any suggestions for names would be most appreciated _____
When Ignis stirs the covers have been dragged from his edge of the bed, and he rolls over already half exposed and chilled in the morning air. He manages to tuck back in under the available edge, shoving his frigid toes out of the cold and enjoying the warmth of Noct's body curling around his back.
Ignis' comfort is short-lived as the blankets are drawn away again by rustling on the far side of the bed.
It's a common annoyance these days. The king-sized sheets are meant to accommodate the bed and its king, not the king and his three closest retainers, particularly when one of them is the size of two and even the smallest of them manages to occupy enough bedding he might as well be. Ignis, unwilling to suffer the stifling consequences of sleeping in the middle and of both normal size and blanket-sharing disposition, is ever the odd man out.
He wouldn't give it up for the world.
A firm tug at the blankets grants him nothing but resistance and Gladio's eye half-open. The blankets are a mountain on top of him, spikes of blond hair peeking above the duvet's edge along his chest. Wherever Prompto had started his night he has ended it laying full bodily on top of Gladio.
"I don't suppose you're getting up?" Ignis says.
From under the blankets comes a muffled, "No."
"Is that so?"
Gladio shrugs; the mountain ripples. "Pinned down, see? No way I can move." As if he couldn't rise as he is and go for a jog still carrying Prompto. Left to their own devices they're both reasonably early risers. Together, however. . .
"You bring out the worst in each other in this, I hope you know that," Ignis says as he sits up and swings his feet to the floor.
For both general sanity and public appearances they all have their own rooms, if only by technicality in Prompto's case. The only space he seems to require to experience any sense of solitude is that behind his camera. Home is wherever he rests, and he rests wherever they are. He likely has more things spread between the other's apartments than he does in the ones that are nominally his own. Ignis, to his own detriment at the moment, is not so free with his belongings. The downside of spending the night in Noct's room unprepared: his clothes from last night are in a rather incriminating array across the rooms of the royal suite, and everything else is down the grand hall in his own apartments, an onerous distance and not one he can travel in his current state.
His consideration is interrupted by a ring of warmth curling around his hips and the glimpse of Noct's dark hair under his arm. They're all in the same boat then this morning: awake yet unwilling to give up their moment of peace and the warmth they'd kept under the covers—until Ignis was left with no covers at all, anyway.
"You're leaving?"
"As soon as I determine where my clothes are. I can hardly manage the breakfast you requested if I stay."
"Who needs 'em?"
"Grease splatters. I would prefer not to face the cooktop unprotected." He's half-expecting Noct to offer something of his own.
"You've got an apron," Noct says as he begins to kiss the tender skin of Ignis' side, a sensation that robs him of any resentment towards Gladio's resistance to rising. "A whole pile of them."
Ignis leans his elbows on his knees—how can be expected to stand against that? He's forced to swallow down the lump in his throat before he can speak. "Your Majesty's powers of observation are unparalleled." Noct truly is an observant and incisive opponent, unafraid to ferret out and use any possible weakness. "To what end, may I ask?"
"Do I need one?"
"Whatever you might need I would hope I could give it." It never fails to feel like a grave admission, no matter how many times and how many ways Ignis makes it. Noct makes a noise like a purring cat against his hip, then there is a sudden chill at his back, a rustle of the blankets.
"Okay, it's cold out there. Go make me breakfast, Specs."
Ignis rises, a touch gingerly courtesy of Prompto's concerted effort to put Noct's headboard through the stone wall last night. He's fully prepared to deliver a teasing earful regarding Noct no doubt seeking solace under the covers at the same time he orders Ignis into the cold. When he turns, though, Noct is grinning up at him, sleepy and beautiful. His head is all that's visible, hair shining blue-black across the stark white sheets. An army of retorts die happy deaths on Ignis' tongue.
"Shall I attend to anything else while you're giving orders?" The tone at least holds a proper amount of sarcasm even if his heart doesn't.
"Shower later," Noct says. "You smell good."
Ignis gives Noct a deferential tip of his head. If he doesn't answer because he doesn't trust his voice at least he can consider his reputation for being of few words well-tended.
Gladio's eye slits open again. "Sucker."
"The Shield of the King is 'pinned down,'" Ignis points out as he puts on his spectacles. "By Prompto."
"He's got a point," Noct says over the muffled protest from under the covers.
Helpfully with Gladio occupying Noct's attention Ignis can escape to the kitchenette off the main sitting room unwatched. On his way he recovers the singlet he wore under his dress shirt from the bookshelf, his trousers in a puddle in front of the sofa where they'd been stripped from him.
He holds them for a moment, and even weighs putting them on. He's sure Noct would not begrudge him.
Ignis will give his life and loyalty for his king, and all that and more for Noct, the bounds of which are lovingly tested by the whimsical edge Noct's requests often take in private.
Not that Noct has technically made a request.
He often doesn't need one of those either.
Ignis prides himself on anticipatory service.
