No seriously, I'm terrible at titles, if anyone has suggestions I'm all ears. ________
Ignis' skin goosebumps in the chill of Noct withdrawing, of the heat leaving his back as Ignis steps away from the island. Gladio already has pulled his chair out at an angle from the table to accommodate Ignis taking a seat on his leg.
"Stop gloating," Ignis tells him as he sits, laying an arm over his shoulders for balance. With Noct's weight already lain in Gladio's favor on their little seesaw Ignis' capitulation is all but assured. Eventually.
"Didn't say a word."
"And I suspect the only thing stopping you is the position of my knee in relation to your testicles." Ignis stretches to pick a sausage link from Gladio's plate with his fingers.
"Y'know, if you're looking for sausage. . ."
"Whatever meat ends up in my mouth while I'm at the table will be eaten."
It's hardly escaped his notice intellectually that Gladio is larger than he is—Gladio's larger than everyone—but it is dizzying, to be so delicately perched and still secure, his thigh as solid as any chair Ignis could have. Ignis is too used to other days, other times, when Gladio's warm eyes gazing up at him mean a Gladio pliant and obedient for the evening, not this disorienting sensation of being above Gladio while Ignis is so exposed, the apron's illusion of protection punctured by rough denim.
He leans again, this time attempting to cut himself a piece of pancake; breakfast will be a long process if he's truly expected to eat this way. Gladio tugs the fork from him and forgoes it altogether to tear a piece off by hand. This he eats himself. Then he tears another, folding just a bit of compote in, and holds it up to Ignis' mouth.
The facade of antagonism is pointless to maintain; when it falls away they are left with the rest of what's between them, a partnership with years of practice behind it. What could be a painful process is blissfully simple. Gladio alternates between feeding them, and keeps a hand spread broad and warm over Ignis' bare back to steady him, a sacrifice of his own function for Ignis' comfort. When Ignis isn't distracted by watching Gladio's hand, when his mouth is empty and he can speak, Gladio is there to fill it with neat, delicate bites. Holding onto the thread of conversation becomes impossible.
The others scarcely seem to notice. Prompto and Noct carry on all by themselves, with Gladio offering only an occasional aside as he holds up another bite for Ignis to take from his fingers. As Gladio feeds him, he becomes. . .not self-conscious precisely, but the opposite, ashamed of his arrogance for thinking he would garner attention when the others are simply eating breakfast. Shameful that after his tantrum over being exposed he's now unhappy to be ignored.
Gladio offers him water after a time, careful to let Ignis sip at his own pace.
"I appreciate your restraint in not making this messier than necessary," Ignis murmurs when he pulls the glass away.
"Y'know, with what you're wearing there's no reason I can't," Gladio says with a playful tug at the apron. "Take it off and then you'll have an excuse to worry."
Noct glances up from his plate. "Gladio, leave it."
The rebuke is casual but firm, and though it isn't directed at Ignis it lurches through him regardless.
Prompto chatters on, not that Ignis would ever take it to mean he's uncaring. He's seen Prompto manage the same tone with the entirety of Gladio's hand inside of him, Gladio teasing Ignis at the dining table must barely rate. Noct has turned back to picking carefully at his frittata. Gladio is smiling as he folds a large slab of pancake into his own mouth.
It's as if the interruption never happened.
Ignis looks around the table at them, the empty chair he would otherwise fill. One wouldn't trouble themselves to draw a piece of art on display into a conversation no matter how much you admired it. Noct's awareness settles on him like a weight that drags his limbs down, splaying him wider as more of his tenuous control is wrested from him.
"Kills me how you can be so shy about shit like this when I bet you're still loose from getting fucked last night," Gladio says, resettling him by the waist.
He has no way to explain that what is a stepping-stone between the two for Gladio is a canyon to Ignis, and spanning it doesn't carry anything like the rush of adrenaline and absolute control over his body that traversing a real tightrope does. Or why it takes so much careful effort for him to be at ease here when in the dark, as a mass of limbs he can lose himself in, to offer himself for their pleasure is second nature. Subsuming his want to theirs is the easy part.
"Hey," Gladio says as he frowns. "You wouldn't be you if you weren't." The corner of his mouth tugs crooked to pucker the bottom of his scar, still disarmingly attractive after all these years. "And if you were easy all the time it'd be like having another Prompto around."
"Hey!"
As if Ignis still had any doubts Prompto was paying attention. "I don't think you can make any claims about Prompto's eagerness that don't apply to yourself as well."
