deeper pockets.

It’s either that or those who have them on knifepoint all the time, you think to yourself, eyeing the scattered documents in your Drive.

With no new information coming from Byron, you’re still stuck trudging your way through these nightmarish creatures. Of course, he is never to be blamed for the shortage of information coming your way. This two-man show of yours suffered a great many shortcomings. Money is never an issue to you, thankfully, since father never trespassed into your bank accounts to see how you spent your allowances. While having enough money to silence a cop is undeniably handy, it isn’t the best currency to scout for the best talents in gathering information for something as dodgy as Niflheim.

Because, really, who wants to get involved with the Andronicus and Niflheim?

Even the hardiest of assassins would run ten kilometers northwards if they heard that.

The reputation surrounding the House of Andronicus is something much like a hardened stalagmite; built upon blood dripping over its foundation, culminating in a sharp peak in the end, sharp enough to rend flesh. These men weren’t written into history as paragons of Lucis. You know what they do: Exact justice all in the faith of keeping the kingdom safe, even if it sullied their hands. There are no grey areas in here: Everything is either white or black. White, for upholding the commandment and maintaining public safety; black, just to hide the bloodstains that inevitably come along with it. Kill whenever required, extort whenever needed, reconstruct the law whenever they saw fit. Your father is a man of sins from the very beginning, and there is no denying that you have left reddened footprints of your own too.

The sooner you unravel what the empire is building, the easier it’ll be for the prince in the long run.

And you know exactly what you have to do.

With a yawn, you chance a glance at your desktop clock. 10.26 p.m., already past the bedtime Gladio designated for your optimum rest. Sensing a well-rested night’s sleep already beyond salvation, you resign yourself to the usual standard of falling asleep on your worktable, dragging yourself to your cupboard, where your stacks of pillows await. You randomly select the one at the top, sinking in your chair once more, propping the pillow on your thighs. Hugging it like this as you sloughed your work is so comforting, especially with your nose pressed into the cotton and—

—oh.

You sit up abruptly, staring at your pillow.

It’s a different scent from the usual. Not worn cotton drained from sunshine, no. Something more of fancy soaps and chamberlain-laundered clothes, and a little bit of something else. You gingerly nosed your pillow again, marveling in the different smell. It’s something you’re familiar with, but it’s just different Familiar but different. How confusing. You smelled this before, not on your body, not on your bed, not on your clothes, but on someone. Someone whose clothes smelled exactly like this, coming into contact with your pillow. Someone lying on your comforters, someone sharing your sleep.

Noctis.

It’s his scent.

The nausea associated with his name comes back in full force; warmth washing over your cheeks, churning your tummy. He’d always smelled nice, you know that, but you never expected the scent from his clothes would transfer on your pillow. It’s a nice scent, clean with underlying notes of—you don’t know, himself, maybe? Whatever it is, and as creepy as it sounds like, the knowledge only serves to make you tighten your hold on the pillow, burying your face in it.

You’re okay to me, he said.

He saw you as an okay person, even when you stammered out your thoughts, tongue tripping, breath hitching in the night. How desperately you want to wield a whip. It's okay to him. How desperately you don’t want to be like your father. It's okay to him. How desperately you want to atone for your sins. It’s okay to him. How desperately you want and it’s still okay to him.

Teeth already littering bites on your lower lip, chin on the pillow, you hold it closer to your heart. Close, closer until each curve yields around your frame, holding you tight in return. If you think hard enough, you could recall how the flame danced from the tips of his fingers all the way to his palm. How scarlet melts into his skin and a clumsy smile on his lips, thoughtful enough to notice you’re cold all over. He listens, he stays, he encourages, he is everything you don’t deserve because you're a liar and a murderer and you’re sitting on a throne of bones with their skeletons shackling your ankles.

What if he leaves you when he knows how dirty you’ve become?

You should tell him what you are.

No. You shouldn’t tell him.

If he leaves now, he’ll destroy you. You’ve gone too far with wanting this time, farther than wanting mother and her musical memories. All the years you built around him, carefully constructing a castle around your prince, it’ll all crumble once he’s gone. All the months you spent with him, all for naught. No more trading texts in King’s Knight co-ops, no more sleepy afternoons slumbering together. He is the very foundation of your core, and you know that well enough not to let him leave. Because once he leaves, he’ll never come back for you.

Curling in on yourself, you hug the pillow tighter, inhaling deeply.

For now, it’s okay like this. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.

That’s what you’ve been telling yourself all this while, haven’t you?

You’ll be okay as long as he’s with you, as long as he stays.

He can’t leave. He won’t leave. He will never ever get the chance to leave.

A solitary beep shakes your phone awake, the screen lit by a notification. Your shoulders twitch at the sound, casting a discreet glance at the King’s Knight message box adorning the front. On any other normal day it’d be a promotional message from the developers, trying to entice players with limited-time events and bundle sets. This time around, things had been different these past few months. A text that’s not from the developers only meant one thing.

Slowly shaking yourself out of your stupor, you log into the game with a frown.

TO: THE ARCHITECT FROM: NOCTGAR SUBJECT: [none] MESSAGE: quick favour: what’s your number?

You blink owlishly, slowly digesting his message. That’s odd. Your number? What does he need it for? Silently praying it isn’t for anything urgent, you press in your reply.

TO: NOCTGAR FROM: THE ARCHITECT SUBJECT: Sorry. MESSAGE: Of course, here is my number.

After double-checking the digits, you hit send.

Some paranoid part of your mind yells at you to stay up for his next message—what if it’s something urgent after all? If he got caught up in some unsavoury part of the town and needed rescuing? No—that’s silly, firstly the prince is more than capable to fend for himself, and secondly, Ignis would be on his speed dial for emergencies. Which begs the question once more: What’d he need your number for? You rock back and forth nervously in your chair, staring at the message with your heart racing and debating whether or not to send another message to Noctis—only to have your screen blurring out into a call. With your phone hooked up to your computer, you could very well see that it’s not an ordinary call with your phone to your ear; it’s a video call linked through Moogle Ring.

Before you manage to listen to some rational part of your head counseling you to reject the call, your itchy fingers scramble for the bright green button. Your desktop pixels out into a dimmer, blurrier image with an all-too familiar voice echoing, “Hey.”

Somewhere in the background, a little bit off to the right, a spot of yellow chirps. “Woah—hey! Hey hey hey!”

It takes a moment for the connection to stabilize and iron out all pixilation, but once it does, you’re treated to a lovely sight: Noctis and Prompto, two heads at two different ends, the prince to your left, and the blond to your right. They’re both hunched over a table, books spread haphazard, looking equally exhausted with faint dark accents under their eyes. You try to ignore how your heart lurches a little when Noctis meets your eyes, but you can’t deny a corner of your lips quirking upwards. It makes you hide your face in the pillow, breathing softly.

It smells like him here, right where you are.

Ah. You shouldn’t like it this much, but you do.

“Hey guys,” you finally work up the courage to summon a little wave, though you still hide part of your face behind the pillow. “Uh.” This is something new, something you haven’t done before. What should you say during video calls? They’re not physically here, but the prince is here, staring right at you. Best to get down to business, just so you don’t have to hide your face behind this pillow. “I—well—why’d you guys call? Did something happen?”

“Nah, figured you’d be busy,” Noctis waves you off, the pen in his hand drawing abstract patterns in the air, “’cause you’re always busy.”

“Yeah, when are you not busy anyway?” Prompto chuckles good-naturedly, leaning forward. His voice echoes through what seems to be a living room, though you’re not sure where they are. Noctis’ apartment, maybe? “We both kinda have to stay up for tonight to get rid of this pesky assignment due tomorrow,” he stops to heave a theatrical sigh, “so do you wanna stay up too? Y’know, just the three of us, the Midnight Trio?”

Noctis makes an amused noise in the back of his throat, throwing the blond a half-grin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She doesn’t sleep—and you and me, buddy, we both aren’t gonna get any sleep tonight.” Prompto shrugs, snatching a canned drink off-camera, taking a swig out of it. “Makes sense, yeah?”

Hearing their typical banter between each other stirs a bit of laughter in you, and the sound has them turning to you with questioning eyes. Noctis still wears that half-grin as he studies you, though you don’t know if it’s still for Prompto, or. Well. For you. Thinking about it has your nausea bubbling like a pot on the stove, so you duck your head and try not to mind the warmth seizing your cheeks, your neck.

Surely you could stay up a little and keep them company as they battle their avalanche of assignments. Give them a bit of a pointer here and there, a silly banter to keep the mood light, easy, less sleepy. And you could certainly use the opportunity to look through the documents you put off earlier as they suffer through their paper, making good use of your time. Already knowing what’s your answer when you’ve started making excuses for yourself, you lick your dry lips and muster a nod at the expectant duo.

“Makes a whole load of sense to me,” you agree, making Prompto hoot and fist-pump the air. “Gimme a sec, okay? I’ll just go and make myself some coffee real quick.”

“Be sure to make a whole jug of ‘em,” Prompto’s voice follows you as you deposit the pillow on your chair, ushering yourself to your kitchenette. “’cuz we’re partying all night tonight, woohoo!”

You hear Noctis snorting Prompto’s way, the sound of a pen clattering on the table echoing loudly through your room. “Party tonight, funeral tomorrow if we don’t finish this up, yeah?”

“Talk about a mood killer, Noct, sheesh. Okay, okay, let’s focus on getting this stupid intro out of the way first. Where’d you stop?”

“At the index.”

“…dude, you didn’t even start yet?”

You know you’re laughing again because the sulk is dead obvious in Prompto’s voice, reaching for a canister of coffee Byron tucked somewhere in the cupboard overhead. Standing here like this, boiling some water and preparing coffee—a whole jug of it, as per Prompto’s helpful advice, you can’t help but to smile as you liberally doused the dark concoction in creamers and sugars.

Friends are beautiful: They make you forgo your sleep, just to keep them company.

XIX flowering: the heart of a king

YOU LOVE HIM.

He knows you do.

He flicks a gaze where you stand in a blue wave of sylleblossoms, your hand outstretched, balancing a dragonfly on your fingertips. Your expression is soft, glassy, your hair floating almost ethereally in the breeze. The mesmeric melancholy on your face draws him in, closer and closer until three stalks separate you and him. In this field, you are a free soul, bounding through crests of blossoms with the paper petals kissing your calves. Watching you wade through this sea of flowers, clutching a fistful of stalks with limpid heads of sylles, a smile on your face.

He reaches for you, fingers chasing after your shadows.

Only, the breeze whips around you, around him, scattering petals to the skies, thwarting him.

Between the snatches of blues, you cradle the blossoms to your breasts, eyes cut to sultry halves. There’s something hypnotic in the way the corners of your lips lift; you know he’s there, he knows you’re making a show out of it. Hands bring the sylleblossoms to veil your face, wispy blues hiding the pale pink of your lips. Eyes lidded low, coy. The sight is just enough to whisk warm flares in his belly and he is acutely aware of his intense need to cradle your cheek in his palm, thumbing your eyelids, just to taste the flower on your lips.

The first step he takes has him crushing a sylle under his foot. The earth is cool and moist beneath him, and the broken blossom dies between his toes. He doesn’t stop; he crushes a second one. Leaving behind a swathe of devastation, injuring the sylleblossoms with his every step, but he stops at nothing until he paves a road of death to you.

Here you stand before him, cradling the sylles when it should be him in your arms. He doesn’t want that.

His hand curls into your wrist tight enough to break your hold on the blossoms, scattering them in the little space between you and him. No, there shouldn’t be any space separating you two anymore. He doesn’t want that either. He wants you under him, so he tucks an arm around your midriff and pushes you to the ground, breaking your fall. He’s draped over you, falling in all the right nooks and crannies of your body as if you’re made for him, fitting him in all the ways he wants you to. On this bed of blossoms, hair fanning your face, you twist your head aside, teeth catching on your bottom lip.

Noctis. So good to me.

Hearing his name colours his vision in red.

All at once, your palm rests in his, with his tongue running over your little digits. These are the hands that feed him. These are the hands that love him. These are the hands that make him live. Each swipe of his tongue is reverent, worshipping your existence. He’s mesmerized with the way you tip your head back, the way you’re whimpering Noctis Noctis Noctis in fragments from your lips, the red in his eyes running over the reds on your cheeks. Your quiet little sounds are hungry with want, and he makes sure to return your show with his own as he licks a wet stripe from the heel of your palm to the tip of your index, nipping oh-so gently at the end.

Noctis, I want.

He knows you want. He wants too.

He sucks on your ring finger, getting a reaction more vocal than before, relishing in how hot you’ve become under him. Like a fevered flush leaving you delirious, all eager, all needy, all for him. You’re his. All his. And all that is his should be marked. His teeth circle the base of your finger and sink deep into your flesh, hard enough to leave imprints. You whine—Gods, a high-pitched noise that goes straight to the burning pit low in his belly, but you don’t resist because you love it, you love the pain, you love whatever it is he does to you. He releases you with a wet pop, licking his lips, leaning back just to admire the art he made.

A ring of teeth marks, just for you.

Noctis, I.

He loves you. You know he does.

Noctis knows, even when he disentangles himself from his sheets, that his throat is tight and he feels sick, but he too knows he’s just a man left on his knees, waiting for your hands to crown his hair.

MOST OF THE TIME, the prince is too busy to show up to practice sessions with Gladio. You kind of get that, since the final semester always hits the hardest. His little video call days ago proved how much him and Prompto were suffering, cramming as many words as they can in a single Word document before rolling the pencil to decide who’s proofreading the entire mumbo-jumbo. It’s a little bit sad too, you realized with a sip of your coffee at 3.48 a.m., that Noctis might be dying from caffeine overdose when he cracks open yet another can of energy drink to prep himself since he lost the roll.

As their senior—well, kind of senior, albeit clearly majoring differently from their course—you kindly shouldered the burden of proofreading instead. You’ve never heard Prompto bawling in relief and hailing you as their newfound savior, though it’s a little bit exaggerated and embarrassing to be regarded in such saintly light. Noctis only slurs a quiet thanks before he drops on his textbooks, sleep-heavy eyes just waiting to be laid to rest.

Quickly rectifying whatever jargon they misused, formatting the assignment for improved readability, and redoing their appalling citations from a scratch, it was only past five that you could resend the document for them to print and staple alongside other assortments. The call ended anticlimactically with a Prompto passing out on the couch and a sluggish Noctis yawning out another thanks, hand absently scratching his neck.

Poor boys. Suffering is part and parcel of university life, and nobody graduates without losing some part of their sanity. Or a huge chunk of hair, whichever comes first.

“Come on, milady, pull yourself together.”

Right now though, there are more pressing matters in hand. You squint at the whip, willing it to go away. “Uh. Trying.” It doesn’t budge an inch. “Trying.”

Byron is as unimpressed as ever. “Well then, try harder.” His gloved hands gesture at the entirety of the languid weapon all curled up on the hardwood, its segmented handle braided in leather, and the notched tail of blades resembling the jagged edges of a human spine. “Surely if the rest of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive could do it, you can’t afford to disappoint them.”

You could only frown at the whip. That’s easy for him to say since he’s not the one trying to work the prince’s magic. “Trying harder.” The accursed whip still doesn’t budge, stubborn bastard. “Yeah—still trying, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Unless you’re trying to scare the whip with your glaring, whatever it is you’re trying, it’s not working at all.” At this point, even Byron looks like he’d rather do it himself had Noctis blessed him with magic—much like how he grows exasperated every time you do something either too slow or too imperfect for his liking. “Come now milady, remember what Nyx told you? Electricity. Magic is like electricity. Even Gladio demonstrated how he kept that trunk of a sword—surely that electric magic had something to do with the disappearance, like shorting the metal into molecules or something.” His expression falls for a split second. “Well. What was it that he said again?”

He’s not doing a very good job at lecturing you if he can’t even remember what Gladio said in the first place, and you’re pretty sure that’s not how physics and chemistry work at the same time. You sigh, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to work out a grand strategy in your ticking head. “He said to visualize a room, like you’re trying to put something in it. And taking it out is like removing the stuff,” you condense the whole speech, finding that it makes lesser sense the more you think about it. “I dunno, Byron. His Highness said it’s kind of like a room too. A weapon room, I guess?”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is armoury,” he supplies, murky eyes settling uncomfortably on you. It’s one of those expressions that says he’s disappointed in you, but he’s willing to see this out until the very bitter end. “Let’s try again from the top: Put your hand on the handle and reach out to the magic. Let it beckon you.”

Byron, coaching you on magic? When he knows nothing of it? Unbelievable. Yet his face is clean from laughter, not a twitch of an eyebrow whatsoever, and if you didn’t know any better, he could actually pass as some legit magic instructor from Harry Potter. On days Gladio can’t train you personally, he enlists Byron’s help in watching over you—codename for babysitting, really, though you don’t appreciate getting hawked like this. You’d rather have Gladio punishing you with ten push-ups for your ineptitude than getting served by Byron’s tongue.

Biting the inside of your mouth, you almost wrap your hand around the handle—until your phone beeps inside your pocket, and then you find yourself wrapping your hand around the device instead.

Byron only raises a slim eyebrow in disproval. He doesn’t say anything about your newfound addiction. He knows a vain effort when he sees one.

Ever since Noctis asked for your number, exchanging text messages on King’s Knight moved to an appropriate channel, one that actually sees you using your phone for proper communication. Texting is the only way for you to reach him, not to mention it’s the easiest method too. You trade texts with him on a daily basis now, reminding him to wake up earlier on Mondays and Wednesdays, keeping him company through lectures that are drier than Leiden landscapes, and snorting through late night video calls with caffeine-fuelled Prompto while they battle through three stacks of project papers.

This time, things aren’t any different as you give a cursory glance through the message.

busy?

Judging from the eyebrow permanently raised on Byron’s forehead, you toss him an apologetic smile, thumbs automatically keying in a reply.

Trying to make my whip disappear. Not working. Send help.

Another beep brings another message from the prince. It has Byron’s other eyebrow joining its friend up there, forming a bridge. You wince, hastily getting your job done, readying to banish your phone far far far away where you can’t reach it.

lol good luck

Meanie. Gonna head back to practice now, Byron’s grilling me with his eyes.

wait.

You take a moment to mouth Byron’s way, prince said wait, and the look he gives you aptly sums up whatever he thinks of Noctis in these three months. Still, he doesn’t stop you other than to mimic an unapologetically texting schoolgirl, sassing you by flipping his braid from his shoulder, one that has you rolling your eyes and turning back to Noctis’ message.

wait. you busy this weekend?

You look up from nosing your phone, resting your elbows on your knees, wearing the deepest frown that Niflheim surely couldn’t even pull from you. “Am I busy this weekend, Byron?”

“Please don’t tell me he’s asking you out,” he deadpans. You shrug, clearly having no idea what this is about, and he makes the most distressed sound ever in the back of his throat, the kind that sounds like it belongs on the wildlife channel. “Six help me. He’s going to ask you out.”

Is he? Somehow, that particular thought has you wetting your lips contemplatively, thinking of a reply witty enough to best Byron. Nothing comes. All you’re left with is Byron’s judgmental staring, complete with his arms squared across his chest, and the prince’s message on your phone. Neither of that solves your question, so you readily assume your weekend is free from disturbances, free enough for you to enjoy your time together with Noctis if he does ask you out.

Should be. Why?

specs’s birthday is coming up and i wanna get him something. come with me.

Ignis’ birthday is coming up?

You perk up, offering your phone to your babysitter, who’s already well underway dissecting every single sentence Noctis sent to you. “He said Ignis’ birthday is coming up. We need to get him something special.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s still asking you out,” says Byron, already lifting your phone and examining the messages in different angles of light as though it’d unveil some sort of secret subtext inked in lemon juice. “But yes, I must confess, I’m rather fond of my alter-ego. Go ahead and ask the prince if he’s throwing a birthday party for the man. I imagine he’d rather like the thought, since it doesn’t look like the Prince appreciates him much.”

Ignis is Byron’s alter-ego? What a disturbing notion. Still, you don’t get the chance to pursue the conversation with your phone handed back to you, so your steady thumbs press in Byron’s demands.

Sure. By the way, are you throwing a party for Ignis?

nah, but prom wants that party tho lol

Relaying the message to Byron has him wearing the ghastliest disproval on his face, eyes blown wide and mouth twisting in obvious displeasure. “What? No birthday party for the poor man?” he spits out, clearly baffled with what Noctis is planning. “Hand me that phone, milady, I must correct this problem right away. And no,” he cuts you off the moment you’re fighting to keep your phone from him and failing, “you won’t stop me from throwing a party for him.”

Unsure of what to expect from this dramatic turn of conversation, you hang by the sidelines as Byron presses your phone to his ear. His fingers tap a methodical melody on the hardwood, impatiently waiting for the prince to pick up. Once your butler gets into this mode, not a single soul succeeds in telling him otherwise—Gods know you tried and died. And you’re not about to sacrifice yourself again like some martyr because you’ve seen the things Byron is capable of.

The moment Noctis picks up—or so you assumed, Byron opens his mouth, only to shut it with a click.

You nervously wet your throat with a gulp. Oh boy.

Seconds later, Byron’s eyebrows are hiking his forehead with an air of utter disgust. “Don’t use that deep sexy tone on me, young man, it’s obviously not going to sweep me off my feet,” he starts, clicking his tongue in disdain. You somewhat wonder what qualifies as a ‘deep sexy tone’ coming from Noctis, though the question remains unanswered when Byron tuts. “No. I’m not sorry for disappointing you, I’m not her. Now, enough with this pointless prattle, I’ve come to make my demands.”

More chatter coming from Noctis has you pitching your ears for any stray sounds.

Verdict: None.

“I hear you’re not throwing Ignis a birthday party,” he says, examining his fingernails, running a thumb over them. “As a manservant who clearly understands what it feels like to be unappreciated,” he eyeballs you, to which you launch a well-timed kick on his knee, one he counters with a warning smack to your ankle, “I’d like to remind you that Ignis Scientia is a fine man who probably does it all for you while you sit around and stuff yourself silly. Therefore, he more than deserves a party for his birthday.”

Another hum of silence, and Byron narrows his eyes at your phone.

Your stomach roils at the sudden stress.

“As far as I’m concerned, there is no royal decree preventing me from having his number,” he sighs, long and weary. “If it bothers you so much – oh, this is getting silly, we only exchange recipes and cleaning tips. Dull manservant stuffs a prince like you shouldn’t be concerned with. Nobody likes a jealous boyfriend, Noctis, you best keep that in mind for your next relationship.”

This is a disaster.

You know you can’t do anything but to internally cheer the prince to weather it through.

“Mhmm. Mhmm. Yes, thank you for getting back on track,” Byron lazily drawls. To you, he nods Noctis’ way and mouths kids these days as you submit a mental email to the Astrals to ask what you’ve done to deserve this nightmare. Probably a whole bunch of things starting with murder, that’s for sure. “Ah, all right, 7th February? Lovely date for a lovely man like him. 3.00 p.m.? Your apartment? And where exactly is your – huh, all right, settle down please, don’t shout. Do text milady the address later on.”

At this point, you wonder if you can attune the entire floor to Noctis’ armoury just so it’d suck you away from this place.

Byron, fortunately, doesn’t seem to notice your dead-eyed resignation to your fate. “See? That wasn’t so bad, you and I manage to have a civil conversation after all—oh,” he stops, lowering your phone to examine your blackened screen, amused. “He hung up on me. The nerve.”

You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your throbbing temples while you’re at it. It could’ve gone much worse, so you’re thankful for small mercies. At least Byron didn’t go completely off-tangent like a grandma next door. “Uh…on the bright side, I guess we now know Ignis’ birthday’s on 7th,” you murmur dryly. “Now we can get to work planning a party for him. Good job, Byron.”

“We? Did I hear that right?” he echoes, dusting his hands on his thighs, getting up from the floor. You crane your head to scrutinise the odd curve settling in the corner of his lips, and he returns it with excessive flair to the sweep of his bow, rising partway to shoot you a salute. “No, not we, milady, only me. You, on the other hand, have a whip to attune. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some shopping to be done.”

And he’s off, strutting towards the exit in a sashay that belongs on a catwalk runway.

You can’t help but to slump against the wall, defeated. “That’s so unfair,” you whine, causing your butler to throw his head back with a laugh that echoes through the training hall, a hand on the doorknob. “How come you get to go shopping and I don’t?”

“Oh, milady,” he turns on his heels, wearing a smile both deceptive and insincere in nature, “you have a date to prepare this Saturday, am I right? I can’t simply commit the sin of letting you wear last season’s fashion statements. I’ll be sure to find something suitable for your little outing. Floral patterns are all the rage these days.”

You’re definitely not buying that snide smile of his. “That’s just some fancy excuse ‘cause you just wanna go shopping, don’t you?”

Byron’s only answer is another heavy laugh, full with mirth. “I’ll text Nyx to replace me in light of this unexpected circumstance.” With a little cheery wave, scarlet eyes glittering beneath his bangs, he heaves the doors shut. “Goodbye, milady!”

Wood meets wood with a bang, silence goes sssssss from the air-conditioning, and you’re all alone with this whip. So much for a butler, goodbye indeed.

PALE SUNLIGHT FILTERS THROUGH cotton curtain, mellow rays diffusing in his dim room. Phone tossed aside, on the edge of his bed. His sheets smell like dried sweat, the air stagnant. It’s probably past eleven and he should be up for a replacement class slotted during lunch break, but all he does is to cover his face with his hand, eyes scrunched shut. At the backs of his eyelids you stand, hugging sylleblossoms the same way you hug a pillow.

The longer he looks at the love slackening your habitual indifference, the more he wants to brush his knuckles over your lips. The smaller the smiles gracing your face, the more he wants to kiss you to make it widen. The harder you fight back with whines too wanton and heart too giddy, the more he wants to pin you in place how one pins a butterfly to a corkboard.

It’s sick.

He’s sick.

A million and one questions harried his thoughts; how did it start, when did this happen, what should he do, but all he does is to kick off the sheets tangling his ankles, palm digging in the depression of his eyeball.

