beauvoyr

[beauvoyr]

Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 20

decaying | 20 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: 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. CHAPTER SUMMARY: Noctis sidesteps a scruffy man in chic boho ensemble of scarves and fedora, stopping across glassy automated doors dinging with every customer it receives. “We’re here.”

YOU WEAR SUNLIGHT IN THE MOST RADIANT way. It dusts you in a gossamer glow; sunlight dripping off your body, glistening, luscious enough for anyone to lick the sunny sweetness from your skin. A guilty part of him liked you against a backdrop of black with stars clustering your hair and sleep-heavy eyes lidding low, but he has a newfound appreciation for the way the sun sheathes your skin in subtle extravagance, colouring you in ways artificial lighting couldn’t.

Pocketing his hands, Noctis observes how you underwent the same transformation he’s seen time and time again.

You dash up the Crystal Promenade, crossing crowded roads and marvelling at the magnificent stained glass streets sprawled under your sandals. The breeze picks up, sheer lace bouncing off your thighs, and cooing doves scatter into flight. You dart through pockets of space between the crowd, examine silvery timepieces displayed in Chopard, perking up at the street performers orchestrating a waltz with a cello, a violin, and an Electone. Prompto’s habit must’ve rubbed off on you, for you snapped a picture of some jolly bystanders waltzing along to the sentimental tune, and then a few more of the merry musicians tapping their feet in tandem.

“It’s Je Te Veux,” you tell him once he reaches your side, bright eyes all eager.

He’s never heard of that one before, but he can count on you and your endless database of classical music ingrained in that knotty head of yours. He makes a toneless sort of hum, realises it couldn’t be heard over the vibrato, and tries again. “What’s that?”

“Satie composed it.” You palm your phone to your chest, eyes trained on the graceful glide of the dancers having a good time with one another. The brilliance of your smile seems to fade for a second and Noctis wonders what’s up—that is until you seem intent on avoiding his eyes. “It means I want you.”

Oh. Oh.

There are no cymbals in the waltz, but Noctis is sure his heart is beating to the sound of a toy monkey clanging brass cymbals together. Jarringly loud in his ears, all clang clang clang like some annoying alarm in that morning Marlboro cartoon show. The sunny warmth is starting to get to him, reaching his ears, and he fights the awkward urge to have a stiff, long walk through Insomnia just to get away from the teasing lilt of the violin.

All Noctis does is to rub his nape in faux indifference. He too avoids your eyes.

“Hmm. I see.”

THE SHOP HE’S LOOKING FOR is housed in the upscale part of the city, all cobblestones fanned in russet reds, blossoming shrubs edging the walkways, iron scrollwork fencing the pavements. Prompto’s always skittish on the rare occasions when Ignis drags them here, needing to complete a grocery errand or two. Either one of the buttons on Noctis’ jacket had vanished and only DKNY carried specific silver buttons with monogrammed engravings, or he needed to replace one of his scandalous-looking shirt garters—the ones that fit around the curve of his thigh like some contraption for the kinky. Noctis isn’t judging, but he has his own suspicions about Ignis because who doesn’t?

Whatever, he’d rather not think about it now. He’d very much like to concentrate on how you’ve gone ahead with locating what he needed, pointing at a sun-bleached signboard hanging overhead.

“Is this the correct store?” You crane your neck to decipher the neon-lit swirls scrawled on the board juxtaposing deep stonewalls. “Vivienne Westwood?”

He comes to a stop before the broad, polished glass popping out on the sidewalk. “Yep, that’s the one.” Reflected, you and him: A vision in white and shrouded in black, your head tipped aside, him toeing the pavement. A wireframe mannequin models an assemblage of scarf, skirt, and matching heels, not that he knows anything about fashion. It’s just that he enjoyed watching your animated reflection scrutinising tortoiseshell sunnies perched on its head, hand on your chin. A corner of his lips slants upwards at the sight. “Most of us have our stuffs personally tailored, so, yeah. Either from Vivienne Westwood or Roen.”

You tiptoe a little to get a closer look at another pair of paisley sunglasses hanging by a string. “Kinda like personal tailors? Since you guys have fashion labels working for the royal family?”

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “Why?”

“‘cause I noticed your boots have those pretty red soles,” you say matter-of-factly, pointing downwards to what seems to be his boots. Noctis gets that awkward feeling again, like some inside joke just went over his head. What does that have to do with anything when he’s out here with you? You’re not going to make him take off his shoes again, are you? Just to examine his toes, like some bizarre déjà vu of his first meeting with you? Thankfully, you seem to pick up on his confusion since you've gone ahead tilting your head with a smile. "Christian Louboutin, right?"

Yeah, he has no experience to go through this conversation. That’s up Ignis’ alley, not his. But he might have heard the name bounced back and forth during personal fitting sessions, might have something to do with a Loubouwhatever measuring his feet with tape. Safe to say, Noctis is just going to play along. “Uh—yeah. Personalized everything. Head to toe.” He pauses at your knowing nod, growing suspicious. As much as he’s flattered—and a tad bit pleased—that you always keep your eyes on him enough to notice the finer points to his clothes, red soles are incredibly specific knowledge only privy to those with a keen interest in fashion. Finding no harm in prying, he nudges you in the side. “…didn’t think you’re the type to like fashion.”

You sidle up to him, hands quick to return his jab with one of your own. “Not me, no. Byron’s a huge fashion nerd who keeps his Pinterest board full of fashion brands, that’s all.” Noctis huffs at your predictable action, swatting you aside. He’s way too used to your antics by now—not that he knows if it’s a good thing or not. Thwarted, you backpedalled, keeping your hands to yourself. “He’s always buzzing about new fashion trends or whatever’s hot in the market, and he has this huge stash of fashion magazines in his room, making scrapbooks out of the bits he liked. It’s also kinda creepy since he idolises Claire Farron enough to have her posters on his walls. After a while, you just pick up about stuffs like that when he’s around 24/7.”

That’s some unnecessary insight on the guy who continuously pisses him off at every waking moment of his life, but Noctis isn’t about to say that to your face, not when said guy is your childhood butler who took whippings in your stead. If Gladio likened him to an older, pissier version of Ignis, the truth might not be far off. Grunting, Noctis nudges the door open for you. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

Apparently, the store manager witnessed his interaction with you, greeting them with a bemused smile when the waft of cool air hit him. Her silver nametag reads Magisa. “Welcome, Your Highness,” she says with her pencil thin eyebrows still parked high on her forehead. “May I help you and your companion for today?”

Dealing with sales reps hounding his every step and tailing him worse than Glaives is enough to seize him up. A quick shake of his head has the wrinkled woman peering him over her rimmed glasses, and Noctis lets his eyes wander the store to avoid her piercing stare. “Nah, we’re good. I’m just going to look around.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” she placates, even if her half-bow is stunted with the fact that she’s still sneaking stares at your general direction. “If you and your lady friend require assistance, please do not hesitate to approach any of us.”

With how she places great emphasis on the word, Noctis has the sense to grimace. Should he be worried if this will blow up when the tabloids lap it all up? Yeah, hopefully not. It's his first time entering the store without his usual duo flanking his sides, and sensational scoops are one way to get the readership spiking faster than the Citadel's PR Department's migraine.

"Uh. Thanks. Can you just…?" he makes some vague hand gesture, hoping it’s a loose interpretation of what he needs, eyes skirting around when her stare is harder than stone. "We just want to shop without—uh, things happening."

She seems to understand him that much with no questions asked, quick on her feet to flip the sign to Closed and drops the automated blinds over the storefront with a click of a button. The sudden hush accompanying his personal shopping experience has you teetering closer to him, wary eyes searching his face for any signs of reassurance. Your fingers worry the hems of his jacket, chewing on your bottom lip out of habit again. Noctis squeezes your shoulder to ease your nerves before Magisa turns.

“As much as I love celebrity news, I don’t want to see some clickbait article like You Wouldn’t Believe What Prince Noctis Did Last Weekend on Insomnia Daily’s website,” she announces, a corner of her mouth tugging upwards on one side. She looks like she’s seen her fair share of celeb mishaps in her own store and would love nothing more than to die of natural causes than a heart attack. “By all means, Your Highness, do be careful. The media circus is barbaric enough to tear your reputation into shreds if you drop your guard.”

And not even the Glaives can guard him against it. "…yeah, copy that.”

Magisa is sensible enough to keep a respectful distance from him when he strolls through the rolling racks, suede jackets, knitted sweaters, complementing accessories, an orgasm of colours reaching out to him. It’s easy to forget why he’s here when he’s here with you, taking in the slanted photo frames hanging off the walls, glorious lights dawning on you and him, stops at an eye-catching bomber jacket studded in stars across its back—until he’s distracted by your fingers tugging his cuff.

“What are we looking for, Prince? Anything specific in mind for Ignis? Or is there anything he’s been eyeing?”

That’s a good question. Walking into another aisle offers rows of men’s accessories hanging from sleek metal plates. Noctis eyes a leather belt with some punk rock aesthetic on it; Prompto’d like that. “No idea actually. Was hoping we’d just find something here for him.”

“Maybe I can browse the other side and see what I can come up with?” you offer, slinking backwards with a genuine expression of being helpful to the cause. Noctis turns on his heels, catching the flit of your fingers trailing in the air as goodbye. Your back turns to him when you wander through gypsum partitions, leaving an echo of your voice. “I’ll come back soon.”

That is not how he envisioned this to be, but uh. “Sure, I guess…” Noctis answers to an empty space, minding how awkward it feels when you’re not by his side. He has half the urge to chase you just because—and the other half is judging him through Magisa's pointed silence, having witnessed every waking second.

Deciding it's best to concentrate on the task in hand, he orientates his focus to a suave combo of a dress shirt, striped belt, and gradient aviators arbitrarily arranged on a wall-mounted shelf. The clashing colours don't scream Ignis Posh Scientia, so it's a solid No for Noctis. A cashmere scarf in tartan isn't Ignis Stylish Scientia either, and Noctis backs away from the section altogether. After rifling through three snazzy co-ords, four fitted pants whilst knowing nothing of Ignis’ size, two loafers and simultaneously thwarted by Ignis’ mysterious size yet again, Noctis is almost ready to call it a day.