"Didn't say they didn't." Gladio hauls the leg closest to him over his other thigh, spreads Ignis wide with the apron falling between his thighs and brushing against him, and he's pried open just as much by Gladio pouring desire into his voice with a confidence he could never hope to match. "But you already know I don't make a point of hiding how much I want you." Anything else he might say is cut off by the ugly screech of a chair scraping on the flagstone. Ignis looks over just as Prompto folds to his knees in front of Noct with an equally enviable grace and reaches for the waistband of Noct's sweatpants.
Gladio says, "You're eating," and turns Ignis back with a knuckle on his cheek. It digs in when Ignis attempts to look again.
"You're intolerable," Ignis says. How quickly enchantment evaporates when one is denied. Out of the corner of his eye he can still see Prompto's back and the soles of his bare feet.
"Open up," Gladio says, holding up a sausage link, and when Ignis attempts to bite he pulls away, leaving him chasing it, overbalancing as he leans forward. Gladio shifts to effortlessly redistribute his weight, and holds it up again. "Open your mouth."
When Ignis does as he's been asked, Gladio taunts him by pushing the whole link of sausage into Ignis' open mouth then withdrawing it, once and then again, a mockery of other pleasures. He leaves it resting on Ignis' bottom lip like he's a pet trained to let a treat rest on its own nose until it's signaled to eat. Ignis glares with frustration he can't voice when he knows Gladio would be swiftly corrected if he'd erred.
Shining in the bright morning light Gladio's eyes are the clear amber of melted sugar on its way to caramel, sweet and warm. "Go ahead."
Ignis' teeth tear into the taut casing like a feral animal instead of a trained one. Drippings spill into his mouth, herbal, spicy—the one he'd chosen for Prompto then. He gives it the due attention he didn't the first time, savoring the richness, even the building heat of the chili in the back of his throat as Gladio allows him each bite.
If he hadn't prepared the food himself he might believe it's all been laced with much more than ginger and cardamom and sage, that there must be a stronger aphrodisiac working in him than Noct's approval of his entertainment. Any hope or care for his dignity regarding the apron is a thing of the past under the full-scale assault of Noct's heavy breathing and the sounds of Prompto's wet mouth as Gladio hammers hard at the rest of his senses.
Next Gladio offers a bite of pancake the purpled red of a fresh bruise and Ignis waits lewdly, patiently with his mouth open, his lips going dry and tacky in the air until he's granted permission, though he couldn't say what gives it. Something in Gladio's eyes perhaps. It's sodden with berries that burst into tart brightness in his mouth, dressed heavily to ooze when Ignis bites down, leaving a drop on his lip Gladio wipes away with his thumb and offers Ignis again. When a piece of frittata rests in Gladio's open palm Ignis bends to close his teeth around it, flicks his tongue out to clean a few bits left behind, shifting his hips against the harsh twill as tender skin fills and sensitizes. The food quickly becomes little more than a pretense for letting Ignis lick Gladio clean of flakes of pastry, smears of grease, the sweet, spicy warmth of the compote.
Gladio offers another swipe of the glistening sauce and groans, "Fuck, you look good like that," when Ignis takes it, leaving his mouth hanging even as Gladio slides two fingers in over his waiting tongue. There is a rightness to being an open hole to be filled now. It is all sensation, and with the floodgates open to let it in Ignis is helplessly greedy for more.
The sound of Noct moaning with pleasure will always draw his attention. When Ignis looks over this time Gladio makes no attempt to curb him. Indeed he turns Ignis out for a better look, rubbing his hand over the inside of Ignis' thigh.
As they watch Noct with his head thrown back against his chair Gladio's hand drifts down from Ignis' back, teasing along the crease and then lower. Ignis exhales a soft moan of his own, a quiver of nerves. Gladio would be careful, but careful with Gladio's size and strength would still be emphatic, an intrusion of well-used flesh.
"I know," Gladio murmurs, "I've got you."
Ignis sighs and leans into him. That much was never in doubt.
Gladio continues stroking over skin that's still exquisitely sensitive, not with any real intent, simply to tease, to touch. "How's that?" he says, hardly a question when Ignis has tilted his hips to grant better access, presented himself. Gladio moves in time with the rhythm of Prompto at Noct's feet, of Noct's hand petting his hair. Even apart they might all move in concert, and Ignis, aching for the touch of something other than fabric that has outlived its usefulness, could be moving with them.
Gladio catches his wrist as he reaches to push the apron aside. "Yeah, Noct's not gonna like that."