His cock had been straining heavy and full against his abdomen and it’s an ache he can rid in seconds with a few rapid strokes—Gods, that’s how fucked up he’s gone, but the thought of delving his hands in his pants, to desecrate his image of you—it’s something he can’t do. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. Prince Noctis pining over a girl in his disgusting desperation, venting out his frustration only in his dreams. Tabloids would salivate over the scandalous headlines, plastering it in bold all across Insomnia.

He wants to claw it all out, everything, starting from his careless curiosity of The Ghost in the Citadel, all the way to the weak curl of your spine as you mouth thank youfor the scant few words he uttered under the stars. Restart fresh from a scratch, forgoing all the hellos and goodnights and fencing you from a distance, keeping this on a professional level Ignis would approve. He’ll ascend as the 114th King of Lucis, reforming his father’s council into one of his own, one with his best friends and comrades—Ignis, Prompto, and Gladio—installed in their rightful positions.

And you, whatever it is you want to do, he’ll set you free.

No longer bound to the Andronicus and their antediluvian rules, you’re free to roam the lands after throwing a dart to the globe. Quintus will never set his hands on you, he’ll make sure of that, he’ll promise. It’s the least he can do, out of the many things you did for him.

Still, why does the thought raise an urge to retch? Jealousy, that is an ugly emotion he hasn’t felt in the years following his dad’s retreat. A primal urge to keep you with him, never with anyone else. Nobody separates you and him, nobody takes you away from him, nobody leaves him alone anymore. He hates it, hates how weak he feels when he sets his thoughts straight—but what can he do when it’s what he wants? You gave him whatever he needed no matter how meagre you had; you acknowledge his strengths and never once ridiculed him, you embraced his weaknesses and offered your shoulder instead.

He wants it all.

Wants all the time you spent on him, wants all the laughs you gave him, wants all the smiles you left him, wants your eyes fixed on him forever.

He craves you, that’s what it is.

Tossing on his mattress with a groan, Noctis rubs a hand over his clothed cock in an attempt to will it away. He’s so fucking hard since he woke up, it’s starting to hurt real bad. A damp spot’s already on the front of his sweatpants and he’s sticky all over. He needs to rub one out, that’s the best remedy to cure any stubborn erection, coming like it’ll purge him of his sins on any other day. On his bed or on the shower walls, whichever’s the closest release he can get.

Or maybe on your lips as you smile your glassy-eyed smile, his hand around your neck, painting your tongue in streaks of white.

Fuck, his cock twitches at the thought of debauching you in your whole. He’s venturing into the dangerous territory where reality blurs behind his fantasies, burning down all the bridges he’s crossed just to get to your side. His toes curl in the sheets when a hand subconsciously grabs his cock, already rutting into the callused roughness of his palm. It hurts, still dry for him to ride it out like this, but he’s too far gone to even give a shit where he’s heading even if it’s headlong into destruction.

His cockhead’s beading at the slit, angry red and peeking from the hem of his elastic, and the waft of cool air brushing over his over-sensitized skin has him biting his lip to keep it down. Fuck, he hasn’t even locked the door in case Ignis walks in, but fuck, you like littering bites on your bottom lip, don’t you? He’s learnt how you seem to chew on your lip when you’re thinking—it only makes him want to yank your mouth to his just so he’d introduce you to his teeth.

The slight slick from his precum makes things easier but not necessarily less brutal with the wild pace he’s set, thumbing at the head and smearing it all over his cock for makeshift lube. He grunts into his pillow, bangs in his eyes, that familiar coil taut and ready to burst in his belly. He’s fucked up in the head from your smile, he’s fucked up in the head for your mouth, he’s fucked up for you. There’s no turning back from being friends when he’s already shoving his cock down your throat in his foggy mind, hand holding the back of your head and letting you choke around his mouthful of cock and cum.

Oh, fuck, his hand is a poor substitute for your throat convulsing weakly around his leaking length, but he’s got nothing else than the you living in his head, making sweet little sounds like you worship his cock the same way you worship his existence. Noctis bites into his pillow with a groan when he pulls out of your messy mouth, rubbing his saliva-slick cock on your hot and wet tongue, savouring the way you wait on your knees for him to come all over you. He grits his teeth when the indulgent thought is one that shamefully tips him over the edge, snapping the tight coil in his belly and spurting warmth over his torso.

He’s done it now.

Fuck.

No turning back.

Coming down from the euphoric high of release has him panting harshly through his mouth, gulping in oxygen fast enough to replace the vacancy in his lungs. Cum cooling on his sweaty skin, fatigue settling in his muscles. The unmistakable scent intermingling with his stale bedroom air. Vision blurring, head heavy. Once he salvages the lasts of his thoughts before his illusions took over, the aftermath of his actions has Noctis reeling backwards in three parts shame and one part anger. Shame on him for succumbing to primal reactions when he defiles you into a slave of his, angry with himself for thinking about you in that way. His fingers are sticky when he stretches them to the ceiling, examining them with hooded eyes.

He knows.

He knows he’s officially gone off the rails when he first saw you sleeping without a care in the world, vulnerable, pure, weak on your white sheets.

He’s just prolonging the inevitable, isn’t he?

Swallowing the pathetic sounds he nearly makes, Noctis swipes his dirty hand clean on the sheets and twists to his side, curling up. Ridding the evidence rids him none of his guilt. The heat of his skin abates, but the throb of his heart doesn’t. Class is starting soon and he needs to pack up all his textbooks to sit through Modern Managerial for two hours and a half on an empty stomach unless he whips up some oatmeal to replace Ignis’ hearty breakfasts but all he wants to do is to call in sick and pass it off for some over-exhaustion from burning himself through a whole damn month just to cover up the fact that he jerked off to some lewd thoughts of his friend.

Scratch that. You’re not his friend. He doesn’t deserve to call himself your friend.

What kind of friend is he anyway? The shittiest, lowest kind. The kind that’d fuck your mouth with your head to the wall, that’s what. The kind that’d press his fingers over your ribs like a pianist over his keys, memorising the erotic way you shudder under him. The kind that wants to substitute your pillows just so you’d hold him instead. Exactly the shittiest, most fucked up kind of friend.

Swallowing his dry throat, Noctis tips his head on his flattened pillow and stares at the ceiling.

He needs to get his shit together, and fast.

Fast enough before he does something he can’t undo.

WEEKEND COMES WITHOUT MUCH FANFARE, putting Byron in a mood too good to be true. He hums, he bobs his head to some catchy pop tunes he Moogled on your computer, he even does a little backwards walk on the mopped marble. You find it cute that he’s jittery like he’s the one with a full weekend when you’re the one who stepped out of the shower smelling like crushed sugar, towelling your damp hair absently, ready to go out for the week.

As you plug in the hairdryer and blasted hot dry air, raking fingers through your locks to detangle knots, Byron sneaks into your room to stare at your reflection in the vanity. “You do realise this is a date, right?” he crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing. “As in, not the friendly sort of date. A date date.”

“I wouldn’t call it a date,” you retort mulishly, angling the hairdryer from the drying tips and steadily working it up the length of your hair. “We’re both going out to get Ignis his birthday present.” At Byron’s pensive staring, you find it appropriate to bolster your argument with more defense. “You’re really overthinking things, Byron. Stop that. It doesn’t matter anyway, not with the way things are.”

Given the time, Byron’s persistence rivals a cockroach; it’s no wonder the two won’t get along before Byron winds up cutting the critter into two. He all but rummages through your closet, withdrawing purchases from days earlier that are still packaged in paper bags. “But you’re alone with him. It’s a date.” He makes it a point to stare in your eyes, nodding solemnly. “Your very first date, mind you.”

Technically, it’s not your first date, is it? If you follow his judgment on the matter, this makes it your third date. With your hair sufficiently dried, you switch off the device and set it aside, dropping on the vanity’s velvet stool. “He might bring Prompto along,” you offer, carefully putting your thoughts together. “Because, y’know, the more the merrier. Prompto probably didn’t have the time to put together a present for Ignis too, since they were all chasing deadlines these past few days.”

Emotionally-challenged Byron casually cocks a brow. “Then it’s a threesome.”

You give Byron a look. “Am I going to get one of those birds and bees lecture from you again? I’m not sure I wanna relive that trauma right now.”

“Milady, you need to realise that you’re at that age where men will find you incredibly ravishing.” He sighs, introducing his palm to his forehead. You make a face at the word because who even uses ravishing at this day and age anyway? “I saw that, don’t make that face at me, young lady,” he warns, clicking his tongue. “I was once twenty, all right? I know what boys think when they see a pretty lady walking down the streets.”

“Then make me unpretty.” You shrug, sorting through your comb and clips stowed in the drawer, deciding between a bejewelled claw and a fuss-free ribbon. “That solves all issues, doesn’t it?”

Byron sighs for what seems to be the umpteenth time in ten minutes, resting his head against the cupboard like he gave up on life. Or on you. Both sounds tempting. “It’s hard to devalue a work of art like you, milady. Even if I wrap you in last season’s Dior, you are still Mona Lisa hanging in the Royal Lucis Museum.”

“And what’s wrong with last season’s Dior again?” you roll your eyes at his dramatization, combing sections through your hair and scrutinizing your reflection, wondering what’s the best way to go about looking casual but not too casual—somewhere in between? Like you’re trying to look presentable, but not trying too hard. “It’s not a date, trust me.”

“You’d be very surprised at how fast this entire thing is turning into a cliché,” he points out, shuffling through flimsy chiffons in Hermes and pairing it up with some stiff pleated skirt from LV. He recoils at his disastrous matchmaking, sets down the two items, and picks through a bagful of Comme des Garçons instead. “Girl says it’s not a date, boy thinks it’s a date, they both go out together, and somewhere along the way,” he wrinkles his nose, “girl falls for boy, they kiss by the sunset, and go home to make out. Awful cliché, don’t let your romance suffer through the same predictable path. I’d rate your movie 1.5 out of 10 if that’s the case.”

You try your very best to remember why he’s your butler again. Right, some sort of contracted family deal from ages back, probably dating all the way to Solheim. “Just—can we drop this topic? I’m just hanging out with him, we both like the same things, and I’m expected to serve under his council somewhere in the future. Don’t set us up.”

Byron examines a floral YSL piece printed in pastels, holding it up to the sunlight. “Milady, he looks at you like a constipated man finding an empty stall in the public washroom. You’re the love of his life, the one he needs, in case you don’t understand my analogy.”

You do—just that it’s probably not the best one he’s come up with. “Uh. Doesn’t sound like a compliment, but I totally appreciate the sentiment all the same. Very Byronesque, as expected.”

Byron finds it appropriate to ignore you. “Noctis does seem like an awkward young prince who has little to no experience in love, given his sheltered circumstances. He’s like you—except, he’s the prince. So it’s understandable why he latches on to you the moment you show signs of accepting him for who he is. You and him are two halves of a moon, completing one another.” He holds up a plain sundress scalloped in sheer lace, thin straps crisscrossing down the back, and nods at the satisfactory shift of your expression. Then he kneels to sift through Manolo, trying to pop some colour on his overall co-ord for the day. “He’s a classic textbook fool on falling in love—trust me, I’m a man, I know what I’m talking about.”

You open your mouth to retort—only, your mouth is dry.

His ruddy eyes dart from the strappy wedges to your brooding face in a split second, turning back to his task once more. The corners of his lips are upturned, smug. It’s an answer enough. “What about you, milady? What do you think of him?”

Your nails cut crimson crescents in your palm.

Ignis’ birthday is next week. It’ll mark a full four-month friendship with Noctis, toeing the start of a fifth month in the making.

Four months passed since he showed up demanding your name, eating through your cereal and playing through King’s Knight with a Revenant weapon. He introduced you to the personification of a chocobo who photographs loads of things as he worked through part-times in hopes of saving enough for a Lokton. His Shield, on the other hand, puts you through the wringer by adding punishing reps to your regimen, gruff voice calling you lil’ lady. And his Advisor is a piece of work amiable enough to carry a conversation, yet distant enough to remain an enigma skirting your life.

What was it like without the prince?

Listening through mother’s tracks on your computer, Debussy making itself a home in your heart. Talking to the walls, talking to the books, talking to Byron, talking to yourself in front of the mirror. Mother’s hands never left your neck, her glossy fingernails raking your skin in welts. Insomnia is your pretty glass globe and Niflheim wants to shake it in its hands, stirring snowstorms in its wake. It was cold. It was lonely. You were cold and lonely.

Then Noctis came along and you forgot what it felt like to sleep alone.

You know what it is. You always do.

“I like him.”

And Byron’s smile turns bitter. “I know.”

You like him, you know you do. How can you not like the person who defended your rights against father, who wanted you like you wanted him? You purse your lips, turning away. “But you know how we are—you know how I am. He doesn’t know anything about me, about us, about mother, about father. I can’t possibly tell him—“

“Milady, does he need to know?” he interjects, sitting on his haunches. At your wordless silence, eyes uncertain, Byron clears his throat and tries again. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m certain King Regis remains unaware of what exactly the Andronici do. We may be nobles, but we are tied deeply to the underworld. The police, the mobs, the gangs, the yakuza—they are all under the Andronicus’ thumb. If His Majesty knows what your father, your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and the rest of your ancestors had done to keep Insomnia safe, I’m sure he’ll have a hard time trying to convict Quintus of anything without crippling everything.”

He words it as though he’s putting a finger on your lips just so you won’t tell anyone who ate the last cookie.

But Byron never minces his meaning.

Taking a deep breath, you mutter, “So…you’re saying I should continue keeping this whole thing a secret until my death.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement met with Byron’s approving nod. He brings the dress and the sandals together with him, dropping them in a hapless heap by your feet. Always reverent, always your dog, he kneels with his hands resting on your knees, tipping his chin to admire you like he always does.

“Ignorance is bliss, or so they say,” he chuckles low, warm breath fanning over your cheeks. Just like this, his fingers card through your hair, tucking stray locks behind your ear, thumbing your cheekbone. Sunlight brings out the blood in his pale irises, thick lashes curtained partway. “Milady, I do want to see you happy. I truly do. But these past few months have taught me that I can’t make you happy the way he does. If your happiness lies with Noctis, so be it, I’ll continue fighting to keep the smile you learnt from him.”

Happiness is subjective.

Happiness is when you hold a brand new video game in your hands, waiting to be played. Happiness is when King’s Knight gets patched with a new update, and you’d roll over in bed as you scuffled through the stages. Happiness is when Byron drops by with a new book, babbling about his latest reading recommendation and how you should read it too. Happiness is when mother sits at the piano, her elegant fingers pressing the ivory keys to produce a hymn only the Astrals could’ve bestowed, her eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering. Happiness is when King Regis’ letter finally came, freeing you from the shackles within.

And happiness is when you are here with him.

With Noctis.

Byron’s sincerity brings tears to your eyes, but they don’t fall down your cheeks—they never do anymore, ever since you eviscerated your innards to rid your feelings. Yet, his reverence tightens your throat, seizes your voice. You choke up.

He only runs his fingers over your wet eyelashes, grazing against your unshed tears. You draw his head to your chest, scrunching your eyes shut at the feel of his cheek resting on your collarbones. Hunching over like this, all balled up with Byron by your side again, you are aware of how insignificant you are without him. On your own, you would’ve slit your wrists in the tub, letting clear waters run red, letting the Andronicus end with you.

Byron gathers you in his arms, rubbing loose circles between your shoulder blades. His words are a soothing thrum against your neck, breathing in the lush scent of soap on your skin. “In the end, we are no better than your father. We are liars. We lie to keep those around us safe. That is what the Andronici do: We lie. We kill. And we lie again.”

You know. Aren’t you always lying? Aren’t you always killing people to get what you want? Human lives are the currency in your game, and you make it a point to have as much as you can before time runs out.

This is how it goes: You will amass a mountain of bodies by the time Noctis appoints you as his military strategist, and he will never know the things he does not need to know. Insomnia thrives under his reign, while you are every death sentence signed in blood. As he goes to bed each night, you will do a routine maintenance to sweep unnecessary dusts from stirring unneeded curiosity. For every dispute raised in the council, you will have already threaded your orders through the ranks, starting from the police, to the gangsters, to the yakuza, to the mob and the men. Those crossing your path will be carefully scissored out of the picture by way of Byron or their suddencooperation out of the plea of a beloved, whichever method most convenient at the moment of need. Decoys are magnificent, what more framing those complicit to the cause; suspect a foul play, and an execution is the remedy to all.

And this is how you will maintain your ecosystem, keeping a manicured garden free from weeds and pests.

Resting your cheek against Byron’s hair, idle fingers curling his ponytail between each digit, you clear your throat, fighting to keep your voice from cracking.

“You know, when I was young, I really liked reading all those fairytale books mother bought for me,” you confess, stewing in the indulgent thoughts of mother and her boozy smile, gifting you books to make up for the world father denied. Byron makes a quiet noise at your throat, and you give a small laugh at your foolishness fifteen years ago, holding him tight. “Thought I’d be one of those princesses when I grow up, wearing dresses and tiaras for my whole life. I was so wrong. Look at me now. What kind of fairytale princess am I?”

You don’t blame Byron for huffing under his breath, probably amused at your childishness.

Then his hand rubbing your back stills, lips burning words on your skin.

“Oh milady…you’re never a fairytale princess to begin with. You’ve always been the monster.”

[tbc.]

NOTES:

Hi, are there people still reading this fic and waiting for updates?

LPC updates long overdue? DON’T WORRY I GOT YOUR BACK! WITH TWO CHAPTERS BACK TO BACK! TLDR of my current life can be read here if you’re wondering, but all woeful life shenanigans aside, woah plot. And keeping secrets are no good but we’re only starting! Slow burn! Friends to lovers! Angst! And the next chapter is a plot-filled interlude of fun dates, car rides, and a certain creepy old man!

With this, we’re finally coming to an end with the FLOWERING arc, thanks for sticking around this far! Everyone’s support and heart-warming words on Tumblr didn’t fail to keep the passion going for writing LPC, and I really appreciate everyone’s enthusiasm and consistent check-ups on the next update! Again, I’m truly sorry for the one-year break, but I hope everyone enjoyed both chapters!

We’ve made it through BLOOMING, and we also made it through FLOWERING. Now, let’s welcome the next instalment, DECAYING. And you all know what that means… ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

PREVIEW: [20] Nonchalantly picking out a petal streaked in rich pinks fading in whites, Noctis drops it into your outstretched hands. You crane your neck to reward his gift with a smile, and it’s all that he needs, really. He’s good at pretending, isn’t he? He’s been pretending he’s got his life together all these years, so he’s sure he can pretend to be your friend just a little while longer.

[21] Byron’s eyes are the colour of rust-eaten iron flaking gold over the years, corroded by the light. There is a disturbing twist to his lips. Caressing your cheek, he’s whispering go back to sleep too loudly and all you can tell him is wait byron i’m scared please stay voicelessly when your limbs don’t move and you can’t move and it’s dark, it’s too dark, but why can you see the line of his smile shifting into a smirk and—

[22] “…is it okay if you stay for the night?” you ask, the curl of your fingers tightening as if it’s a manacle chaining him where he should be.

[23] Sure, Noctis could disentangle your limbs from his and keep this memory all to himself, but he’s done lying to himself, he’s done pretending this is going nowhere when he wants it to go somewhere—anywhere, as long as it’s with you.

[24] Home. A word he lost when mom left and dad ran. A word he found in you once more when he realises his home exists in a person, not a place. Byron throws his gaze to the slice of sky above, counting the days when he’ll see you again. Home.

[25] Noctis feels his jaw grow tight at the aloofness of the answer. No, Ignis doesn’t understand at all. Ignis won’t ever understand this. How could he understand when he hasn’t suffered through a crippling loneliness only Noctis had felt? Through gritted teeth, he grinds out, “You don’t get it. I don’t want her to go too.”

[26] Noctis knows that much when Regis furrows his brows, understanding dawning in his eyes. “So we finally meet,” says Regis, exhaling the words like a laborious process, “young daughter of the Andronicus.”

[27] “And you, Highness? Will you still rally under her banner even if you know she slit her mother’s throat at sixteen?”

[28] Tossing a look over his shoulder, his eyes are alight with mischief. “Well, what’re you waiting for? For me to bathe you too? Aren’t you too old for that?"

Lord have mercy on me, because each chapter’s close to 10k words. RIP in pieces myself for having to edit through almost 80k of words. There’s a mixture of drama and so much fluff it’s so fluffy I could die from the fluff. (The fluff is just there as a distraction to hide the fact that this is DECAYING we’re talking about and there’s bound to be angst everywhere.)

Hope you guys enjoyed the updates on LPC, My Friend, Mr Noctgar, and My Little Sister ☆ Can’t Be This Cute! Looking forward to hear from everyone again; thoughts and comments are always lovely to hear!

#noctis x reader #noctis/reader #Noctis Lucis Caelum #final fantasy xv fanfic #final fantasy xv #ffxv #lazy people #fanfic #whew this chapter is so long because everything's crammed into one chapter #hope yall enjoyed the double release

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ffxv-sh1 · 7 years ago

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Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum & Reader, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Noctis Lucis Caelum/Reader Characters: Noctis Lucis Caelum, Reader, Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia, Prompto Argentum, Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, brotherhood era, Noctis never went to Tenebrae, Noctis is still in a wheelchair, Noctis never met Lunafreya, Fluff, Eventual Romance, Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Canon Disabled Character, kind of, POV Noctis Lucis Caelum, Reader-Insert, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Insomnia, Insomnia looks like Tokyo, University, References to Depression, no beta we die like men, Friendship, Noctis never met Prompto, But I like Prompto too much so I'll find a way to introduce them, Light Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Teen Romance, Teen Angst, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Teenage Drama, Noct's life if it were a Japanese Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Hurt, Smoking, Eventual Smut, Wheelchairs, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Acceptance, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm Summary:

Since Niflheim invaded Tenebrae a few months earlier in this timeline, Prince Noctis neither had the chance to meet Lunafreya nor the Oracle's powers healed his wounds after the Marilith attack.

So when you meet him on your first day at University he is a shy eighteen years old sitting in a wheelchair.

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ffxvficrec · 4 years ago

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by GhostofBeltanesPast

Your life wasn't all that bad. You were content enough. You were getting by. A poor Millennial, sure, but you had a stable relationship, a good family, and you were finally getting somewhere.

You should be bummed about dying -- and it's not that you aren't. It's more that you have bigger problems to worry about now, like the new lease on life you've been given and all the trouble that brings.

The best you can hope for now is to be happy with your found family, and maybe help fix a few of the staggering number of major issues with your new home.

Words: 298, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Final Fantasy XV

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Bahamut (Final Fantasy XV), Regis Lucis Caelum, Clarus Amicitia

Additional Tags: no betas we die like men, the isekai AU literally no one asked for, Everybody Lives, I mean that, everyone survives this time, even the ones who don't deserve it, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, Reader-Insert, Female Reader, protagonist accidentally becomes royalty and everything is troublesome

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thechocobros · 7 years ago

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“SEE LUNA SAFE TO ALTISSIA” - part 13

Pair: Nyx Ulric / Lunafreya Nox Fleuret

Words: 6630

Previously: message me :3

Plot: Luna and Nyx didn’t fell in the Empire’s trap, Nyx didn’t had to use the ring and he survived. What would have happened if Nyx really had the chance to ‘see Luna safe to Altissia’, like he promised to Regis? Here the part 13: Altissia: the final destination of their journey is in front of them. Here their fate will be decided, but before this they have some other things to settle.

Personal Comment: I beg your pardon for the horrible delay! It has been a month, I know. Sorry. I have to thank the sweet @culinarytonberry for coming to help me with the correction of this chapter, your help was quick and very appreciated!

Chapter 13 is the last ‘transition’ chapter, so starting from the next one prepare yourself for an intense escaltion of drama and action XD Right now I’m done with chapter 15 too, I just need some more time to fix all this together with my beta readers. The final is gonna be huge, I promise.Or at least, I hope. Your support is the best. I just have no words to say how thankful I am for all the nice messages I got on this fic.

For some reason, Luna and Nyx expected a completely different answer from Ravus about sending someone to accompany them to Altissia. They were ready to bet he picked some submissive and docile official, who would spy on them, keeping them under control. Yet, a surprise awaited them. The next morning, when they stepped in the hall of the palace ready to leave, only a small luggage with them, a comely woman dressed in black armor and leather trousers clicked her heels against the marble.

“Well, nice to see your ready ahead of schedule. The High Commander isn't gonna pass me an extra gil if I work more than expected, and this girl isn't known for being patient, let alone working for free. C’mon let’s get going already.” She came under the light, swainging her hips like she owned the city. Luna found herself staring at her neckline and couldn’t blame Nyx for doing the same: it was so buxom and hardly being contained by her armor, clearly she didn’t mind showing it. The woman noticed their confusion and shot them a kind, smug look. “Name’s Aranea. Well? C’mon now we don’t have all day” she mocked as she turned and cat walked toward the huge exit.

Nyx squeezed his eyes, biting his lips to hide a smile.

“Where did you brother find her?” he whispered to Luna, amused by the whole situation.

“I wish I knew” the Oracle said, she was just as perplexed as him but twice as worried. Clearly that woman was a mercenary, but wasn't it risky for the Empire to have mercenaries at its service? Until now Luna had no clue the Empire hired mercenaries, but what she did know is that her brother chose her to aid them. “Ravus said he can trust only her for these kinds of missions, so i will too.” Nyx raised an eyebrow.

“So that’s the kind of girl he likes. Didn't expect that.”

Luna blushed: “Don’t jump at those kind of conclusions in front of me!”

Nyx was ready for her shy reaction, he actually said it to tease her a bit: he couldn’t help but notice the constant frown Luna was wearing since they decided to leave. He figured stealing a smile from her would help lighten the mood. And it did. When Luna smiled, the world seemed like a better place, hope came back to the surface again. He told her that everything would be fine at least two dozens times already, but he still didn’t convince her. Nor would he because in the deep of his heart, Nyx knew that nothing was fine at all. Yes, they were together in this, but it didn’t automatically mean that everything would end well. The darkness was throwing its shadow on the whole world, leaving them to fix a mess that seemed merely impossible.