Magisa, thankfully, steps up to her task after sensing his deathly desperation and escorts him to a selection of accessories for the subdued, wrinkled hands lifting one of the many displays for him to choose. Having her recommendations ironed out some of the hitches in his grand plan, deciding the subtle emboss of a skull on a pair of suspenders is better than the garish VW belt buckle, and with satisfaction, Noctis follows her to the cashier—

—or not, when a sharp glint has him making a short detour to a tiered jewellery display.

Hanging off the dainty hooks are little bits of silver with varying pendants, necklaces and chokers sparkling under a well-placed spotlight. Before he takes a step back to think why he’s here and what he’s doing and Magisa’s incredible concern with whatever he’s up to, Noctis threads his fingers through a delicate star necklace.

Diamante dotting all five points up to its heart, sleek silver chain neither too long nor short like his soon-to-be five months with you. Just right, maybe just right sitting at the base of your neck nestled between your collarbones. That’s not too bad of a thought, so before he overthinks things and dabbles into the mechanics guiding his rash action, he hands it over to a waiting Magisa, who accepts it with pursed lips.

“Shall I pack it separately?” she asks none too subtly, returning to the cash register to ring up his purchases. “Would you prefer a nondescript bag or a ribbon to go with it?”

Noctis cocks a brow, withdrawing his wallet and putting his card on the proffered tray. “Is this about the suspenders or?” She gives him a look, the one that makes him feel like he's in trouble after Ignis looted his unhealthy Nissin collection, and he instantly knows what she's referring to. "Uh. Separately packaged. Just a box will do." Maybe a ribbon? "Nothing too flashy for the ribbon. Simple stuff."

“Of course, Highness, she doesn’t seem like the gaudy sort,” she offers her opinion—not that he asked her for it, but it’s a little reassuring that Magisa seems satisfied with his choice. Deft hands slotted his card, nude fingernails key in numbers on the screen, making quick work of boxing up the necklace for him to hide.

And hiding your necklace is just a simple affair of attuning it with his armoury, stowing it deep where nobody else knows its presence but him.

The fracture of blue scattering over the countertop disappears in seconds, and it has Magisa pinching her glasses to lower it by a fraction.

“Well,” she comments, impressed, “that’s handy.”

Noctis smirks.

THAT PAPERBAG IN YOUR ARMS shouldn’t be getting under his skin, but it is. You emerge almost guiltlessly from the storefront with your purchase, a sizeable heft for its nondescript beige, smiling his way. Just what exactly is in it, that's the million Credit question right there. It could be something for your own closet since you've never gone shopping on your own before, but the irrational and conspiratorial Noctis whispers it's something for Byron, definitely for Byron, because when are you notthinking about fashionable little Byron and his four-digit leather gloves anyway? Your morning conversation said all that needs to be said.

The sun’s irritating his skin and feeding the irritation in his heart, but you don’t seem to notice any of it.

“So what’re we doing now, Prince?” you say, prancing by his side in that one-two skip you do whenever you’re excited, but you’re playing off your excitement just so he won’t say anything about it. “Is there anything else you wanna do?”

Crossing the Ladian Avenue together, heavily blossoming magnolia trees shaded the pavement, creamy innocence perfuming the air. Strips of grass overlay granite slabs, pink petals dusting the surface. Children play imaginary hopscotch on evenings when their parents are off from work, couples marvel over the bold jewels growing on these magnolias, and for people like Noctis, someone not exactly a parent or your boyfriend, he pockets his hands and tries to shrug off his misplaced displeasure. Tries, because he’s still not good at it, but at least he’s willing to try.

“You hungry?”

Cracked sunlight falls over a part of your face, highlighting the sheer luminance of your eye. “Yeah? I mean, I’m totally cool if you wanna go home now since we’ve got what you need, but…” you stop underneath a magnolia, leaning against the scrawny trunks clustered together, “if it’s not too much of a hassle for you, can we go to the bookstore together?”

“The bookstore?” he repeats—totally not distracted by how the sunlight fragments colours in your iris, totally not wanting to press his fingers to your cheek to feel how warm you are. “Sure, if you have something to do there. Not that far of a detour from here.” Pointing to some few blocks in the distance to show how close it is, his hand falls to his hip just so he’d avoid touching you out of your comfort zone. “You wanna head there now?”

You give a little stretch with your arms high above your head, making a sound of pure content. One that Noctis has never heard before. “Nah, later. Lunch sounds way more tempting. Where do you wanna take me this time?”

He can’t say he’s thought that far ahead, but he’s proud of himself for being able to turn the question right at you. “What do you wanna eat this time?”

“The ramen we had was really tasty,” you suggest, though you quickly retract your statement with a finger tapping your chin, “but I kinda wanna eat something different. Something like that, but not something like that?”

There you go again, all roundabout answers with no end in sight. Five months in and you’re still you. Shreds of magnolias drift in the breeze as he snorts, dusting off pretty pinks falling on his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it means, Prince,” you say, quick hands cupping a fluttering petal, delighted like you’ve never seen one before. Maybe Byron’s never pruned magnolias for your vases, that’s possible enough. “Kinda like one of those feel-good foods? Homely kinds of stuff, nothing fancy, just delicious meals straight from the heart.”

The wind picks up, sweeping through the boulevard, a flurry of flowers raining on you and him. Nonchalantly picking out a petal streaked in rich pinks fading in whites from your hair, Noctis drops it into your outstretched hands. You crane your neck to reward his gift with a smile, and it’s all he needs. “Ever had oden before?”

“Nope, never had them.” You shake your head as Noctis plucks off more pinks from your hair, his jacket, your shoulders, presents in the palms of the queen in white. “What’s oden like? Loads of rich broth? Warm, fuzzy foodie meals? Instaglam-worthy shots?”

“Your inner Prom is coming out,” he points out, and you laugh.

Just like this, it’s nice standing around, talking with you all casual like nothing else matters in this world. Pressing your back to the tree, cornering you like this—oh. Magisa’s warning throbs in his head.

Yeah, shit, he kind of forgot about that, didn’t he?

Noctis consciously takes a step back, catching questions in your eyes.

The Glaives tailing him 24/7 would peck all this up like Chocobo feed for the rest of the Glaives back home to gobble over, and if he’s hoping this won’t be #1 trending gossip in Insomnia, he better start praying to whatever Astrals’ out there watching over him. They say Ramuh’s the kindest of the bunch, right? So maybe Ramuh would listen and spare him all the media sharks who could’ve spied on him.

Out in the open space, anyone could be watching him—you. He doesn't have the cover of the night to help him out when it's bright and breezy like this, nothing like the privacy of a lake and the stars, nothing like Prompto’s presence warranting a friendly outing. Going out with him and Ignis is one thing while going out with you is on another scale altogether. He doesn’t enjoy freedom the way a commoner does, all because he’s the prince. And princes don’t get to walk around with you the same way Byron does.

There it is again.

He hates it. Hates the familiar edges of that moody, problematic prince coming up. All because he doesn’t think things through and his temperament is getting the best of him and he just can’t say it because he doesn’t know how to make it sound not so awkward since he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore but he can’t go past a boyfriend because what kind of shitty boyfriend is he going to be when he can’t even date you normally. And then there’s Byron too, feeding the unhealthy glutton for jealousy in him. So he’ll probably end up ruining this day in the end, won’t he?

Pretending the disappointment clouding your eyes is nothing more than confusion, he quirks a finger for you to follow. “C’mon, let’s go. I’m starving.”

The abrupt change in his demeanour isn't lost on you. Still, you seem to stumble out of whatever daydream cluttering your head, petals once clasped tight in your palms now scattering all over the ground. “…right, lead the way.”

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.

A MOUTHFUL OF PIPING HOT oden, you learn, is sunshine melting on your tongue: A hot ball of rich, savoury sun. As expected, Noctis memorised every alleyway right down to its missing tile, bringing you to the best place in the city to enjoy your lunch. You’ve never seen someone conducting business from a wooden cart curtained in red, but the novelty of the experience has you eager to sink onto the wooden stool for the pick-and-mix session to begin. The ancient owner, yet another friend of the prince, is all toothy grins when Noctis ducks into his stall, batting away all attempts at paying at the end of the meal.

“You’re definitely the People Prince,” you say, en route to the bookstore across a boulevard lined in street lamps. Paper bag bouncing by your side, you take a peek at his face. “I’m kinda surprised how many people actually know you—not like know know, but they know you like you’re friends from way before.”

Noctis shrugs like it means nothing to him, but you’ve long learnt his belligerent blue eyes are more honest than he is. “Used to hang out loads with Prom when I was in high school. Arcades, ramen stalls, oden carts, cinemas, karaoke, you name it, we did ‘em all.” He swoops sharp right into another street, plodding uphill past grey-bricked boutiques. “When you’re a regular, you’re instantly a level above most customers they get on other days.”

You tail him from behind, though momentarily, a woman walking her leashed Shih Tzu makes you coo for a second. Noctis flashes you a look for your unintelligible cooing, not expecting that form of a reply, and you fiddle for an answer. “Um—well, you’re the prince and you get along so well with them, so you’re everyone’s favourite.”

“Totally not,” he rebukes with less bite and more of a scowl. Curt, leaving the conversation in the dust, just like that.

Had you hit a sore spot somehow? He’s been testier ever since you got out of Vivienne Westwood a little later than he did. Is it because it's the usual cliché of guys hating girls when they go off on a shopping spree? And then they have to wait for what seems like aeons before their significant other comes back to reality? Free oden failed in cheering him up, even if the ecstatic old man loaded up his portion with more freebies, so hangry from both hunger and anger is out of the question since you’re full and he’s full and he’s still taking you to the bookstore like what you wanted.

So what was your fault?

You don't know.

Noctis sidesteps a scruffy man in chic boho ensemble of scarves and fedora, stopping across glassy automated doors dinging with every customer it receives. “We’re here.”

Catching up brings you to an uncommon bookstore, broad posters taping the front of the store in the latest literature fixes. Over three storeys of rosy stucco, wooden slats and hanging creepers swirling over walls, you assume it's a café bookstore with a vintage spin to it. The whole atmosphere matches a parked car next to its entrance, white racing stripes across chintzy pink convertible, silver Vixen on its antique hood. It even has a Moogle bauble on its antenna, making you smile at how cute it is.