It would be bad enough without Noct's lazy glance over at his name, glassy-eyed and panting. He takes a moment to focus on what he's seeing, then frowns with a warning, "Specs."
Such simple chastisement sends a hot rush of humiliation over him, the real thing of a game they've only played at. He is suddenly wavering with only one foot on the ground and Gladio shifting under him, lifting Ignis' arm from over his shoulders. It's only right; the consequences of such a lapse ought to be swift and severe. His mind grasps at fragments through the dizziness to steady himself, trying to right itself from a tailspin, the profligacy he should never have allowed—the table will need to be cleared, dressing will be out of the question until that's done at least. . .
—only to find Gladio pinning both wrists to Ignis' back under his hand.
Gladio pushes the apron higher up Ignis' leg with his free hand, drawing a shameful shiver. Ignis tugs fruitlessly at Gladio's grip. "Gladio, this is not necessary."
"That's real cute, you thinking it's up to you." Gladio's free hand grazes over Ignis' leg as he looks at Noct. "Anything in mind?"
"You want Iggy too?" Noct says as he closes his fist in Prompto's hair, and laughs, "Yeah, I figured," when Prompto's response is an eager hum and nod.
It's pleasure Ignis doesn't deserve after being so plainly selfish when Gladio has only doted on Ignis, when for all of Prompto's eagerness he hasn't twitched towards the tell-tale drape of his gym shorts. Ignis yanks again at his wrists. For his trouble he gets, "You heard him. You're Prompto's next," and Gladio hiking his knee up to hitch him in closer, folding Ignis' wrists higher, tighter against his back. "Pretty hot watching you losing it, though," says the man who's now preventing him from doing much of anything. It is not only a balm, cool water pouring over the burn of shame, it is a gift. Ignis will be kept where he is wanted, used how he is wanted, guarded from the need for self-control. The bones of Ignis' wrists grind as the iron grip tightens, holding him fast against the riptides of doubt that might sweep him away.
Though Gladio has eyes only for Noct and Prompto, he's careful to obey the bounds marked by the apron, damn him, idly stroking the expanse of Ignis' inner thigh up to the hollow of Ignis' hip and no more, mere inches from his cock. Ignis has been rescued from his moment of panic so quickly his body hadn't a chance to falter, but there is no shame in him for that now, not when he is at the mercy of his protector.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: FILL: (3/4) OT4, D/s, Ignis naked except an apron
Date: 2018-03-30 05:40 pm (UTC)________
Ignis' skin goosebumps in the chill of Noct withdrawing, of the heat leaving his back as Ignis steps away from the island. Gladio already has pulled his chair out at an angle from the table to accommodate Ignis taking a seat on his leg.
"Stop gloating," Ignis tells him as he sits, laying an arm over his shoulders for balance. With Noct's weight already lain in Gladio's favor on their little seesaw Ignis' capitulation is all but assured. Eventually.
"Didn't say a word."
"And I suspect the only thing stopping you is the position of my knee in relation to your testicles." Ignis stretches to pick a sausage link from Gladio's plate with his fingers.
"Y'know, if you're looking for sausage. . ."
"Whatever meat ends up in my mouth while I'm at the table will be eaten."
It's hardly escaped his notice intellectually that Gladio is larger than he is—Gladio's larger than everyone—but it is dizzying, to be so delicately perched and still secure, his thigh as solid as any chair Ignis could have. Ignis is too used to other days, other times, when Gladio's warm eyes gazing up at him mean a Gladio pliant and obedient for the evening, not this disorienting sensation of being above Gladio while Ignis is so exposed, the apron's illusion of protection punctured by rough denim.
He leans again, this time attempting to cut himself a piece of pancake; breakfast will be a long process if he's truly expected to eat this way. Gladio tugs the fork from him and forgoes it altogether to tear a piece off by hand. This he eats himself. Then he tears another, folding just a bit of compote in, and holds it up to Ignis' mouth.
The facade of antagonism is pointless to maintain; when it falls away they are left with the rest of what's between them, a partnership with years of practice behind it. What could be a painful process is blissfully simple. Gladio alternates between feeding them, and keeps a hand spread broad and warm over Ignis' bare back to steady him, a sacrifice of his own function for Ignis' comfort. When Ignis isn't distracted by watching Gladio's hand, when his mouth is empty and he can speak, Gladio is there to fill it with neat, delicate bites. Holding onto the thread of conversation becomes impossible.
