#what the hell is a vector. what the hell is a bearing. shut the fuck up

[eurodynesass-moved]

A Close Call

After starting off her day on a rather sweet note with Viktor, V goes out to do some jobs before getting an urgent call from Misty, telling her that Vik's been hurt.

Female V / Viktor Vector

This fic contains very minor, vague mentions of a couple of events/aspects of the game. 

Ao3

— — — — —

They had become accustomed to the sound of metal banging against stone, of little objects falling off tables. It was easy not to mind it so much when all they could hear and focus on was their heavy breathing and soft moaning.

V held tightly onto broad shoulders, her eyes shut as she felt Vik's stubbled chin against her skin. He kissed the base of her throat, the side of her neck, her jaw, and she could feel his hot breath against her. It drove her mad.

Propped up on the table beside his couch, she was barely leaning against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist tightly as he slammed himself into her, over and over. His fingers pressed hard into her thighs, sure to leave some kind of mark when they were done.

"Oh-fuck-ing-hell," V exclaimed between his fast thrusts. Her jaw dropped and she buried her face into his shoulder. From the intensity of him moving inside her, she dragged her nails across his shoulders. That earned a deep groan from him just as he called her name out, his hips buckling hard toward his climax.

The table clanged, something fell over, the wall protested, and Vik continued to thrust in her—once, and again, letting the world know how good it felt before gradually slowing himself down.

V lifted his head by his hair and gave him a sloppy, breathless kiss. The two of them were trying to catch their breath, but were unable to get enough of each other, hands palming at every inch they could reach. As Viktor pulled himself out of her, he must have noticed that she did not find her release one last time before he did, so his hand dutifully went down to remedy that.

"It's okay," V whispered to him with a faint smile. "You don't- you don't have to—ooh," she paused. She closed her eyes, feeling those stupidly skilled fingers of his tease and play with her clit.

"I don't have to what, V?" he grinned.

"Mmm, don't mind me," V relaxed, sighing as he then inserted a couple of fingers into her. They certainly weren't his dick but he sure used them just as well. Moments later, her brows pinched to a tight crease, her body began to arch and her moans grew louder and higher in pitch—then to one, small, silent pause. Her legs pulled upward and pressed tight as her hips twitched beneath her. V's chest heaved in wide curves as she melted in Vik's grasp. "Fuuuuck, I could stay here all day," she moaned, finally opening her eyes to see him watching her with low lids. Fuck, he looked hot when he did that.

Viktor captured her mouth with his for a long, sweet kiss. Pulling away only slightly, V grinned. "You know, most doctors used to give their patients a lollipop after their appointment," she chuckled, a nudge about the fact that they could not keep their hands to themselves the moment her check-up was over.

"Is that a joke or a suggestion?" he raised a brow.

Before she could reply, there was a voice mumbling from behind the locked front door, and then a heavy knock. V snorted, trying to muffle her laugh after seeing the look on his face. Another knock sounded and he groaned in frustration, turning his head away from her to yell, "I'm coming!"

V tapped him on the shoulder once and raised a brow. "I think you already came."

Vik dipped his head, shaking it as he laughed at that. V couldn't suppress her own, taking his face in her hands to kiss him on the cheek. Just as she was about to stand and get dressed, he pulled her back by the waist and gave her one last kiss. He then smacked her on the ass and turned to fix his clothes.

V bit back a grin. "We still on for dinner later?" she asked as she pulled her pants up.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, sweetheart," he promised.

—

Just over an hour later, V had just dropped off a briefcase for a gig she had picked up the day before. She could not stop thinking about what would come later on. For two weeks, she and Viktor had been planning that dinner. A soothing night out in town, somewhere nice but not too fancy—and they both preferred it that way—with the promise of a lovely time after.

The thought brought a smile to her face as she mounted the bike, sending off a text to a fixer about the job being completed. Just before she was about to drive, she received a call from Misty. V sat up, answering the call, about to speak when she heard sniffling and crying on the other end.

"Misty?" she asked, now extremely alarmed.

"V, you-you have to come to the clinic," Misty cried. "It's Vik, he's... he's been shot."

Everything in the world stopped in place.

Viktor.

Shot.

"Is-is he—"

"He's still breathing, but please come quick," she begged.

V had already started the bike up and started moving. "I'm on my way."