Unfortunately, Noctis doesn’t share your sentiment and doesn’t share your thoughts. He just stares at you staring at the car, and you felt bad for pulling him all the way here. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here after all? And he’s just too polite to say anything about it?

Somehow, that sends your premature joy plummeting to the ground.

“C’mon, let’s go in.”

“—right.”

The brisk exchange falls flat with you following Noctis inside, chilly air-conditioning fleecing your sun-warmed skin. Coffee and contemporary fixtures are in place, rows of books on weathered racks, but it’s hard to concentrate on the people and the place when Noctis and only Noctis is in your head. You pissed him off, didn’t you? In some way you can’t explain since you don’t know how you screwed up. You knew this day would come. Just like how you fight with Byron over the smallest of things, this could cement the start of a dispute between you and Noctis over who knows what and Gods know why.

He’s walking ahead.

He isn’t waiting for you.

Wandering through stationeries shelved along the walls, fingers drifting over jutting pencils, you are lost. Shellac finishes to a wooden barrel fail to reignite your interest in purchasing and engraving a fountain pen for Ignis’ birthday. The bookstore is suddenly too cold, too lonely for you alone, standing in front of a glass display. You are a face among the many masks hustling about, giggling and chatting and walking along. You can’t share Noctis’ world when he’s not here with you.

A soft graze on your elbow has you looking up to your left, sinking into a trance when familiar blackness return.

Oh. Noctis is here all along, blue eyes unreadable. He’s doing something with his hand. Oh. He’s holding you. He turns his back, fingers laced through yours, leading you away from the crowd. Past uncaring apron-wearing helpers, past scampering children, past the broadest wall leading to an emergency exit. Heavy fire doors are bolted shut behind him. They erase all sounds, hiding you and him from scandalized eyes.

His hand is warm in yours.

Fluorescent bulb flickers overhead, the stairwell smells of dust and cement. You can’t hear your heart beating when Noctis tips his head, messy bangs turning blue eyes black. He has your back to the wall like he had you at the tree—only, there is no distance separating you and him. He presses into your space with the intent to take everything, leaving nothing behind. You let him. His leg nudges between your knees up your thigh and he bends close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheeks. You can't breathe.

Dry lips descend on your ear with a warm whisper.

“Ah. A white puppy.”

You feel him smile.

“It’s too bad, really, that I need a black mongrel instead.”

It shuts down in black. Your eyes are wide open but you can’t see. Noctis is gone but you still feel his knee brushing against your inner thighs. Crawling the column of your neck is his hand, and it settles with a thumb on your jugular. He breathes low and harsh and you can’t mistake the shudder up your spine as anything else other than fear. You can’t see him, but you feel him holding you down the cracking drywall. You can’t move. You can’t scream.

He is saying something, but you hear him no more, not over the Crystal humming in your ear. It drowns him out like summer bees and static TV, but his breath laving your lobe is warm, rank, smelling of death and decay. Clawed fingernails dig half-moons in your wrist. You flinch under his strength. He doesn’t budge. You are cold when it is hot and sweat starts from your scalp sliding to your shoulder. Knees are buckling underneath you and you are certain you are falling but there is no telltale pain bruising your knees. You don’t know if you are standing or you are kneeling or you are here.

Blackness thickens because it’s never gone from the start, and the Crystal grows louder like it fights to be heard over Noctis. Electricity slithers where the crescents lie on your wrist, tattooing your skin in short jolts. Ouch you gasp but your lips do not move and your voice is unheard.

You’ve felt this before.

It’s magic.

But there is no blue in the blacks, only frayed red seeping through. Blotting out the dark, blurring into greys.

The buzz snips off sharp as scissors.

A mouthful of piping hot oden, you learn, is sunshine melting on your tongue: A hot ball of rich, savoury sun. As expected, Noctis memorised every alleyway right down to its missing tile, bringing you to the best place in the city to enjoy your lunch. A woman walking her leashed Shih Tzu has you distractedly cooing for a second. Over three storeys of rosy stucco, wooden slats and hanging creepers swirling over walls, it’s a café bookstore with a vintage spin to it. Coffee and contemporary fixtures are in place, rows of books on purposely weathered racks, and the shellac finishes to a wooden barrel catches your fancy for Ignis’ gift.

The cashier hands your change with a smile and you exit the store to find Noctis waiting outside. Why is he looking all glum and sullen with his arms crossed over his chest anyway? Didn't that oden old man load up his bowl with all the grilled fishcake and sticky tofu skins? That can’t do, he can’t do all the frowning when you’re all happy from the food.

“Sorry for the wait!” You cosy up to him, tucking your packaged pen by your side. Noctis visibly jumps and looks at you as if you’ve grown a second head. His face is priceless and you can't help but laugh at him. "Gosh, Prince, what's wrong? Did something happen?”

“Uh—no, nothing happened,” he’s quick to sputter with a shake of his head, though he can’t seem to wipe that silly look he gives you. “You… okay?”

You’re confused, but not as confused as Noctis. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And Noctis takes a hard, long look. Narrowed blue eyes, lips curled, arms uncrossing to drop by his sides. He surveys you how one surveys an advertisement, even if all you had for an offering is this white dress and two sets of gifts. After a while, seemingly coming to a decision, he guiltily rubs his nape. "No. Nothing. Forget it."

“What, all that and nothing?” you chide at the anticlimactic end, taking one step after another.

He doesn’t answer, walking past an empty parking lot, and you jab him in his side, inciting an undignified yelp at your pre-emptive attack. So maybe it’s not worth it when he turns around and you get a sense of belated uh-oh when he chases you up the street, but at least now you know Gladio’s training is paying off because hey, your sides aren’t hurting that much anymore.

YOU ARE WEIRD AND UNREPENTANT and everything in Noctis’ dictionary of a catastrophe. Here he is, trying his damned best in keeping a distance from you, and you all but kicked over the barricades and shredded the WARNING flyers he tacked on the signboards. What’s he supposed to do when you ran fast uphill—but he’s faster,duh, and it ends in him yanking you through backstreet detours to avoid a ruckus. You had the nerve to laugh at him with the biggest, most brilliant smile he’s ever seen—not that it’s forgiven anything you’ve done to him today, absolutely none at all.

He can’t believe he’s saying this, but he’s glad to see your chilly chamber of secrets, even if it means his toes have to freeze on marble again.

Incredibly in a good mood, you are humming. Clicking on your desktop, belting out Billboard’s Top 20 instead of dead people’s music, boiling hot water and making tea. Noctis drops on a chair and observes you with a palm propping his head. Observes, because he’s sure as hell never experienced something like this before, never seen the city life infecting you all the way to your room, never heard you singing softly under your breath to some crappy lyrics scrawled on restroom stalls.

Did the bookstore unlock some hidden part of your personality like some side quest in a prophecy? Visit the bookstore to gain a new skill: Humming! or something? Noctis makes a face at that. Five years with Prompto and his RPG obsession definitely rubbed off on him.

You balance two cups in a hand and a teapot in the other, clicking off the music. “Here you go, Prince.” When he makes a move to help, you all but shushed him to sit, bringing porcelain to his face and pouring a stream of gold liquid right in it. “Sorry I don’t have anything good, Byron’s been too distracted with Ignis’ birthday party until he forgot my groceries this week.”

Noctis takes a sip of the bland concoction and considers what you said—not that he’s surprised irritation’s rapidly overtaking his initial revelation at your good mood because it’s Byron and when are you not in a good mood about Byron anyway? “Hmm.”

Either you heard him or you don’t as you sit right beside him instead of your usual spot behind your desk, nursing your own cupful. “He’s been baking nonstop,” you say with a sparkle in your eyes, but it vanished when you continue, “and when he screws up, I’m his garbage can apparently. He’s okay with cooking but he’s still crap at baking so I kinda think he’s trying to impress Ignis with this cake but ah—but don’t tell him I told you, he’ll totally kill me.”

His tone darkens with another deep sip. “Hmm.”

Radiating the sun’s enthusiasm, you aren’t unenthused with the one-sided conversation. He sets down his polished cup a little too sharply and you take it as a chance for refilling, not that he’s in any mood to drink more.

“So anyway, thanks for taking me out today,” you cheer, attempting to duck your head just so you’d meet his downturned eyes since he’s gone ahead with slouching in his seat. “Things are really different in the morning, huh? The kids, the streets, the shops, I didn’t think it’d be that different from all the times we went out at night. I was so, so wrong.”

He says nothing and stares right back at you.

He’s an ass for sulking about Byron now, isn’t he?

He is.

Not discouraged by his off-putting silence, you reach by your chair to pull the VW paper bag in your lap, hands flattening crinkles at the folds. Great, seeing that stuff shoves his mood off a cliff faster than a dive. You’re not going to make him sit through you parading your purchase for Byron, are you? He’d rather leave before that happens. No way in hell he’ll stick around to drag that knife down his heart like a goddamn masochist who likes this shit.

The moment he tries to get to his feet, tries, your hands shoot out to dump the bag on him. Whump it goes on his jeans, and Noctis stays because his legs suddenly forgot how to walk.

“That’s yours, Prince, as thanks for today—and also kind of like thanks for sticking with me all the time—wait, no, that’s not what I meant—as in thanks for letting me stick with you.” Your voice is thin at your fumbling, eyes nervously sweeping from him to the bag, bouncing your knees, and he swallows. “I mean it. So. Yeah. Um, thanks for all these four months together and I’ll work really, really hard to make sure the fifth month counts. Yeah. Yeah.”

So maybe his brain can’t quite catch up because his mouth betrays him with a stupid, “Uh.” And that’s not what he’s trying to say when you look positively petrified at the dead sound like he doesn’t care when he obviously cares, damn it. “Wait no—I just.” He swallows the tightness in his throat because why is it so hard to say something when just a word makes the difference between life and death because you, too, counted all the months together like him? His mouth still can’t process the important message and he ends up with another dumb, “Um. Thanks.”

