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ignoctuous2017-05-27 08:29 pm
innoctuous) wrote in ignoctuous2017-05-27 08:29 pm
you're so far, so far, so far away from me;
The first few days, he'd somehow managed to convince himself he would be okay; a month wasn't long at all, in the grand scheme of things, especially when it came down to the thought of how much of Ignis' time the prince would command on his return. It was an easy thing to distract himself with, because he has never been anything but possessed of a vivid imagination, and those first few nights he'd spent alone had been passed with the touch of his own hands and that willful imagination, and it. Had seemed like enough.
At the end of the first week, he'd managed to convince himself that he was going to perish before Ignis returned. Days were already long enough with classes and the ( fucking ridiculous ) itinerary his chamberlain had left for him in his stead, and Noct — while he's been given to the notion that occasionally it might do him some good to catch up on things, to make an effort with his royal proceedings, he can't exactly find it in him to concentrate when all that passes through his mind are things like what are you doing and do you miss me and I kinda hate sleeping in this bed without you.
So, he gets an idea. One that he thinks is pretty fucking ace, and there is no hiding the smirk that spreads across his face when he thinks of it in the middle of the afternoon. When there are still a couple of hours of school left, and there's little more that he can do except to fidget in his seat and try to persevere.
Schoolbag and half of his school uniform are discarded the moment he reaches his room, the moment the door is closed behind him and his eyes settle on the shadows of the restraints he knows are hidden just beneath the covering of sheet and blanket. ( And duvet cover. And a few throw pillows. Because there is always extraneous need for decoration in the royal bedchamber, especially when it means adding to the covering up of one ( 1 ) set of under-the-bed restraints. ) The bed isn't made, of course, because he's never seen the point of making it if he's just going to mess it up all over again, and since Ignis is really the only one to set foot in his room for anything other than a routine, royal security check? In his advisor's absence, it means that bed is going to go unmade indefinitely, and he doesn't care.
Noct throws himself down into the plush linens with a satisfied sort of hum as he reaches for one of the restraints meant for his wrists, mouth pulling to the side in a bit of concentration as he situates it over his skin. Works it into place with nowhere near the sort of precision that Ignis would have boasted, but for all the effect it's sure to have, the effort is enough. Right. ( Right. )
It takes him a minute or two to get the angle right, but he somehow manages to snap a shot from overhead, barely more than a tuft of dark hair and almost equally dark eyes that make up the background to what he wants to be the center focus: that pale wrist encased in soft black leather, fingers curled in on themselves in the sheet beneath him. A simple enough thing, all things considered, but it's the text that accompanies it that might just be the kicker.
miss u ;)
It's a few hours, at the very least, before he gets a response — and a couple more before a call comes in, the familiar tone reaching his ears at the precise moment his eyes had drifted closed in a doze. The crowned prince of Lucis smirks when he picks up, and it's sure to be evident in the tone of his voice. "… Hey."
At the end of the first week, he'd managed to convince himself that he was going to perish before Ignis returned. Days were already long enough with classes and the ( fucking ridiculous ) itinerary his chamberlain had left for him in his stead, and Noct — while he's been given to the notion that occasionally it might do him some good to catch up on things, to make an effort with his royal proceedings, he can't exactly find it in him to concentrate when all that passes through his mind are things like what are you doing and do you miss me and I kinda hate sleeping in this bed without you.
So, he gets an idea. One that he thinks is pretty fucking ace, and there is no hiding the smirk that spreads across his face when he thinks of it in the middle of the afternoon. When there are still a couple of hours of school left, and there's little more that he can do except to fidget in his seat and try to persevere.
Schoolbag and half of his school uniform are discarded the moment he reaches his room, the moment the door is closed behind him and his eyes settle on the shadows of the restraints he knows are hidden just beneath the covering of sheet and blanket. ( And duvet cover. And a few throw pillows. Because there is always extraneous need for decoration in the royal bedchamber, especially when it means adding to the covering up of one ( 1 ) set of under-the-bed restraints. ) The bed isn't made, of course, because he's never seen the point of making it if he's just going to mess it up all over again, and since Ignis is really the only one to set foot in his room for anything other than a routine, royal security check? In his advisor's absence, it means that bed is going to go unmade indefinitely, and he doesn't care.
Noct throws himself down into the plush linens with a satisfied sort of hum as he reaches for one of the restraints meant for his wrists, mouth pulling to the side in a bit of concentration as he situates it over his skin. Works it into place with nowhere near the sort of precision that Ignis would have boasted, but for all the effect it's sure to have, the effort is enough. Right. ( Right. )
It takes him a minute or two to get the angle right, but he somehow manages to snap a shot from overhead, barely more than a tuft of dark hair and almost equally dark eyes that make up the background to what he wants to be the center focus: that pale wrist encased in soft black leather, fingers curled in on themselves in the sheet beneath him. A simple enough thing, all things considered, but it's the text that accompanies it that might just be the kicker.