She wasn't certain just how many times she had nearly gotten run over, or how she survived the sharpest turns, but V sped through the streets like she never had before. Getting just outside Misty's Esoterica, the bike shrieked to a stop on the sidewalk, startling the passersby. V leapt off and sprinted through the store, bursting into the clinic a moment later.

It was an absolute mess.

There was blood all over the floors, a couple of AirHypos discarded, medical equipment strewn about, bloodied gauze and bandages tossed aside. Viktor was laid flat on the very same bed that was used for her a while back. His shirt was unbuttoned, tank top cut open, and his chest was covered in blood. There were bundles of cloth that Misty had pressed into the wounds—two wounds to be exact.

Before V could give in to the immense emotions building up inside her, Misty had her run over to help. The bullets were still in him, stopping him from bleeding out, but she needed her help to get them out and fix him. V did not waste any time, getting her hair out of the way and listening to every single order that Misty gave her.

She had been around to help Vik once or twice, but it was nothing more than just bringing him what he needed. It was Misty that worked right across the alley, it was Misty that had seen him in action and helped him more times than she could count. She wasn't Viktor, but she knew what to do. It was more than V could say for herself. V did not dare to look Viktor in the face, to see his unconscious state, to see how the blood had drawn from it and how he might not even make it through.

She did not dare spend a single second cursing at the person that had done this. She could not think about that yet.

She could not think about losing him.

The dinner. That's what she thought about.

—

V had not realized how exhausting it was, working until time had lost meaning, trying to keep someone alive. She wondered if this was what he had to do, all those times she had come into his shop looking like death either from the chip or just some other terrible wound. She wondered if he, too, could not think about moving away and could not bear to turn away from her for more than a second. She wondered if he felt that way about every patient or just the ones he cared for.

They were all things she'd have to ask him herself when he'd wake up. If he'd wake up.

V shook her head, taking a deep, staggered breath and wiping a stray tear from her cheek. There had been a lot of those that she could not wipe away during the operation. Sitting there, in his own stool, right beside him, V continued to stare. She soon felt a hand on her shoulder, Misty's gentle touch, being told to go wash up. She promised V that she would look after him until she returned and so V listened. V was covered in Viktor's blood, her shirt, her hands, even her face.

Finding herself stumbling into a washroom at Misty's, she slowly glanced up at the mirror. An image flashed in her mind. The very same image, but a different bathroom. A different time. A different loved one's blood all over her. He, too, was shot, but she could not save him. More tears pooled in her eyes as she looked down at her hands, moving them under running water and wondering just how many more times she would have to be in this position.

—

Stepping into Viktor's clinic, she saw Misty paused mid-step, looking at her. "Hey, honey. You clean up okay?"

V nodded, then walked through the open gate, turning to her left immediately. Vik was still there, he was still unconscious, but he was still breathing, his heart still beating. Standing beside him now, her face was hardened into a cold expression, but she could not stop those goddamn tears.

"Who did this?" she asked through clenched teeth.

"It was... one of his clients, one of his appointments..." Misty replied. "Went right through the Esoterica."

"Do you know his name?" V prodded, eyes stuck on Viktor's bandaged chest.

"V, why do you—"

"His. Name."

Misty sighed. "I don't know, but... Vik has their files in his system."

V stepped away from Viktor's bed, walking over to his desk and turning on the monitor. A log-in screen. Fuck. She hoped she'd be able to crack it, but first she tried any password she could think of. Fighters' names, special dates, variations of his names, Misty's—

She blinked hard and hoped she'd be wrong when she typed in her name. Her real name.

The insides of his comp opened up to her, free for her perusal. Her head dipped low momentarily as she suppressed the emotions that burst within her chest. V then sniffled and looked back up at the screen, brows furrowed and eyes sharp with purpose. She scrolled through the list of clients that Viktor had dossiers and files on, having Misty identify the man that shot him. Once she did, she asked V what she was about to do, but V did not reply. She simply checked to make sure that her mantis blades were working right before urging Misty to lock down the clinic after she left.

—

Perhaps there was no point in washing up after all, if she was going to be returning to the clinic covered in blood again. This time, it was a mix of her's as well as others'. The client was some hotshot Tyger that had a few friends around when she finally tracked him down. Now, with her in the clinic having returned safely, he had absolutely nothing.

Misty offered to help clean her up and she did not refuse, but she was not going to leave the clinic again. Not for another while.