What else? What else? Should he add that he’s sorry for being an ass today just because a certain green-eyed monster kept taunting him with Byron’s name? That blew out of proportions—and that embarrassed him to the point of no return. Here you are, gifting him the same paper bag that haunted him all the way from Vivienne Westwood, and it’s not for your butler of decades. It’s for him. A five-monthiversary gift. For him.

And nobody else but him.

Because you only had eyes for him from the start.

The silence is deafening. He considers you considering him, you’re all wide-eyed silence, he’s all eyes lidded low silent. Your hands smoothen white cotton over your thighs. Teeth are back on your bottom lip, gnawing, pulling. He’s going to mess this up again, isn’t he? Yeah, he is. He totally is. How’s he supposed to say something, anything, when his thoughts are a jumbled mess of surplus jealousy and growing shame?

The next best thing for him to do is the good old adage of action speaks louder than words. Taking the advice to heart, Noctis snatches the ribboned box from his armoury in a burst of blue, tossing it to your lap. Not the best way to gift you, but it evens out the score since you threw his first.

You haven’t moved an inch as the box bounces on your thighs. You probably stopped breathing too.

Noctis clears his throat and remembers that conversation is a two-way thing, as bad as he is at it. “That’s… yours.”

On cue, trembling fingers scramble to lift it to uncertain eyes and he’s rewarded with the sight of a dumbstruck strategist trying to make sense of the package. Turning it in every angle in sunlight diffused by recessed lighting, examining the gold emboss on cool grey, and he’s willing to bet if he’s not there, you would’ve even sniffed the whole box like it’s an edible prank. In the end, you make a hapless sound, balancing it on your jittery lap with a rigid smile.

“Um.” You say, just as dumb as he did. “That was unexpected.”

Noctis tilts his head the other way round. “What, no thanks?”

Instantly, you seize up in panic. He meant it in a funny sense, just a friendly tease, but apparently, it's lost in the mathematics in your head. “No, no, I really, really, really appreciate it. Thank you so much, Prince, I—” you stop to make a strangled sound, pressing your palm to your mouth to stifle the noise. “—thanks, seriously, thanks. ”

Noctis catches your eyes turning glassy and hell, you’re not going to cry, are you? It’s already bad enough he’s struggling to deal with his internal issues; he can’t deal with a crying strategist right now. “Wait—stop. Don’t cry. Dude, seriously, chill.”

It takes a whole seven seconds for you to sniff like you’re draining your eyes inwardly, dabbing the wet corners with the back of your hand. “Not crying, but close enough.”

“Yeah, right.” Six, he hates it when someone messes up his hair, but his own hand is messing up his hair and he can’t get mad at himself, can he? Whatever. Noctis gives up understanding this whole thing and winds up gesturing haplessly at your gift. “You can open it if you want.”

“Sure—" you sniff and Noctis’ wary eyes are searching for any signs of tears as you wave at his gift hopelessly. “—you too, open that if you want to.”

So.

Now that it’s gotten to this point, he can’t imagine what’s in the paper bag or summon the last memory of receiving a gift outside of birthdays. All he knows is that he extracts a folded jacket from its depths, feels his brows meeting at the middle, almost did a double take when he gets a good look at the pin-sized stars dotting the back, physically refrained himself from doing said double take because it’s the same jacket he eyed the moment he stepped in the shop, and floundered for something to say. If you noticed his red soles, he can’t say he’s surprised you noticed how he lingered a second too long at the rack. Noctis leans deeper in his seat and stops trying to pin the precise point in the timeline to answer when you snuck behind his back to buy this for him. He finds none.

An awed gasp from your end tells him your reaction.

Now it’s his turn to dart back and forth from your face to the necklace dripping between your fingers. Your flushed face. One with a garbled series of stuttered ah, um, uh and more ah, um, uh until you abruptly swallowed all nonsensical noises and looked at it with the softest expression he’s ever seen on your face. Wet eyelashes quivering. Lips trembling. Soundless.

The silence returns.

Then, a quiet, “Star.”

Noctis searches for his voice for a while. He finds it, but he can’t release it from wavering. “Yeah.”

“Stella,” you say.

He gets that much. Star. Just like the ones on his jacket. “Yeah.”

“Stella,” you repeat, and a weaker, “Noctis.”

Noctis buries his hands in his jacket. He doesn’t realise when he’d done it. His fingers are burrowing deeper into fine fabric and hummingbirds are caged in his ribs. His name. On your lips. His name. Everything else matters little now. “Yeah?”

Slowly, almost unearthly, you return from your starry reverie with the lethargy of a woman drowning in the sea. Languid, lifting the necklace to your eyes—only, you are not looking at it, you are looking past the pendant, you are looking at him. “Just like the stars we saw that night, remember?”

Oh. Oh. The hummingbirds are loud. And fast. Noctis fishes something from his vocabulary along the lines of hey just so you know, it’s totally fine if you wanna call me by my name but some words end up omitted after an unexpected filtering and all he’s left with is a lame, “That’s my name.”

Your eyes are gentle when you say, “I know.”

The hummingbirds struggle maddeningly loud against his ribcage and Noctis thinks of come here, Noct, and come here and let me love you, and he knows what exactly he wants. “You know.” His voice has gone rougher in the edges. “You can call me by my name.”

The necklace ripples in the air. There is no breeze. Only your hand trembles. You don’t cry. You don’t smile. You don’t look away. “I can’t call you that, I’m sorry…” Your tongue twists each word with care, yet the undertones betray your want—your inherent need for his name. “I respect you as the prince, and it’s a reminder to me that you are my prince. It’s something I shouldn’t ever forget, as someone who wants to serve you.”

The reasoning behind your logic is solid but Noctis doesn’t want logic now.

Logic has no place between two people of a chance meeting on the 56th floor.

“I don’t want to be the prince to you. I want to be.” He pauses, looks mildly uncomfortable, and shakes his head. He wants it. Even if it’s pretending game for two. “Wanna be someone normal to you.” We aren’t normal, he says, we can never be normal with how things are, but I’ll keep pretending it’s normal if you’ll let me. “Not your prince, not your future duty. Just… normal.”

Someone normal enough to take walks with you on flowering promenades.

Someone normal enough to spend hours with you playing video games.

Someone normal enough to sleep together with you.

“So,” you murmur quietly, "is it okay," tipping your head aside, "if I," looping silver around your neck, "call you," clasp fixed securely in place, the star at home between your collarbones, "Noctis?"

He doesn’t trust his voice. Back to action it is, with a slow nod of his own.

You are the very image of his imagination, star sitting at the base of your neck, the centrepiece of your shoulders. You are too real. More than what his paltry dreams offered in his sheets, you are in your chair in a room too cold with his necklace on your neck and he stops hearing the hummingbirds and starts feeling them under his skin. They’ve escaped, fluttering in his nerves, almost guiding his fingers with enough force to touch the silver on your skin.

“Noctis,” you say, fingering his chain.

He nods again.

“Noctis,” you say, a finger stopping on the star.

He softly agrees with your echo, “Yeah.”

“Noctis,” you say, eyes falling shut, head downcast. “Thank you.”

He knows his name belongs on your lips when he, too, closes his eyes. There are stars on the backs of his eyelids and he thinks he’ll dream of them tonight.

IT IS ONLY MUCH LATER ON when you are in the company of your mirror that you allow yourself a moment to examine your reflection. You are twenty and your hands are still bloodied with people whose names you don’t know. You are father’s bundle of sins and your mother is dead. Your eyes are bruised black and your sickly pallor hasn’t improved five months removed from the House of Andronicus. You suspect the illness lies not within the house, but within you yourself. You are a decaying garden and it shows in your eyes, on your lips, on your tongue.

But one thing has changed.

Mother’s hands are gone from your neck.

And in its stead is the prince’s—no, he’s no longer the prince to you.

Noctis.

That is his name.

In its stead is Noctis’ necklace, a weight different from mother’s. It’s cold like her hands, but it’s not hers. It’s Noctis’. The edge of the star goes under your fingernail and you know it is a closure you’ve long sought. Her burial is long overdue.

“Goodbye, mama. Rest in peace.”

[tbc.]

NOTES:

in case anyone hasn’t seen it yet, Erion Makuo drew EXTREMELY FANTASTIC AND IMMENSELY BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK of Omen Noctis here so please go and check it out and send the artist HUGE LOVES! thank you so much for the gorgeous artwork!!! ;u; Bless Erion, bless the artwork, bless everything about them!!!

yells bc it took me ten thousand years to edit this chapter oh my god im so glad it’s done. cheers to plot devices trying to move the fic along! to those of you who are still reading, thank you so much for waiting roughly 4 months for this update! i’m really touched by all of the positive and encouraging moral support i’ve received through comments, kudos, and tumblr messages, especially through the tough times i’m facing and despite my inactivity on tumblr too. i’m still working in the same place, still floating along, still suffering, but coming back to work on this project and others, fuelled by everyone’s support, really gave a huge boost to my emotional health. thank you so much, everyone, you guys are the best, the biggest life-changers, the awesomest people i could ever ask for in times like this.

so what’s next in decaying? everything is going to hell, that’s for sure. more fluff, equally balanced with more questionable content. if you’re uncomfortable with darker themes and morally dubious actions done by the characters, as usual, i’ll include appropriate warnings at the beginning of each chapter and even a little tldr at the bottom as a summary should you want to skip it.

i’ll try to have the next update as soon as i can since my progress is slightly hampered by my bilateral hand conditions, so please look forward to the next chapter as soon as i can! do take care, my lovely friends and readers; stay healthy and hydrated, keep hustling, the times are tough and things are getting tougher, but remember you can do it!

PREVIEW: you’re drowning in air but the world isn’t swimming past you anymore, reality isn’t flitting and warping around in dimensions before your eyes, and you finally feel you’re conscious enough to understand that night has fallen yet again over insomnia, over your room. but why’s byron waiting in the dark without any light and why’s he bending over to caress your cheek and 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 gold eyes and the line of his smile shifting into a smirk and—

[beauvoyr]

Hey! Hope you're doing well and having a good time! 😊 Look after yourself

Hi to you too, sweet anon! Every day is a good day, just that I probably have to shift my thinking to become more positive to cope with the negativity in my life. I hope all's fabulous on your end, dear! ❤️

[beauvoyr]

Hello! I hope all is well :) Your works are absolutely marvelous and I can't stop reading! Your writing is incredibly descriptive and I feel so immersed in the scenes you're describing that I never want to leave. Also, I love love love that you use all the formatting and gifs to your advantage. Everything just fits and adds to the world you've created. Ataraxia's my favourite. Dark!Noct is too enticing :P I hope you continue to write, be it fanfics or original works.You're just so talented!