Luna turned back to watch the peculiar green mountains surrounding the spectacular palace, the majestic architecture would be greatly missed. In her mind it had become synonymous of solace. In spite of everything, it still was the only place she could call home.

“Pryna and Umbra … never came back” Luna eventually whispered, not expecting any response. Merely making a statement. The dogs she loved so much were divine messenger after all and now that she took the opposite side in the fight against the gods, it was no wonder they disappeared. She would miss them more than anything from her former life as an Oracle.

As expected, Nyx didn’t answer but simply looked away from the palace. As they left Tenebrae their hearts were heavy.

--------------

“I shall catch up with you in Altissia. The Chancellor informed me that he wants to see me there” Ravus explained as they finished their greetings. “I will not tell anyone about having met you in Tenebrae. Once you arrive in Altissia, look for lady Camelia Claustra for protection. She is the First Secretary of the Accordo Protectorate now and will help in hiding you.”

Ravus and Luna knew Camelia from their childhood, she was an acquittance of their mother, and now she was the only strategic shelter they could possibly count on. The only start point they could get, if they could get any at all.

“Have heart, my brother.”

“I am not the one who needs courage the most sister.” Lunafreya stepped ahead, daring to do something she hasn't done in ages. She hugged her brother’s neck, pulling him close like when they were children. She held him there just as she did first time they were alone after their mother’s death, scared by the unmerciful hands of the Empire that would try to destroy every hope in their hearts and in the next years. And in Ravus’ case, almost succeeded.

------------------------

The airship was provided by the Empire but Aranea was sailing it like she spent every gil of her salary to buy it. Everyone could tell she was no amateur. In spite of her edgy behavior and sensual outfit, she knew how to do her job. From the moment she entered the airship’s headquarters, she barked commands to the officials, organizing the departure with authority under the pairs watchful eyes. With that big display of leadership, it was no wonder Ravus called her for the mission.

“The High Commander told me that the Sexy Bodyguard is charged with your security, Princess, not me” she said once they took off, hands on her hips. “So as long as I take you to Altissia, you really don’t need to be here in the cabin with me. Go take a look around, make yourself at home. We gotta take the long road to get to Altissia if we want to avoid the imperial patrols, so you got plenty of time to relax before whatever it is you have to do there.”

The last sentence served as a tease. Aranea said it slowly, observing the Princess’ reaction to interpret and decipher it. Emerald eyes were watching every inch of her face intimidating and scaring the young Oracle. That woman was sharp, witty and it wouldn’t be easy to avoid her inquisitive behavior, but Luna couldn’t have other people knowing about their plans.

“Sure. Thank you, captain Aranea” she said with a short bow.

“Captain? Pft, my words to Gods, I rather die before becoming a captain for the Empire.”

Luna was surprised by her words. “Listen, I met the Prince back in Vestael recently” Aranea added, stepping forward and lowering her voice so only Nyx and Luna could hear her words. Of course this caught their attention completely. Aranea’s expression softened, her lips slowly smoothing over. “He was trying to find the materials to fix a certain ship to sail or whatever. Look, the point is that he’s trying to reach Altissia as soon as he can. So … When I heard that you were trying to go there too, his reasons of motivation and stress became pretty obvious to me.”

“Is he alright?” Luna whispered, her voice somehow cracking. She always got emotional when talking about Noctis, because the sweetest and most traumatizing memories in her life were somehow connected to him.

Aranea shrugged. “Yeah, he’s fine, maybe cause he still doesn’t know what awaits him in Altissia.”

“And you do?” Luna asked. The older woman clicked her tongue, biting her lip.

“I don’t really know the details but something's up with the Empire. I heard things I shouldn’t have and it has me pretty worried for the world, you included. I think they're planning to kill you, lady Lunafreya, but you already knew this, right? Otherwise your brother wouldn’t have insisted that you infiltrate Accordo without the Empire knowing.” Luna pressed her lips together, feeling both Aranea and Nyx staring at her.

“Fear not: once i am able to speak with Noctis we will arrange everything for the best.”

Her tone of voice caused Aranea to smile. Even if she knew nothing of the Princess’ stubbornness, she could tell she was masking her fears very well. In spite of this, her courage was admirable. The mercenary slightly bounced on her feet and turned around, catching Nyx’s eyes in the process.

“You better guard her well then, pretty boy.” Nyx really didn’t need the suggestion but nodded anyway.

“I am ready to cut any fingers daring to touch her.”

“Yeah. The High Commander told me you'd say that.” Aranea’s statement surprised him, so she elaborated: “It’s pretty obvious he doesn’t like you. But … He trusts you a lot. Don’t let him down.” Her heels echoed throughout the headquarters as she slowly made her way towards the exit.

—————

Since it was a military airship, there was no room for them to rest, unless they wanted to sleep on a pile of cannon ammunition. So they found a small window positioned in an empty corridor and sat on the iron floor under it. They wanted to see out of the window when they arrived in Altissia. Until that moment came, Luna rested her head on Nyx’s shoulder and spoke a lot.

Theirs words acting like whispers from the shadows, pieces of conversations being heard, but nevertheless they needed to talk. As expected, the subjects they chose were heavy and nostalgic, but necessary.

Luna told the Glaive about her childhood, opening up to him for the first time without hiding anything, not a single thought, not even the abuse she received from the Empire. Nyx felt his hands tremble when he heard how Glauca killed Queen Sylva and how the Empire took Lunafreya as an hostage, controlling her with beatings and blackmail. He felt the exact same anger back when the Empire killed his family and destroyed Galahd: he just wanted to kill them, payback for all the evil they had done, but in the end he was powerless. The only thing he could do was thank the Stars for at least having Luna still alive lying beside him.

Nyx listened in silence, gently caressing her delicate fingers with his callous ones. He observed the grimace on her lips when she told him about the first time she inherited the white magic of the Oracle after her mother's passing, the very first moment when she felt the mark of the Gods claiming their price on her health and how she suffocated the desire of ever being free just for the sake of the world.

“I’m sorry. You should have known all these things before” Lunafreya whispered in the end, eyes staring at the emptiness. “I was cruel in hiding them from you.”

It was true, Nyx wished he had known before but now that he heard the whole story, he started to understand why she kept all those burning memories to herself.

“I’m not angry anymore. I felt upset because I really wanted you to trust me all along but now i realize that … after everything you’ve been through … it must still hurt, right?” Luna thought about it.

“Sometimes it does.”

It did. It always did, but she wasn’t able to admit it, not even now.

Nyx noticed, but let it pass. Maybe the scars on her stomach were more evident, but the scars on her heart burned the worst. There was nothing he could do but forgive her if this was what caused her to lie to him in the past.

When Altissia appeared under the airship, it was a spark of warm lights surrounded by dark waters. The Princess and the Glaive both swallowed and tightened the grip of their hands, like staying together was the only weapon they had to face it all.

“The final destination of our journey” she whispered. Luna knew that in Altissia the Empire would try to kill her, as they saw her white magic as both an obstacle and threat.

She knew that the Darkness was one step away from overwhelming the Light, she also knew that what she had done to Shiva and what she was planning to do to the rest of the Astrals would only further complicated things. There was no way of escaping this all. So, she tightened her jaw and together with her Glaive prepared to land.

———–

The nights were always warm in Altissia, which at least soothed their ached spirits a bit.

Aranea directed the landing very well and was now walking ahead in a clandestine airport situated at the borders of the city. Luna and Nyx didn’t have another choice but to follow her along the runway. As they walk down the strip, they used this time to watch, mouth agape, the city around them. The buildings were all white, growing directly off the ocean, popping up like mushrooms from the ground, all filled with harmonious architecture and colorful banners. The night sky was shiny and full of stars, yet it was almost covered by the orange and yellow lights of the buildings glowing on the water setting the atmosphere on fire. Flowers on balconies, gracious gondolas waving in the channels, docks filled with suggestive restaurants and elegant people moving around: even from a distance Nyx and Luna swore it was the most romantic city they have ever seen, so it was no wonder why Regis chose this idyllic place as the perfect location for Noctis and Luna’s secret wedding.

“Not here for the view, sweethearts” Aranea teased as she bumped into them, escorting them down the building in silence.

Within ten minutes they managed to sneak into a small palace, entering from the back and straight into a room, all undetected. It was a luxurious chamber, with red curtains and big crystal chandeliers. “The first Secretary will meet with you in her offices tomorrow morning, so for now you'll rest here.”

“Where are we?”

“It’s the suite of the main hotel. Is it enough for Your Highness?” Aranea asked crossing her arms, smiling. “Your big brother wanted to make sure you were treated like the Princess you are.” She shot Nyx a smirk, pointing towards another door. “And … he insisted I lock you in the other room.” Nyx snorted but didn’t comment.

“What are you to do in the meantime?” Luna asked, taking a look around. She liked the smell of the flowers in the vases and the view from the balcony. After the suite in Galdin Quay, she never had such a beautiful arrangement for the night.

“Me? Oh, my job is finished. I’m gonna go enjoy my free time in Altissia, maybe visit the famous coliseum. You two … Don’t leave your rooms, understood?”

As Aranea reached the exit she blinked at them one last time with playful eyes before getting out. She didn’t believe for a second they would listen to any of her orders. And she was fine with it.

——————

As soon as Aranea left them alone, Luna decided to take a shower while Nyx served himself an Ebony from the mini fridge. To distract himself from the idea that she was naked in the bathroom, he decided to take a look around, searching the perimeter in case of danger until she came out, refreshed, sporting a short white dress.

“So Princess … You should have some rest now, I should watch over you to make sure the Empire doesn't find out about your presence in the city …” She nodded, blinking out to the night sky.

“Yes, I should.”

“Or …” Nyx smirked, hands clasped behind him, slowly drawing closer. “Or we can do something else.”

She turned around quickly, embarrassment filling her face.

“Nyx, i don’t feel like …”

“No, I didn’t mean that.” Nyx was amused by her reaction, but felt the duty to add quickly, eyebrows raised: “I just don’t think you want to stay in the golden cage of a hotel room for much longer, when a whole city is waiting for us.”

Lunafreya’s expression suddenly changed, from shy to lighthearted.

“Oh?… Is my bodyguard suggesting we go on an adventure out into the dangers of the night? In a foreign city?” Nyx offered his hand and just shrugged.

“You can put the foulard on to hide your identity again. Don't worry I’m not gonna take my eyes off you.”

“I’m counting on it” Lunafreya answered, taking his hand with pleasure.

——————

They were already hungry before they arrived, but once they used the back door to leave the hotel they both got engulfed by the smell of various types of food, which made them even hungrier. Luna surprised the Glaive by taking his hand and dragging him towards a gondola, that took them to the closest restaurant. They enjoyed the night breeze and chatted a bit, until they arrived at a place called Maaghoo, where they had a very expensive but delicious dinner seated by the water. Eating together felt different now that their feelings were spoken out loud: it was funnier, more romantic.

It felt like their first official date.

Considering the crucial moments they were about to face, they wondered if it was ok to enjoy such a peaceful taste of happiness. They almost felt guilty for falling in love when the world around them was about to fall apart.

Yet, this didn't stop them. A man named Weskham served them with a smile on his face which mirrored theirs. After the dinner, they had a stroll near the shops, crossing bridges that lead to squares prepared for parties. All around them small fire lights were glowing on their faces as they admired the fascinating buildings, paintings, and marvellous statues. There was no Princess and no Glaive on the street that night. With no duty or responsibility, they were just two people enjoying each other’s company, both having forgot what awaited them tomorrow. When they decided to head back to the hotel room, they both felt a little bit lighter.

Nyx entered the gondola first putting his hands on the Princess’ hips helping her in. They sat next to each other, thighs touching, she was too distracted by the romantic view of the lagoon to pay attention to his inquisitive eyes. He stayed in silence for a while, blind to everything else but her.

“What are you thinking?” He mused, rubbing his thumb on her rosy cheek.

“It’s nothing.”

“Not true. I know you by now. You ain’t got those starry eyes for nothing.” Luna bit her lip and shook her head.

“It’s nothing, really. You would make fun of me.” Nyx frowned at the offense and pretended to get sulky.

“When did I ever make fun of you because of your thoughts?” Luna smiled nervously and raised her eyebrows.

“Right, but … You would misunderstand this.” Nyx got even closer, his arm pressing her to his side. He knew just how to invade her personal space.

“You make me worry, Princess. You are the one who teased me into conversation when i was on guard duty during the treaty ceremony. You’re the one who jumped from a flying airship and escaped in a fast car without having a license. … You set your standards of 'bad ideas' pretty high. How could your thoughts be worse than that?” His voice was playful but he made a point and it makes Luna giggle. She placed her hand on his chest.

“Nyx, really … I … was just …” She tried to gain her composure back. “It’s about…” Nyx raised his eyebrows to encourage her to speak.

“I’m all ears.” Luna sighed and pointed at something in the distance, a single building among all the white and beautiful ones that contrasted with the darkness of the night.

“The cathedral over there. I am guess it is where my wedding should have took place.”

Nyx’s smile died and Luna - who was staring at him - noticed immediately. “Now, I expected that look!” she protested trying to get some distance but he didn’t let her.

“No, no.” Taking her hands in his, he hooked her with his penetrating blue eyes and said: “Go on, tell me.” Luna shook her head but decided to explain.

“I was just thinking about how quick life could change. Until some months ago, my only wish was to marry Noctis. I knew he was almost a stranger to me yet, i had no real interest in anything else but the wedding itself, because i wanted to … I suppose ... I wanted at least a single happy day in my life. To be loved as a wife, to have been able to receive some kind of affection. But at the same time I knew deep in my heart this would never happened. And now I am here where all this should have taken place but on the opposite side. I stand at the front lines of battle, risking everything because I chose to rebel against the gods I swore to die for … And all this … with you.” She smiled, not having the courage to look him straight in the eye. “I feel so good here where I am. I’m probably gonna die anyway, but I’m strangely proud of the way things went and even more proud of what we are about to do soon.”

Nyx admired the lights of the distant city reflecting of her cheeks, the mystic glow in her blue eye. He hated the possibility of being parted by such a beautiful creature and realized he could have easily never met her if Drautos would have picked another driver that morning in Insomnia. This thought alone broke his heart because she was his everything now, his mission, his purpose, his death, and his life. He adored her like he never thought he would just some months before and he knew this would have never changed. He had always been like this after all, his loyalty tended to be stubborn: once he cared for something, he never was able to let go.

“Seeing you proud of yourself is …” he smiled, gently throwing his fingers in her hair under the foulard. Her perfume enveloping every single fiber of his body. “Exciting.”

“Not really the adjective i anticipated.” Luna cupped his cheeks, kissing his lower lip.

“What adjective do you prefer?”

“Something more romantic maybe?” Nyx pretended to be hurt, his grimaces were awkwardly funny.

“I'm not very good with romantic words, but you have me on my knees. I would do anything to make you happy.” He deepened the kiss catching her off guard, trapping her smile between his lips.

“Anything, really?” she moaned. “For example?” Nyx shrugged.

“Jumping after you from another flying airship without my magic, killing a couple of other deities, proposing to you right now …” He said that nonchalantly, but Luna interrupted the kiss flinching back a bit to look him in the eyes, brows furrowed. Nyx didn’t understand why she stopped, so he passed his thumb on her cheek and adjusted her hair. “Did I say something wrong?” Luna squeezed her eyes. No, he didn’t. Or maybe yes he did? Her knees started to tremble, her heart racing, beating uncontrollably. He was only kidding around, but the word “proposal” falling from his lips literally turned her into a melting mess. To hide her flustering, she shook her head and slipped closer, putting her arms around his strong neck.

“No” she whispered, letting herself be consumed by all these feeling at once: the safe warmth of the Glaive’s embrace, the smell of the sea, the cradle of the gondola on the water, the unrepeatable moment where everything was perfect. It was what she always dreamed of when her dreams were just wishes that never would come true.

-----------------

Nyx opened the door to Luna’s room looking at her uncertain expression as they stepped in. They were hand in hand completely lost in each other’s eyes. As they turn on the lights a cold voice froze them both in place:

“You were told to stay in your room for your own safety, Lady Lunafreya.” A middle aged woman was sitting on the red couch in the center of the room, a dark skinned skin man standing beside her. Their eyes widen in surprise as the man looked familiar, it was Weskham, the server from Maagho.

“And I did not know i was put under surveillance either, Lady Camelia” she vocalized, gesturing towards the older man.

“Weskham is an old friend of King Regis, the same way your mother and I were. We both only wish for your good.”

Nyx let the Princess’ hand go but it was too late for Weskham to not notice. He observed them earlier at the restaurant anyway so he kind of figured out what was going on. But he decided to shut up and smirk he was a man of manners, after all. Lunafreya stepped ahead, hands joined in front of her. She bowed but quickly stood up again.

“It is my pleasure to see you well and in shape after all these years, lady Camelia.”

“Years have passed indeed, but me being well and in shape is a mere appearance i fear. These years of wars and political tensions have signed my soul, but i have not come here to annoy you with my problems. I simply wanted to make sure you are safe and well before the meeting settled for tomorrow morning.”

“I will be present.”

“You do not have much choice, Princess. Crucial themes need to be touched. I fear what the morning will bring.” Luna frowned, she knew she should have not expected rose news. Camelia stood up with an elegant wave of her hips which in other circumstances, Nyx would have considered ridiculous. She sighed and look at them both before saying with a motherly tone: “Try to behave like the Queen Oracle you appear to be.”

What Camelia didn’t know was that Luna’s real journey had begun when she realized that she was simply not that, a Queen Oracle. Nyx looked at Luna with some apprehension but she seemed to have understood and assimilated to the concept by now.

“I shall appear only as what i truly am.” Camelia narrowed her eyes but smiled nonetheless.

“Have some rest then … Queen.”

----------------

The following morning was proving to be very complicated for Luna. She found it rather difficult to convince Nyx that Camelia was still on Luna’s side, and not just another mere trinket in the hands of the Empire. He grunted when Altissian soldiers came in to escort the Oracle to the first Secretary, considering it too dangerous to simply follow them without any hesitation.

"Nyx, you'll see that lady Camelia is not the enemy."

"I just don't trust politicians."

"Well, you surely seem to like kissing them though." Nyx snorted and shook his head, biting his lower lip as he looked her deep in the eyes.

"Only one. A stupid exception i decided to make for reasons still beyond my control."

In spite of how much they joked about Camelia being shady, they didn’t have much of a choice but to go pay her a visit. The evening before had been a dream, a irreplaceable golden moment they selfishly stole for themselves. But in reality there was a diplomatic dance to execute, where taking the wrong step could leave them strongly disadvantaged in their final battles, and possibly compromise the future of the world.

Lucky enough, Lunafreya was at ease. She had spent years as a Princess hostage and when she officially became Oracle, she had to learn how to deal with bureaucracy and officialisms. Nyx was allowed to hate politics, but for her, it was the only speciality that really kept her alive through the years.

Luna entered Camelia’s office, every single nerve of her body tensed in pain. The first Secretary was beyond the desk, hands joined on the cold wood, a determined fire in her eyes. She had an advantage on them, because she was the leader of Accordo, she could count on a consistent amount of decisional power since they were simple guests in her territory. Even if Camelia’s role was constantly supervised by the Empire itself, nothing would have stopped her from ruining everything Lunafreya and Nyx were planning, if she really wanted to.

Thanks the Stars, Camelia didn’t ask Nyx to leave, otherwise Luna would have strongly objected, creating useless drama. They got straight to the point.

“I am honored to receive the precious Oracle of Eos in Altissia, yet you must understand that your arrival could possibly mean trouble for the delicate balance we have reached with the Empire. I require to know your plans here, but before that, there’s something i want to show you.”

Nyx was diligently positioned two steps behind Luna, who was on a red carpet in the center of the room. Both of them involuntary took one step ahead at Camelia’s words. Camelia took a thin notebook out of the drawer of her desk, one that Luna recognized immediately.

“It’s that ... that diary, how d- …?” she whispered in surprise, heart quickly gripped by a wicked foreboding. Something was not right.

"So, it was yours as I suspected."

Luna's breath increased as she inquired: “Where is Noctis? Is he alright?”

“I cannot answer this being that I have never met him. I did not even know the Prince was connected to this notebook until now.”

“Why do you have it then?” Camelia stood up, giving the precious diary to the Princess.

“It appeared on my desk this morning, right before your arrival. I thought it better to talk about it immediately, even before discussing more pressing matters.”

“And have you read it?”

“No. I didn’t have the time.” Luna took it with shaky hands and swallowed.

“Umbra had it. I sent a message to Noctis some weeks ago but never received an answer.”

Quickly she opened it to the last page to see if Noctis wrote something in return and found a message right there where she expected. She frowned immediately, sensing strange vibes coming from it. The calligraphy was the same she was used to. Noctis used to write terribly since he was 8 and his penmanship hadn't improved much since then. His laziness and waywardness were the reasons behind his short and shy messages, so when Luna saw a whole page thickly covered with words, she stared at it, mouth open in disbelief.

“My dearest Luna, I am looking forward to seeing you in Altissia, where we finally are going to be wed. Your help in forging the covenants has been determinant. However, it’s been a couple of days since i felt something different in the Astrals helping me during my journey. I didn’t say anything to my friends but i think they noticed it too. I don’t feel safe summoning the Gods anymore, so i try to avoid it. I feel their rage bursting, like they retrieved their blessing. If it is so, it would mean that something happened to you and this would destroy me, I can’t afford losing you too. Furthermore, I can’t shake off the sensation of being followed. It could be the Empire’s Chancellor Ardyn Izunia, he is everywhere i go, pretending to help me out when he surely is aiming at something else. The Empire is capable of cruel things, Luna, and I suspect they know your exact position. Please, use caution: if they didn’t get you already, they will soon. Things bigger than us are moving beyond the curtains. I fear that you, me, and all the people helping us, are in danger. I hope to hear news from you, -Noctis. ”

Luna detected what was wrong on that paper at first words glance. Her lungs just stopped breathing and the glow in her eyes almost turned into tears. Her thin fingers closed the diary with a faded thump.

She bowed and stayed in that position, pleading: “Prince Noctis just informed me he is alive and well. The notebook was our way of communicating all these years, I’m glad to have it again thanks to you. What I ask of you with my presence here today is to grant me and my guardian temporary asylum, until the arrival of Noctis in Altissia, which is soon to happen. Being the King he found himself to be at such a young age, he will inform you of both of our plans.”

Camelia studied her for one minute but Luna had chosen to stay bowed for a specific reason: she didn’t want to give away what she just read in the diary.

Nyx understood from her weird behavior that something was off but he didn’t say anything to avoid compromising Camelia’s reaction. He didn't want to be the reason the political meeting would have to be cut short. Instead he chose to close his fists, forcing himself to keep calm and trust Lunafreya. He was curios to know what she had read in the notebook yet he swallowed, returning to behave like the elite soldier of the Kingsglaive he was.

The first Minister accepted to offer them protection for awhile but she imposed one single condition to Luna and Nyx: to not exit their rooms, as to not let anyone know about their presence within the city. Of course, heavily implying that what she really meant to say was the two no longer could have romantic outings on the gondola under the moonlight.

After discussing further topics and concerns, Camelia dismissed them. Both Luna and Nyx tried to keep calm as they were leaving the office but really wanted to run out like the whole palace was on fire. An escort was following them closer behind, but they couldn’t wait to arrive in their room to discuss the morning's events.

“What the hell was written in the diary? Why was it found on the first Minister’s desk? I think it’s very suspicious and —”

“Of course it was. And he knew it.”

“He? You mean the Prince?”

“No.” Luna gave the diary to Nyx and he quickly opened it to the last page. While he was reading he kept moving forward, frowning his forehead in confusion. “Do you really think that he would choose to express his deepest fears in a diary that he used to write no more than three brief sentence in?” Once she saw he finished reading the page she simply stated: “No, the one who wrote that page was not Noctis. This I am sure of.”

“If not him, who?” Luna closed her eyes, trying to stop the flow of thoughts in her mind and tried to be reasonable. Her attempt was at best, a failure as she was almost crying when she uttered:

“The Usurper. It’s him. He revealed his identity through this message: he wanted us to know that he knows where we are, what we did, what we are going to do. Somehow he stole the diary from Umbra. There is no other reason as to why he could have it. Oh, for the love of ... I just hope ... Umbra and Pryna are fine ...”

Nyx delicately placed a hand on her back, looking for her eyes even if they didn’t stop searching for a second. Only through them he would understand her true feelings. They reached the external gate of the Palace and finally boarded the gondola whom would take them to their hotel room.

Once they were aboard, he looked around to see if someone was listening and then whispered in her ear: “Who’s the Usurper?”

The original Cosmology was often forgot and weird legends and traditions took its place instead, so it was no surprise that Nyx didn’t know anything about what happened thousand of years ago. Luna explained how a Savior turned into a Renegade, how that man became the incarnation of impurity and darkness, and how he decided to take revenge on the Kings who banished him. Nyx waited to be in the hotel room to ask his next question.

“Why do you think he’s the one writing on the page in the diary?” Luna’s steps were frenetic but she halted abruptly, stopping in front of the huge mirror, watching her reflection in it. Her face resembling that of a helpless deer and she didn’t like it one bit. She wanted to be strong in moments like these, she needed to be strong. She couldn’t afford to be weak in front of the Usurper, or he would easily destroy her and her last hopes of saving Eos.

“Only a sinister creature such as him could threaten me using the diary Noctis and I shared” she said graciously falling on the couch, her beautiful white dress contrasting against the red material of the furniture. Again, her voice sounded terrified further disgusting her. Quickly she pressed her fingers to her forehead massaging her temples in hopes of easing the stress away to no avail.

Nyx’s heart ached seeing her like that. “You think it’s the Chancellor of Nifelheim, that Ardyn Izunia, don’t you?”

“He specifically named himself in the message. He did it on purpose. He wanted us to understand who he actually is so we would panicked, paralyzed by the fear of losing everyone who’s is near to us by his hand” Luna’s breath was barely a whisper. "We have to tell Ravus! He said the Chancellor wanted to meet him and ---!"

"Princess, calm down."