With a pointless glance out the picture windows, he drapes the trousers and shirt over the arm of the sofa. There's no building as tall as the spire of the Citadel in what remains of the old city center, and those beyond it lie empty. For the moment he is alone.
Noct was exaggerating the state of his aprons; he has only three. He chooses the heavy black one in the hopes of some measure of protection, a decision he second-guesses when he drapes the thick fabric over his neck. Even without the treatment he'd received last night he would be sensitive. He is as a rule, and it is no small part of why he avoids such physical exposure, a vulnerability Noct is well aware of. He knows all the ins and outs of Ignis' foibles and weaknesses—as they all know each other's. Which is also why Ignis ties the apron around the front, all too aware of the probability of enterprising hands loosing a knot in back without him knowing.
He takes a moment to breathe carefully and slowly as drafts of air swirl around against skin that's seldom exposed, then sets about preparing the breakfast he planned. He turns the oven on straightaway. It's a welcome if finicky tool, the product of modifications to turn existing quarters into full apartments while the palace kitchens lie in a rubble heap.
To cook in bare feet is unusual, but not enough to be distracting despite the chill of the hard flagstone.
The apron is a. . .peculiar experience. The cold air rolling out of the bottom of the refrigerator against his legs when he opens it, the coarse twill's gentle abrasion everywhere the air does not touch, they are a level of stimulation he could not deal with on a daily basis, not so. . .loose, so uncontrolled. He is adrift, swaying and sensitive in the breeze, and must anchor himself in the meditative rock of his knife on the cutting board, cracking egg after egg.
Days ago, long before any mention of the apron, Noct had asked him to ensure their schedules were clear for a quiet night and morning, a brief respite from the turmoil that still rages in the world as the last vestiges of the Empire collapse and Eos rebuilds. Capricious clothing demands notwithstanding, the opportunity to cook a large indulgent, breakfast for the four of them is a welcome method of offering care when their preferred methods don't come quite so easily to him. Breakfast will be pancakes with berry compote for the sweet tooth Gladio won't admit he possesses, frittata because Noct finds it too difficult to pick out the vegetables to make it worthwhile, two flavors of sausage, both by Ignis' choice although one is hotter than he would prefer. Prompto has a broad palate, a taste for spice, and a reluctance to ask for anything for himself.
At least now that Ignis is up and moving about in a warming kitchen he's rather comfortable.
His comfort is short-lived at the sight of Gladio emerging in his jeans and tank top from last night, as if to taunt Ignis with his ability to do so.
FILL: (1/?) OT4, D/s, Ignis naked except an apron
_____
When Ignis stirs the covers have been dragged from his edge of the bed, and he rolls over already half exposed and chilled in the morning air. He manages to tuck back in under the available edge, shoving his frigid toes out of the cold and enjoying the warmth of Noct's body curling around his back.
Ignis' comfort is short-lived as the blankets are drawn away again by rustling on the far side of the bed.
It's a common annoyance these days. The king-sized sheets are meant to accommodate the bed and its king, not the king and his three closest retainers, particularly when one of them is the size of two and even the smallest of them manages to occupy enough bedding he might as well be. Ignis, unwilling to suffer the stifling consequences of sleeping in the middle and of both normal size and blanket-sharing disposition, is ever the odd man out.
He wouldn't give it up for the world.
A firm tug at the blankets grants him nothing but resistance and Gladio's eye half-open. The blankets are a mountain on top of him, spikes of blond hair peeking above the duvet's edge along his chest. Wherever Prompto had started his night he has ended it laying full bodily on top of Gladio.
"I don't suppose you're getting up?" Ignis says.
From under the blankets comes a muffled, "No."
"Is that so?"
Gladio shrugs; the mountain ripples. "Pinned down, see? No way I can move." As if he couldn't rise as he is and go for a jog still carrying Prompto. Left to their own devices they're both reasonably early risers. Together, however. . .
"You bring out the worst in each other in this, I hope you know that," Ignis says as he sits up and swings his feet to the floor.
For both general sanity and public appearances they all have their own rooms, if only by technicality in Prompto's case. The only space he seems to require to experience any sense of solitude is that behind his camera. Home is wherever he rests, and he rests wherever they are. He likely has more things spread between the other's apartments than he does in the ones that are nominally his own. Ignis, to his own detriment at the moment, is not so free with his belongings. The downside of spending the night in Noct's room unprepared: his clothes from last night are in a rather incriminating array across the rooms of the royal suite, and everything else is down the grand hall in his own apartments, an onerous distance and not one he can travel in his current state.
His consideration is interrupted by a ring of warmth curling around his hips and the glimpse of Noct's dark hair under his arm. They're all in the same boat then this morning: awake yet unwilling to give up their moment of peace and the warmth they'd kept under the covers—until Ignis was left with no covers at all, anyway.
"You're leaving?"
"As soon as I determine where my clothes are. I can hardly manage the breakfast you requested if I stay."
"Who needs 'em?"