miss u ;)
It's a few hours, at the very least, before he gets a response — and a couple more before a call comes in, the familiar tone reaching his ears at the precise moment his eyes had drifted closed in a doze. The crowned prince of Lucis smirks when he picks up, and it's sure to be evident in the tone of his voice. "… Hey."
no subject
Ignis, too, is sprawled out on his bed in the dormitory style quarters provided to what amounts to mock-delegates, though unsurprisingly he lacks restraints
and any interest in random cock. He'd gotten the text during a working dinner, managed not to color up or make any strangled noises by virtue of a] suddenly becoming very interested in his food, and b] digging the fingernails of his free hand into his palm so hard there are still a little row of crescents in it.So it's probably taken all those hours to address this situation as dryly as he just did. Either that or he could (and has, probably) maintain that tone of voice while actually inside Noct with exactly those restraints in attendance.
"I miss you as well, you unholy nuisance. Yet I see your campaign to have me sent home in disgrace remains up and running."
A moment where the audio quality of his voice changes, probably discernible as on speaker, so he can look at the image while they talk. Tellingly, he's gazing sloe-eyed at what is visible of Noct's face as much as his bound wrist. Which is probably also somehow audible, along with the warm, low simmer darkening its usual silvery tones.
no subject
Though it is reassuring to know that there isn't any threat of interest in random cock. Your prince appreciates that.Noct has no doubt in his mind that, regardless of whether or not the other takes his job very seriously and, on occasion, enjoys going through the motions of what is expected of him as chamberlain, there has to have been some lull in the day-to-day that keeps him on his toes — and that lull might just happen to be the distinct absence of one ( 1 ) brat prince. So of course he'd taken it upon himself to break through some of that monotony, and he thinks he's done a bang-up job of it, if he does say so himself.
( And. Well. There is the drop in Ignis' voice that sounds almost like he's right there in bed next to him, sharing the same pillow, murmuring against his ear all of the filthy myriad things he plans to do to him —
Oh. We haven't gotten that far yet? Shit. Can't blame a kid for having an imagination, can you? )
"Just making sure you don't get too bored without me." He swallows, and it's a brief, shallow thing that almost catches in the back of his throat with the dryness that has already begun to settle there, a patch that grates on both what little self-restraint he has to begin with and the patience that teasing takes. "And that you don't forget who's waiting for you to hurry the hell up and come back already."
Is that the sound of a pout? Maybe. We'll never tell.
no subject
Look, random cock is just not all that interesting when you are a] being sent material of this caliber and b] frankly pretty much noctsexual.Meanwhile. Ignis shifts, stretches out on his side with one arm under his head, much like he would if they were sharing a pillow, so it follows, that even if he can't see it and Ignis doesn't know what imagery he's feeding into anyway, Noct probably won't be relying on his imagination for very long.
"Concerned my hands might be idle in your absence, Noct? I can assure you they're anything but."
That particular slant on Noct's name is one Ignis only uses when he's clipping the prince a little (see canon, re: most intriguing, Noct), though that may be a beckoning crook of the fingers as much as it's anything else. He's not being facetious about his hands, though, or at least the one, which is tracing slow, formless patterns on his chest and stomach. It's hardly anything, still through the t-shirt he's been sleeping in, but his whole skin already feels hyper-awake, like there's a pleasant layer of static hovering all around him. A consequence of all the waiting he's done between receiving that text and actually having the wherewithal to do anything about it.
To wit: "It seems I needn't inquire about yours."
What with Noct clearly having found a use for his hands. c l e a r l y.
no subject
Well, then it's good that this one is Ignisexual, isn't it? It works in both their favor.
And perhaps for the ignorance of future random cock.
There is little to feed his imagination save for anything he might come up with on his own, though he does find himself listening to even the smallest shifts of breath on the other end, wondering what might be filtering through Ignis' mind when he doesn't deign to give over as much of his own volition. The lilt to his own name given is something that curls, tangibly in the pit of his stomach, and Noct gives the smallest hum in the back of his throat that might indicate that he's thinking about it — about those idle-or-not-so-idle hands in his absence, the beginning of his next response emerging as little more than a purr that he tries, valiantly, to keep even. Something that he can control over. "Maybe."
He huffs out a breath, and the sound of cloth shifting will clearly be heard on the other end, even if it's just as much as will allow him to make himself even more comfortable. His own free hand is busy tracing over the rise of a hipbone, just above the band of his boxers and just beneath the hem of his shirt, the hint of a thumbnail scraping over pale skin in memory of something Ignis himself might have done. Because memory is all he has right now, and it's not quite enough, no matter how vivid his imagination can be.
There's a grin on his own end, something that sounds as an almost-laugh as he still proceeds to tease himself, more with the knowledge of what he's missing out on than what he'll be able to give himself. "What can I say? I got inventive." A pause, and another shift, as that free hand finally slips up beneath his shirt, smooths over the hollow of his stomach and the very bottom curve of his ribs.
"Can't do as good as you, though." Which is to say — that picture was all for show, and he can't very well hold himself down while simultaneously fucking himself to completion. What's a boy to do, if not both imagine and improvise?