“He’s so cruel … and megalomaniac!” Nyx stepped ahead, getting closer to her. He reached for the hands on her temples and replaced them with his, massaging her soft skin.

“You handed me the Trident to kill the Glacian and now you’re scared of this jester?” Luna let herself feel cuddled under his touch.

“You are right. I am sorry.” There was no sarcasm in her tone, only a sense of fatigue and shame. Nyx took a deep breath and kneeled in front of her to be at her level. His eyes were filled with sincerity, glowing as he said: “Lunafreya, you’re the strongest, wittiest, kindest, most elegant,… and most determined woman I have ever met and I know it very well. I had the chance to familiarize myself with you and I feel so lucky because everyone else out there thinks you’re nothing but a mere device, a puppet whose destiny can be used for their own profit.” He smiled, warmth and gentleness being spilled straight from his lips. “After years of submission, show those shady gods, the dethroned kings, and cruel Empire … who you really are. That's what you said you would do, right?” Nyx wasn’t the type to give open hearted praises so if he decided to step that far and say it out loud it meant the situation really required it, and that he really was sure of. Luna took his hands in hers, gazing at the small imperfections on his face which made him somehow perfect. She felt her fears melting away, that pleasant sensation bringing along a foolish thought that she had to stand up to hide her burning red cheeks. “What now? Was I too cheesy?” Nyx asked, smirking smugly as always.

Luna indulged on her thoughts, gaining back determination mixed with a considerable amount of desperation.

“Nyx, I have a request …” she started, turning around swallowing hard.

"Sure thing princess, anything." Nyx blurted out that promise like it was natural. Maybe it was. He would have done anything to make her happy.

She closed balled her fists taking a deep breath, she thought she knew exactly what his reaction would be once she said her request. However, she was on the edge of her mental stability and dared to say what she wouldn’t have dared to only imagine a couple of weeks before.

“… We should get married.”

#lunyx #lunafreya nox fleuret #nyx ulric #final fantasy xv #kingsglaive #see luna safe to altissia #obina writes and this is weird

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sh1k4r1 · 7 years ago

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Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Reader, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Prompto Argentum/Cindy Aurum, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Reader Characters: Noctis Lucis Caelum, Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum, Gladiolus Amicitia, Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII, Ardyn Izunia, Reader, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Ravus Nox Fleuret, Cindy Aurum Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Romance, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon Era, Hacking, Forbidden Love, Friendship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Duty, no beta we die like men, Spoilers, if you read this you probably played the game so no spoilers, Mild Language, References to Depression, Slow Burn Summary:

Plans for the trip to Noctis' wedding in Altissia changed many times:

Noctis was to travel alone bad Omen

Noctis was to travel with his friends and Crownsguard Cor Leonis Square Enix didn't have the money for that

Noctis was to travel with his friends

What if an alleged Security Specialist was set to escort him and his friends in the end?

#ffxv #ff15 #final fantasy xv #final fantasy 15 #final fantasy #noctis lucis caelum #prince noctis #noctis x reader #ignis scientia #prompto argentum #gladiolus amicitia #reader #ffxv fic #ignis x noctis #prompto x reader #gladio x reader

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andywinter16 · 2 years ago

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Okay okay okay hear me out, luche, Nyx, and drautos having to saying goodbye to their lover because things are getting too dangerous or an even more heartbreaking scenario…. Saying goodbye because their love is dying from a terrible injury!

OMG! You want to make me cry, don´t ya? .... I absolutely know what you mean, let me get to it! It will be mix of both kind of, I just need to decided who I want to break with what plot. ... I hope you have a tissues, anonie?

Okay, gn!reader as always :)

WARNING!!! Lots of angst, mentioned death, betrayel, injury, fatal illness, kinda toxic relationship

If anything of the things mentioned above triggers you, do not read it , please!

Luche Lazarus:

"Luche, you´re alive!" you run into his arms at full speed, both of you fell hard on the floor. He seemed genuinely suprised, until his eyebrows knitted together and his lips were pursued just in thin line. You knew what this gesture meant. Displeased.

"What are you doing here!? I send you investigate to Leide. Fuck, this can´t be really happening." he pushed you away from him, making space between you two. You didn´t understand it at all. "Luche, I came back, because I discovered that some of our comrades want to betray Insomnia. So listen to me!" the distress in your voice was palpable.

Luche abruptly stood up. His usually soft features are now graced with sorrowful look . " It´s true, Y/N. Most of us betrayed the king." your jaw dropped. You shook your head in disbelief at that revelation. Luche wouldn't do this, he wasn't like that. Yet you knew him perhaps too well. Luche as any other refugee was despised by Insomnians, and no matter how many people they saved or how many battles they won in the king´s name, Insomnians never accepted them among themselves. Many times you have defended them against rude Insomnians with their snark remarks. But you were just one kind spirit among many assholes. Luche´s intesive stare locked you in place.

" I didn´t wanted you to be caught in this crossfire Y/N. That´s why I send you away on that mission. " he smiled ruefully at you, " But you and your unsatisfied curiosity, always causing trouble." You struggled to get up, it felt like a bad dream that came from the worst nightmare. It's like your mind stopped working, only thing that spinned your mind was betrayl. Luche continued to speak in his soothing voice, giving you a false hope.

" Hide somewhere away from Insomnia, and I will find you Y/N. You´re after all too precious for me to lost." He pulls his gun out, pointing it straight at you. Stunned. Confused. You just stood here frozen in place. Until you finally found the strength to answer him.

" Please, Luche. Stop this madness, this isn´t you! Come with me, we can hide together before the Empire!" you pleaded. He was tempted, but abandoning his cause and be runaway with you, still at cost turning his back toward his people and home? Luche knew it woudn´t go smoothly with you. " It´s too late Y/N. I made up my mind long time ago."

" I am not doing that! Come with me." Luche shakes his head, the gun was still pointed at you. If It can't be the easy way, then you can do it the hard way. " Luche!" you lunged to grab him by the arm in which he holds the gun.

" Go away Y/N!" the trigger was pulled and the bullet bit into your shoulder. Pained scream leaved your lips. It's like time has stopped all of a sudden. You started slowly backing away from him. This is not the Luche you knew and loved. Before you was a cold-blooded man capable of doing anything to succeed in his plan. Tears streamed down your face like a river. Fear possessed you, you heard yourself spoke but it felt like it weren´t your words or even your body.

"You´re not the man that I once loved. You´re just a fucking cruel monster! I wish I would never met you " you throw at him the last thing of your searing bond, the unspoked goodbye. Turning your back at him, you ran as far as possible to safety . Adrenaline coursed through your veins. Even though the injury awfully throbbed, you wanted to be away from such heartless man.

You didn´t turn your back to see those shivering hands which picked your engagement ring. Or how his face was twisted in stabbing pain and cheeks were wet from tears. In that moment you took Luche´s heart with you, and he knew he would never be whole again. Luche became an empty shell, a broken shadow of his formel self.

Nyx Ulric:

Nyx rushes from HQ to the hospital as fast as he could, when he heard the bad news from your doctor. He was so worried for you, yet pissed at why you didn´t told him about your health problem. You dated for five years for Astral´s sake! The recepcionist welcomed him and asked what he needed. " I need to know the room of Y/N S/N. I am their partner, Nyx Ulric." said hastily. She typed something in her to small computer. "It´s room 237 on the six floor, sir." answered the kind woman behind the counter. Nyx went straight to the elevator. Oh, how he hated hospitals.

Finally after some searching, he´s got in to your room. Which was so sterile and white, ugh! Nyx internally cringed. Next to the window was your bed. You were hooked to some beeping machines, your lower half covered in blanket. When your gazes met across a room, a weak smile barely made it on your lips.

" Why didn´t you tell me!?" his outburst suprised you, but it was not unexpected. "Nyx, I don´t want you to see me like that." suddenly your hands looked more interesting that this conversation, "You had already so much on your plate with the Kingsglaive. I didn´t wanted you to be worried for me too." Nyx frowned. " Are you kidding me? Is that why you were distant these few months?! I could have been there for you, by your side. Together we could have endure it. But it seems to me, you chose for both of us." you didn´t miss the bitter tone in his voice. With all your might in your body left, you sharply answered. "If somebody wasn´t always holed in his work or on party with their friends and flirting with everybody there. And then avoiding me like a plague! That is the reason I didn´t tell you, I am not sure I can´t trust anymore." you looked him deeply into eyes at your last sentence. That was the last straw for Nyx. After everything you´ve been through. The anger took better of him.

" Fine! You want it that way, then so be it! I am leaving you, if you can´t trust me enough Y/N! It´´s over, I hope you´re happy!" Nyx stormed off your room, slamming the door shut. " Nyx, wait!" you yelled after him in vain, tears threatened to spill. The pain in your chest intensified, you couldn´t breathe.

The anger made him see bloody red. Nyx slumps to the ground, his palm was balled into a fist, it drawed a blood. He felt so miserable and helpless, just like when Selene died. Nyx lost her and then he´s supposed to lost you too?! He couldn´t stop crying even if he wanted. It was too much.

Libertus found him a hours later, on the same spot where Nyx dropped. He had an absent look on his face, usually his stormy blue eyes full of energy were now hollow and puffy. His chin rested on his knees, which he hugged losely to his chest. Nyx looked so defeated, just like when his sister died. Libertus heart broke with grief, at the condition of his almost brother when Nyx uttered his way a single line.

" They´re gone, Libertus."

Titus Drautos:

The blown thrown him harshly at the remnants of concrete wall. Nyx reflexes were too slow from exhaustion, so when his head hit the wall Nyx vision went instantly black. Glauca saw his body slide to the ground, unmoving. Cautiously he went closer to finish his enemy off, while Nyx was still unconscious. Glauca yanked him roughly by his hair, maneuvering him into a semi-sitting position, preparing him for an execution. He let the sword rest on his shoulder, in pose of final victory.

" I commend you for standing by your word, Ulric. But this fight comes to an end."He raised his sword in a final strike. Glauca´s voice sounded somehow strained through his helmet. " Goodbye, Nyx Ulric."

" ARGHH!" a kukri was tossed precisely at Glauca´s head. He at last second ducked and rolled from the way, leaving poor Nyx abandoned on the ground. Glauca quickly scrambled to his feet, eyes frantically searching surounded area for the attacker. His mind quickly analyzed the situation. The kukri came from the right side of that debris. The attacker´s probably light on their feet, so someone from glaives was probably still alive. A shadow flashed in the right corner of his eye. There! So the attack comes from ... A figure dressed in glaive´s battle armor emerged from shadows on his left. Guided by his honned reflexes, he stabbed without remorse. But it was too late when his brain registred who did he stabbed. Y/N fell down on their knees, blood gushed from the stab wound like a waterfall. Glauca horiffied by his own action, took down the helmet. And in his place was Titus Drautos, the trusted captain of the glaives and your lover. He was the traitor, you were looking for among your ranks.

"Titus ... Why?" you tiredly managed to say. The blood loss started to take a heavy tool on your body. Breathing became raspy and beads of sweat were forming on your forehead.

" NO, NO no! Don´t talk Y/N, fuck! I need you to preserve your strenght, okay!" he tried to steady himself to appear calm. Shit, he didn´t have a flask of healing potion on him. Titus managed to apply the first aid, in a vain attempt to keep you alive. He saw too much wounds to knew the outcome, but he will try to do his damn best.

"You´re idiot, you know that? I'd hit you for that kind of stupidity...." You briefly paused. The strength in your body was rapidly dwindling." I would have followed you through a hell, if you asked me." The cold began to spread across your whole body. Titus gave a disheartening smile. " I know you would, love. But this was too much even for you. I had to bear it alone." He squeezed your hand soothingly. You could feel the inevitable coming, yet you weren´t ready to say goodbye.

" I love you, my silly captain ..." was the last thing you said, when Lady Etros took you in her land.

"No, stay with me Y/N! Fuck! Precious, don´t do this to me!" Your eyes became glassy and lifeless, when you took your last breath. Meanwhile Nyx has shaken himself out of the injury, rage boiled in his veins at the sight of your corpse. Titus touched affectionately your cheek, while teary - eyed he whispered his last goodbye.

"I will meet with you on the other side, dearest."

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andywinter16 · 2 years ago

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For Heart and Home the lion roar (Chapter one)

You know, when you die, you would probably expect nothingness, light in the darkness, heaven, hell or whatever is out there as form of afterlife. I definitively didn´t imagine that I would be met with some gigant in full armor that looks like a godforsaken dragon. Even though its impressive, not gonna lie there. But it still is terrifying, definitively not petting material.

"Soul of Shattered World, I have chosen you to serve our purpose." WHAT? Wait a minu- "You shall be the beast that guards the Chosen king and his life, the shadow that destroyes his enemies, the bringer of light to starscurged land. If you fail at your task the endless torture awaits you, soul. That is my will as mighty ruler Bahamut, one of the Six. Protector of Eos. Sovereign of Eikons." menacing aura surrounded me. Did any of those titles make any sense to me? No, not at all. I had so many questions that I needed answers for. Oh crap! My soul started burning up, if it was even possible I would be screaming like a banshee. The energy started dissolving into darkness. Fuck, how to stop it, how to stop this, panic overtaken me. Yet sweet voice spoke gently to my disappearing form, it felt like a warm breezy through spring day. " You will not be alone little one, my child will help you through your journey. Be warned, it will be difficult one without any mercy. " That was the last thing I heard when flames consumed me whole.

“Ouch, that hurt like a bitch. Wait, what the?!” I've never felt more confused than I did now. I was back in my old human body. “That is fucking great, I would like to send a complaint, that I didn't want this whatever this all is ...”

“She believes that this soul doesn´t have much of choice in this matter.” said lovely voice. I turned around so fast, that my head was little dizzy. On the hill where I was standing, a blue-white fairy was floating, snowflakes were flying around her like a veil. I may be little biased but she was absolutely gorgeous being. I stared at her in astonishment until I started to get embarrassed to stand there in silence. "What do you mean, why did you choose me of all people. This doesn´t make any sense to me! I took that path wilingly ...” I admit that I was little harsher to her than I wanted to, but everything was ... so wrong. The fairy sat down on the ground, snow covered the place where she standed. " Otheral, let her introduce, this one´s name is Shiva, messenger of gods and goddess of ice. She shall be your guide through the mother, to insure soul understands her role in this plan.” What? Okay, now I felt overwhelmed, I am speaking with real godness. People in my realm would go fucking crazy If they saw her.

“ And who is this mother you spoke of? That was the voice I heard in the darkness, correct?” I managed to say. I am still not sure what exatly they want from me, apart being some beast who protect some king. Do they mean it literal or just matter of speech?

“ Otheral is truly correct, it was mother´s voice who spoke to them. One shall call her Etro, the death incarnation and former protector of this world.”

Former protector? Don´t tell me this is some political bullshit my ass got into.

“ Otheral shall follow this one, we have a long way ahead of us. As a protector of a chosen king, she will need all the help and experience she can get on her journey.” I don´t like the sound of that. Not. at. all.

#For heart and home the lion roar #fic #first few chapters are so fucking slow #etro goddess #Eos #shiva ffxv #tired millenial isekaied into another world to fix the shit up #Please write me your opinions #I like to get critique what to get better at #No beta readers we die like Regis

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andywinter16 · 2 years ago

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Touch starved glaives with S/O HC part 1

This man is so hard to crack! He will never ever tell you, that he needs your touch. You will need to iniciate it with him first(cuz he´s thinking he doesn´t deserve love and is only killing machine destined to die alone ... WRONG!!! Smooch that beautiful face!) You can definitively tell something is wrong, when his sight lingers on you MUCH longer. That he´s even more tense and snappy at his glaives.

Get him somewhere private without interuption, usually his office will do. (glaives knows better to stay away when he´s in this kind of mood or just bribe Luche with chocolate) Sit on his goddamn lap! Run your hands through his short hair and scratch his scalp. Kiss his forehead, nose, cheek anywhere you can reach. His reaction is the most wholesome thing ever! From utter disbelieve to utmost pleasure. He will close his eyes and lean into your touch like a cat. Hums in appreciation! This will lead to him bringing you on his couch, where you cuddle and listens to his heartbeat.(while he´s petting your head) You are on top of him of course ;) Also when you´re home with him, he will carry you around like a little koala.( only let you down when need to bathroom) He absolutely LOVES your touch!

Watch out, coeurl boy is coming! (seriously, he looks and acts like overgrown cat) Nyx will try to be as close as possible to you, always touching in some way ( pat on head, hug, holding your hand, butt grabing...) But he will not outwardly tell you, that he wants your touch. ( He feels like a failure, that he brings bad luck to his friends ... blames himself for his sister ... PLEASE, REASSURE HIM THAT IT ISNT HIS FAULT!!!)

Grab him by the collar of his uniform a give him BIG SMOOCH! And push him on couch or something cuz he aint going anywhere. Trace gently his scars and tattoos + points for kissing all of them. Scratch his stubble, he will literally PURRRRR! Play with his hair for love of god! PULL ON THEM! Maintain constant eye contact with him. ( instantly melts under your gaze) That man carries lot of baggades on his shoulders. Give him some good massage, you will get rewarded by sweet throathy noises from Nyx. On that note, our Hero wont be quiet like at all: “Like what you see?” ;) “Ah, somebody needs their Hero” please, grab that firm butt, it will shut him up and make his cheeks rosy pink. PS: Nyx is ticklish on his sides and underbelly, do with this knowledge what you want 3:)

#ffxv #ffxv kingsglaive #titus drautos #nyx ulric #my traumatised boys #no beta readers we die like Regis #Hope you will like it #Next is Luche and Pelna #I already feel Pelna will be the sweetest shit ever #did i have a blast writing this #yes i absolutely did #KINGSGLAIVE #My pretty captain Drautos #Lovely Nyx Ulric #gender neutral s/o #s/o headcanons #headcanon #part 1

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andywinter16 · 2 years ago

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Glaives reacts to you having a tattoos - Titus Drautos

Titus saw many tattoos through his life, so for you having a tattoos on your body isn´t some big deal. It suprises him, but not in a bad way. Truth to be told, in his eyes it enchances even more your beauty. It´s integral part of you being yourself. Also praises you and your artist, such fine pieces of art on his precious s/o. Loves to touch your tattoos, with permission of course. (Never understood why people gave shitty treatment for tattoos or piercings. It´s your body not theirs for fucks sake.) Titus also has a tattoo, it´s Kingsglaive insignia on left side of his chest. He will show you, if you ask nicely ;)

So the first time he saw them, was extremely warm day. You dressed more comfortably in shorts and top. Today, you had for once a free day, so you went after him to work. Your plan was to get him to have a lunch with you. (Always so busy the captain of yours) You arrived at HQ, so glad you made it. The public transport was nightmare in such weather. After greeting your fellow glaives ( who didn´t look any better, many of them lose their jackets in order to cool down a little) your steps leads to familiar corridor in which on far end is Titus´s office. One knock on the door and you´re in.“Greetings to my fairest captain in the whole land, I have come to rescue you from evil paperwork! We shall ride together to the sunset on my stead! And then stop for meal because mister, I know damn too well you didn´t have anything to eat yet!” Titus hunched over papers, rolls his eyes affectionately at your dramatic antics. He stands up and you hapilly run to his embrace. “Oh, I wasn´t aware you had a tattoos y/n”. You sheepishly looks at him, uneasy feeling sets in your gut. “ They suit you, my love” the kiss he gives you is breathtaking.

#ffxv #ffxv kingsglaive #KINGSGLAIVE #final fantasy xv #gender neutral s/o #titus drautos #s/o headcanons #tattoo #headcanon #captain Drautos #I can also image him with some tribal tattoo #y/n #y/n x titus drautos #No beta readers we die like Regis

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andywinter16 · 2 years ago

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Touch starved glaives with S/O HC part 2

Ohoho! Hold tight, needy boy is here! First of all he's not shy to communicate with you that he needs your touch ( Thank a god, seriously). If you thought Nyx was touchy, Pelna is literally another level. Man will find you whenewer you are and embrace you in hug. Obviously you will have to stop whatever you do, be it training, cooking, shopping, etc. Has his hands on you all the time. (It can be little bit annoying, yet he's so sweet about it you wouldn't mind )Pouts and whines for your attention! (Squisch his face and kiss that lovable dork) if you neglect him, prepare for his secret weapon: PUPPY EYES! No one is immune! (I mean IT! NO ONE)

Tangle your hands in his pretty hair, massage his scalp. Eskimo kisses, nose kisses in general are his favourite. (DO IT! for his pretty smile and laugh) Nuzzle into his stumble, your personal scratcher. Whisper sweet things to his ear (what good job he does, what a strong handsome Galadhian man he is) *happy content Pelna noises* (loves being for once appreciated!) Nibble on his earlobe, those breathy sighs wont dissapoint you. 😉 Pelna cracks joke or two to make you laugh. (with him you will laugh all the time) If you lie in bed, you would end up tangled like a pretzel of bodies. Rub your feet together. (His feet gets cold easily) Usually lies his head on your chest, listens to your heartbeat and breathing (it calms him down, you're after all his HEART And HOME)

*crack knuckles* Our witty vice captain with killing checkbones is here. Luche knows he's touch starved, is very well aware that you can help. Will literally do the fucking opposite. (For such inteligent man, he can be dummy *affectionate*) Luche did his research on what can help him. (Reason is simple- he didnt want to bother you. It's not your job to take care of him, you had other much important things than him to worry about. LAZARUS RELATIONSHIP DOESN'T WORK LIKE THAT!) Hot shower is his go to, spends awful lot of time under it.

You need a rock solid plan to get his ass under your care. (Add another plan and plan on top the plan) Rope everyone into it, call all hands on deck! (Because Luche's evasive clever bastard) If the plan doesn't work, just kidnap him Please, tell him how you feel in private. Ask him If he detest your touch that much. OH THE FUCKING CHANGE! (Luche´s collected demeanor cracks instantly, you got him!) Put your foreheads together and hold his gaze. Caress firmly that sharp jawline. Assure him you´re there for him, that he does ENOUGH for Kingsglaive, for his home and friends.( His gaze will soften, you can see tears in the sky blue eyes) Embrace him, let his head drop on your shoulder. Run your hands through that neatly kept hair ( SO FUCKING SOFT) let him be vulnerable in your presence. Wraps his strong arms around you, holds you so close to inhale your scent. (gave those arms some attention Luche´s proud of them, will flex them under your fingers) On that note massage his back with shoulders (man has whole Kingsglaive on them) Wanna see Luche lose his tight up appearance? Bite delicately his lower lip and suck hickeys on his neck.

#ffxv #ffxv kingsglaive #pelna khara #luche lazarus #Have some sweet needy Pelna #Luche Is piece of work #He Is Worth the trouble #No beta readers we die like Regis #I had thirst for some Pelna content #Also Luche is my guilty pleasure #Next Is Crowe and Libertus #Also big THANK YOU! To you friends #I am glad you enjoyed the first part so much :)#And apologies Luche got out of hand #y/n #gender neutral s/o #s/o headcanons #headcanon

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andywinter16 · 2 years ago

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Touch starved glaives with S/O HC part 3

Grumpy Libertus at your service. My man there is a moody. Would be snappy at everyone in 5 kilometer radius. ( Tredd gets the most shit, cuz he likes to play with fire) Complains even more on food, weather, nobles. (Cuss all of them in Galadh) Folds his arms around his chest, glares so much! (Smooth those wrinkles from his face) Squad has enough, throws him your way quite literally when they see you. (”It´s your problem now!” yells Crowe, yeets Libertus into your arms)

Wrap yourself around him and don't let go! (Man´s warm and plushy, so it´s deal) Mumbles into your neck that everyone is stupid.(We know Libertus, we know) Scratch his scalp down to his neck. Rebraid his hair (You and Crowe have this exclusive privilege, use it wisely) Kiss those tattoos, he´s proud of his heritage as Galadhian. Shut him up with pecks on lips. (Wants to said something kiss, starts to protest kiss “ Lib, staye quiet and I will kiss you to your hearth content.”“Promise, love?” “Of course, my teddy bear”) It may sound unusual but Lib is big fan of belly rubs (belly scratching, if you will). There is the feeling of domesticity of which he can´t get enough, also your touch is intoxicating. My friends to make this proud man stumble over his words and be tender: speak to him in Galadhian, even better tell him that you love him! (His jaw hangs open, pupils dilated. Swear his whole face is getting pinkish) You just made him the proudest and luckiest man on Eos! Expect homemade galahd style dinner and something little extra ;)

Badass kicking headmage Crowe Altius has graced us with her presence! For the record, she´s not needy you´re needy! ( You know Lib and Nyx won´t let her live it down) After herding her mages and yelling at Nyx and Libertus for their shenaningas, she will corner you in one of the hallways. Her hands cares your sides, kissing you hungrily. Sadly there´s not enough time, so you part your ways with promise to meet at home. (She´s more action driven person as you can see)

My dears, the second you walk into your shared space, she pounces on you. You will end up in bed with Crowe cuddling on top of you. She adores the closeness, your warm enveloping her like a blanket. In your embrace Crowe feels serene and whole. (You´re what´s makes her want to survive this crazy war) When she takes her hair down, brush it for her! (Crowe will even let you style it) Shower her with kisses on her clevage, arms, neck just everywhere. The giggles she makes are adorable! (And will return it tenfold back) Gaze longinly into her chocolate eyes, take her hands into yours and kiss her knucles. THIS! For Crowe this is such soft and pure act of intimacy that should be cherished in the harsh world. Softly hums to her, and draw ornaments on her back, Crowe will doze off on you. (dreaming of life with you and her friends) If you pinch her sides prepare for pillowfight :*

#ffxv kingsglaive #libertus ostium #CROWE IS GORGEOUS!#crowe altius #ffxv #We need more love for these two #I love that gif with Lib and Nyx #gender neutral s/o #kingsglaive #s/o headcanons #headcanon #no beta readers we die like Regis #Next is stabby trio Tredd #sonitus bellum #axis arra #I feel like my writing doesn´t do justice to the characters #Crowe especially was dificullt

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beauvoyr · 7 years ago

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Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 15

flowering | children of the end of the world

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, asphyxiation, no beta we die like men, pre-Omen trailer route, pre-demon Noctis Chapter Suggestion: Read it on AO3 for cuter formatting during chat sequence. Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: AO3 Summary: you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins you will love him to ruins

CHAPTER SUMMARY: You will love him to ruins.