"Grease splatters. I would prefer not to face the cooktop unprotected." He's half-expecting Noct to offer something of his own.
"You've got an apron," Noct says as he begins to kiss the tender skin of Ignis' side, a sensation that robs him of any resentment towards Gladio's resistance to rising. "A whole pile of them."
Ignis leans his elbows on his knees—how can be expected to stand against that? He's forced to swallow down the lump in his throat before he can speak. "Your Majesty's powers of observation are unparalleled." Noct truly is an observant and incisive opponent, unafraid to ferret out and use any possible weakness. "To what end, may I ask?"
"Do I need one?"
"Whatever you might need I would hope I could give it." It never fails to feel like a grave admission, no matter how many times and how many ways Ignis makes it. Noct makes a noise like a purring cat against his hip, then there is a sudden chill at his back, a rustle of the blankets.
"Okay, it's cold out there. Go make me breakfast, Specs."
Ignis rises, a touch gingerly courtesy of Prompto's concerted effort to put Noct's headboard through the stone wall last night. He's fully prepared to deliver a teasing earful regarding Noct no doubt seeking solace under the covers at the same time he orders Ignis into the cold. When he turns, though, Noct is grinning up at him, sleepy and beautiful. His head is all that's visible, hair shining blue-black across the stark white sheets. An army of retorts die happy deaths on Ignis' tongue.
"Shall I attend to anything else while you're giving orders?" The tone at least holds a proper amount of sarcasm even if his heart doesn't.
"Shower later," Noct says. "You smell good."
Ignis gives Noct a deferential tip of his head. If he doesn't answer because he doesn't trust his voice at least he can consider his reputation for being of few words well-tended.
Gladio's eye slits open again. "Sucker."
"The Shield of the King is 'pinned down,'" Ignis points out as he puts on his spectacles. "By Prompto."
"He's got a point," Noct says over the muffled protest from under the covers.
Helpfully with Gladio occupying Noct's attention Ignis can escape to the kitchenette off the main sitting room unwatched. On his way he recovers the singlet he wore under his dress shirt from the bookshelf, his trousers in a puddle in front of the sofa where they'd been stripped from him.
He holds them for a moment, and even weighs putting them on. He's sure Noct would not begrudge him.
Ignis will give his life and loyalty for his king, and all that and more for Noct, the bounds of which are lovingly tested by the whimsical edge Noct's requests often take in private.
Not that Noct has technically made a request.
He often doesn't need one of those either.
Ignis prides himself on anticipatory service.
With a pointless glance out the picture windows, he drapes the trousers and shirt over the arm of the sofa. There's no building as tall as the spire of the Citadel in what remains of the old city center, and those beyond it lie empty. For the moment he is alone.
Noct was exaggerating the state of his aprons; he has only three. He chooses the heavy black one in the hopes of some measure of protection, a decision he second-guesses when he drapes the thick fabric over his neck. Even without the treatment he'd received last night he would be sensitive. He is as a rule, and it is no small part of why he avoids such physical exposure, a vulnerability Noct is well aware of. He knows all the ins and outs of Ignis' foibles and weaknesses—as they all know each other's. Which is also why Ignis ties the apron around the front, all too aware of the probability of enterprising hands loosing a knot in back without him knowing.
He takes a moment to breathe carefully and slowly as drafts of air swirl around against skin that's seldom exposed, then sets about preparing the breakfast he planned. He turns the oven on straightaway. It's a welcome if finicky tool, the product of modifications to turn existing quarters into full apartments while the palace kitchens lie in a rubble heap.
To cook in bare feet is unusual, but not enough to be distracting despite the chill of the hard flagstone.
The apron is a. . .peculiar experience. The cold air rolling out of the bottom of the refrigerator against his legs when he opens it, the coarse twill's gentle abrasion everywhere the air does not touch, they are a level of stimulation he could not deal with on a daily basis, not so. . .loose, so uncontrolled. He is adrift, swaying and sensitive in the breeze, and must anchor himself in the meditative rock of his knife on the cutting board, cracking egg after egg.
Days ago, long before any mention of the apron, Noct had asked him to ensure their schedules were clear for a quiet night and morning, a brief respite from the turmoil that still rages in the world as the last vestiges of the Empire collapse and Eos rebuilds. Capricious clothing demands notwithstanding, the opportunity to cook a large indulgent, breakfast for the four of them is a welcome method of offering care when their preferred methods don't come quite so easily to him. Breakfast will be pancakes with berry compote for the sweet tooth Gladio won't admit he possesses, frittata because Noct finds it too difficult to pick out the vegetables to make it worthwhile, two flavors of sausage, both by Ignis' choice although one is hotter than he would prefer. Prompto has a broad palate, a taste for spice, and a reluctance to ask for anything for himself.
At least now that Ignis is up and moving about in a warming kitchen he's rather comfortable.
His comfort is short-lived at the sight of Gladio emerging in his jeans and tank top from last night, as if to taunt Ignis with his ability to do so.