The others scarcely seem to notice. Prompto and Noct carry on all by themselves, with Gladio offering only an occasional aside as he holds up another bite for Ignis to take from his fingers. As Gladio feeds him, he becomes. . .not self-conscious precisely, but the opposite, ashamed of his arrogance for thinking he would garner attention when the others are simply eating breakfast. Shameful that after his tantrum over being exposed he's now unhappy to be ignored.
Gladio offers him water after a time, careful to let Ignis sip at his own pace.
"I appreciate your restraint in not making this messier than necessary," Ignis murmurs when he pulls the glass away.
"Y'know, with what you're wearing there's no reason I can't," Gladio says with a playful tug at the apron. "Take it off and then you'll have an excuse to worry."
Noct glances up from his plate. "Gladio, leave it."
The rebuke is casual but firm, and though it isn't directed at Ignis it lurches through him regardless.
Prompto chatters on, not that Ignis would ever take it to mean he's uncaring. He's seen Prompto manage the same tone with the entirety of Gladio's hand inside of him, Gladio teasing Ignis at the dining table must barely rate. Noct has turned back to picking carefully at his frittata. Gladio is smiling as he folds a large slab of pancake into his own mouth.
It's as if the interruption never happened.
Ignis looks around the table at them, the empty chair he would otherwise fill. One wouldn't trouble themselves to draw a piece of art on display into a conversation no matter how much you admired it. Noct's awareness settles on him like a weight that drags his limbs down, splaying him wider as more of his tenuous control is wrested from him.
"Kills me how you can be so shy about shit like this when I bet you're still loose from getting fucked last night," Gladio says, resettling him by the waist.
He has no way to explain that what is a stepping-stone between the two for Gladio is a canyon to Ignis, and spanning it doesn't carry anything like the rush of adrenaline and absolute control over his body that traversing a real tightrope does. Or why it takes so much careful effort for him to be at ease here when in the dark, as a mass of limbs he can lose himself in, to offer himself for their pleasure is second nature. Subsuming his want to theirs is the easy part.
"Hey," Gladio says as he frowns. "You wouldn't be you if you weren't." The corner of his mouth tugs crooked to pucker the bottom of his scar, still disarmingly attractive after all these years. "And if you were easy all the time it'd be like having another Prompto around."
"Hey!"
As if Ignis still had any doubts Prompto was paying attention. "I don't think you can make any claims about Prompto's eagerness that don't apply to yourself as well."
"Didn't say they didn't." Gladio hauls the leg closest to him over his other thigh, spreads Ignis wide with the apron falling between his thighs and brushing against him, and he's pried open just as much by Gladio pouring desire into his voice with a confidence he could never hope to match. "But you already know I don't make a point of hiding how much I want you." Anything else he might say is cut off by the ugly screech of a chair scraping on the flagstone. Ignis looks over just as Prompto folds to his knees in front of Noct with an equally enviable grace and reaches for the waistband of Noct's sweatpants.
Gladio says, "You're eating," and turns Ignis back with a knuckle on his cheek. It digs in when Ignis attempts to look again.
"You're intolerable," Ignis says. How quickly enchantment evaporates when one is denied. Out of the corner of his eye he can still see Prompto's back and the soles of his bare feet.
"Open up," Gladio says, holding up a sausage link, and when Ignis attempts to bite he pulls away, leaving him chasing it, overbalancing as he leans forward. Gladio shifts to effortlessly redistribute his weight, and holds it up again. "Open your mouth."
When Ignis does as he's been asked, Gladio taunts him by pushing the whole link of sausage into Ignis' open mouth then withdrawing it, once and then again, a mockery of other pleasures. He leaves it resting on Ignis' bottom lip like he's a pet trained to let a treat rest on its own nose until it's signaled to eat. Ignis glares with frustration he can't voice when he knows Gladio would be swiftly corrected if he'd erred.
Shining in the bright morning light Gladio's eyes are the clear amber of melted sugar on its way to caramel, sweet and warm. "Go ahead."
Ignis' teeth tear into the taut casing like a feral animal instead of a trained one. Drippings spill into his mouth, herbal, spicy—the one he'd chosen for Prompto then. He gives it the due attention he didn't the first time, savoring the richness, even the building heat of the chili in the back of his throat as Gladio allows him each bite.
If he hadn't prepared the food himself he might believe it's all been laced with much more than ginger and cardamom and sage, that there must be a stronger aphrodisiac working in him than Noct's approval of his entertainment. Any hope or care for his dignity regarding the apron is a thing of the past under the full-scale assault of Noct's heavy breathing and the sounds of Prompto's wet mouth as Gladio hammers hard at the rest of his senses.