—

"So I finally handed it over to her and told her I never wanted a job from that sleazebag corpo ever again. Besides, he talked too much," V sighed, spinning around in the stool a little bit. She then finally came to a halt and scooted closer to the bed, gently lifting his hand with hers. "I miss you..." she whispered, thinking that she had enough in her to admit it and be okay.

She didn't.

V immediately began crying and she shook her head, looking down at her shoes. "I can't... I don't know what to do, Vik, just... tell me what to do. I can't lose you. Not you too, not you."

She finally built up the courage to look at him again, moving a little closer to bring a hand to his head. She gently stroked his hair, small comforting gestures without any real purpose. "Come back to me soon, okay?" she sniffled, bringing his hand up to her lips and just holding it there for a bit. At least in the days that he had been recovering, she noticed some color seemed to return to his face.

After he was stabilized, V had called on the other Rippers she knew, finally finding one that would come meet them and check in on him. It became a habit after it was clear that he would not be waking up right away. Since then, V had set herself up just around the corner, having been sleeping on the pull-out couch just to stay close by.

—

A few days later, V had been sitting on the ground beside Vik, leaning against his bed. She had been talking about her day, about a few things she remembered from a while back—anything she could think of just to fill the air, spend the time, when she felt something.

There was a brush against her shoulder, and when she looked down, she could see Vik's fingers weakly reaching for her. V got up onto her knees, taking his hand immediately as her eyes locked onto his face. Viktor let out a faint cough, brows furrowed and eyes struggling to open.

"Viktor?" she called to him. He made a small sound. She checked his vitals quickly, finding nothing to be out of the ordinary. V waited patiently as Vik finally blinked, eyes darting around until landing on her. "Look who's finally awake," V tried to smile, but her voice cracked and her heart ached.

"Fuck..." he spoke, his voice coming out dry and raspy.

"Try not to move," she warned. Flinging a quick thought into her comms, she sent Misty a message then focused on Viktor. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a million eddies," he joked, the corners of his lips twitching.

Misty soon came through the door, sharing a similar expression to V's. Eyes tearing up, full of relief, urgency to be sure everything's okay. So V left her to it. She remained by Vik's side and kept holding onto his hand, listening as Misty explained everything to him, his condition, his wounds, and the procedures the ladies had done to keep him healthy.

Partway through their conversation, Vik had turned his head to look at V, saying nothing but just watching her. Her eyes were fixed on his hand as she held it. She looked as though she were holding the most fragile thing and the look on her face was far too much to handle.

His focus finally came back when Misty placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed his forehead. "It's good to have you back, Vik. Just keep resting, we'll have you up and walking around in no time."

"Thanks, Misty," he smiled at her, and gave her a small nod as she walked away.

Misty reached for V as well, giving her shoulder a small squeeze on her way out. Once the door was shut, Vik nudged her hand with his own.

"Hey," he whispered to her. "Come closer."

V obliged, shuffling a little closer and raising herself up to see him properly. She still could not find it in herself to make eye contact with him, but the thought of him being awake, that he was going to be alright...

Fuck. She was crying again.

Viktor raised his hand to cradle her cheek, "Hey, come on now..." he cooed, a thumb brushing her tears away. "I'm gonna be just fine."

"You fucking bastard, you scared me," V scolded, her head hung low as her body shook with each sob. Her nimble hands wrapped around his forearm, holding onto him. "If something happened... If..."

"Stop that," he spoke calmly, "Look at me, I'm gonna be all better."

She finally did look up at him, seeing the face that she had come to love so dearly, finally awake. "You've just... you've never been on this side of it before, not in front of me..." she explained. "I was so scared I'd lose you too."

"Worst way for the tables to turn, huh?" he chuckled dryly.

V let out a chuckle that was akin to a sob, bringing a sleeved wrist up to wipe all the fluids from her face. "Fuck," she whispered to herself, realizing it was a lot. As she did so, Vik noticed a healing gash on her face that he had not seen the last time they were together.

"That's new," he observed.

Slowly getting up from the ground, V found the tiniest sliver of mattress she could sit on just so she could lean in properly. "Don't worry about it, it's almost gone anyway."

"That's gonna leave a scar," he sighed, a thumb tracing the pink line along her jaw. "Who do I have to pay a visit for doing that?"

"No one important," she promised. "It's taken care of."

Viktor looked her in the eyes for a moment, trying so hard to read her expression. Beyond the relief and beyond the sorrow, there was a hint of something, a coldness in her that he had not seen since the days she recovered from the landfill. It was pain and anger combined, a dangerous mix.