Thank you so much, dearie anon! Glad you liked the GIFs and the formatting! ❤️ For Ataraxia, I definitely made some progress to the fic but it's really slow progress 😓 embarrassingly enough. I do hope to have at least the third chapter done by the end of this month, hopefully! Thanks for the support!!! 🥰 It makes me really happy to work on these projects in my spare time since kind readers like you seem to enjoy them a lot! ❤️

[beauvoyr]

get better soon! and take all the time you need with your updates!

Thank you so much, love! I really appreciate the support! 🥰❤️

[beauvoyr]

Do you have any estimate on your next update? I love all of your stories! You have a great way of capturing everyone's personality so well in non-canon situations. You're definitely one of my fav fanfic writers and I hope you keep up the great work!

Hi anon! I was given a three-day break by the company in time for the holidays, so I’m planning to update LPC & My Little Sister sometime within these few days before I fly back! Hopefully I’ll manage to make it on time! 

Thank you so much for your compliments too! I’m thrilled you enjoy my brain farts in fics (lol) and imagining how the bros are going to react outside canon haha! Having people enjoying them really puts good feels in me ❤ thank you so much, dear! ❤

[beauvoyr]

Oh ouch,I hope you get better soon! D: ~☆Look after yourself~ 😊 and have a good day or night!

Thank you so much, dear anon! I’m typing at a snail’s pace now actually, one after another, in hopes of lessening the aggravation to my hands and fingers. It still means that I have a lot to correct since I keep pressing the wrong buttons, but I’m trying my best! You too sweetie, please take care and have an awesome day! ❤

[beauvoyr]

My full piece for @noctzine (some extras are still available!)

Heavily inspired by this amazing fic, thank you @beauvoyr for making me thirst after Omen Noct anew. Please check it out and send the author some love! <3 | Twitter | Instagram | Patreon | Website | Prints |

[beauvoyr]

unluckysatellite replied to your photo “Quick update on what's going on with Raon: Somewhere around February,...”

:<!!! That's terrible, I hope you'll get better soon! (I hope posting this update didn't hurt you too much.)

Thank you my dear! It’s a huge hassle to type slowly and steadily, and surgery is expensive too (12k), and insurance is being a bother, and the therapies afterwards and the mechanical changes to my lifestyle were costly (2k++), so I’m pretty much crying in broke right now. It does hurt, but painkillers are helpful along the way. 

Please take care of your hands, friend! I hope it doesn’t befall you!

[beauvoyr]

makuo-san replied to your photo “Quick update on what's going on with Raon: Somewhere around February,...”

Oh gosh :( I wish you fast recovery, Raon! Get better soon /hugs

Thank you so much friend!!! Incredibly horrible thing to happen, lost majority of my strength on both hands, and wrist complications cropped up too. My typing speed has been effectively halved, and sporadic pain is everywhere. :( And surgery is 5-6k a hand, so since this is a bilateral thing, that amounts to 12k for both. /hugs 

Also please take care of your hands! I understand you’re an artist, and your hands are definitely the tool of your trade, so I hope this doesn’t ever happen to you. 

[beauvoyr]

Quick update on what's going on with Raon:

Somewhere around February, I messed up my hands big time, thanks to work. Both hands were affected and I was unable to do anything effectively as they both suffered some issues that require surgery in the long run, more nerve problems, and muscle wasting.

And it progressively worsened through the months. I lost strength in my hands and fingers, and I couldn't type or text or even grip anything anymore. It's close to June now and my hands aren't quite as good as before, but they're doable for basic daily stuff, except there's still plenty of pain. Taking up lots of medicine for nerve repair, and doing plenty of physiotherapy to aid my recovery along the way.

[beauvoyr]

All right, that’s the only update I can do for now! Flight’s almost due so I best be on my way; hope everyone enjoys the updates! 

[beauvoyr]

My Friend, Mr Noctgar | 3

EPISODE III | vendetta

Pairings: Noctis/Reader vs Ravus/Reader  Genre: Romance Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Alpha/Beta/Omega, no beta we die like men, Humour, Angst, Fluff, Size Kink, Size Difference, Short Reader, Self-Indulgent Characters: Older Noctis, Older Chocobros, 30-year-old Ravus Nox Fleuret, Ardyn Izunia, Aranea, Loqi Tummelt, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Homeless (?) Noctis Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Transferring from Gralea to Insomnia’s already hard enough for an Omega like you. Luckily your new friend Mr Noctgar, a homeless Alpha who’s always skulking around Sagefire, is there to brighten your dreary days ahead. And he’s always there to teach you the best spots in Insomnia, among other things.

“—which is why Ghorovas’ Rift is what it is today,” Noctgar ends his tale, flattening the top half of his vanilla soft serve with an agile tongue. At your wide-eyed stare, he swipes a few more licks to the cone, blunt fingernails absently scratching his scruff. “Told you Ifrit was an ass.”

“B-b-but that’s not what the Cosmogonies say?” you sputter, well aware that you sound like an utter imbecile for believing in half the garbage printed. Noctgar regards you with sympathetic understanding how a parent breaks to a child that Shiva Claus isn’t real, and you could only cover your burning cheeks by blaming the dastardly cunning ways of the Insomnian sun. “I mean—they should totally fire their writer for coming up with that fanfic-level stuff and—“

“I don’t get why they tried to make it romantic too,” Noctgar offers his thought, hacking off another solid chunk of vanilla with that sinful muscle of his. “Ifrit’s ego is the size of Ravatogh; unless he apologises to Shiva for messing up Solheim, I don’t think she’s going to lift the curse on Ghorovas. Of course,” his side-glance comes with a playful twinkle, “they tried to tone it down for the kids, I guess. No evil curses, just straight-up romance. Easier for them to digest that stuff.”

Serves you right for being such a gullible child, now Noctgar’s going to think you’re such a baby for believing in that load of junk. When you get back to Gralea, you’re putting up your limited edition copies on nBay. You’re so selling them. Bitterly, too bitterly, you mutter, “Should’ve known Shiva and Ifrit weren’t just Astrals immortalizing their love in Ghorovas. Ice and fire, duh, polar opposites. And polar opposites just don’t get along with each other.”

“Really?” Noctgar bites out a stifled chuckle, now nibbling around the rim of his cone. “Why’d you say that?”

“My superior, Ravus, is what I’d call my polar opposite. The Ghorovas’ Rift to my Leide Desert, if I’m trying to be poetic,” you answer as your thoughts turn to the flaxen-haired prince charming fairing from Tenebrae, substituting black chocobo and polished armour for a Bentley too big in a six-digit suit daily. “He’s a Sonnet 18 kind of guy that could quote ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day’ right down to ‘So long lives this, and this gives life to thee’, and then there’s me, rapping Monster’s ‘You could be the King but watch the Queen conquer.’” You pause at the affable agreement from Noctgar, who’s taking it in with his cream-stained lips twisting into a smile. “See what I mean? We could totally work together but beyond that? Yeah, it’s the original version of Shiva and Ifrit right here, now that I stand corrected—”

The corners of Noctgar’s mouth twitch wider. “Your soft serve’s melting.”

—and you’re flailing at the way vanilla oozes down your flaccid cone, sticky fingers and a veiny trickle down the back of your hand. Any second later and it would’ve stained your cuff. “Oh sh—“ With no napkins left, you lapped at the mess in alternating waves of broad licks, the tip of your tongue erasing all whiteness. You transfer the soft serve to your free hand just so you could suck off all stickiness from your fingers, taking each digit into your mouth and releasing them with a salacious pop, glistening wet yet thankfully free from all stickiness. Thank Astrals for this good head on your shoulders. “There, saved.”

When you turn to Noctgar once more, proudly showing him your handiwork, it is indeed news to you that Noctgar is also susceptible to the ways of the Insomnian sun, despite having lived here for a while.

5.48 p.m. comes as a heady perfume of melancholy and lovesickness. It has Ravus jabbing the keyboard a bit too hard when the scent draws closer and closer, like the metaphorical smog wafting in those inane morning cartoons Luna enjoyed. He knows what this is. Clack, clack, clack goes his keyboard when click click click ends at his doorway, bringing forth a scent that corrupts all Alphas into beasts, a scent that has his jaw set taut, teeth clenched.

“Hey sir,” you chime, your handbag shouldered, eyes a starry concerto when you seek his. By the Gods, he hates that glassy sheen, especially the hint of your teeth hiding behind the pink of your lips. “I’m about to head back.”

So leave already, he wants to snarl.

Get out of my sight, he wants to growl.

“Very well, you may leave,” is what he says, ignoring your questing eyes in favour of the bulleted list he’s been typing since five. Seven pages in, charts and tables drawn, paragraphs elaborated and red-tabbed notes highlighting key points in the report, and yet it is still far from complete to him. From the looks of it, a few more hours will be a worthwhile investment in order to achieve the level of perfection he’s after.

Something must’ve crossed his face when he returned to his work, for your keen eyes are still riveted on him. “You’re…not going home?”

Fingers skating across the keys stop. Your innocent concern is a forgery most Omegas have mastered; a species designed to captivate and fascinate those around them, unhesitant to delve their fingers into the stickiest of pies, only to draw them back, licking and sucking off cherry-reddened digits one by one. Viciously coy to those they want to enrapture, cunningly demure to those they want to seduce, Omegas are disgusting creatures willingly spreading their legs for any and all Alphas to conquer. Once they’ve conquered the body, they will conquer the world. Such is the reality Ravus is acquainted with, considering the multitude of Omegas who have crossed his path and tried to make him theirs.

And you could be one of them.

Another one of them, seeking wealth and riches only a prince could satisfy.