Next Gladio offers a bite of pancake the purpled red of a fresh bruise and Ignis waits lewdly, patiently with his mouth open, his lips going dry and tacky in the air until he's granted permission, though he couldn't say what gives it. Something in Gladio's eyes perhaps. It's sodden with berries that burst into tart brightness in his mouth, dressed heavily to ooze when Ignis bites down, leaving a drop on his lip Gladio wipes away with his thumb and offers Ignis again. When a piece of frittata rests in Gladio's open palm Ignis bends to close his teeth around it, flicks his tongue out to clean a few bits left behind, shifting his hips against the harsh twill as tender skin fills and sensitizes. The food quickly becomes little more than a pretense for letting Ignis lick Gladio clean of flakes of pastry, smears of grease, the sweet, spicy warmth of the compote.
Gladio offers another swipe of the glistening sauce and groans, "Fuck, you look good like that," when Ignis takes it, leaving his mouth hanging even as Gladio slides two fingers in over his waiting tongue. There is a rightness to being an open hole to be filled now. It is all sensation, and with the floodgates open to let it in Ignis is helplessly greedy for more.
The sound of Noct moaning with pleasure will always draw his attention. When Ignis looks over this time Gladio makes no attempt to curb him. Indeed he turns Ignis out for a better look, rubbing his hand over the inside of Ignis' thigh.
As they watch Noct with his head thrown back against his chair Gladio's hand drifts down from Ignis' back, teasing along the crease and then lower. Ignis exhales a soft moan of his own, a quiver of nerves. Gladio would be careful, but careful with Gladio's size and strength would still be emphatic, an intrusion of well-used flesh.
"I know," Gladio murmurs, "I've got you."
Ignis sighs and leans into him. That much was never in doubt.
Gladio continues stroking over skin that's still exquisitely sensitive, not with any real intent, simply to tease, to touch. "How's that?" he says, hardly a question when Ignis has tilted his hips to grant better access, presented himself. Gladio moves in time with the rhythm of Prompto at Noct's feet, of Noct's hand petting his hair. Even apart they might all move in concert, and Ignis, aching for the touch of something other than fabric that has outlived its usefulness, could be moving with them.
Gladio catches his wrist as he reaches to push the apron aside. "Yeah, Noct's not gonna like that."
It would be bad enough without Noct's lazy glance over at his name, glassy-eyed and panting. He takes a moment to focus on what he's seeing, then frowns with a warning, "Specs."
Such simple chastisement sends a hot rush of humiliation over him, the real thing of a game they've only played at. He is suddenly wavering with only one foot on the ground and Gladio shifting under him, lifting Ignis' arm from over his shoulders. It's only right; the consequences of such a lapse ought to be swift and severe. His mind grasps at fragments through the dizziness to steady himself, trying to right itself from a tailspin, the profligacy he should never have allowed—the table will need to be cleared, dressing will be out of the question until that's done at least. . .
—only to find Gladio pinning both wrists to Ignis' back under his hand.
Gladio pushes the apron higher up Ignis' leg with his free hand, drawing a shameful shiver. Ignis tugs fruitlessly at Gladio's grip. "Gladio, this is not necessary."
"That's real cute, you thinking it's up to you." Gladio's free hand grazes over Ignis' leg as he looks at Noct. "Anything in mind?"
"You want Iggy too?" Noct says as he closes his fist in Prompto's hair, and laughs, "Yeah, I figured," when Prompto's response is an eager hum and nod.
It's pleasure Ignis doesn't deserve after being so plainly selfish when Gladio has only doted on Ignis, when for all of Prompto's eagerness he hasn't twitched towards the tell-tale drape of his gym shorts. Ignis yanks again at his wrists. For his trouble he gets, "You heard him. You're Prompto's next," and Gladio hiking his knee up to hitch him in closer, folding Ignis' wrists higher, tighter against his back. "Pretty hot watching you losing it, though," says the man who's now preventing him from doing much of anything. It is not only a balm, cool water pouring over the burn of shame, it is a gift. Ignis will be kept where he is wanted, used how he is wanted, guarded from the need for self-control. The bones of Ignis' wrists grind as the iron grip tightens, holding him fast against the riptides of doubt that might sweep him away.
Though Gladio has eyes only for Noct and Prompto, he's careful to obey the bounds marked by the apron, damn him, idly stroking the expanse of Ignis' inner thigh up to the hollow of Ignis' hip and no more, mere inches from his cock. Ignis has been rescued from his moment of panic so quickly his body hadn't a chance to falter, but there is no shame in him for that now, not when he is at the mercy of his protector.