HIS MORNING IS DIFFERENT NOW. Different, as in Noctis doesn’t have to drag himself out of bed at 5.30 just so he’d make it to Gladio’s training session on time. That and he doesn’t have to struggle with rousing the cat from her nap, which is a codename for waking you up and getting a swish of claws in return. These past few days taught him how to dodge unpredictable attacks better than his Shield ever did. Ignis checks up on him at 7.30, giving him more time to grumble about the too-damn-early Contemporary Management class that’s only available at 8.30 only on Mondays and Wednesdays. Noctis picks up on his dull routine of brushing his teeth, yawning under the hot shower, shucking on whatever shirt and pants combo he can locate in his closet, and hauls his backpack with another yawn.

The ride to Lucis U has Ignis filling him in on the council updates, boring stuff that has him yawning four times in twenty minutes of morning traffic, and manages a bleary nod once his Advisor sees him off at Block B. As a senior, most of the fresh-eyed juniors gawk at him the moment he strides through the hallways, scanning the doors for BU 3-1. He’s the prince, he kinda gets that a lot, not that anything’s changed over his entire lifetime. They don’t care about him past his title, and he doesn’t see why he should care either. Noctis occupies the seat farthest from the board, saves some space for Prompto, and checks up on his planner. If it’s up to him, he’d never get himself something as posh as leather-bound, but this was all a conspiratorial gift by none other than Ignis in final hopes that it’d instill some orderly sense into Noctis.

But did it work?

Probably, seeing how he had his final timetable scrawled in one of the front pages in case of discrepancies—

—oh.

Prompto’s not taking this elective with him. Right. He signed up for Media and Journalism since he figured his photography skills would come in handy, babbling all about it when they were filling up the subject registration form last semester. That kind of sucks, now that he thinks about it. If Prompto’s not here, then he can’t steal naps when the lecturer’s not looking. And he can’t skim through the lecture notes Prompto’s jotted down amidst all his lazy doodling. And they can’t coordinate where to grab their lunch because Lucis U’s menu dates back to M.E. 358, all sloppy mashed potatoes and premature beans on every other day, ugh.

Shutting his planner, Noctis slumps over his desk as the other students begin to file in. Some are vaguely recognizable faces, like that guy with the mohawk or that girl with a birdlike laugh, while rest are an assortment of squashed noses and sharp jaws and droopy eyelids, people who recognize him from afar, people who never approach in the end. There is an unspoken line drawn between them and him, separating the prince from its people.

Chin on the scratched desk, Noctis slips out his phone and puts it on silent, knowing the misery of abandonment all too well.

N: hey P: morning noct!!! dude im so psyched for medjourn omg N: lol nerd P: no rly lol P: we’re getting pruvia drusus P: u remember that segment at 9? on 8tv? P: she goes undercover and infiltrates drug cartels, yakuza houses??? badass stuff???? armed w/ only a camera?????

Noctis searches the depths of his head for a semblance of connection to this Pruvia person, finds that he doesn’t even know the channel 8TV exists prior to Prompto’s yammering, and sighs.

N: no idea, sorry P: aw man u missed out big time. she kicks ass P: cuz she’s gonna be teaching us this sem!!! N: what really P: yea man! special contract only this sem and first come first served, limited seats blablabla u know the deal

That mad dash Prompto did just to submit his form at the counter last semester? Bouncing on his feet the moment the registrar gave it a once-over and nodded? And that little fistpump he did at the end of it? Yeah, all of that totally made sense now.

N: is it too late to congratulate you P: naw it’s never too late!!! P: thanks noct!!!!

A loud bang and the lecturer abruptly enters, setting down a folder heavy with paper, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else than here. Noctis shares that sentiment too; he’s starting to miss his bed a little too much. Madam Yoshino Faustus is a middling lady with three large rocks on three different fingers and they glimmer each time she waves her hand about, the hallmark of a nobility gone rogue, throwing out the Lady in her to adopt Madam instead. He’s had her two semesters ago, an encounter in Introduction to Conflict Management that ended with Noctis scoring an A- despite slamming into classes an hour after she started, all thanks to his notorious oversleeping skills. Her squinting sweep over the entire room to take in the faces of her future victims tells Noctis that this semester is going to be even worse than the last one.

“Usus magister est optimus,” her lilting voice begins, and by the number of times she always recited that phrase in every class, Noctis knows it by heart to remember one thing: Practice is the best teacher, a motto she lives by. “All right, let’s do a little roll call, just to make sure everyone’s here today and nobody’s signing for their friends,” she drones on, consulting the name list of those registered under her class, a true veteran who thwarts every student’s attempt on playing hooky. “Albel Williams?”

“Here.”

Noctis turns to his phone when she belts out a few more names.

N: yoshino’s here P: same P: pruvia’s here too omg im pumped

Which means Prompto’s replies are going to get increasingly spaced out by the seconds as he enjoys Pruvia’s class while his best friend is withering away here. Great. Resigning himself to enjoy his own company, Noctis logs into King’s Knight. CONNECTING TO SERVER circles endlessly on his screen with pixelated Ray Jack, Kaliva, Barusa, and Toby marching to the beat, brandishing their weapons. After what seems to be minutes—when it’s only seconds, really, Noctis tends to exaggerate when it gets boring—he’s all logged into the game, scrolling through the dev notes and checking today’s quests. He harvests his Zell trees for free cash, a thoughtful gesture once-per-day meant to aid the newcomers, and then he goes to his FRIEND screen, where—

“Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum?” the lecturer calls out in a tone that suggests she sees him with his phone out. “Are you with us?”

Prince. Right. He really needs to make a special decree just for stopping people from calling him that in class. Noctis straightens up his slouch, looks her in the eye like a dutiful student and the proud son of King Regis, doing his perfected princely nod. One sharp bob of his head, not a timid two. “Yep.”

Something about her adjusting her eyeglasses begs to differ, but she exhales all the same and moves on. “Noleva Mai?”

—he taps to his messaging application and tries to hide his grimace.

N: yoshino saw me texting RIP P: yoshino more like yoshiknows

Noctis resists the urge to snort out of the imminent knowledge that Madam Yoshino might start chucking markers at him like all teachers do in anime, and sends out a last message.

N: lol catch you later then N: have fun with pruvia P: thanks noct! P: u have fun w/ yoshi-no-no too!!!

Swapping back to King’s Knight, Noctis checks on his mini friend list. There’s Prompto but he’s offline, as expected. Gladio’s never online unless Noctis is the one badgering him to go on a raid with him and Prom, so Barusa’s all greyed out on the screen like Prompto’s Toby. He scrolls a bit more, searching for a glowing Kaliva rocking a skull-tipped weapon and oozing sheer badassery, but. It’s all greyed out too.

Well. He didn’t expect that.

The lecturer’s already scratching her name on the whiteboard and it reads Madam Yoshino Faustus in case anyone’s a newbie, then she’s already jumping into the first chapter listed in the pro forma because that’s how seniors roll on their first day in the final semester, all badass and probably dying by the end of the term. Noctis swallows a groan, watches Madam Yoshino put up some drab slides of black text on white background, and turns back to King’s Knight.

It probably doesn’t hurt to text you before he puts his phone away.

TO: THE ARCHITECT FROM: NOCTGAR SUBJECT: [none] MESSAGE: wake up.

He only hopes you’ll get back to him soon enough.

the jump from high school syllabus to university courses is something most people spend an average of a month to synchronize with the rhythm of building properly cited reports and bookmarking journal archives on their computers. you are fourteen and you only had a week. a week of the pinch-faced man running his fingers over your documents before handing byron your necessary textbooks, listing out your learning outcomes from the top of his head, and diving headfirst into your workload. he is only paid to teach you, not to make you understand, so he packs his briefcase by eleven and leaves for his next lecture on campus.

this is how you learn.

at six you rise, eating breakfast thirty minutes later. by seven you are dressed and sitting at your desk, reading your texts in advance before the lecturers arrive. eight a.m. they enter, an assortment of he, she, they, names you do not memorize. lessons end thirteen hours later, interspersed bites of meals squeezed in between your lecturers’ arrival. byron cleans as you wash up, readying a dinner that you nibble in between glances of your assignments. the clock chimes twelve. sometimes you sleep on your books. most of the time you do not sleep at all.

flipping through ancient solheim and decoding the dead language, you occasionally catch yourself muttering under your breath. “i’m an idiot. i’m an idiot. i’m an idiot.”

byron stops fiddling with his feather duster and corrects you softly, a pitiful look in his silent eyes. “to me, you are the most intelligent person i’ve ever had the honour of meeting, milady.”

what good does intelligence bring you? it is a word that has lost its meaning. intelligence bring you crippling thoughts of no i can’t do this no i don’t want to do this anymore no i want to stop please. intelligence makes you jump at every passing minute, dreading the moment he she they step in, posing a question designed to unveil your idiocy. intelligence has your bed collecting dust, dust that byron obediently expels with zeal.

so tell me, what good does intelligence bring me?

you must’ve vocalized the question, for byron shakes his head and corrects you again. “milady, i never had the chance to go to school.” he meets your eyes like it is the most natural thing for a twenty-seven-year-old man to remain uneducated, while you are fourteen and too educated for the world to appreciate. “one of the men i worked with taught me to read and write, then basic maths once i know the difference between bemused and amused. my first salary was only 50 gil, so i spent some on books and veggies, and saved the rest in my tin can. by the time i had close to a few hundred gil in my savings, i bought this beautiful leather-bound diary and a pen i saw in this stationery shop, and taught myself some cursive from the old man at the bus stop.” with a voice that doesn’t quite match the melancholy on his face, he turns his back to you and resumes dusting your bookcase. “so please, do not think so lowly of yourself. you are worth so much more to me.”

all at once, you are ashamed. ashamed of yourself for whining at him for the scratches on your palms when he has welts on his body. you are fourteen when you realize you are blessed in all your misery. while it doesn’t make things any better with father pretending your existence is nullified, nor does it have the manservants respect you any better, you have byron.

byron who has nothing else left in life than you.

NOCTIS QUICKLY COMES TO THE CONCLUSION that the final semester sucks.

Four days. Four days is all it takes for Noctis and Prompto to find out that downing 12 cans of Ebony in 3 hours will send Prompto into a twitchy mess, then embarking on an adventure with marathoning four whole seasons of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure blasting from the TV. Ignis isn’t quite pleased to find his stashed Ebony raided with no cans left to spare, though he refrains himself from berating them when they’ve finally finished compiling the report and slides for Strategic Management, a compulsory core unit both he and Prompto couldn’t ward off with credit transfer. Ever dutiful, Ignis takes up the task of sweeping pizza crumbs under the sofas, separating cans of energy drinks from plastic bottles for recycling, and pulls his sleeves to his forearms, banishing grease from the plates.

By the time Friday rolls around, Prompto’s draped over the cushion, a fine imitation of a corpse. Noctis, on the other hand, doesn’t recall how exactly he found his bed—or rather, his arm found it while he died on the floor. Over a box of cereal and some morning Malboro cartoon, they both agreed that the first week is shit—“Is that why all our ex-seniors looked like they died three years even before their final sem started?” Prompto asks aloud, then bursting into melodramatic tears when Noctis, in stately somberness, nods—and consoled each other with Ignis’ freezer-wrapped meals. When dusk falls, Noctis catches up on a solid fourteen more hours of sleep, while Prompto finally went home for the first time in decades.

Saturday. Ignis, bless him, decided to let Noctis sleep in a little past ten a.m. and only woke him up once it shows eleven on his watch. Gladio wants all of them back in the training hall for some ‘relaxed sparring’ to ‘polish on teamwork’ after ‘taking a long break’, a lie that Noctis could smell even if the Citadel’s miles and miles away from his apartment. Still, they picked up an unwilling Prompto from his house, sat through the crawling Insomnian traffic, reverse-parked in the prince’s underground bay, and ended up in the training room all the same.

Prompto is the first one to throw the door open, all singsong. “Gladi—oh.” And then he stops short. His hand falls off the doorknob like it burns him, jammed right in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Wow, uh. Hey. Architect. Hey, uh, Architect’s butler…?”

Ignis is only a step away from Prompto, a gentle hand landing on Prompto’s back to guide him into the training hall, spurring him out of his statuesque stand. The blond awkwardly slinks in with the Ignis in tow, who is all serene calmness even though he’s surveying the floor in great interest behind his spectacles. He, too, waits for an answer.

“Byron the butler, in case you forgot,” the mess of white offers, all smiles.

Something about that has Prompto paling faster than slapping a monochrome filter on a picture. Blue eyes are skittish, darting from one side to the other as he pulls the worst kind of smile that’s undoubtedly jumpy. “Uh. Right, Byron, nice to see ya again. And uh,” he nods over to the last party member, “who’s that guy?”

“Nyx, Nyx Ulric,” Gladio answers from the other end, as gruff as always. “Noct, get your ass in here so we can start.”

He can definitely count on his Shield to be an ass about this. “Shut up, I know.”

So. What Noctis sees once he finally reaches the hall are four people. It’s hard to miss out Gladio, so naturally he’s the first person Noctis picks out from the floor, a crooked grin on his scarred face as he waves them in. As much as Noctis doesn’t want to see your butler again, Byron’s there for who knows what reason, substituting his fitted suit for a sharp ensemble of button-up shirt and khakis. There’s also some uniformed Glaive seated cross-legged beside him, all handsome ruggedness with his hair slicked back, trailing down his shoulders in little braids. Presumably the one called Nyx, since nobody else fits that description. He has the look of a predator if Noctis doesn’t know any better, minute tattoos dotted under his eyes, and decked in too much leather to be just a normal guy.

Noctis lets his blue eyes stray from the stranger and drift up grey sweatpants and a shirt too loose, clothes that he’s long accustomed to. You. For some reasons, when he sees the smallish smile gracing your face and the familiar glaze in your eyes when he meets your gaze, something stirs in him. Something like a bad stomachache—no, that’s not it. Something like overeating and getting nauseous—no, that’s not it either. It’s something knocking inside him, asking to be heard, except he has no idea what it is. But it makes him conscious of the way he’s returning your look with a slight wave—then turning it into some weird wilting of his fingers once the deed’s done—and then turning into an awkward rub of his nape.

At any rate, he joins all of them on the floor, sitting in a crude circle, feigning ignorance at your keen peeking every once in a while. It’s not like he hasn’t been talking to you in these past few days and it’s not like he’s ignoring you on purpose, Astrals no. Classes have been hard, sure, but King’s Knight bridged the gap between his physical distance with you. You texted him your training regimen, he texted you his day, you gave him pointers on how to draw up a report that netted him Madam Yoshino’s compliments, and he shared some room IDs for you to join his raids with Prompto. Normal, casual interactions, no red sirens anywhere, so he shouldn’t be on red alert like this. But it’s all a lie. If anything, it’s the way things are going that makes him a little too hyperaware of that persistent knocking in him each time he ignores your fleeting peeks.

Maybe he’s just thinking too much about this.

Things are normal. Things are casual. Things have been both normal and casual.

But things are different with how you’re here with Byron, finally giving up on catching his attention and turning to that Glaive instead.

Your friendliness is infectious and it doesn’t help that Nyx practically established no walls with you. He murmurs something, you listen, he murmurs a bit more, then you stifle a laugh behind your hand. Thankfully it hasn’t devolved into anything remotely touchy-feely that would’ve trespassed some borders for Noctis, but it sure as hell looks like the guy is a long lost friend catching up to years and years of chatter. And you’re all too honest with your feelings these days, smiling that same smile of yours at Nyx. That very same smile you were once reluctant to share with anyone else but him.

Noctis turns away, picking off the little thoughts overrunning inside like they’re ants swarming a crumb.

He’s being ridiculous. That’s what it is. He should be proud of your progress in making friends instead of feeling like he missed out on something in the days he hadn’t spent by your side. This whole thing is just all in his head and he should forget about it. His eyes drag over the opposite end where you sit, tracing over the docile quirk of your lips as words are whispered to Nyx, who turns it into a joke of some sort for you to laugh over. The searing flash jolting up his nerves is immediate, forcing Noctis to look away.

Yeah, he should definitely forget about it.

Gladio finally steals the moment by clapping once and Noctis is more than willing to fix the Shield his attention to end his thoughts. “All right, listen up. First off, meet Ulric. He’s a senior member of the Glaive—Kingsglaive,” Gladio tacks on a bit of an explanation once Prompto goes bug-eyed at the new term. “Elite soldiers who risk their lives to protect Lucis, Prom. They’re war veterans out there, fighting to keep people like us safe in Insomnia.”

“Too much credit, Gladio,” Nyx counters, sounding modest even if the mischievous grin on his face never went away. “Just doing my job. You guys must be the Prince’s entourage; Prompto Argentum,” he starts from clockwise, “Ignis Scientia, and His Royal Highness, Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum. Pleasure to meet you all.”

As Prompto and Ignis echo some pleasantries, Noctis can’t even bring himself to nod. Glaives are part of his dad’s legion of protectors even if the Crownsguard are bodyguards for the royal family. At the first signs of Niflheim’s forces stirring unrest outside Insomnia, the Glaives are the frontliners fending them off. On days they don’t get any action, Noctis knows some of them are tasked with tailing him from afar if he’s out in town, harnessing the power of the Crystal through his dad just to make sure they remain out of sight by scaling walls and such.

So what’s he doing here?

Unfortunately, Noctis finds no answer as Gladio moves on.

“And this guy right here,” the Shield thumbs at Byron, who’s gone ahead and braided his hair out of disinterest at the droll conversation, “is Byron, the little lady’s butler. Think of him as the older, pissier Iggy.”

“Flattered with the description.” Unconcerned, Byron continues braiding his ponytail like it’s the most natural thing to do, elegant fingers deft with its handiwork and twining one lock after another. You hide a smile behind your fingers, though it doesn’t escape Byron’s watchful eyes as he huffs not unkindly. “It means there are at least four levelheaded people in this ragtag band of,” he searches the ceiling for answers, “young adults. Young, moody adults.”

Is that a jab at him? Whatever it is, it has Noctis scowling after taking the bait, arms crossing over his chest. “As if you’re not a young adult yourself.”

Byron makes an expression of dramatized outrage, clicking his tongue like a mother hen, severely scandalized at the thought. “What a compliment, I must appear younger than I look. With all due respect, Nyx and I are the only full-fledged adults around here. We’re both well over our thirties.” He draws up his chin in disdain, sneering Noctis’ way. “The lot of you are simply children to us.”

Thirty—Noctis almost sputters at the words crossing his mouth, but Prompto groans and presses a hand to his forehead. “Gladio’s right,” he grumbles, “Byron is an older and pissier version of Ignis. Ugh, talk about two Iggies.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” says Ignis ruefully. He gestures to the rest of the members of this odd gathering, himself included, and inclines his head towards Nyx—who, by now, is already taking in their exchange with a wry grin of his own. “Do forgive them, the children can be quite excitable in presence of new companions.”

Nyx props his head up and clears his throat, eyes bright. “Nah, not at all. Just happened to be assigned for patrolling in my new roster and heard loud noises—weird loud noises,” he corrects himself, nodding your way, “and the rest is history. Nowadays I just check them out every now and then to make sure they’re not getting into trouble.”

“You got the small kid to blame for the weird loud noises,” Gladio heartily thumps your back as you vibrate from the sheer force of it, scowling Byron’s way.

“Well, I wouldn’t have made those ‘weird loud noises’ if someone wasn’t trying to detach my spine from my hip.”

Byron deflects your lethal glare with the look of a customer service representative sent to deal with a particularly pesky customer, never once acknowledging the blame. “Milady, you’re as flexible as a plank. You need to stretch more.”

“Pretty sure there’s a difference between helping and attempting murder,” you rebuke as Gladio turns his sympathetic back-patting into comforting head rubs instead. “What if I broke something and had to go to the ER?”

To which the shameless butler rolls his eyes and pretends examining the twines to his braid a far greater issue than your metaphorical dislocation. “You’re being overdramatic. Nyx, do me a favour as a fellow old man and tell her she’s being overdramatic.”

“I’d say no to the part with the old man,” Nyx shrugs at the betrayal, “but yes to the overdramatic part. It is what it is.”

Hopelessly ganged up by the two men, you sulk under Gladio’s petting and wither. “Gee, thanks guys. Real nice of you.”

Ignis surveys the friendly banter with raised brows, though he ventures no further on the matter. Prompto looks like he doesn’t know if it’d be his place to join in when Byron’s involved, and Noctis kind of gets what he’s thinking. The last time Byron meddled, things ended as well as someone’s funeral. Their collective silence works out for Gladio since it gives him a chance to lay out his plans for the day, starting from the not-so-subtle looks he’s been tossing Noctis’ way.

“All right guys, enough chitchat,” Gladio brings everyone to attention once again. “The reason why I called you all here today is because,” he gives a sharp look to Noctis, “Noct, we’re gonna give it a shot with attuning her to magic today, see how well she takes to it, and decide where she goes from there.”

And Noctis couldn’t help the way his brow arches automatically at that. “So that’s why you called me out here?”

“Ya got any other sibling out there who’s also the prince?” Gladio scoffs. “Of course you gotta do it, dumbass, she’s yours.”

His, huh?

That sounds nice for a change.

“Ohhhh boy, I’ll go grab The Bucket™ real quick,” Prompto groans, dragging a hand over his face as he scrambles to his feet. Met with your confused gaping, he only finger-guns your way and flits from the circle, rushing towards the showers. Cue clanging sounds, startled jumps, and epic sounds of scuffling before the blond emerges with a steel bucket dented at the side. He sets it down in front of you coolly, much to Nyx’s amusement.

And you’re all but fingering the suspiciously empty bucket at the rim, stumped. “What’s this for?”

Noctis knows what that’s for. Hell, Ignis and Gladio were both well-acquainted with The Bucket™ at some points, but they’re very much disinclined to acknowledge The Bucket’s™ existence since all it does is bring back bad memories. Bad memories of puking uncontrollably, Ignis wiping his mouth and hunching over The Bucket™, Prompto dropping dead into a faint after just touching Noctis, and The Incident That Must Not Be Named™ involving Gladio stumbling like a newborn anak fawn all across the training hall.

Well. This should be interesting.

“Not everyone can handle magic, even in trace amounts,” Nyx explains much to your gratification, fingernail tapping against the steel handle knowingly. It sets you into a mode of perpetual alarm, breathing shallowly, and Nyx chuckles even louder. “Calm down, you’re not gonna die or something. The worst that could happen is puking,” he lists off his fingers, “fainting, disorientation, or maybe all three.” He stops at the sheer horror crossing your eyes, shrugs, and finds it appropriate to add, “For a few days, I guess. We still have newer Glaives who puke when they land after warp-strikes, so that’s another case. Can’t get used to the thing if you don’t practice daily.”

Usus magister est optimus, the Yoshino in Noctis parrots. Practice, practice, and more practice. Practice even when he’s sick, practice even when Gladio served his ass in three different flavours, and practice even when his legs had failed him.

“Warp-strike is the thing where,” you chew on your bottom lip, all frowns, probably recalling the number of times he inadvertently showed you the move through his many practices, “you kind of throw your weapon somewhere and just—just end up warping there, right?”

Huh. Noctis just can’t help but to nod along when you throw a furtive glance his way as if confirming that’s the thing, right? At least you had been paying attention to him, that’s for sure. His skin prickles at the intriguing thought.

“All Glaives can warp since we utilize King Regis’ magic, and he’s strong enough to lend us his strength. Think of His Majesty as a conduit, it’s easier that way.” Nyx tilts his head over, lazy eyes ghosting over Noctis. His hardening stare threatens to expose him, yet he says nothing and is content to pick up the briefing where he stopped. “His Highness over here is also another conduit, but he’s only serving his retainers for now. So if you wanna get good, get practising.”

“It’ll also help if you haven’t had your breakfast,” Ignis points out, a knowing glint in his eyes. That’s definitely talking from experience right there. “If you’re rather famished by now, then it might be wise for us to begin right away.”

Byron finishes his braid with a bauble hair tie procured from his pocket, snapping it into place. He cycles through everyone’s expression for digestion and comes to a conclusion. “Since that’s everyone’s consensus, then we should start, milady. The sooner you start puking, the better, since I can clean up your mess before I start on lunch.”

“Someone has his priorities right,” Ignis agrees, meeting Byron’s eyes with a grateful nod sent his way, and Six, is his Advisor seriously getting along with the creep for your butler? Today is so not Noctis’ good day. “Come along now, Noct, hold your hand out to her. And you, Architect, do us all a favour and give Noct a hand.”

Prompto hoots and slaps Ignis’ back, who looked oddly pleased with himself for thinking up that one. Ugh. Whatever. He needs to get this over with. Noctis scoots over to where you sit at the same time you shift closer, both meeting at the halfway point. With all his friends and some random Glaive grinning wildly at the side, it feels a bit weird to do this—but not in the way where it’s getting uncomfortable—just slowly getting there, somewhat. It’d be better if he had some privacy in the first place for concentration, but he can’t be too picky with how the circumstances are playing out.

Theoretically, the Crystal’s magic seems can be condensed into the simple concept of eating. Right now, he’s simply letting you have a taste of the magic, just a lick or two for your tongue to learn the flavour. Later on when you’re much better off at it, you’d be able to eat all you want through him if you’d like it. And him? He’s not the one eating from the Crystal. The Crystal is the one eating him like how it ate his dad alive.

Everyone knows how it is, everyone saw how he hobbles with a cane for a crutch.

The spiderweb spreading on his father’s right, uprooting the little pale canvas he has to offer, says enough to Noctis that the doctor isn’t going to announce his cause of death as a natural cause. What little magic Noctis could afford to channel to his friends isn’t enough to let him share his dad’s burden. But he’ll get there sooner or later once the ring is sitting on his finger, once his friends are part of the council, once you’ve succeeded your father.

To start that off, you need this.

You need him.