Ravus skips over your gaze, knowing he’ll find nothing. Clack clack clack on his keyboard again, this time in a measured pace. “No.” By right, he could’ve left it at no and watch you leave his room with one of your feigned sympathy, but professionalism has a say over prejudice. Work is work, and you are but an Omega stationed under him. He keys in the last period and skims over the sentence twice more. “I am preparing an outline for tomorrow’s briefing, as we will be hosting a corporate event on C3 involving both CC and NT in the near future.”

“Ohhhh…” You’re nodding—which, in Ravus’ dictionary, is not a good sign. The moment you’re adjusting your shoulder strap absently, Ravus regrets every word leaving your mouth: “Anything I can do to help out?”

This is what he doesn’t need. Help. An excuse following an excuse, Omegas are good at conjuring a thousand and one more excuses to spend more time within the proximity of those they’re trying to capture; How low will they stoop? Low enough until they crawl, Ravus supposes. And crawling is what Omegas do best.

His words are clipped, underlined with brutal intent. “No. Leave.”

Unfortunately, you are dafter than most. Where others would scurry along and never look back at the sight of his darkening expression, your stupidity takes you places others wouldn’t dream of venturing. Now, you are waltzing into the territories of Ravus’ restraint with a quiet, “Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, let me help you out.” Again, you are the obnoxious Omega pushing every button on the console as if to trigger his wrath, fond eyes juxtaposing narrowed ones. “The sooner we get this done, the faster you can go home, right? So let’s get to it.”

Foolish, selfish Omega.

Fingers lacing together, Ravus leans into his backrest, tipping his chin ever so slightly at the sight of the disobedient Omega toeing his doorway. What do you seek to gain from testing his patience? His affection? Hah, hardly. A one-night stand much like the cheap paperbacks Luna enjoyed? Never in his lifetime. Winning his attention? On the negative spectrum, you will. What about monetary expenses? Surely you’ll benefit from overtime, making the most of your meagre salary to support your luxurious lifestyle. Omegas and their petty needs of pretty collars for every outfit, polished nails done in salons, nauseating perfumes in crystal bottles—everything as an excuse to waste money. Ravus considers this train of thought twice more before he comes to a conclusion.

“You won’t be paid for your overtime,” he breathes his verdict.

It's a variable thrown into the mix for the sake of observing your reaction. If he’s right, he should be receiving the expected reaction right about—

You straighten up, nodding once. “Okay yep, bye.”

Click, click, click is the sound that follows, the very sound of victory proving his statement. Ravus smirks to himself, knowing he is not wrong and he will never be wrong. A typical Omega you are, lured by the lavish prospects of making more money through whatever means you could get. Laughable. Your desperation is disgusting and he detests your very presence. He should be very careful in deflecting any future advances from your end, knowing how adamant Omegas can be once they settle on a target to devour. You may have given up tonight, but you will return sooner or later. With that warning planted in his head, Ravus rests his fingers on his keyboard, gliding over them in ease.

Click, click, click is also the sound of defeat when you backtrack into his doorway again, flashing a cheeky grin that belongs only on primates in zoos. “Just kidding, sir, I’m not that heartless. Back in Gralea, Aranea used to stay back with the rest of the team when we worked on something. And because NTG was extra broke at one point because they keep siphoning the money to different politicians, I’m used to not getting paid by now.” You do a one-shoulder shrug, rattling about a paper bag. “As long as I can trade those OTs for credit leaves, I’m cool with that.”

Foolish, selfish, and annoying Omega.

If Ravus were a slighter man, his door would have answered your statement in seconds. However, he is the Prince of Tenebrae, and so he returns your imprudent gallantry with a frown. More minutes are wasted on entertaining your stupidity, minutes that Ravus could have spent on bettering his outline, minutes that Ravus would have clocked in at least two more pages to his text. Here you stand, awaiting his response, and here he sits, awaiting your departure.

No such luck.

Such trifling matters to be handled; yet it niggles his head all the same. He could only tear his eyes away from your unblinking stare, resuming his work once more. “…do whatever you want.” Yes, you could do whatever you want; after all, you may have won the fight, but you have yet to win the war. Ravus taps away at his keyboard, finding more satisfaction in punching in the alphabets than staring you down. “And while you’re at it, get me some coffee.”

“Great! I still have some bread from Sagefire this afternoon so we can totally share that.” You’re all but bouncing away as your voice drifts from a distance, filling in the click click click of your heels. “Gonna be in the pantry for a sec, ‘scuse me.”

He does not want any bread from Sagefire, not when Scientia owns it. But your return brings two mugs of coffee, setting them with noiseless experience of a waiter on his table. In a creamy caramel colour, Ravus glowers at the consistency of your coffee. “What’s this?”

“Coffee!” you cheer, rolling out a chair to make yourself comfortable as you unpack the paper bag to reveal an assortment of diabetes inducing treats on a ceramic platter. “And here’s some bread too—I totally recommend having their strawberry danish because it’s so good.”

With an upturned nose, Ravus angles his face away from your weak craft. “I only take mine black.”

Your head bobs rapidly like a storm-wrecked buoy, a certain light illuminating your face. “Well! More for me then!” The moment your offending hand begins its advance for his mug, he grits his teeth at your impudence and swats off the intruder. “Ow!” You rub the back of your reddening hand, pouting—Gods, the thing an Omega loves to do most, pouting. “Okay, okay, I get it, sheesh…I’ll make yours black next time.”

Ravus only hikes a brow at your impertinent words and merely answers your sulk with a sip.

It’s not black coffee, but at least you make a decent one for a screw-up.

2.39 a.m.

You could barely even control the yawn escaping your mouth, what more controlling your appearance in front of him. Two mugs, one rimmed in nude lip prints, both equally drained to the dregs. The back of your hand sports a smudge of brown and black, courtesy of an accidental rubbing of your eye to fight your sleep. Roughly thirty minutes earlier, you splashed cold water on your face, effectively erasing every last inch of powder on your haggard face. Only three days in and your superior is already treated to the sight of your bare face, no lipstick, no eyeliner, not even a cushion powder to fix up your appearance. That’s a record, considering how Aranea only saw your pillow face three months in when you first started; now Ravus has seen it all, and you think he’ll start seeing more the longer you work with him.

How could one thing escalate to another, a briefing outline on tomorrow’s meeting turning into an impromptu planning session for NTI’s charity event on C3 grounds anyway?

The answer?

Well, that’s work for you.

With another disgruntled yawn, you rub the bridge of your nose. Only, Ravus looks up from his copy of the document, pen paused. In his normal state, Ravus is considered crabby. Past midnight, stuck here for hours and hours on end with you, he’s the crabbiest ever. You could only manage an apologetic sigh, hoping you don’t add on to his irritation. “Sorry, Ravus…I’m just extra tired lately.”

“Aren’t we all?” is his acerbic response, utterly lacking sympathy.

You don’t expect him to properly channel human emotions since he appears to be a counterpart of Andronicus, but he least he could do is to understand where you’re coming from. You click your pen close, setting it parallel to your lipstick-ridden mug. “Emphasise on the extra tired, sir.” Your lips twitch at his merciless dour. “I didn’t even get to unpack my stuffs yet. So many boxes and so many things are missing in my new apartment. Hooks, locks, curtains, sheets, pillows, everything. I can’t use the stove because I haven’t bought induction pans yet, I haven’t hanged my clothes in the closet because I don’t have time to iron everything, I need to call the landlord to call the plumber to fix the heater because it’s already broken by the time I moved in—Shiva, the best I have is the bed because it’s the only thing I managed to set up. Just throw on my scarf and bundle my sweater and boom, that’s my bedsheet and pillow.”

Of course, you hadn’t intended to shoot him with your rant but it is what it is. While your problems are your own, and a prince wouldn’t necessarily come equipped with generous understanding of how hard moving from one place to another while being dead broke can be, your mild outburst is intended as a plea for him to remove his feet from his fancy, hard leather oxfords for once and slip on your ratty morning office slippers instead. If you had all the money in the world, hiring people to furbish your rented apartment would be as easy as waving your black card on the scanner, go to work in Louboutins while riding a Maserati, and come back to a five-star chef having prepared fresh fish air-flown from Altissia for your dinner. All of that is easily within Ravus’ command if he desires, but you? You’re just an Omega making a measly 3.8k a month and a good chunk of that money is going to your rent, meals, supporting your parents back in Gralea, and public transportation fees.

However, for the strangest moment, Ravus is silent.

When it comes to your sporadic verbal machine gun going rat-tat-tat-tat for a conversation, Ravus keeps to himself most of the time—or downright ignores it. Granted, he could’ve unloaded a scathing bazooka of, “Silence, vermin,” on you, or a derisive variant of, “You asinine whelp,” on your sorry ass just to keep you silenced once more. But this time, there is none of that. Ravus leans into his seat, briskly capping his fountain pen closed. Heterochromatic eyes are back on you again, appraising your paltry worth under fluorescent tubes. Being probed by a man like him, wholly, unabashedly, with lips set in a thin line and eyebrows furrowed, everything just burns an uncomfortable bonfire in your tummy.

‘Oh gods, just stop staring already,’ you internally shake your hands skywards, begging the Astrals on your knees to spare you because Ravus can’t seriously be doing this now.

Your blouse is rumpled from all the active moving you’ve been doing throughout the day, you’re sure you’re shitfaced because your makeup is gone, nada, zilch—and the worst part is, he’s not even saying anything about it! Not even a degrading remark! Comparing your dishevelled self to him, his three-piece suit still remains impeccable even if it had been hours since his arrival at office, his face is a marble statue of cool composure an Alpha commands, and he does not look haggard (unlike you, you weak ass Omega). The longer he stares, the more you feel your cheeks burning with the intensity of a wildfire scorching Leiden desert.

Heck, anyone and everyone getting picked to pieces by a hot guy would probably feel the same way too, just that said hot guy happens to be the punishing Prince of Tenebrae.

And said Prince of Tenebrae so happens to be your superior.

Three seconds later, the Alpha comes to a decision. “Let us stop here for now.”

That’s so unexpected until you blink at the surprise. Did that sympathetic node in his brain finally function?