"Well," he brushed her long, precious waves behind one ear and took a breath, "I guess we're going to have to rain check on that dinner then, huh?"

She couldn't help but smile at that, "You just focus on getting better and we'll have a bunch of nights to make up for it, alright?"

"You got it, darlin'," he chuckled.

V leaned down to give him a small kiss, being almost too gentle with him. When they pulled away, she remained close and looked him in the eyes. "I love you, Viktor."

Oh, if she knew what those little words did to him every time. He gave her a warm smile, not missing a beat, "I love you too, V."

#cyberpunk 2077 #female v x viktor #viktor vector #v/viktor #viktor x v #v x viktor #smut #angst #smut and angst B) #fluff #can't forget about the fluff #viktor's biceps

[hati-skoll]

Let Me Fill You(r Prompt)

Written for the @ignoctsecretsanta for @battle-goats I’m so sorry this is so late! The ending might be a little abrupt, I’ll probably update it in a bit, but I wanted you to have something first!

[AO3]

Noctis rips open a bag of enoki mushrooms. He gallantly pounds a clove of garlic into submission. Then he manfully wrestles an onion apart and accordingly cries himself a river, because what the fuck am I even writing I don’t even know someone save me.

Unfortunately, the astrals aren’t capable of sending down bolts of inspiration the way they’re wont to do with lightning. Noctis gets only so far before he admits to himself that he’s in over his head with this hilariously pitiful attempt at writing food porn. It’s… very… uninspired. He squints at the three sentences he’s typed, they’re… uh, well… alright, they suck. It sucks. How does one prepare food… sexily?

He tries to picture in his mind how Ignis works the kitchen, how his painfully suave advisor deftly slices up slabs of meat, a comfortable grip on the knife's handle; how he expertly kneads dough, muscles taut along his forearm; how he handles that intimidatingly large iron wok he keeps on the top shelf of Noctis’ kitchen, flicking his wrist with an enviable grace that Noctis will probably never muster in this lifetime.

“Hey, buddy, what'cha doing?”

Noctis very nearly tosses his phone out the window, but catches himself at the last minute so it instead clatters noisily where it lands on his desk. He hears someone cooing over his disastrous, ‘adorkable’ lack of hand-eye coordination from outside the classroom.

Prompto blinks, before plopping into the seat in front of his. “Uh, okay. Was gonna ask if you wanna head by the arcade later, but you look busy.”

“It's just this Thing.”

Promp glances down at the phone, then back up at Noctis. “Thing.”

“You know,” Noctis sighs, half-aggrieved as he makes a vague hand gesture that's supposed to mean sad-attempt-at-writing-food-porn-featuring-himself-and-his-ridiculously-handsome-charming-chivalrous-competent-all-round-amazeballs-advisor, “The Thing.”

“Oh!” Prompto exclaims, “The Secret-”

“Thing. Yes, the Secret Thing that no one should ever find out I was involved in.”

“Right. Gotcha,” Prompto nods, deadly serious, “Secret Thing.”

Noctis looks back down at his phone, re-reads his pathetic three lines and resists the urge to face-plant into his desk. Why did he ever think it was a good idea to sign up for this year’s Ignoct secret santa? Okay, so maybe he’s been furtively lurking in the fandom for ages — ever since he overheard a couple of girls whispering about it in phys ed class.

He still remembers their incredibly unlikely hypothesis about Iggy bending him over the gym bleachers, which is... hot as hell, but unlikely. Public sex is just not going to be on the table with his advisor. Because ‘that would be a recipe for disaster, Noct, can you imagine what the press would cook up?’ He’s not even sure if sex is ever going to be on the table — both figuratively and literally.

His dining table is definitely large enough to accommodate some spontaneous fucking, but… he’s obviously been looking at too much PWP lately. And it’s not like he’s going through these incredibly detailed imaginings of him and his advisor just to get off. Not really. Well, he gets off to them sometimes. Rarely. Once a week. Seriously, these artists and authors come up with extremely creative scenarios— That’s not the point.

The point is, It’s kind of heartening to know that somewhere, out there, there are a lot of other someones, random someones who aren’t Promp, rooting for him and Iggy and his stupid, hopeless crush. And it sort of… gives him hope, you know. Makes him feel like it might actually be possible, like they might actually work, if he could just work up the courage to ask Iggy out. One day.

“Just kill me,” Noctis says, unfortunately aloud.