Noctis holds out his hand to you, the standard procedure of channeling the Crystal’s magic through him as the conduit, and he can’t say he’s surprised when a familiar ice grazes his palm. Fingertips, as cold as The Glacian’s touch. He’s felt this before. The first time you brought his hand up to your face, letting him wrap his slim digits around your neck, icy manacles of your hands draining the warmth from his wrist. Do you still remember that day? He can’t tell, not when you’ve gone ahead and wiped the emotions clean from your face, slotting your palm over his.

“How romantic,” Byron drawls. “Romance movie of the year, ten out of ten.”

Gladio snickers and that asshole for your butler is smug with his achievement of riling the prince. Noctis makes a mental checklist to deck Byron later, just to demonstrate why he’s the Prince of Pain. Unaffected, you just side-eyed Byron as though you’re long used to his assholery, turning back to a pink-dusted Noctis. “Don’t mind him, Prince, he’s always a jerk.”

“Glad you’re suffering with me right now,” he snorts, earning some sort of a quiet huff of amusement under your breath. Once the racket settles down, he closes his eyes and lets the darkness reach out to him. Time to get his act together; it’s been a while since he’d done this. Hopefully soon enough, he’ll get to guide you through this without messing up. “All right, first thing you wanna do is close your eyes.”

“Ugh. Cliché.”

“Shut up Byron,” he hears you chide, Gladio cackling appreciatively at the unnecessary commentary. “Ahem. And then what, Prince?”

“Uh. Make yourself calm, at ease. Stuffs like that.” Totally not helpful, not that he’s good with words, but he’s been told that’s how it goes the last time he did it with Prompto. “When you feel calm and focused, then it’s a lot easier for you to reach out and feel things.”

“I…dunno Prince, all I’m feeling is how warm you are.”

That’s it? He must’ve been out of practice over all the months, damn. He catches Gladio muttering she said warm, huh? somewhere to his side, probably to Byron, and your butler’s snickering at you and him, totally getting a kick out of this. Champions of backseat everything, his friends. And your butler too, can’t forget about that. What are they, prepubescent kids? Clearing his throat, Noctis tries again, curling his fingers over the back of your hand. “Okay, try to concentrate on picking up something. Anything. Not the noise, not the warmth, just—“

“—like you’re trying to grab fish in the river,” Prompto pipes up to his left.

“No, it’s different,” Ignis points out, “it’s a transient feeling unlike any other. Almost like oxygen, it’s there, but it’s not seen to your eyes. Yet, it has always been there from the start.”

Noctis cracks his eyes open just a sliver before closing them again. “Guys, not helping.”

“Think of electricity,” Nyx supplies helpfully, and that’s more of an accurate description of the Crystal’s magic more than he could ever describe to you. Leave it to the pros to tell you how it is. “Flash of electricity, tingling under your skin and in your nerves. There should be a buzzing sound if you concentrate hard enough, and that’s the sound the Crystal makes. Like someone humming off-key, enough to make you aware of its presence, but low enough to fade into background noise. Think of blues and violets, if the colour helps you to imagine things. Put together that feeling and the electric colours when you search deep inside yourself.”

His lengthy explanation has you tightening your hold on Noctis’ hand, seizing him softly. In this darkness, he sees nothing. He hears nothing, once everyone falls wordless. Just like this, true to Nyx’s words, the Crystal’s distant hum beckons him, speaking in tones unintelligible to the human ears. The Crystal sustaining protection in Insomnia, the duty he carries as a prince to his people, everything as the Astrals ordained, bestowing salvation upon mankind, and so much more. Spikes of electric magic whizzes past, an ECG reading peaking from a flat, amaranthine bursting into blue—

—you squeeze his hand until pinpricks of pain sets in, and a gasp.

Noctis opens his eyes just in time to catch the dusts of magic reflected in your eyes—only, they are not blue, not his blue.

They are an infernal scarlet searing the blacks of your pupils.

He’s never seen that before.

And when you fall, he almost forgets to catch you.

titan, the archaean, steadfast as stone. ramuh, the fulgurian, sharp as lightning. shiva, the glacian, gentle as snow. leviathan, the hydraean, relentless as tides. bahamut, the draconian, unbending as iron. ifrit, the infernian, fickle as fire. since time immemorial, they have watched over eos.

cosmogony; the hexatheon.

EVERYTHING IS BURNING. The ground, the trees, the skies. Darkness and dust intermingle, clouds of smoke choking your mouth, scorching your lungs. Dry air strips moisture from your mouth. Nothing is alive, everything is razed to the ground. An abject sight of flames fanning over the hills, smothering steel into liquid. The blistering heat stings your skin and beads of sweat roll off your chest, but you do not care. Not when euphoria courses through your veins, rattling your fingertips with the intoxicating feel of victory. You throw your head back, scanning the melting horizon, searching for survivors that you know there wouldn’t be any.

You’ve made sure to eradicate every single one of them.

Down to their very last breath.

Wood crackles with fire gnawing through its crusty flesh, felling branches here and there. There is a sound, a displaced sound different from the rest. Footsteps. Heavy, booted footsteps, an uneven gait you’ve come to love and revere. You do not turn when arms snake around your waist, pulling you against a wall of bare chest. Liquid heat on your back, grimy hands leaving smudges of black across your torso, laving your flesh with ardent skims of flat palms and fingertips tracing circles on your skin. Something grazes your nape and ever pliant, ever worshipful, you tilt your head aside, broken, exposing your neck.

Dry lips descend on your skin, followed by a sharp nip of teeth, marking you.

This, right here in his arms, is where you belong.

Marked. Safe. His.

“We did it,” he murmurs throatily, and you groan your approval when his touches turn desperate, when his nips turn into bites, “we stopped them. You and me, just the two of us, we took them down.”

“Yes, yes we did,” you whimper, finding it hard to concentrate when he thumbs at your waistband, toying with the elastic. He restrains you tight, just like this, almost punishing in his strength—not that you mind it. You love it. You love him for the warning scratch of his fingernails digging through your skin, red welts rising from your unbroken skin. You love him for the way he runs his tongue over your earlobe, nipping at the shell, breathing hard in your ear. You love him even when he lunges a trident through a beautiful blonde, spattering her blood across his cheeks.

He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling with a ragged breath. “I love you.”

You know he means every word, for he loves as easily as he kills.

Eyes lidded, head resting against his chest, your hands dance across his fraught forearms and tangle with his fingers, filling in the gaps in between. This is a space made for you, meant for you, and nobody else will hold him like you do. He loves you. He completes you. He is you. Slowly bringing his hands to your face, you leave kisses on the bruises littering his knuckles, reverent. He is your Eos, he is your God, he is your King, and he is your Prince. He moulds you by his own two hands, filling the cavity with flowers for your lungs and honey in place of your blood. He deserves this corpse you call your vessel, down to your very last breath.

I love you is on your tongue, licking a stripe across his finger.

And he knows you love him too.

Turning in his arms, you crane your head to meet his heady gaze. Oh so wrecked, he stands stoic as his eyes bore into yours. Your sweet, wretched prince. Mirrored by the flames, there is a corrosive yellow to their quality, eroding his innocence. There is nothing innocent about him anymore. Gone are the Galdin blues; he has the eyes of the gold coins lost in the sea, a ring of scarlet rimming the edges. He’s beautiful, just as beautiful as the fire he starts. You cup his blood-crusted cheek and he leans into your touch, long black lashes fluttering in bliss, breathing his approval. His hand joins yours, holding you in place.

This is the world you ruined together with him, and there is no place better than Hell for the damned.

there once lived a man, born to a mortal but blessed with powers divine. conjuring a collection of glaives he dispelled the darkness plaguing our star. as a reward for his efforts, the god granted him a holy stone—the crystal, which he was to guard at all costs, for it would one day choose a king to see us through the coming disaster and lead us to salvation.

cosmogony; the crystal.

THE GLAIVE KNEW. Just one look and he knew. Noctis knows that look from anywhere—it was the same look everyone had when he strolled along in wheelchair, head downcast, never acknowledging the sympathy in their eyes. The fact remains that he isn’t as strong as King Regis to grant his entourage the same strength and magic the Glaives enjoyed. Yet in an effort to save face, Nyx withheld the judgment of a pro and offered your thoughts something else to ruminate. But what’s done is done. Noctis knows where he stands and it will never be on the same pedestal as the rest of the Glaives.

In the beginning, all was well. He was a child, but he was a prince, first and foremost. Afforded the luxuries many couldn’t ever since he could remember, but never the freedom other children had. “A prince shouldn’t dillydally shillyshally,” his tutor would click her tongue in disdain, brandishing a pen this way and that, marching up and down his room as Noctis pretends to be deeply engrossed in Lucian history just so she’d fade into a blur like one of the many wallpapers in his room. They all come and go just to stuff him full of knowledge as if education is a simple process of boiling textbooks into soups for him to devour. No matter how much they bore him to tears, they’ll never admit what they see: A young prince, hungering for the sun on his skin than the pages on his fingertips.

But he was weak.

After all, princes have to follow their father’s steadfast steps.

So what good was a prince who couldn’t walk?

Noctis has his back to the icy wall, but the scar on his spine burns white hot. He could just reach for it if he wants, searching under his shirt, feeling for the ridge where skin turns plastic.

Marilith.

His first taste of death came in a pool of red. Then came fear, shrouding him unlike any other fear he conquered. This was the monster under his bed, and it came for him. This was what it meant to be the prince of a kingdom, a price he paid in blood. This was death, and it wanted his life. The Crownsguard were diced into proportions by the Marilith’s blades, their coffins being the cars they drove in. Dying in place of the prince was regarded as the utmost honour one could hope to attain, but what good will a gold medal do to an empty coffin whose mangled corpse couldn’t even be retrieved? Nothing.

Things could’ve been different had Noctis not encountered that daemon. He replayed this scenario repeatedly, holding up the record to the sunlight to examine it in different angles as though a newer truth might unveil itself and undo what has been done. In another world, he never would’ve had to be wheeled around as an invalid, shoulders bearing the sympathies of many. Queen Sylva is never a casualty and Lunafreya wouldn’t be robbed of her parents, of her brother’s independence, leaving her as Niflheim’s prisoner. He never would’ve pushed everyone away just so they’re safe, safer where they are not a smudged scarlet on the floor. His nanny was an unforgettable example.

Anyone and everyone serving the royal line will be sacrificed for his safety. The Crownsguard, the Kingsglaive, the militia and the mass, all reduced to one thing: A fodder for his safety. Including his retainers, his friends. Ignis, Gladio, Prompto.

Ignis had been a staunch devout of an educationist in the very beginning. Graduated the top of his class in the Royal Academy during his earlier years, groomed into what they wanted him to be: His personal advisor. On paper, that is. In reality, Noctis craved the human touch Ignis possessed through their first handshake. Though duty remained a permanent distinction separating their friendship, Ignis isn’t as much as a stickler he could be at times. He’s the brain behind their nightly escapades out of the Citadel while Noctis is the brawn—or the one persistently convincing Ignis that it’s a good idea and they’re never going to get caught, thanks to his meticulous mapping of the Citadel’s hallways. They clambered through open windows, snuck past guards, and crawled in metal vents just for that small reward of the stars studding the night skies. And perhaps, for Ignis himself, the reward truly lies in Noctis’ brilliant smile.

Then there was Gladio.

Every swordsman marches into battle with a shield, just like how his dad has Clarus. The Amicitias, a lineage of Dobermans on a leash. All hard edges and buzzed haircuts, barking at Noctis’ shadow to pick up his pace. “Again,” he’d snarl after tossing Noctis into the air like a softball. “Again,” he’d groan when Noctis tripped over his parries and introduced his face to the hardwood for the umpteenth time this week. “Again,”, he’d scowl as the TV screen burns red with K.O. and Noctis fistpumps the air, seizing victory for the fifth time in a row. Again, and again, and again. They fought. They made up. And they fought again. Gladio gave him none of the niceties as his Shield. His reproaches bruised Noctis both literally and figuratively, hitting his body blue all the way to his heart. He’s nothing like Ignis’ thoughtful insights into Noctis’ tantrums, but strangely, Noctis doesn’t think he needs a second Ignis. Gladio’s okay just the way he is, all bites and barks and bruises too.

Along came Prompto.

His favourite animal? Chocobo. Favourite game? Assassin’s Creed, but he still can’t decide between Black Flag or Origins. His favourite subject to photograph? Noctis. Prompto jogs every morning, works part-time at the camera store up the City Square, eats all Noctis’ leftover greens. He’s the epitome of healthy living, an antithesis to Noctis’ snacks-and-soda galore. But the way the sun loves him, kissing his cheeks to leave freckles in her wake, bounding up the school gates to reach Noctis’ side, it’s a breath of fresh air for him. Nobody’s ever seen him like this before. Like they’re best friends from high school to university and more. Like he’s less of a prince and more of a person.

And then. You.

If he is the True King, then you are the Denied Daughter of the Andronicus. Unloved by your father, unrecognized by your family. Willing to be banished from the comforts a noblewoman should enjoy, retreating to the safety of the Citadel. But did you complain? No, you probably don’t even have time to entertain such thoughts. You’re too busy with chasing your dreams just to succeed your father, to complete your thesis, to live life unlike what you experienced before. You’ve smiled, you’ve laughed, you’ve made friends, and you’ve tasted what he offered. You swore to climb the ranks just to serve him. Who is he to deny you what you want?

Noctis casts a glance at your figure lying prone, head on Byron’s lap.

He knows the risk he takes each time he laces their lives with magic. All the fainting and retching as the average human body adjusts to the Crystal’s intrusion. All the hardships in the future that Niflheim brings. All the lives he might lose. It is a promise that his shared strength will serve as both protection not only for him, but for his friends as well. Senior Glaives commanded the Crystal’s magic through his dad, who also bore the brunt of sustaining the barrier doming Insomnia. The strain shows well enough through accelerated ageing and declining health, something Noctis had closely witnessed in the years that passed. The king suffers as much as his people do. Soon enough, it’ll be his turn. His turn to put on the ring and become the 114th King of Lucis.

And to do that, he needs to be strong, stronger than his father, stronger than the Glaives, and strong enough to protect everyone who risked their lives for him.

Such is the fate of the True King.

The first signs of your consciousness start with a sound, stealing his attention. A soft, weak moan. Noctis uncurls himself from where he’s lounged by the walls, perking up. You rose from your fainting like you rose from your slumber, all sleepy yawns while rubbing your eyes. Like nothing’s wrong, you pull yourself away from Byron’s dismayed fussing, batting off his constant mothering. Then, looking around the hall, he sees confusion creasing your brows, unanswered questions forming on your lips but never rolling off your tongue.

Only after your eyes travel from the high ceilings to the empty armours lining the walls, you catch him in the distance and beckon him over, mimicking a lucky cat calling in customers. “Prince—where’s everyone?”

Plodding over, he drops into the spot next to yours and reminds himself not to peer at your face unless he wants to get smacked in the nose again. “Nyx went back to patrolling. Prom’s at the shooting range. Gladio’s with Specs at the Royal Arsenal since they’re checking out the new shipment of weapons coming in.” After a beat, letting the information sink into your addled head, Noctis swallows. “Uh. Hey, you’re feeling okay?”

You nod, a little too enthusiastic, then regretting your decision seven seconds later. Swallowing down what seems to be an urge to retch, you doubled over with your arms wrapped around your midriff, trembling. “Um. No.” Muffled, but the suffering is evident in your wavering voice. “It’s – ah, a little too much to take in. Kind of,” you shudder, shoulders heaving with the effort of keeping it together, “just kind of – nauseous? Overwhelmed. Headache. Sounds, buzzing sounds like what Nyx said. Too much.”

With how things are turning out, the side effects are probably starting to kick in. Byron runs a sympathetic hand down your back, silenced for once, though the conflicting emotions on his face speak volumes. He brings you to a half-seating position, listlessly leaning most of your weight against him for support.

“This is truly a disaster, milady,” he mutters as your head lolls back into his shoulder. “You look like stale bread.”

Somewhere deep inside, you must’ve summoned the lasts of your strength to roll your eyes. “Thanks for the – accurate description, I feel – like stale bread too.” Momentarily repositioning yourself so you’d fit into the crook of Byron’s arm, you mouth words into his blazer. “What – time is it?”

“A little past two,” Noctis supplies. “You’ve been out for quite a bit.”

You make some indistinct noise in the back of your throat that doesn’t sound pleased, tugging Byron on his cuff. “Go – back, ’s close to father’s teatime. You can’t – miss it.”

Now it’s Byron’s turn to mimic your little eye-rolling, injecting it with a dramatic flair. “And whatever shall I do with you, milady? Leave you here to die?”

You can’t really die from something like this since Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto are living proofs on how the Crystal doesn't kill anyone. He can count on Byron to exaggerate everything. “It’s okay, I’ll take over from here,” Noctis steps into the conversation once again, knowing all too well that he’s standing on the ceremony of you vomiting your guts out—or whatever’s left of your breakfast if you took any. “Want me to take you upstairs?”

That is a line he shouldn’t cross if Byron’s around, apparently.

“We’ll manage quite well on our own.” Byron’s hand on your hip tightens just a fraction, almost imperceptible if Noctis hadn’t been watching closely. “Thank you for your kind offer though, I’ll be sure to be in your debt for several millennia to come.”

Drained from all strength to nag your butler, you throw Byron a mildly peeved look, shaking your head in exasperation. Noctis just shrugs when he catches your gaze, as if you’re apologizing on your butler’s behalf. A jerk, yeah, he knows that much because it’s nothing new if it’s coming from Byron and his prejudice against princes—or whatever that’s up his ass. Surprisingly strong despite his deceivingly lean build, Byron hoists you to your feet, wrapping an arm around your middle to keep your hobbles steady. You manage to wave your farewell like a disjointed ragdoll, one that Noctis receives with a chuckle and returns with his own.

“See – you in King’s Knight—?” you grit out, borderline wheezing now.

Byron, of course, pins you with a threatening glare with his lips pursed, and Noctis, well, Noctis likes pissing Byron off. So he nods as casually as he could, ignoring the well-aimed scowl Byron’s sending his way. “Sure, I’ll text you a Room ID later.”

They’re such simple, insignificant words that meant nothing to others, but they’re more than enough to make you smile for him—even if seconds later, you’re hurling all over Byron’s shoes.

[tbc.]

( ͡°( ͡° ͜ʖ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ʖ ͡°) ͡°)¡ intensifies.

1) so remember what i said about this going down the canon path? yea we’re doing a sliiiiight detour for pre-canon into omen route no takebacks now. for those who haven’t watched the omen trailer, you can do so by clicking right HERE! as much as i love the canon story, i can’t help but to wonder what’d happen if they go down the path of the omen trailer so here it is. pls stick around and watch as they ruin the world together (no). (DON’T WORRY I PROMISED HAPPY ENDING SO HAPPY ENDING IT IS). (BUT BEFORE HAPPY ENDINGS THERE NEEDS TO BE SUFFERING. can i get an amen for demon!noct in omen trailer.

2) we’re going to delve into more of noctis and reader spending more time together (hope you readers don’t mind that) because this is the flowering arc for a reason. we’ll explore noctis’ thoughts and dilemmas and how it overlaps with the reader’s own ambitions and how they’ll work together as one. 8’) the next arc is going to be pretty. it’ll be fluffy. and angsty. and watch them fall in love with each other and pretty much go down the path of the omen trailer.

3) Hope you guys liked this long chapter, I couldn’t find a good time to cut off everything so here it is, roughly 9k words. (ALSO THIS IS PRETTY MUCH THE ENTIRE REASON WHY I WROTE LPC TBH, I WANTED AN OMEN ROUTE GDI, THE CONCEPT IS JUST TOO GOOD TO LET GO.) But good news is next chapter is super cute! And good news is, episode ignis is definitely going to ruin us all 8’)

4) Thanks for all the likes and messages and the never-ending support for this fic, I truly hope you guys will enjoy the pre-Omen route, Noctis’ progress from prince to king, the eventual demon!Noct, and so forth. :D

5) I’m rather miffed at Tumblr’s image-inserting option as they no longer allow inserting pictures into the same line as text. It messed up loads of the chatting sequence that was supposed to be cuter with Prompto’s emoji stickers. Reading it on AO3 looks better tbh.

PREVIEW: Something tells him he should lament the loss—but the loss of what, exactly? He cannot truly have lost something if he does not remember what it is in the first place, isn’t it? Yet, the image you cast against a backdrop of fire is one of love, a severe attraction that ran for many months. It makes him forget he stands at the cusp of a shattered world when you stand at the other end, awaiting him with your arms wide open.

P/S: Noctis definitely watched JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure because his Ultimate Pose says so. JJBA is amazing.

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beauvoyr · 7 years ago

Text

Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 13

flowering | child of cosmogony

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, Asphyxiation, Murder, no beta we die like men, pre-canon a.k.a before FFXV WARNING: This chapter contains murder and violence. Chapter Rating: M Crossposted on: AO3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership.

Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: White, too, can be corrosive, just like acid.

what happened to mother? you can’t say, for you do not know.

she fades into a distant blur, one of the many paintings hung in the halls of your head. sometimes, your mind is a treacherous friend playing tricks on you. you’d hear her last scream, hidden behind a door. you never dared to open it; if you do, you know you are intemperate, letting your feelings best you at this game for two. so mother remains, at most, locked behind the door. schrödinger’s cat, both alive and dead at the same time.

should you ask byron to quench your thirst?

no.

father’s lesson is still etched on his skin in long, raised lines you memorized under your fingertips. twelve on his front, five on his arms, and many more on his back. you’ve ruined him, you know. the remnants of these angry red lines have faded off into pale pinks on white over the years, as though branches of cherry blossoms bloomed on his skin. something so grotesque shouldn’t be so beautiful, even as you gingerly run your fingers across the patterns. whenever you do, byron stiffens under your touch like he’s afraid you’d dig your nails into the hatch welts.

he doesn’t know your touch is reverential, each brush an apology too late to be given.

and the lingering guilt in your heart paves way into something else.

“YOU AND NOCT REPENTED YET?”

Gladio is a merciless master. In this training room, he is the commander of the battlefield. Noct being a prince doesn’t mean shit to him, as long he knows how to dodge a blow and barrel into safety behind the Shield. Hardy as he is, he’s still got a weak spot somewhere in his heart when the feral glint in his amber eyes softens, coming across you and Noct, sitting together on your knees after getting banished to the farthest end of the hall. Your expression is certainly sorry enough, having repented to Hell and back as you rub your raw knees, and Noct is. Well. Kinda still working on the whole ‘repenting’ part.

“I can do three hours,” Noct grits out, deliberately cocking a brow in challenge. “You up for it?”

And Gladio’s casual smile morphs into something along the cynical lines of you little shit.

Just as quick, your hand flies out to smack him square in his bicep with an affronted, “Prince! Stop! I’m already sorry enough that I’m late…don’t drag me into this.”

Noct’s answer is a light elbow to your side, his grin taking on a criminal edge. “Your fault. Three hours should be good, hmm?”

“Spare me…I can’t even feel my legs anymore, is this normal?” Gladio catches your murmurs buried by your face in your hands. Your voice is certainly apologetic and he knows you’re not the type to piss him off on purpose, but Noct is just the devil sitting on your shoulder. An unrepentant, filthy devil wielding a trident for a spork.

Noct smirks, flippant. For some reasons, he looks oddly triumphant of himself, like he’s reveling that he can last longer than you. Which is technically cheating, in Gladio’s books, ‘cause Noct’s got years of punishment to back his credentials—and this is only your first day, for crying out loud. “It’s only normal when you can’t feel anything from waist down,” Noct says, his smirk turning savage. “If you can’t feel your legs, that means you need one more hour.”

There is a high note tucked somewhere in your following groan. “No, stop, please. Gladio, I’m sorry I’m late, I’m sorry I made His Highness late, I’m sorry we’re late—“

Honestly, you’re kinda pathetic like this.

With all due respect, you could still be King Regis’ illegitimate child or secretly some poetically forgotten Astral and he’d still think you’re pathetic. All the years you’ve been doing with your books developed none of your muscles. Gladio squints a little, hoping to find something to prove him wrong. Nope, not an inch. Ah well, he can’t blame you, not when your situation’s a bit weird like one of those stereotypical romance novels of noblewomen held captive since birth, just waiting for roguish warriors to rescue them. And now that you’re all ‘rescued’ by none other than nth-time Champion of Punishments, Prince Noctis, well—now what?

“Suck it up,” Noct drawls, lips all lazy smiles. “You’ve got 54 more minutes to go.”

Mumbled between your fingers, you resign your fate to the greedy prince. “Gods, I—I’ll do my best, Prince. I think.”

That gets him gloating more than ever, always a sucker for people obediently obeying his command, feeding his Ravatogh-sized ego. “Good.”

Well—now, Gladio guesses, it’s high time to put you out of your misery. “All right, knock it off. Noct, quit bullying the new kid on her first day.” He claps his hands, subjected to a moody glare from the little punk ass prince since Gladio obviously ruined his fun. “Architect guy, listen up: First rule, don’t be late. Noct can demonstrate what happens when you’re late, since he’s pro at this.”

And Noct, the pretentious prince who thinks he's hot shit, rolls his eyes. “Seniors are pros anyway.”

“Whatever.” Gladio’s way beyond holding up the conversation every time Noct gets all mouthy, being the smart-ass he is. He only holds up two fingers for emphasis. “Second: Don’t expect me to go easier on ya just ‘cause you’re a girl, got it? I’ll adjust your training regimen to start off with the basics, like building on your stamina and strength and flexibility. Nothing too hard, just somethin’ to get those muscles to work. Work hard and you’ll be as good as Iris in no time. All clear?”

You head bobs up and down fervently, wide-eyed. “Got it.”

He nods his approval. Good. You’re off to a pleasant track record if you keep this up, since you’re obviously preinstalled with strong self-discipline, ignited by your own initiative to better yourself for Noct. You look like a decent student in the long run, already managing to survive through two hours on your knees—and then there’s Noct, who’s already stretching out his legs and attempting to massage some life through them. He gets you to unfold your legs too, receiving all pained grunts and suffering moans when Noct taps your thighs, just being the asshole he is. Provided you don’t follow Noct’s bad influence, Gladio supposes you’ll survive through your training regimen with all your limbs intact.