Apparently, Ravus isn’t finished with his train of thought. “I find that working when one is demotivated is akin to pushing a dead mule. Ineffective and inefficient.” And, for the slightest moment, the edges of his lips curl. “Like you.”

—so maybe you were too hasty in your conclusion.

If it were up to your fighting spirit, you would’ve spat fire in his face, fuelled by your fatigue and fury from his relentless barrage of insults. But, Gods above, this guy’s your superior and you’re going to be stuck with him for a long, long time. It’s only been three days, three days! Biggs and Wedge once tested your patience with repeated pranking in office and you only snapped after finding your car painted in Post-its after the second month. Just because this goddamn Prince of Tenebrae doesn’t understand the hardships a broke ass Omega needs to endure in a new environment, it doesn’t mean he should be getting under your skin this easily—and that doesn’t mean you should jeopardise your sole work source of income thanks to him.

Because, hey, this isn’t a girly manga where the main character quarrels with a filthy hot, fucking rich dude and winds up in a twisted relationship with the man, yeah?

Yeah, so let’s roll with that.

You stomach his insults in hopes you’d digest his assholery and turn it into diarrhoea by tomorrow morning. At least you made some progress into his work and you can’t say you shirked out your duty as a senior exec. The smile on your face is positively simpering. “Thanks, Ravus, I really appreciate it.”

Translation: Go fuck yourself.

Swiftly withdrawing all papers and clutter from his desk to be stuffed into a folder, taking off the mugs and dumping them in the sink for washing tomorrow morning, you return to his room to grab both your handbag and work bag, slinging them over your shoulder once more. In a couple more hours you’d be back in this dreaded place again, enduring yet another hellish torture from 8.00 a.m. to 7 p.m. and you can’t say you’re looking forward to it. A glance to your wristwatch tells you it’s 3.04 a.m. and you’ve got only four hours of sleep maximum if you’re looking to arrive at work on time, but the bigger problem here is this:

“What the fuck.” You blink at your wristwatch’s guiltless face. Then turned to Ravus’ cocked eyebrow at your uncharacteristic cuss. “Sorry about that. I missed the last train.”

If possible, Ravus’ eyebrow climbs higher. One day, you’ll ask him the secret to his condescending eyebrow ascension, but not today. Not when you’re stranded here with nary a cheap cab to haul your pathetic ass home. ‘Great job, (y/n), great job. You done fucked up now.’

The curled edges to Ravus’ lips are still there when he questions, “And where do you live?”

“Somewhere on the – uh,” you squint at the foggy memory of sienna walls and bricked roads, vivid playground and a kindergarten nearby, “I think it’s called Kore? Not sure where that is.” Considering it’s only been four days since you landed in Insomnia, it’s a miracle your overworked brain could recall a fragment of the location. “But it’s got a kindergarten and some swings and it’s a pretty cheap and quiet neighbourhood kind of thing—safe, hopefully.”

“That’s quite some distance from here,” he hums. “I suppose you walk to the train daily then?”

Chatty, isn’t he? You shift your weight on the other foot, rubbing your nape as your head sifts through possibilities of Moogling up a 24-Hour cab service and risk getting conned for thousands of Credits, or grab Uber instead and risk getting into a car with a potentially frisky Alpha. The choices are clearly endless. “Well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. If I stay close to NTI, I’m gonna be even more broke than I am now. Need to make the best of my pay.” Not that it changes anything in your current situation; you probably should start thinking of alternatives now. Cab it is. “Yeah, anyway, I gotta go now. Gonna call a cab, ‘nite.”

Granite and amethyst are sharply narrowed your way once again, this time with an ever-familiar scowl. “Don’t be asinine—“

You sigh. ‘Yep, there it is, he’s gonna chew me out again for my life decisions. Stay out of my life, dad, I’m an adult.’

“—I’ll send you home,” Ravus finishes, already striding past your stunned figure to switch off the lights to his office. “Come along now, we don’t have all day.”

Your head whips around so fast you could’ve risked cracking your neck.

Holy shit. Did you hear that right?

Is your life really starting to turn into that girly manga route where the cold bastard finally takes an interest in the protagonist and the protagonist falls helplessly in love with him and it culminates into—‘Okay, no, calm down, self, calm down. It’s just Ravus being a sensible guy—he’s a human being and he’s got to have some sort of kind bone in him somewhere. Don’t overthink this and don’t end up making it more awkward than it already is. Ifrit and Shiva, Ifrit and Shiva, gotta remember that.’

That’s your pep talk for the day, but your traitorous heart’s palpitating loud enough for your eardrums to beat along. Tugging your bags closer as you tailed Ravus on your way out, you crane your neck to look up at him in gratitude. Because, seriously, all girly manga clichés aside, he’s the real MVP for wanting to send you back home. “Thanks, Ravus, seriously. I really appreciate this.” And no, not a hint of sarcasm this time. For real. “Seriously seriously. Thanks man.”

Ravus allows himself a sidelong glance at your expectant gaze, almost haughty in his disdain. “If you were to be murdered, I will end up losing more manpower in this office. I simply cannot let that happen.”

Or so he says, yet as your shoulders sag at his incriminating statement, half-lidded eyes are lingering far too long on you.

It is rare occasion for one to find oneself riding his car. It is rarer occasion for one to ride with him twice in a single lifetime.

Strangely, you defy all norms with your brutish pig-headedness, barrelling past all barricades he’s strategically set up to deter those coming his way. Riding in his car twice, and having the gall to fall asleep at that. Foolhardy, insolent, never quick to rise to the baits he dangled right under your nose. There should be a specific category for people like you, those who teeter along the fine line dividing the charlatan and the frank, though he can’t quite find a box befitting your nature. At most, you rebuffed his mockery with a snide smile, knowing your place underneath him, playing by the unspoken political hierarchy in the office.

Chancing a glance at his side rewards him with a vexing view of your lolling head. Shoulders softly rising and falling in tune with your breathing, guiltless in your slumber. Never once stirring from your sleep, hands politely folded over your thighs, both bags sitting by your feet. Street lamps flashing over your skin hardly bothers you, though Ravus supposes sloths are heavy sleepers. While it is indeed a blessing that you are silent for once, it is also infuriating that you dared to sleep in his presence, rendering him akin to your personal driver. An incredibly incensing thought, one that almost makes him want to shake you awake just to see your disgruntled face upon being rudely woken up.

The sooner he deposits you, the better.

A finger to the blinker, he smoothly swerves left and exits the highway.

Stalagmite skyscrapers gradually disappear from the distance, consumed by the miles separating them from the heart of Insomnia as Ravus drives on. Kore, miles from the heart of Insomnia, is a suburb for the penniless. Unfortunately, it’s one of Luna’s favourite spots for her charity charades, or what Ravus thinks it is. Visiting orphanages with trolleys of toys and wheeling around gap-toothed children in wheelchairs, her actions earned the love of locals easily. A gentle beauty who is no stranger to TV shows and radio podcasts, his gentle sister preaches to the masses. What Ravus saw as cunningly crafted manipulation of the media to bolster Niflheim’s extensive efforts in positive politics, Luna would wage a war with words against him—or what she calls pessimistic derision.

Whatever it may be, Ravus isn’t keen on correcting her altruism at the expense of their familial ties; as long as she’s safe, their views may continue to differ, so long as it contributes to the same cause.

His foot eases off the gas pedal as the traffic lights transition from amber to red. The quiet outskirts of the city are obviously dead at this hour with no cars whirring across the road. Waiting for a full minute at the intersection when he’s all alone would’ve sounded ridiculous to many, but rules are not meant to be broken. At the inopportune moment presenting itself, Ravus chances another glimpse at your visage, catching your head still lolling softly as though you are headbanging in your dreams. The sight of your unashamed barefaced slumber whisks an irritation he deems it can be solved once he swats you awake.

Foolish, selfish, annoying, and audacious Omega.

As though the traffic lights sensed his malicious intent, they immediately popped green.

Thus, Ravus is thwarted for the night.

Much later on, miles and miles away from the junction, stopping by the cracked sidewalk leading up to a rundown two-storey apartment with an exposed stairwell and walls as thin as a single brick, he watches as you stumble out of his ride with half a heel worn and the other stuck somewhere underneath the seat. You yawn open-mouthed when you’ve fished the abominable needle-heeled shoe from ruining his ride, slurring a sleepy good night with that idiotic slant slacking your lips to reveal a hint of teeth in a coy smile.

Shutting his door, you totter off into the distance as darkness warps your body until you are no more.

Ravus stares at nothing.

And then he leaves.

8.35 a.m.

Oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

You’re speed-walking through the thronging crowd at four oh shits per second, in which an interspersed oh fuck gives you an extra boost when you glance at your wristwatch. You are so dead—oh, you wish you were already dead because at least you don’t have to step into office and get physically dismembered by your boss. While you would’ve preferred your phone to be pinging nonstop with a barrage of assaulting messages from Ravus, the eerie silence speaks volumes for your current situation. Nothing’s scarier when a boss says nothing about your tardiness—in which it’s already a code red for your life.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you chant to the crowded escalator as your heart goes oh shit, oh shit, oh shit in tandem, pushing past the slow-motion bystanders—or are you actually on fast-forward? No matter, same difference, just that you need to get the hell out of the station to run to your office.

Emerging from the subway, your heart’s pumping like you’re about to undergo a cardiac arrest as you reorientate yourself with your surroundings. In the distance, NTI gleams like a silver stake ready to be spiked through your body. Just imagining the things Ravus would do to you the moment you step past the office doors gets you doubting yourself for a second there longer—oh Astrals, would it be better if you just stop by a Starbucks somewhere and tender your resignation to HR via email just so you’d spare yourself? Or would it be better if you just hightail it back home and never show up until they just terminate you? Either way, anything sounds like a good choice—far better than going in there unarmed against your boss.

With a nervous twitch, you withdraw your phone to check the notifications.

Nothing.

Not even an insult?

Or even something vaguely derogatory?

Good gods, you’re really done for, aren’t you?

All because you decided to spend your OT in office with him until three in the morning.

‘If anything, he should be grateful to me because I helped him out,’ you huffily try to justify should ragnarok come hurling home. Stuffing your phone once more, it is with a heavy heart and heavier feet that you drag yourself to your office, slowing down to one and a half oh shit at a time. ‘But then again, it’s not like I was helping out much. He got his shit together while I was sitting there like a moron watching him work.’