“Woah, woah. Aren’t you, like, not supposed to joke about suicide in public?”

That’s right, he’s not. “It’s a euphemism.”

“Uh,” Promp does the awkward half-laugh that generally functions as an indicator for Noctis to shut up before he shoves that foot further into his mouth, “I don’t think that’s how euphemisms work.”

“It is if whatever I’m thinking of is worse than dying.” Yeap, he’s swallowing that foot. Whole. There’s probably an Ignoct fic about foot fetish somewhere.

“Are you allowed to say that?” Promp whispers, loudly — loud enough for the guy three tables down to not-so-inconspicuously don headphones in an attempt to give them an illusion of privacy.

Which is how they end up relocating to the roof, like every other highschool cliche out there. And Noctis half-feels like the school bully, because unlike every other highschool cliche, there’s actually a decent number of people on the roof, who... promptly make themselves scarce when Noctis and Prompto show up — and look, they’re obviously not leaving because of Promp. He’d have to be more delusional than maybe-my-too-perfect-advisor-slash-childhood-playmate-might-actually-like-me-back to think that anyone’s escaping because of Promp .

“So… nice and quiet here,” Promp says, after the last of them has filed out.

“Mmghf.”

“Very… zen,” Promp continues, “Zen’s good for inspiration, right?”

It’s not working for his. “Maybe?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” Promp sighs deeply in commiseration, “Hey, you could always write a smutty one-shot about Iggy and you getting hot and heavy up here. Can’t go wrong with hot roof sex.”

“We’ve fucked on the roof dozens of times,” well, in fics, “Also why would Iggy be in our school?”

“Because… Oh! Because he’s your alpha and you’ve gone into heat, so the school clinic rung him to pick you up. And then because you’re oozing omega pheromones, Iggy loses control and drags you up here to have his sordid way with you.”

“I’m not writing an ABO,” a beat, “Why am I an omega?”

“I can’t see Iggy being an omega, have you seen the thing he does with his knives?��

“He cooks .”

“I’m gonna have to stop you there, buddy, that sorta alpha-omega-stereotyping is uncalled for.”

“What?”

“You can’t just say Iggy’s an omega because he cooks.”

“That’s not what I— They’re not even real!”

“Yeah, and so isn’t Santa,” Promp proclaims, “But look where we are, in the middle of a Secret Santa. I rest my case.”

Noctis lasts for all of three seconds before the incredulity of it all gets to him and he shoves his awful best friend. “I’m not bearing any babies for Iggy.”

“Pups,” Promp corrects, very seriously, before he cracks up too.

They’re both giggling like desperate F2Ps after a godly gacha roll and Noctis is feeling slightly better about his trainwreck of food-kink fic, which is why he makes the incredibly questionable decision of showing Promp his Work-In-Progress. Prompto blinks at it owlishly for several seconds. And Noctis regrets everything.

“It’s not bad,” Promp declares determinedly, after several more seconds of owlish blinking.

“It’s bad.”

“It’s not! It’s… evocative. That’s good.”

“Noctis rips open a bag of enoki mushrooms,” Noctis reads aloud, “He gallantly pounds a clove of garlic into submission. You winced. Right there.”

“I was empathising with the clove of garlic!”

“Then he manfully wrestles—”

“Okay, okay, stop,” Promp says with a shaky breath, “Maybe… Maybe it could be better. Why are you… manfully wrestling an avocado?”

“An onion. I’m manfully wrestling an onion, because that’s what it says in this really detailed recipe forkingandspooning114 included in the prompt. In which I’m supposed to prepare a meal for Iggy — sexily — and amaze him with my — sexy — cooking prowess, after which we have a hot dinner — and hotter sex.”

“A cereal food fetishist, huh.”

“Yeah, the wurst case I’ve come across,” Noctis makes a face, “There are fifty pages worth of recipes. It’s practically a cookbook.”

“Yikes,” Promp scrolls down to look at recipes. “That’s… hold up. Wait. I have an idea.”

Noctis isn’t sure if he likes that glint in Promp’s eyes but he nods anyway for his best friend to continue.

“Why don’t you ask Iggy for advice?”

“Ask Iggy for advice on seducing him with my non-existent sexy cooking skills?”

“Hypothetically,” Promp says, “And he doesn’t need to know about the seducing. Not when he sexy-cooks naturally, you know, according to you. You can just ask for a demonstration or something, for the recipes. And... maybe bring an extra serving for me tomorrow?”