…which brings him to rule number three.

“Third rule.” He clears his throat, drawing your attention to him once more. “If Noct’s being an ass, just punch him.”

“So if you’re being an ass, she gets to punch you too?” Noct asks, sounding all the more impressed with himself for thinking that up. “‘cause I’m pretty sure it goes both ways.”

“Can it, Prince Charmless.”

Little Prince Charmless scoffs at the injustice, nudging you in the rib, even if there’s an awkward reddening of his ears. Yep, he’s trying hard not to show Gladio’s jibe got under his skin, but the proof is right there. You only emit a long-suffering sigh, burying your face deeper in your hands. Nope, too damn late to escape your fate if you’re looking for a way out. Once someone gets involved a little too deeply with Noct, they’re usually stuck in the ride for the long haul, and then some. Noct, the very definition of guiltless and unrepentant right there in the dictionary, hasn’t shown you the fullest extent of his arsenal of assholery yet—oh, Gladio can’t wait for the day you’re gonna be moaning into your hands again as you lament your fate to the Astrals, ‘cause the good stuff is just starting with a bang.

“All right, kids, enough of that talk.” Gladio thumbs over his shoulder where the steel brackets display an array of daggers, swords, broadswords and polearms masterfully crafted from hardwood. “Noct, go do your warm-ups. I gotta have a little chitchat with our resident Architect right here. Now scram.”

Oddly, Noct doesn’t move. He’s regarding Gladio coolly under hooded blue eyes, arms crossed. “About what exactly?”

Unfazed because he’s the bigger person around here, both literally and figuratively, Gladio whistles low under his breath, sassing Noct’s huffy arm-crossing thing. “Didn’t know I needed His Highness’ express permission to talk to her.”

“Yeah,” Noct asserts, like the sky is blue and chocobos can’t fly and you’re all his. “I brought her down here so she’s my responsibility.”

Responsibility, what was that again? Gladio feels his eyebrows shooting up fast enough to launch into outer space. Noct being irresponsible is an ancient prophecy everyone and their grandmas heard of, but Noct being responsible is definitely not written anywhere in the Cosmogony, nope, not even a little footnote tacked at the end of the last page. What is he, some sort of feudal-era dad marrying off his daughter or something? The absurdity of the mental image gets Gladio chuckling a little.

“Responsibility is a big word, Noct, gotta be careful with that,” he points out. “You sure you wanna take responsibility over her paperwork, about two or three whole stacks of ‘em?”

That gets Noct decolorizing faster than expected and he’s all too happy to jump to his feet. “Gonna go get my warm-ups done. See ya.”

And that’s that. Noct betrays you just as easily, stalking off in the direction of the weapons. Gladio’s chuckling dissolves into barking laughter, colouring Noct’s nape with that same awkward red from earlier. Dropping on the polished floor, he snorts at Noct’s direction. “Heh, he freaks out on the big stuffs all the damn time. Chickens out the moment someone says the R word. Don’t let it offend ya, kid.”

“Not offended at all, don’t sweat it,” you answer, plain. There’s a bit of an improvement though, your tone is no longer as monotonous as a machine, sometimes ending in a breathier note, or dropping significantly whenever you’re distressed. None of that robotic rubbish whatsoever, probably thanks to Noct’s constant meddling in your life. “I know His Highness is a busy man, even if he looks all irresponsible. I just wanna be there to support him and the kingdom. It’s my duty as an Andronicus anyway, so it’s no biggie.”

Gladio huffs under his breath and scratches his cheek at the bit on the Andronicus. And that’s another matter altogether when it comes to your lineage. “Yeah… about that, I wasn’t joking about the paperwork. We’ve got whole stacks of them, standard security stuff on your background.” He sees you readying a rebuttal, all the more ready for your responsibility, and he holds up a hand to stop you from going further. “Hold your chocobos. Your situation’s a little difficult than the rest of the usual stuff we’ve got. Y’know what I mean?”

Of course you do, he knows you’re smarter than the average brat out there. The placidity in your eyes is deceptive, gazing unflinchingly into his. With each syllable, your lips curve, adopting a change in your languid lilt. “I’m aware of my unique predicament. I’m always doing things behind father’s back anyway, so it’s not a surprise if he finds out sooner or later. He can’t stop me.” Almost to yourself, your eyes trail aside and you murmur, “He’s long lost the power to control my life the moment I came to the Citadel. He knows he’s losing this war I waged. We’re now playing against time, that’s all.”

That’s—well, a little unnerving to hear.

Slack-jawed, it takes a moment for Gladio to dissociate the groaning, moaning mess curled up apologetically earlier from this conniving creature splayed before him. All lashes lidding low, examining a raveling thread on your thighs with the apathy of a queen, despite having uttered words an average twenty-something wouldn’t dream of a lifetime. How easily you switch depends on the matter, going from the ungainly girleen into this Machiavellian lady in mere seconds. As much as you paraded yourself as a harmless being, there is no denying the Andronicus inside.

And the Andronici are some of the most impersonal, inhumane nobles serving the Lucii Kings.

Gladio shuts his mouth with a hard click, getting his head in the game. He leans forward with a look meant to daunt those who’ve heard of the Amicitia, but you remain unconcerned. “What makes you so sure you’re gonna serve Noct?” he presses on. “What if your dad overrides your decision to become the next head of Andronicus, kid? You got backup ideas ready?”

Something about your illusory indolence feels off, gets his gut feeling roiling inside. “I already have plans in store,” you say. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t involve His Highness in my own mess, you have my word.”

Always answering things in a vague, roundabout way like what Noct complained when he first came across your existence, huh. Unless he resorts to brute force, he doubts he can wring anything from you without breaking an arm or two. Or ringing alarms somewhere else in their pentagonal friendship cycle. Still, as long as you’ve got Noct’s wellbeing as the number one priority in that pretty little head of yours, you’re entitled to your own secrets. You can deal with Quintus however you deem fit, since it’s your domestic problem to begin with. Stepping into someone’s familial crossfire isn’t exactly outlined in his job scope as Noct’s Shield anyway.

Putting an end to this, Gladio pulls himself up and points at you to stay. “Well, your document’s gonna be highly confidential stuff since we’re working against your dad here, so I’ll just bring it up to my old man, Clarus Amicitia, in case you don’t know who he is. Be prepared if he wants to meet you.” He pauses, then finding it appropriate to tack on a grin just for the sake of fucking around with you. “Personally.”

He doesn’t expect you to laugh but you do, a small, high sound that catches him off-guard with the brilliance of your smile.

LATER ON, Gladio chances a glance at your sealed envelopes. All six stacks bear the same name, marked at the top right hand corner in a careful cursive. Andronicus, and nothing more.

“the prophecy speaks of a king,” quintus utters, low. “a king who vanquishes eos’ illness. the true king.”

seated behind his impressive desk, against a curtain of crimson, he is the very picture of an imperator. well, byron supposes people do call him quintus the compeller for the very same reasons. standing near a suit of armour, byron pours some gourmet tea as he tries to tune out quintus the same way he tunes out a scream: by stabbing until the scream turns to squelches. he fashions his expression into one of apathy when he brings over the tray, setting it on the edge of the carved desk.

quintus does not wait for him to usher a cup at his direction; he takes as he pleases, tinkling china against china harshly after a deep sip. “what good will there be for a true king to emerge when niflheim is more than ready to snuff us out come tomorrow? rather than worrying about the impending darkness, i’d rather if his majesty would renew his efforts on reestablishing the military.”

this, byron inquires with careful curiosity. “reestablishing the military, sir?”

“he believes it to be futile effort.” quintus clicks his tongue, ridiculing the king’s trite choice of words. he sets down his teacup so sharply until it chips at the edges. “i respect him but i beg to differ, as this is a matter of life and death. our people are dying outside the old wall. daemons, mts, monsters, you name it, we have it. dissolving the military and rebranding it as the crownsguard is a foolhardy move executed by none other than the late king mors’ father. are the people beyond the walls not the people of lucis as well? they, too, deserve the lavish sense of security insomnia affords. if we cannot provide them the crystal’s protection, then we can surely offer them the reassurance of our military’s strength, no matter how little we may have. by ignoring their plights, by letting the imperials run free on our lands, we have abandoned them—no,” he bellows, tensing, “we spat on their faces.”

interesting. byron hums under his breath, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his sentiment. quintus seems content enough to continue his spiel of spite after refreshing himself with polishing off the lasts of his tea, and it has byron all too pleased to pour another cup.

“the kingsglaive may exist to handle our external crises, wars, riffraff, but tell me: how will we survive without them? those serving under our banner are none other than commoners with an aptitude in magic—they live outside the walls, yet, the king forsakes their villages, their tiny towns, just to keep insomnia safe. if we do not protect them, who will protect us once the last glaive dies? no,” quintus shakes his head, fingers laced tightly together, “i will not stand for this any longer. what my ancestors have failed to finish, that is to grant the outsiders equal rights to safety and revolutionizing their technology, i will strive to accomplish during my reign as the head of the andronicus, down to my very last breath.”

how moving. is this the very same man who left his speech on byron’s skin in long, red lines? spoken like a true man of the battlefield, one who operates insomnia the same way one operates a cadaver. he is attempting to reanimate lucis’ corpse by removing its decaying internal organs and swapping them with cables and switches. all the problems infesting lucis will be systematically tackled in stages, starting from the advancement of the army, right until the protection of its people. yet the problem lies with the king and his councilmen, and it is an obstacle quintus cannot resolve without challenging the king himself.

one cup turns to two, and two turns into three. with each cup, byron finds his thoughts swimming deeper and deeper until the dregs are all that’s left in the pot.

“YOU SEE, I DON’T LIKE MESS.” Byron begins, all conversational as he pulls latex gloves over his hands. The elastic snaps when he ensures they are snug around his wrists, and he smiles in satisfaction. “Whenever I see something messy, I get migraine. Long, horrible migraine, like someone sawing my brain. Do you ever feel that?”

A muffled cry.

Byron’s eyes crinkle into crescents at the pathetic sound. “Wonderful, I’m glad you understand. You must forgive me for my crude methods, of course, because it makes for easier cleanup when I’m done. Saved me from another migraine, good chap.”

There is a certain container wedged between blocks of steel that Byron calls his own. Nobody comes to these abandoned industrial dumpsites because who wants to deal with all the acrid stench and squelching maggots underneath their boots? Rusted cars missing their engines and wheel-less trucks are stacked one atop another, a brown stream of waste constantly seeping through decaying bags. Noxious fumes permeate the air, a permanent reminder of his origins: The streets, the sewers, the tin roof for Percival’s hideout and moldy, peeling walls.

Plastic crinkles under his weight, step by step to the table.

In here, everything is clean and white. White plastic tacked to the metal walls, white plastic over steel surgical trolley, an array of knives with white handles arranged in too-straight line. White is easy to stain. He’d know this very well, of course, since he’s been blessed with the very same whiteness. White is beautiful, pristine, the very shade representing purity. Yet, with just a fleck of colour, white stains.

Another muffled scream, and Byron raises his head.

Strapped on a rickety wooden chair, a weasel-looking forty-something man appears to be struggling in his binds. The Informant is trying to escape. Oh dear. He can’t have that, can he?

“It is ill-advised to escape,” Byron breathes out, tipping his chin. Too stoic, too blunt, and too smiling. “You know I’ll come and find you wherever you are, and I’ll make it more painful in our next meeting. Please, for your own good, stay quiet. I dislike rowdiness.”

Goodness, that gets the man thrashing more than he expected, the cloth gag barely muffling all the please and no and stop stop stop stop. Eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, sweat raining his receding hairline, he looks at Byron in what seems to be a mixture of contempt and terror. Really, he should decide on an emotion and channel it properly instead of delivering this half-assed excuse of an expression. Even his apathetic keeper managed better than that.

Byron heaves a heavier sigh, shoulders drooping at the sight. Something pulses faintly at the back of his head. “I gave you your warning, and you chose to disregard it. Very well.”

In theory, cleaving a human involves a body and a knife. Two simple objects readily found anywhere with varying levels of difficulty. In practice, it gets a little more complicated than that. It starts with the selection of tools, finding the best fit for the job. A screwdriver is to stab as an axe is to decapitate. But before all the excitement turns his nerves into jitters, he wants answers. And he wants them now.

“There is a certain dog I’ve taken to feeding, you see, for it is such a wretched, pitiable thing until I can’t bear the sight. In return, this dog carries news for me from far and wide. It’s been the utmost help, of course.” Byron reminds him, latex fingers squeaking over the stainless steel of the trolley. “However, I realized that this certain dog keeps running with his tail between his legs between two masters. A dog certainly has to be loyal to only one master, don’t you think so too?”

He catches the man vocalizing a quiet fuck from his throat.

Ah yes, bingo. Byron’s smile is painfully static as he traces absentminded circles on the tray, watery greys in his eyes turning molten steel. “You didn’t think I’d catch on, did you?”

More cursing, and the man thrashes harder, shaking like he’s got a seizure from just sitting in a chair. His perspiration is rank and Byron has half the mind to skin him just to get rid of the smell, but playing with food is very bad manner for a butler like him. Everything has to be done with clean precision, since he loathes leaving a mess behind.

“How long have you been in this business again?” Byron poses a rhetorical question, knowing the answer better than the man himself. “More than two decades, am I right? You’ve clearly underestimated the people you worked with. They might’ve not noticed your transgressions, but,” he bends at the waist, staring straight into the ruddy redness of the man’s eyeballs, bopping him lightly on his grimy nose, “I did.”

The Informant howls in his face, shivering, tears dampening the gag around his mouth. Awful sound, Byron can’t imagine what it’d be like without the handy cloth muffling his cry. The man breathes hard through his nose, lapsing into hysteric fits and kicking his bound limbs as if they’d come loose like a charming soap opera on the television. It’s useless, he knows that much, but maybe he held a faint hope in his heart that Byron’s overlooked something critical in a moment like this, like the knots are loose or the rope is frayed at the edges. Hope, he can keep hoping all he wants before Byron cuts his life out of him.

Straightening, Byron considers his choices, alternating glances between the knives. Should he go for the standard kitchen set, or the heavier butcher’s piece? Of course, each tool comes with its pros and cons. One is delicate, suited for carving initials into skin, and the other holds only one purpose: To hack meat into cubes. Coming to a decision, he hums and selects the latter. Cold and hefty in his hands, the perfect weight in its build. He runs a thumb over its blade, letting it glint under the fluorescent light.

Please please please stop is scattered between pleas for mercy and cries of apology, and the poor soul might run dry from tears if he keeps yowling like this.

Unfortunately, that is not an answer.

“Careful,” he cautions, lifting the blade to the light, examining its make under blinding whiteness. “The more you cry, the harder I’ll make it for you to die.”

As though Byron’s warning is a hammer to his chest, The Informant heaves and sputters, choking under the gag, swallowing all the noises he made with great effort. The container drops into silence, an overall improvement to the situation, save for stifled sniffling. Good. He likes it better this way. Dropping to his knees, Byron casually drags the knife up the length of the man’s feet—ah, he’s gone ahead and flinched from the cool metal, and now the knife nicked itself right in his flesh. Blood wells up and runs down the plastic. The Informant whimpers, biting off his cry in desperation.

“Have you heard of the death by a thousand cuts? No? That’s okay. Here, I’ll show you, though—“ Byron stops short with a soft laugh, “mine will contain a slight variation to accomplish my mission. Do forgive me for being unable to stay true to the original.”

A butcher’s knife is not meant to saw through meat. There’s no harm in trying anyway, so Byron sets to work. He drags it up and down across the little toe like he’s playing a violin, streaking steel in scarlet. At the back of his head, someone screams. A mindless hum, so he ignores it. The flesh gives way so easily under his ministrations, slowly but surely, and soon enough, there’s a satisfying friction once the blade reaches the bone. Here, Byron supposes, is where his experience tells him to hold enough pressure just to get it to yield. Tedious job, murdering someone. Wouldn’t recommend it to anyone searching for a pretty Credit.

Putting his bountiful knowledge to the practice, Byron grips the hilt tighter and applies just enough pressure with every push and pull of the knife. A raw scream, eyeballs rolling back, jerking with every grate. Please no is back again, this time punctuated by heavy sobs tearing out of his chest of how I’ve got a wife and my kids are gonna starve without me and bla bla bla, Byron’s heard this shit before, heard this too many times on the dull phonograph, seen the heavy wife scolding two scoundrels drawing on one of the many walls near the squatters, and then she gathers them into her arms with a weary sigh and—

—a satisfying crack, and the little toe rolls on the plastic.

Oh. He must’ve applied more pressure than he thought. That won’t do.

Fuck it hurts rips from the man’s throat, Martha Joseph Alvin is recited as final prayer, and Byron feels the pulsing in his head budding into the beginnings of a migraine and why does the damn man care so much for his family when Percival never gave a fucking shit whether Byron’s got anything left in his hands? No fucking mother to coddle his cries, no fucking father to catch his back, no fucking friend to care if he’s not breathing six feet underneath Duscae, turning into fertilizer for the wildlife. Nobody gives a fucking shit about him, not even Quintus, not even—

He raises the knife high and brings it down, a butcher and his meat.

Crimson all over the plastic, such satisfaction, but it’s not enough. Half of a foot is on his chopping board, the white of the bone peeking through meaty red. It’s not fair Byron’s going through this shit alone. Should he amputate the man just so he’d suffer Lavinia’s fate in Titus Andronicus? Cleave off his tongue, sever the joints of his arms and legs, leaving only his torso behind? Someone should suffer the same fate, shouldn’t they? Someone tangled too deeply in the Andronici’s mess deserves to live through the very same tragedy, don’t they?

Yes, he decides in morbid fascination, they should.

The knife is raised high once more.

WHITE, TOO, CAN BE CORROSIVE, just like acid.

o'er rotted soil, under blighted sky a dread plague the wicked has wrought. in the light of the gods, sword-sworn at his side 'gainst the dark the king's battle is fought. from the heavens high, to the blessed below, shines the beam of a peace long besought. "long live the line, and this stone divine, for the night when all comes to naught."

cosmogony: 15:2, nadir.

YOU ARE SORE ALL OVER thanks to the brutal beating of your first day. So sore from your third rep until you marvel at how dedicated Noctis can be, never breaking out of his stance as he took on Gladio in training. By the time you’ve wrapped up your set of push-ups, vision blurring and head spinning, he’s still parrying Gladio’s unforgiving strikes, quicker on his feet to match Gladio’s hulking brawn. He bursts in and out of the fight—warp-strike, he calls it—as flickers of magic drift around him like shards of broken mirrors, illuminating the floors in fractured blues.

Now, seeing him sprawled over the stretch of your bed sheets and comforters, he is an entirely different being from the aggressive prince prowling the training halls. Here, he is the lazy prince, one who conquers sixty percent of your land and demands more than fifty percent of your pillows. A conqueror through and through. If you listen hard enough, you can hear a small buzz in his breathing. His beautiful, expressive eyes are closed, dark lashes a stark contrast against his porcelain skin. Arm half-raised over his head and another resting on his chest, the comforters long gone and kicked off his body, tangling around his ankles.

Limber limbs, agile body, an unrelenting strength.

Your king is a pretty, pale prince, all ink spattered on snow.

Sitting up halfway, you unravel the twists and turns of his comforter and gently draw it over his body, letting the familiar heaviness cocoon him. It falls in the dips between his legs and arms and neck, but you’re careful enough to smoothen the fabric in all the nooks and crannies to ensure nothing’s exposed. It won’t do to have him catching cold limbs in your workspace, hindering all his princely progress if he falls ill. You’ve barely finished tugging the comforter over his feet when he shifts under you, rustling the sheets.

“Mmmh?” A voice thick with sleep. Noctis struggles with holding up his head, the hand over his hair catching a long yawn. “What’re you doing…?”

Patting the finishing touches to his feet, you drop onto the last forty percent of your land with your pillow. Comfort can be subjective when it comes to layered sheets playing the part of a makeshift mattress, but Noctis hasn’t complained thus far. The thought has you burrowing deeper into your own nest. “Nothing, Prince. Go back to sleep.”

Sleepy as he is, he still studies you how one reads a menu, head all full of delicious thoughts—and perhaps still basking in the afterglow of delicious dreams. The beautiful blue of his eyes are the skies across Galdin Quay, resting heavily on your face. So beautiful, you catch your fingers almost touching perfection. “You sure it’s nothing?”

No. You lick your bottom lip to divert the thought, ducking your head when Noctis drops his gaze to the flit of your tongue, staring at your spit-shiny lips. All traces of sleepy blue are erased, waxing interest in its stead. Interest that you are unwilling to entertain, lest he demands your thoughts. “A thousand times yep.” Shoving your discomfort into the distance, you turn your back to him. Face buried in your pillow, you await suffocation to claim you into slumber. “Gonna get some sleep, see ya.”

“Hey.”

Noctis is saying something, inexplicably intent on preventing you from having the last word.

You pretend you’re fast asleep, emulating an even breathing just to get him to stop. What other choices do you have left? This is bad. You should sleep. Sleep always rids you of your apprehension the same way Byron rids you of your nightmares. Sleep should soothe your aching calves and twitching thighs, a restful balm meant to rejuvenate those who are weary. Sleep should distract you from this—whatever it is you’re thinking, whatever it is the prince wants to do with you.

“Hey,” he tries again, a touch louder this time. “Your hair is in my face.”

You give a start—really? Only to realize a second too late that he’s nowhere near your hair, nowhere close enough to breathe down your neck. What he’s looking for is the startled jerk just to see if you’re awake, and you fell for it. Drat. Knowing he’s bested you this time, you clear your throat and tighten your hold on the pillow. “Turn the other way round then, Prince.”

“Don’t wanna,” he says, voice gone quiet. “You turn around.”

That’s unfair. That’s unfair because he knows you can’t say no to him. Who are you to deny what the prince wants?

Resigning to your fate for the second time today, you finally turn again. Noctis is still where you last saw him, lying on his side, the comforter you pulled hanging off his shoulder. It gets your fingers scrambling for your own, tugging the weighty cotton over your head, leaving only a loose gap around the edges of your face. Trying to find something to distract you from thinking about the weight of his gaze, or the lazy drag of his eyes from your lips to your neck. Trying to string a sentence or two about something—anything, as long as he doesn’t look at you like this.

After a while, he snorts inelegantly. “You look like an egg.”

A what?

“An… egg?” The words are already out from your mouth before you’re consciously filtering them.

Noctis mimics what seems to be wrapping his head from a blanket of air, a live demonstration of his meaning. “Yeah, an egg,” he explains matter-of-factly, dropping his hand to the sheets once more. “Y’know, hard-boiled egg. That stuff. Your comforter’s all white and your face is just—“

“—the yolk,” you finish for him, almost incredulous, almost borderline wanting to smother him under your pillow if you could. Here you are, worrying if he’s read your thoughts, and he comes up with this? “Really, Prince? An egg?”

“Yep.” Remorseless, curling his bottom lip, nodding all the same. “Got a problem?”

Incredible. All you can do is to gawp at him, wordless. An egg, really? An incredibly specific egg—a hardboiled egg? With your face for the yolk? Precisely at that point in your life, you realize Noctis can be quite trying at times. Is that why Gladio was grinning all morning long? Just waiting for you to be suckered into his same experience? You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, seeing how your morning routine tumbled into a disaster with him by your bedside, hauling you to an unannounced training session, and then tapping your thighs when you experienced excruciating pins and needles from sitting on your knees for too long.

If today’s a sneak preview for your future, who knows what’s in store many more weeks after?

Trying to gain a semblance of rationality, you nod—then shake—before settling on a nod again. “Yeah. Yeah I’ve got a problem. Your comment failed to crack a smile on the Egg Queen's face. That was ineggscusable. Good night, Prince.”

“What.” Noctis deadpans, obviously not expecting that to backfire on him. “Want me to snap a pic for proof? You gotta see it to believe it.”

Yanking the rest of the comforter over your face, you decide it’s best to spend the rest of your evening with a nap.

“Go to sleep, Prince. If you'll eggscuse me, I bid you a very good night.”

[tbc.]

Notes:

this chapter isn’t particularly my favourite and a few things felt awkward/misplaced, but i think my editing skills have gone down the drain and i couldn't particularly make anything work. ( ´△｀) i’m sorry sometimes my writing just goes down under and doesn’t wanna come back up. i’ve been awake for the past 31 hours now and i’m absolutely planning to pass out after this.

but yes, thank you for still sticking around and reading this update! and thank you for sending in messages and asks on my tumblr about my current job, even though i couldn’t reply much on time (especially with the asks) while i was away abroad. it’s been really nice chatting with some of you readers and you kind anons as well ❤ i’ll be called for another flight sometime soon seeing how november/december schedule is really packed (holiday season actually stands for…horrible season), but i’ll still do my best to have a consistent update (or update you readers on the status on my tumblr).

i hope life treats you well ❤ here’s a preview on the next chapter!

PREVIEW:

As usual, Noctis doesn’t seem to exist in the equation. Not that he’s surprised, he’s long classified Byron as one of those cynical bastards thriving on treating others as though their collective intelligence is on par with five-year-olds. Scoffing under his breath, Noctis folds his arms over his chest and follows you this time around, letting you lead the way to your room. Byron is all fancy bows as though he’s mocking Noctis for some reasons, throwing the door open with an exaggerated flourish and shutting it behind him once they’re all safely inside.

°˖ ✧◝(○ ヮ ○)◜✧˖ ° and also just because i was editing chapter 23, have a super-future preview of chapter 23 as well!

PREVIEW | 23:

“You wanna tell me what it feels like to have someone else on top of you?” Noctis murmurs.

#Noctis Lucis Caelum #ffxv #final fantasy xv #noctis x reader #noctis/reader #final fantasy xv fanfic #noctis #gladiolus amicitia #Gladio #the next chapter will have byron vs noctis #and it's pretty much one of the chapters i laughed while writing #yeah those were the days #thank you for sticking around dear readers!#lazy people

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beauvoyr · 7 years ago

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Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 6

blooming | the architect’s book of friends Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, and an inappropriate amount of references to video games and classical music and literature titles, no beta we die like men ;;v;; pre-canon a.k.a before FFXV Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: AO3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership.

Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories.

IT DOESN’T TAKE IGNIS MUCH time to find what he’s been searching for. The Royal Library, a separate section in the Citadel spanning over four gargantuan floors, is a labyrinth of wood and papers building up the history of the Lucian Kingdom. An area whose silence rivals a mausoleum, certainly not many frequented the library unless they are either the royalty, or one of the Lucian historians working for King Regis. And knowing Noctis, it’s very likely that he’s only set foot in here once or twice out of his entire lifetime.

All clean decor of black marble and delicate crystalline chandeliers, Ignis navigates himself through the automated barriers to locate the librarians. Of course, given his title as the prince’s advisor, they are generous enough to redirect him to some of the many computers hooked up to the walls. Despite the breadcrumbs of information on the Andronici stored in the archives, the digital collection of newspapers did not disappoint him. Ignis clicks on one of the two articles showing up on the computer screen, green eyes glinting as he scans over the title.

THE ANDRONICI FAMILY’S GENIUS

The Andronici welcomes another doctorate holder in the house. This is an achievement unlike any other in Lucis, as the youngest Andronicus is only 19 years old. A private graduation ceremony was held in the House of Andronicus to commemorate this event. Quintus Andronicus, the current head of the House of Andronicus, mentions that he expects nothing less for someone bearing the name of the Andronicus. He has declined further interviews on the matter.

A brief article devoid of pronouns, sidestepping the delicate matter of your birth. No mentions were made on your thesis, and not even the university you graduated from. You were, for a lack of better word, erased out of everyone’s sight. Perhaps Quintus had generously paid an additional sum for the journalist not to mention anything further, or certain threads are sewn upon the lips of those who chatter too much; that, Ignis doesn’t know.

What he knows is this: The more he pries on the Andronici, the sooner he’ll find himself erased as well.

With that thought lingering in his mind, Ignis closes the article with a click and deletes the browser’s history.

and so, it has become a routine of sorts. the days go by a little bit easier now, less empty, less lonelier, because your head’s all clogged up with thoughts of mama. mama and her undying elegance—talented fingers pressing in each note on the piano, as you’d sit in the adjoining parlour with your ear pressed to the door, a hand in your mouth to stifle your sobs. the astrals must’ve blessed mama, you see, for she births music as easily as she breathes. a debussy for a day, and a satie for the next. sometimes she’d sing along, a wordless mime of the music she makes, and you follow her song, albeit your broken warble remains incomparable to her songbird voice.

each day, she plays a tune for you. each day, she presses her lips to the door, kissing you through the wood.

and each day, byron stands dourly at the back, keeping a watchful eye over the entrance lest anyone intrudes.

IT USED TO BE A PRISON of glass. The world outside of the prison tempts you with many sights and sounds, but they all remained out of reach, obstructed by that cold, transparent wall. Try as you might, pounding your fists until you bleed, and you’ll still amount to nothing. Byron likened you to that of a tragic bird in a cage. With him as your arms, you could grapple and reach between the iron bars for slivers of pleasure from the outside world. Red apples from Cleigne, cute stationeries with cats printed on them, fashionable pair of heels trendy girls would wear, or a book on the Seven Wonders of the Lucis Kingdom for your imagination to take you places.

But what would you call those who willingly stepped foot inside this cage of yours?

“Shit—Noct, get that wyvern off my back! It’s poisoning me!”

Rapid keystrokes and the prince’s eyebrows are all furrowed, face perfectly fixed in a scowl. “Get out of the AOE, I’ll take the threat from you. Architect, stay on the boss. DPS until the aggro falls on you, then I’ll come back to tank it.”

You almost rolled your eyes at his command. “Prince, in case you haven’t noticed, the aggro’s already on me. Just that your Ray Jack’s in the way, so it looks like you’re tanking it since you’re absorbing all my hits.” The look on Noctis’ face is best described as the calm before a storm, so you quickly bit your tongue and remedied it with the press of a button. “Right—let me just go and get the wyverns from Prompto while you stay on the boss.”

For a scholar who devours words all your life, your tongue struggles with naming this feeling.

This feeling of having Noctis on your right, elbows propped up on one of your pillows, lying on his stomach as he fends off the boss’ attacks in desperation. The feeling of Prompto to your left, chewing on his bottom lip, whining when the boss knocks him out and you had to revive him, thanks to Kaliva’s necromancy. This feeling of being cocooned in your blanket, resting your head on a pillow, hands holding up your phone when Prompto sends a heart emote to Kaliva as thanks, narrowly fleeing the fiery onslaught from the boss’ wrath.

Does it matter if it had a name in the end?

No, you suppose. It doesn’t matter at all.

Noctis lands the final blow with Ray Jack’s special ability and the prince’s lips immediately curl into a smirk, nailing a high five to Prompto when the screen lights up in VICTORY. To you, he nudges you in the shoulder with his elbow in what seems to be a show of appreciation, and you return it with lightly punching him in the arm, feeling the briefest tug of a smile on your face. No sooner than you felt it—

you are a weak and foolish child for harbouring such feelings

—it drops, automatic, and you immediately refashion it into a neutral expression, turning away from the prince’s sharp eyes.

No.

It wouldn’t do.

This wouldn’t do at all.

“Maaaaaan, that was so tough, I’m so lucky I only died once!” Prompto groans, dragging a hand over his face as he flops backwards on the floor. “Seriously—this event’s gonna be the death of me! How much longer do we have to farm until everyone gets their five-star weapon!?”

And you’re thankful for his untimely interference, even if he doesn’t realise his heroic action.

Almost reluctant, Noctis passes it off and looks at Prompto, who’s already lying on the ground like he just got out from a life-and-death fistfight with the daemons. “You’d be long dead if King’s Knight isn’t a video game, buddy.”

“Noct, buddy,” the blond corrects him with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, “I know I’m definitely stronger than Toby right here. Just you wait until I get all the credits to give him a new rank—he’s gonna come equipped with epic debuff skills and you’re gonna cry for my help in the long run. Still not too late for you to say sorry to me, y’know.”

Amidst their pleasant bantering with one another, Noctis’ low voice contrasting deeply with Prompto’s affronted squawks, you find yourself rolling over to your side, scrolling through your list of friends in King’s Knight. What used to be an empty space has three boxes on its screen now, each detailing the nickname, the class, and the pixelated rendition of the player’s character. NoctGar Ray Jack the Warrior, Noctis’ character. Chocoboy Toby the Thief, Prompto’s selection. And Beefcake Barusa the Giganto, Gladio’s newest addition to your book of friends.

It’s strange having all of them here together with you, even if it’s just on your phone. A silly notion father would’ve scoffed at, easily dismissing it with a derisive click of his tongue.

You almost missed the sound of the doorknob turning as the door swivels open, and all the raucous chatter in your room died down just as immediately as a white blob emerged from the doorway. Of course—you definitely couldn’t have missed the scarlet glare in the sea of murky greys, nor the prim ponytail slung over one shoulder.

Byron closes the door behind him, taking off his leather shoes and socks with one hand and a bagful of groceries in the other. You could hear Prompto whispering under his breath, a soft who’s that? followed by Noctis’ noncommittal murmur of I can kinda guess in reply.

“Good day, milady,” Byron greets, an unmistakable cheer in his voice, yet the quick scan of his eyes across the room says otherwise. Putting down the chunky paper bag, he takes no interest in the two new occupants, instead finding more joy in restocking your fridge with two cartons of eggs and chunks of butter. “There was a good deal on the eggs and you know me, I can’t resist a good deal. Picked up some strawberries for dessert too, so we can have some tarts for tea later on.”

You pull yourself up from the floor, languid, and rub a hand over your neck guiltily. Throwing an apologetic look over your shoulder, Prompto only makes abstract movements of confusion, while Noctis is hardly any better, just alternating furtive glances between Byron and the fridge.

Once restocking the fridge is crossed off his agenda, Byron straightens up, reaching over the counter to procure a frying pan. His gloved hands expertly lights the stove, wields a spatula like a dagger, all the while rambling on. “The weather’s getting terribly cold lately, milady, until I’ve been having so much trouble trying to stay warm while I’m sleeping. Do you think I should invest in better blankets? Or should I wear more layers when I go to bed?” He hums a little, oils the pan in stunning fluidity, and cracks an egg. “Should I go for both? Or am I going to catch fire and die in my sleep?”

From behind, Prompto’s whispering continues with a conspiratorial dude, is this guy okay in the head? and met with Noctis’ low murmur of dunno, go and ask her what she thinks, and now Prompto’s tapping you on the shoulder, giving you weird facial expressions and thumbing at Byron.

This is definitely going nowhere. You placate the blond by patting his knee, reassuring him with a thumbs-up, and clearing your throat. “Byron—“

“Ah yes, before I forget.” The sizzle of egg fills the air and Byron fixes you with a look. The knowing slant on his lips has disappeared, shadowed by something else altogether. “Your father sends his kindest regards. He’s pleased to know you’ve made tremendous progress while living here. Aren’t you glad, milady?”

THE MOMENT HE MENTIONS QUINTUS, whatever’s on your lips left your mouth, replaced with a vacant look again. Noctis knows he’s seen this before, seen those times when you bite back on your emotions and revert into the non-existent shell of a human you are. Denying even the smallest of smiles, you only wore the lightest of frowns or the barest of scowls, keeping the rest of your emotions stowed in a chest—away, far, far away where the prying eyes couldn’t see, and the knowing tongues wouldn’t wag.

How absurd it is to make another person deny their feelings, robbing them of their humanly rights.

It’s as if you had no right to begin with.

To dignify the albino’s question with an answer, you lift your chin and regarded him, sedate. “Please thank father the next time you see him again.”

Curt, almost dismissive in nature. Whether or not you’ve taken it to heart, Noctis is unsure, not when you are toneless, emotionless, expressionless to everything else around you. A defence mechanism of sorts, maybe? He knows he’s put up quite a few walls when he thinks of the sunsets where his dad was supposed to visit him—only, King Regis didn’t show up and left him all alone to entertain the weight of his thoughts, looking at the pathetic stumps for his legs, thumbing the raised scar that ran across his back.

“An excellent choice, milady,” the albino utters—and Astrals know that Noctis’ seen better smiles on the faces of hyenas than this man right here. He plates a perfectly fried egg, cracks another, and this time scrambles it on the pan with a dash of pepper. “May I know if those two fine young men flanking your sides might be interested in eggs? Scrambled, fried, or sunny side up?

Oh, so now they’re finally getting acknowledged? Something about this guy pisses him off. Still, two could play this game, and Noctis knows he’s the better gamer around here. Crossing his arms over his chest, cocking his head to the side, Noctis puts up a slow, deliberate smile. “Scrambled.”

“Um.” Prompto’s sitting up straighter now, blue eyes the size of chocobo eggs. “Uh, can I ask for an omelette? With some shredded cheese on it? That tastes super good.”

“I’ll throw in some extra milk in the mix,” the man answers airily, already moving towards the fridge to withdraw a carton of milk and flimsy packets of cheese. As the rich scent of fried eggs permeates the air, he works on a second frying pan, stunning his audience of three with intense professionalism that rivals Ignis in the kitchen. Then, almost abruptly, he breaks off to look Noctis in the eyes. “Ah yes, how silly of me. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Byron, her butler.”

Noctis thought as much. “Kinda figured that out a while back.”

His wit goes unappreciated, and the albino—Byron—returns to his task of making them eggs for lunch. “Good to know you’re such an intelligent young man.” Dripping with sarcasm, Noctis notes, but his friends are champions of backseat fishing so he supposes this is the best this Byron guy could do. Oblivious to his internal monologue, Byron cracks open a second egg and lets it fall on the oiled pan with a crackle. “What about the other young man over there? You look positively adorable with your chocobo-themed hairstyle.”

The sarcasm lost on Prompto, he immediately perks up. “The name’s Prompto, nice to meet you.”

And Byron doesn’t even offer him a second glance. “Likewise.”

Is that sentiment even mutual? Clearly it isn’t. With how Prompto’s grin becomes downcast in mere seconds, it’s telling enough. A part of Noctis wants to shut this guy down for being such a cynical bastard, all haughty grandeur even if he’s just standing at your kitchenette, frying some eggs Noctis doesn’t even care about. Because nobody gets away with treating Prompto like that. Nobody gets away with treating his friends like that.

He’s already opening his mouth to offer his rebuttal with a snarl, but you’ve already set your face straight and cuts him off.

“I don’t appreciate the way you’re talking to them,” you utter, and every single word slipping past your lips makes him stare. “Please don’t repeat that unless you want to make me angry. They’re my friends.”

Friends. It must’ve been a foreign word missing in your lexicon, for a moment of self-doubt manifests as soon as it tumbles from your lips. You cast a look at Prompto, inquisitive, and the blond only returns it with a standard Prompto Smile™ before you turn to Noctis, giving him the same inquisitive look. A worrying, searching look. As if reaffirming that this is friendship and yes, they’re your friends, and Six forbid that anyone takes it away from you.

To others, it must’ve looked stupid because a twenty-year old is only starting to make friends.

But hey, Noctis supposes, returning your abject look with half a smile, nudging you in the arm, everyone’s gotta start from somewhere.

“what does snow feel like?” you ask, sprawled messily over your unmade bed. byron, in the midst of rearranging your avidly growing collection of novels, catches the pensive look on your face, and straightens up as you fire off more questions. “it’s cold, right? but does it feel like touching solid ice? or is it like touching cold sand? kind of like a popsicle, maybe? hey—hey, byron, what do you think?”

how ridiculous it is for a child to have seen snow, yet deprived of the experience of touching it. all you’ve seen are the white dusts falling from the skies, a rain of white, colouring everything in white, white, and more white. everything the snow touches is preserved in beauty, rendering it a timeless piece.

but you mustn’t know of the outside world.

if you knew, you’d desire it even more.

desire leads to want.

and want leads to need.

clearing his throat, he chances a glance outside the windows and eyes the darkening sky. “it’s cold, yes. what brought this on, milady?”

“well,” you begin, all sheer excitement as you lift the book you’re reading—it’s something byron vaguely recognises as a title he picked out in a local second-hand store last week—and points excitedly to a watercolour picture on its page. childish gushing, ecstatic, all hopeful smiles and wistful sighs. “they’re talking about having a snowball fight with their friends! but snow melts when you touch it, right? so how can they fight with ‘snowballs’ when it’s going to melt the moment they touch it? tell me, tell me!”

ah, the magnificence of childlike innocence. it’s hopeless to deny you of your rights to feel passionate about something. after all, you are only human—even if you are the child of the andronicus. byron resumes his task, half-bent over a shelf of literary classics, and breathes out his warning.

“when you’re with me, it’s all right to feel everything under the blue sky, but you must remember this: in front of others, you mustn’t show your emotions. never. only with me you’re safe, milady. nobody else. you know how much your father hates it. and i don’t wish for him to hurt you.”

THE ANDRONICI FAMILY IS FRIENDLESS, and that’s a fact. They carry themselves with a certain self-assurance that one might misinterpret as excessive arrogance, finding fault with every stray detail obstructing their plans, and keeping themselves at a distance from others, away from friendly contact. Quintus Andronicus, too, made only acquaintances and Byron supposes nobody is deserving enough in their ranks to be called a ‘friend’ to him.

Seeing the beginnings of a frown settling on your forehead, eyes dark, mouth firmly set in a thin line, makes him wonder if all of this ‘friendship’ nonsense will pay off in the end. Nothing good ever stems from building a ‘friendship’ brigade, especially with one like the prince himself. He knows it’s Noctis from the start—who doesn't? The Internet’s full of his face with just a simple search, and the tabloids gossiped about his university life like what the prince is eating should be everyone’s main concern for the day.

Nothing good comes out of this. Nothing.

“My apologies,” Byron offers, yet he knows you’d know he doesn’t mean a single word of it. “Milady, with all due respect, please stop whatever it is that you’re doing now. No,” he firmly cuts you off the moment he sees you readying a retaliation on the tip of your tongue, “stop. Yes, I know you’re all buddies with the Heir of Lucis, but are you ready to destroy everything with this whole friendship nonsense? It’s not worth it, if you ask me.”

“In case you missed it, nobody asked you,” Noctis grits out, and for the slightest moment of humour, Byron finds it cute that the prince is trying to level him with a glower. He’s obviously ten years too young to start a fight he’s not going to win.

“Freedom of speech allows me to say what I want, all in the best interest of milady,” Byron reproaches, wagging a finger warningly. “You know nothing of Quintus Andronicus, so kindly stay out of this, Highness.”

What he said must’ve loosened the muscles in your mouth because you’re openly glaring at him now—and by Six, he’s never been subjected to this level of loathe from you before. Lips curled in disgust, half-lidded eyes, neck fraught in thinly quelled anger, you’re the very image of Ifrit’s wrath ready to scorch those who crossed your path. It’s silly how something as trivial as ‘friends’ would surpass his decade-long servitude with you.

And it’s sillier how this game of friendship’s got you all worked up, ready to defend them with a bite of your fangs.

“No—I know what father is like. I know him best.” You shake your head, staring him down. “He hates it if I have friends, hates it if I show any emotions. So what? I came here to get away from all of that—I purposely came here to get away from him, get away from all of the restrictions he puts me under. I want to live, Byron.”

You’re obviously speaking under great duress right now. He knows where you’re coming from because he’s been there, done that. One year after another, teaching you how to skirt the boundaries of Quintus’ domain, pressing sticky sweets in your clammy fingers with a roguish wink, shielding you behind his figure when the maids pass by with their noses upturned. He’s heard the aged manservants lamenting the dismal disaster of the Andronici daughter, he’s been subjected to their ‘careless’ hands staining his white laundry load with coloured clothes, and—

—you’re looking him in the eye, the glassy reflection of a white visage reflected within.

Fuck. He hates it all.

The egg’s already burnt around the edges and the acrid stench is almost enough to make him retch. He clicks off the stove and shoves the whole pan in the sink, letting it sizzle under a great waterfall from the tap.

“Remember what Quintus said?” he reminds you, trying to keep his voice trimmed from excessive ire. “A great strategist is never one who’s easily influenced by their emotions. A great strategist offers nothing of their thoughts on their faces. While I’ve been at fault for playing a part in your rebellion, part of me hoped that living here would’ve offered you a different perspective on your dreams and aspirations to become the next in line. You know I’ve always encouraged your every step, milady, but there are limits to certain things. Stop this nonsense immediately.”

He doesn’t expect anyone to understand this.

Nobody ever does anyway.

It’s not safe outside for you. It’s not safe for someone like you to showcase your emotions as though it is an art exhibition in the Royal Museum of Lucis and you’re one of the subjects in a painting. It’s not safe for you to be with someone without him. It’s not safe at all. And it’s complicated. Everything’s complicated when it comes to him, when it comes to you, when it comes to the two of you together with Niflheim’s unspoken promise breathing down your back.

But nobody else needs to understand this.

As long as you understood him, then the rest of Eos can go fuck themselves.

Yet, the blond—Prompto—Prompto’s flushed with obvious anger, a scarlet haze crossing his freckled cheeks and colouring the tips of his ears a violent red. Hell, the kid’s even got his hand balled up in a fist. “Dude, what’s your problem? Let her have friends! You’re not her mom. It’s not enough that she’s locked up here—“

“—out of her own volition, must I remind you,” Byron tuts, shutting off the tap and letting the clogged sink stay there for all he damn well cares.

“—yeah but she’s right,” Prompto goes on, all mouthy with the heat coursing through his body like he’s desperate to get it out of his system. “She finally got her freedom and now she’s finally trying to get a life of her own, but you’re taking all of that away from her. What do you even see her as? A robot? She’s a human, for Gods’ sake. Let her have friends.”

To make matters worse, even the prince is under their friendship spell now, wearing a slightly playful grin as he prods you in the side, making you look up at him in surprise. “Heads up; I don’t wanna work with an emotionless robot in the future, got it? So you better work on your expressions a little bit more. Not too late to start now.”

“R-right,” you stammer—and for the love of Six, did you actually stutter like a giggling girleen? That’s completely unheard of. “I’ll work on that, I swear. I think.”

Noctis’ playful grin slips into something else, sliding into a lazy curl of the prince’s lips, and he all but claps you on the back with a hearty thump. “Good.”

It’s just a simple word. Good. Yet Byron knows you’ve been starved of attention, of acknowledgement. The feeling of being recognised, being wanted for something, being given something—just like the abandoned child you are. Even if Noctis is feeding you scraps of praises from his outstretched hand, you’re nothing but a ravenous mongrel eager to lap it all up, licking all over his palm and sucking off his fingers. In all of your disgusting desperation, there is beauty in how you gaze at the prince, the wide-eyed ingénue you are.

Ah.

Byron thinks he knows what this is.

The ardent yearning mirrored in your eyes, veiled partway by your lashes. Dilation of your pupils, unconsciously parting your lips, breathing quietly through your mouth. The fleeting touches Noctis gave you must’ve short-circuited your brain, crossing the wires and sending all sorts of mixed signals in your head. You must’ve not noticed that you sat so close to the prince until his knee bumps against yours, and you both had been like that ever since he first came in. And how long have you been like this with him? Surely it’s been weeks by now, long few weeks with many hours spent on coddling the baby prince.

Were you that desperate to mistaken acknowledgement for love?

This is silly. This is so silly until he knows he has to put a stop to this madness. He’s got to prune the roses from the desolate garden of your heart and leave you with the thorns. There is no choice. Not for you, anyway.

“Best forget that, milady,” Byron quips, pointing at your proximity with Noctis. “You don’t even know how to love to begin with. You’re not made for this.”

That is uncalled for.

He knows.

All is lost when you wrench your gaze away from the prince so sharply until he sees the broken reflection of his whiteness in your watery eyes.

“Get out.”

There it is. He knows he’s hit a nerve for you to use that tone on him. Still, an order is an order after all, and he’s made to follow orders. Despite the many circumstances surrounding your birth and your entire life, he doesn’t fault you for it. Not a single bit. Not when he’s too deeply involved with you to ever go away. Pan in the sink, the bitter stench of burnt egg in the air, Byron saunters over to the exit, slipping on his socks and shoes in a subconscious routine he’s already mastered in a heartbeat. With his hand on your doorknob, he wrenches it open.

There is only a single farewell, but it’s definitely not his last.

“But milady, do remember this,” he says without even looking at you. Not that he needs to anyway, when he knows your eyes are pinning needles in his back with your tears unshed. “You know I can’t live without you.”

And your answer comes just as sharp as the crack of Quintus’ slap.

“Neither can I, but right now, I can’t bear the sight of you.”

IGNIS IS IN THE KITCHEN, and Noctis hunches over his assignment as he scrawls down several key points about this fictional Zeus guy who’s a supposed God in this weird novel their lecturer made them read. He can’t focus even if he tried to think of studying as a means for distraction, not when he’s seen the devastation wrecked in your little home, watching the cracks in your life grow bigger and bigger.

What that butler said still pisses him off—even thinking about his sneering face, all white hair with a heart all black, is enough to irritate him to Galdin and back.

The aftermath of the destruction was a quiet room devoid of sounds, and the only hint he received from you was from the unshed tears brimming your eyes. Yet, you blinked them away, didn’t even sob when Byron closed the door behind him. Prompto was there in two quick steps; he grabbed your shoulder and pulled you in for a hug, running a hand down your back in comforting little circles, whispering it’s okay and hey you’re gonna be fine and shhh we’re here for you in repetition like a looping lullaby. Only then, only after the storm had passed, after your little trembles gave way into even breathing, Prompto pulled away and they left just as quietly.

Sighing, Noctis props his head up with a hand on his chin and banishes the thoughts with the sight of his dull book. Tapping his pen against the list of characters he made on the novel, he skims through his notes again.

There’s Zeus, the almighty God whose number of wives and children could’ve surpassed the Lucian lineage, and his wife Mnemosyne, the personification of memory and remembrance. Together, they had nine children, all of which are muses for inspiration. Memorising all these nine names are definitely going to be a pain in the ass, and Noctis already feels a migraine kicking in as his dark blue eyes scan the names; Calliope of the epic poetry, Polyhymnia of the hymns of Gods, Urania of the stars and astronomy, Melpomene of the tragedy—

“It’s a play written by a certain playwright several hundred years ago,” Ignis says, delivering a brief history lesson as he expertly flips a grilled sandwich in a pan. “A grotesque tragedy, if I must summarise its contents.”

What Ignis said before surfaces in his mind, unbidden.

A tragedy, huh. Much like the title Titus Andronicus, Noctis supposes. Before he realises it, he’s already circling Melpomene with his highlighter, putting a star mark right next to it. Then, he shuts his book and calls it a day.

If this were truly a tragedy, then you were undoubtedly the architect of your own destruction.

[tbc.]

;;v;; hi guys pls don’t hate byron yet, he’s got very good reasons you’ll find out in a few more chapters ;;v;; but that aside, i’m rly blown away by everyone’s kind likes and reblogs and messages! <3 you guys are blessings to my awful work life (work sucks but ah w e l l such is adulting) ;;v;; <3 <3 <3 the next chapter is plot-development fluff so look forward to sleeping with noctis!!!

p/s i screwed up the timeline orz this is what happens when u let a grandma write fics ;;v;; resetting their ages to 20 bc i realised they started somewhere in october and forgot to take into account that noctis’ birthday had already passed _(:’3 im sorry agh i was writing chapter 15 (they’re already starting january) so i want to take this time to apologise for my rapidly deteriorating grandmotherly memory </3

PREVIEW:

“Hey, you look like shit,” Noctis says—and he can mentally imagine his etiquette tutor screaming at him at the back of his head because he did not just address a female nobility like that and oh Six where have I gone wrong? as she wrings her hands tragically. Still, his casual greeting cracks the sleepy stupor you’re in, and your lips curve into a small smile. It’s nowhere a big one, but it’s a start.

#Noctis Lucis Caelum #final fantasy xv #ffxv #final fantasy xv fanfic #noctis/reader #prompto argentum #prompto #ignis scientia #ignis #lazy people

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