As a senior executive, whatever your boss tasked you with, you were supposed to execute it with the aid of fellow execs under you. Growing into this new role of yours gets challenging without a guiding hand showing you the ropes—you suppose all you could do is to imitate whatever Aranea had done and replicate it in your own unique way. Just like yesterday, when experience poured from the tip of Ravus’ fountain pen whilst he scribbled ideas on a scrap of paper. Planning charity events requires budgeting; that much you knew from your years with Aranea. NTG had to ration their budget expenditure spread over a financial year and NTI isn’t any different—except, NTI had a wealth of money at their expense, apparently. Ravus had kindly set aside close to a hundred thousand for media buys pertaining to social media ads, and that’s not even including billboards and traditional media. You had dumbly stared at the 1.5 million Credits parked under production costs as you mentally contrasted it with NTG’s measly 30k—to which the prince haughtily declared, “Did you think this will be just like Gralea?”

As snotty as he sounded, you couldn’t admit yes.

The scale of the events NTI organized shouldn’t be a surprise to you; Ravus had shown you that whatever NTG did, NTI would execute it on a grander note. That’s because it’s not for Niflheim anymore; it’ll be the talk of the kingdom if NT scrimped out on their political campaign by delivering less than what is expected. None of them would like to lose face in front of the king, would they? From the guest lists to the caterers, he shared his thoughts and views on contracted vendors and agencies that would be setting up the event site. Coordinating their locations, standardizing the colours, ensuring all corporate identities are prominently displayed via buntings, it’s almost everything you’ve ever done in NTG amplified threefold. With every snip of his tongue lashing, you are forced to reorganize your bearings and fulfil his wishes according to his ideals.

It’s overwhelming. Exhausting. Demanding.

Yet, as you think about your boss’ solemn profile as he worked tirelessly through the night, it pops a funny little bubble in your tummy.

Ravus Nox Fleuret is a pain in the ass, sure, but at least he taught you something.

And how are you supposed to support him as a senior exec if you’re going to get fired today? Well, better get your feet moving faster than one oh shit at a time if you still want a job by tomorrow.

Picking up your speed, you allow the ocean of humans to suck you into waves. Everywhere you looked, the morning zombies of Insomnia were in the same state: Dragging their feet to their workplaces. You can’t say you’re proud to be one of them, especially when your body’s in a state of disarray. That lack of sleep manifests by way of a throbbing headache and tunnel vision as you weave through the crowd, making your way to the stab of silver in the distance. Except, along the way, you didn’t expect a familiarly antique scent to come sidling up your strides.

“Hey, morning,” Noctgar offers a rumbling greeting, scruff twitching along his words.

What could possibly improve your disastrous morning to be better? None other than your favourite homeless Alpha, that’s who.

In all honesty, you wanted to slow down and have a good chat with him before you head to your funeral—but it’s not easy being the star of your own beheading, so you can’t really show up late. Flashing him your most genuine smile, you keep an even pace. And it certainly helps when you’re short, for you would never wind up outpacing him.

“G’morning, Noctgar! So sorry I can’t stop and chat, I actually shouldn’t be alive right now!” you chirp. At his stunned silence welcoming your shocking statement, you laugh a little. “Just kidding—well,” you sober up at the reality of the situation, “half kidding. I’m just really late right now, so I’m trying to make the most of my last moments on Eos before my boss decides how he wants me done today. Grilled, charbroiled, steamed, everything on the menu is possible.”

Even with the bustling Insomnians talking in dissonant murmurs, Noctgar’s low whistle couldn't be missed. “Sounds rough, I’m sorry to hear that, old friend. Take care.”

“Take care!?” you squeak your disbelief, chortling at the way Noctgar’s ever-expressive eyes twinkle with mischief when he knows you hadn’t missed out on the joke. “Such support, much wow. Wait ‘til you receive my e-invite for my funeral today, free lunch provided.”

Noctgar chuckles at your dark humour, easily sidestepping a passing Beta before rejoining your side like velcro. “Yeah, wouldn’t miss out on free lunch. Hope he cooks you good.”

“Me too,” you lightly punch him in the bicep as he returns his revenge by messing up your hair, trading blows.

Somewhere down the street, Starbuck’s open doors wafted bitter notes of coffee among the herd of creamy Omegas, subtle Betas, and masculine Alphas. Cabbies and Ubers are honking at the building traffic, tyres screeching on asphalt. Just like this, it feels good to have someone with you. Walking together through the slow drift of chilly breeze, making jokes over your misfortune when the going gets tough.

Noctgar’s the same as ever, dressed in a humble jacket, hands pocketed in drab jeans. Still looking like he hadn’t a decent night’s sleep, always in need for a good shaver and mirror. Who knows what he’s doing out here anyway? Insomnia’s probably his turf, so it makes sense why he’d just pop up near the subway by accident if he had been napping nearby—and boy, it’s an excellent accident to happen first thing in the morning. Alas, all good things have to come to an end, marked by the way NTI’s glass lobby looms all too soon into view with lively Techies swarming in by the second.

You instinctively slow down, turning to your Alpha friend with a grimace. “Well, we’ve come to the end of the line.”

“Any last words?” Noctgar teases, leaning back with his head tilted aside.

It takes you a moment to search the Merriam-Webster Dictionary preinstalled in your brain when the image just assaults you like this. With creamy light spilling over pale skin, the wild arrangement of tousled hair, sharp Alpha characteristics of a defined jawline following a cocky, self-assured smirk; yeah, this homeless friend of yours is definitely something, why didn’t you realize it earlier? With a little snip of his scruff, a tidying of his locks, and some fitting garment, Astrals, you could’ve transformed him into a model! Or at least you could do a joint venture where you could pitch his existence to modelling agencies as his self-appointed manager and rake in thousands by the end of the month—

—yeah, too bad you have to die today.

“Eh, well,” you do an unenthused shrug, already accepting your inevitable death at the hands of your boss because no amount of active imagination could spare you from Ravus, “thanks for being a pal, Noctgar. You made my short stay in Insomnia a luxury vacation, really. Five stars on TripAdvisor as best tour guide.”

At this, Noctgar’s lips twist oddly—like absent fondness and Something More™, but who knows what Something More™ could mean when you obviously won’t live long enough to find out. “I’ll make sure they bury you with your phone so that you can still text me an invite in the coffin. Can’t miss out free lunch and five stars on TripAdvisor.”

How morbidly charming. You really like this guy. Holding out a fist, you flash him the kind of smile when Brave Legends Go Off To Meet Their Impending Demise. “See you on the other side, pal.”

Noctgar only returns your brofist with unwavering confidence. “Yeah, see you.”

As you heroically march right up the entrance sans epic background music, too lost in the moment where the highlight reel of your life is on playback before your eyes, you’ve most certainly missed out a blurry reflection of Noctgar withdrawing a cellphone from his back pocket, snapping a picture of you.

“Ah, Your Highness, to what do I owe this pleasure of a phone call while I’m in the middle of a meeting with my board members, who are coincidentally very peeved at this ongoing interruption?”

“Sorry, not sorry. Do you wanna owe me something real quick?”

“An intriguing offer! Go on, I’m listening.”

“Great. There’s this girl, (y/n), coming up from NTI’s lobby now. She’s new, Omega, black collar, and reports to Ravus—I’ll send you her pic in a sec. Think you can see that bastard and make up some excuse on why she’s late?”

“Pray tell, what benefits will I reap from this ad hoc liaison?”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Debt is the slavery of the free, after all.”

“…fine, I’ll go to that damn charity event on C3.”

“What an intriguing offer indeed.”

NOTES:

Thanks for all the support during my absence! Going through a bit of a rough patch in life at the moment, but I'll try my darnest best to keep writing and keep updating! ❤ Stay safe everyone, stay hydrated, and may 2019 go well for all of you!

THE TRAGEDY CONTINUES: Great. Great, great, great, great great great, just great. The way you punched in the fullstop a bit too hard resounds like a bullet through metal before you rise to your feet, already feeling cold sweat collecting under your boobs. Because fuck sweating profusely through your armpits when that’s too mainstream, since the way you’ll get fired is already premium with how Ravus stands before his room like a headmaster catching his students sniffing glue in the school’s backyard. As if things can’t get any worse, everyone within vicinity are pretending they’re focused on their work—but you catch their sneaky eyes hovering above iMacs, ears subtly angled Ravus’ way. Absolutely fabulous, it’s barely your first week here and you’ve already fucked up ten ways up Ravus’ ass, and judging from how hairy things are getting, you suspect he hasn’t shaved his crack for a long, long time.

(Or maybe he’s never shaved at all.)

(But you haven’t considered if he’s naturally hairless, did you?)

[beauvoyr]

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!

[beauvoyr]

congrats on 900 kudos on LPC c: you deserve it

Thank you anon! 

LPC’s come a long way, especially when it started out as that one fic where the protag pretty much wants to play games and sleep and... weeeell, the protag is still doing that but, murder and all, yeah. :D THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT FOR LPC! 

[beauvoyr]

I just wanted to thank you for sharing your stories with us. I love Lazy People's Club and Mr. Noctgar, they're both amazing and wonderful and just everything about it is great! I hope you have an amazing day!

I FEEL YOUR LOVE THROUGH THE SCREEN, ANON! Thank you so much for your awesome words! They give me feels that are super good and super motivating for me to keep writing on! Thanks for supporting both LPC and Mr Noctgar, I hope you’ve enjoyed the long overdue updates from my side! Have an awesome week too, dearie! 

[beauvoyr]

Whatever happened to LPC?

LPC is on the way~ Just making aesthetic changes! :D

[beauvoyr]

bitchasstrashcan replied to your post “My Little Sister ☆ Can’t Be This Cute!”

Aaaaaw this was so cute!!!!

Awww thank you!!! ♥♥♥ Glad you enjoyed the overwhelming dose of cuteness, fluff, and sibling drama! ♥ There will definitely be more of Ignis being a big bro, and the whole rivalry for Ignis’ attention lmao poor Iggy

Thanks again for reading the fic!