Well... Noctis mulls, it isn’t a half-bad idea, even if it’s as obvious as Uncle Ardyn’s purposefully obtuse — and painfully cringey — misuse of teenage slang, that Promp’s suggestion is more or less motivated by his stomach. Noctis shrugs at his best friend, plays it cool because it’s kinda ridiculous that his future with Iggy is now at the mercy of Promp’s stomach. “Huh. I’ll think about it.”

He pretends not to see Promp’s little victory jiggle as they make their way down the roof.

*

He’s still trying to figure out how to ask Specs for a cooking demonstration without sounding really suspicious — and also without hurting Iggy’s feelings, because asking Iggy to work with another person’s recipe is just… kinda in bad taste when he takes so much pride in his own.  Of course, the man of the hour is already in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of something-or-other that’ll taste like heaven and sin all wrapped into one, as Noctis steps into his apartment.

“Welcome home, Noct,” Iggy calls, and Noctis’ heart gives a traitorous little flutter because that was just so domestic — come to think of it, that domestic AU he's been following just updated earlier today, he’ll have to read it later, “Productive day at school, I hope?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we did. Math.”

“That sounds truly invigorating.”

Noctis suddenly feels the need to defend his math class — which he totally did not spend brooding about his secret santa prompt. “Yeah? It’s supposed to lend us magnitude and direction.”

Iggy’s brows rise. “Ah, perhaps I should have said it was in-vector-ating instead?”

Noctis deigns that awful pun with a groan and plops himself down at the table, where Iggy’s delivering an entire tray of freshly baked pastries. He knows better than to snag a piece without Iggy’s go-ahead, though — after all, he’ll only end up with a scalded tongue and a disappointed talking-to from his advisor.

Iggy sets one aside on a plate, adding a generous helping of whipped cream. He looks strangely put together for someone who’s been working away at the kitchen, like does he even sweat? Noctis squints at his advisor’s dry, smooth, slightly flushed skin, so he nearly misses it when Iggy says, “You’re awfully tensed today. I don't suppose there's anyway I can be of service?”

Okay, wow, loaded question. “Uh. No. I mean. Yes. Sorta.”

“Well, you know I’m always happy to help, Noct. What do you need?”

No sex thoughts. Don't think sex thoughts. “I have this… recipe I need you to try.”

“Recipe,” Iggy repeats.

“From the internet,” technically, not a lie, “A-” friend of mine? He only has one friend, literally, one, “Promp. Yeah. Promp wanted to ask for your advice on a couple of recipes. Because... they've not been turning out too well for him, but he was too intimidated to ask in person.”

“Oh. Certainly,” Iggy seems to have bought into his fibbing, “I can take a look at them in my spare time.”

“No.”

Iggy blinks. “No?”

“He um wants a demonstration. Physical demonstration.”

“I can’t see how that’s achievable if he’s too intimidated to show up.”

“Yeah, so you can,” Noctis tries to recall how fic!him goes about asking Iggy favours, cooking demonstrations or otherwise, he seriously doesn’t remember ever being this tongue-tied in fics, “Demonstrate to me, how it’s done. And I’ll demonstrate to Promp.”

“You’ll demonstrate to Prompto,” Iggy’s spoon clatters onto the table, there’s a pause and then, “I’m not sure if that’s wise.”

You char a wok one time. “I just have to do whatever you do, right? Piece of cake,” Noctis says with a confidence he can only muster because he’s not actually going to do any cooking.

“I do hope his house is insured.”

Oh, come on. “His house will survive my cooking perfectly fine, Specs. Just show me. Please.”

Iggy pushes the whip-creamed pastry at him, and Noctis digs into the dessert, enjoying the perfect marrying of flaky, sugared crust and rich, chocolate ganache. Everything Iggy makes is perfect — well, not the vegetables, but... everything else. He watches for Iggy’s reaction, sees the exact moment his advisor capitulates in the set of his shoulders and that look of fond exasperation on his face… tempered by something… harder this time, something Noctis doesn’t quite recognise. But the emotion is gone in a flash, as Iggy says, “Well, I suppose I have my work cut out for me if I’m to make a decent cook out of you. You’d like to try one of these recipes out for dinner today, I presume?”

“Yeah,” Noctis quickly gets the document open, scrolls to the entry that’s titled, Creamy Fowl Saute, “This one.”

Iggy glances at it briefly. “Ah, a classic. And it looks remarkably similar to a recipe of mine. I think your pantry and refrigerator are well-stocked with what we need.”

“Cool,” Noctis says.

He finishes the pastry while Iggy preps his kitchen, magically conjures up ingredients and utensils from spaces he hadn't known existed in his cupboards. Then the stage is set, and the tart consumed, and Iggy’s considering him with a serious sort of look that Noctis will probably be flustered by if it didn’t exactly say how-do-I-get-you-to-not-burn-down-the-kitchen in subtext.

So instead he’s slightly miffed. “Can we get on with it, Specs?”

“Perhaps an apron before we commence?”

He’s not wearing an apron. “But I’m just observing.”

“Nonsense, you’re not going to learn anything by just observing,” Iggy somehow produces a second apron with a flourish, “I’d be loathe to see ‘Crown Prince Commits Arson’ on tomorrow’s seven-o-clock. And roll up your sleeves.”

“Why do I have to—” He nearly bites his tongue because Iggy’s thrown the apron over his head, and now Iggy’s arms are going around his waist in a pseudo-hug to secure the ties at the back. And hopefully, his expression is more coolly composed than astrals-save-me-my-crush-is-sorta-hugging-me-what-do-I-do mortified.

Iggy finally — unfortunately — steps away. “There we are,” a pause, and Iggy’s lips are twitching when he says, “I think this is a good look for you, Noct.”

“Shut up.”

They get started on the recipe, and Iggy puts him in charge of measuring the chicken broth and heavy cream. Noctis is proud to say he aced that, solid 5 out of 7. He’s great at pouring things into measuring cups. He’s kind of warming up to the idea of cooking, maybe, uh well, he’s not cringing away from the counter at least, but then Iggy puts a knife and an onion in his hands and suddenly it feels like they’ve jumped from tutorial mode to boss battle.

“Maybe you should do this,” he tells Iggy.

“You just have to chop the onion, Noct.”

“I’m allergic to onions. They make my eyes water.”

“That happens to everyone,” Iggy says, “And just think of it like it’s weapons training with Gladio. You’ve handled bigger blades than this.”

Noctis’ retort dies in his throat when he notices the unintended euphemism, his next words are out of his mouth before he thinks them through. “Well, maybe you should help me with this blade then. You know, correct my form, the way Gladio does at practice.”

Okay. Someone kill him. Now.

Thankfully, the disastrously cheesy line seems to fly over Iggy’s head, because he just nods at Noctis and says, “If you think it’ll help you.”

What? “Uh. Yeah?”

Which is how Iggy ends up getting into position behind Noctis, one hand over Noctis’ where he’s grasping the knife, the other carefully positioning the onion on the board. And Noctis is both congratulating and cursing at himself for his horrendous foot-in-mouth syndrome. “I’ve already peeled and washed it, so you can start by cutting it into two. Right through the root, but we don’t want to cut that off, lest the onion bleeds.”

Okay, he can feel Iggy’s body heat all the way down the line of his back and— “The onion bleeds?”

“Sulphuric acid, sulphur dioxide and hydrogen sulphide. The latter irritates our eyes.”

“Oh, okay.” Iggy is guiding his hand through the motion, creating an incision, then cleanly slicing through. “Wow. Okay, we’re done?”

He feels Iggy’s chest rumble in a gentle chuckle. “Not quite. Hold the onion like this. Use your knuckle to guide the knife, point it towards the root, and cut. That’s right. Nice, long strokes.”

Nice, long strokes, seriously?

“Not too deep,” Iggy tuts, “If I’d known you’d be so enthusiastic about cutting onions, I would have enlisted your help years ago.”

“I’m not,” Noctis objects, “I just want to—” finish this before I pop an awkward boner, “Get it right for Promp.”

Iggy abruptly releases his hand and of course Noctis stabs himself in the pinky in the next second. “Ouch, damn. Iggy, wha—”

“My apologies,” okay, now Iggy looks like he’s going to flagellate himself or something, “You’re bleeding, we’ll have to run that under the tap.”

“Specs, it’s not a big deal,” he tries to protest, but they’re evidently still running his pinky under the tap, “I’ve had worse cuts from chopstick splinters than this.”

“Your chopstick splinters were not of my doing,” Iggy pauses, “Were they?”

“No.”

Iggy heaves out a sigh that sounds like part relief and part dismay, like is he seriously going to blame himself for not inspecting every pair of disposable chopsticks that passes into Noctis’ hands? Noctis is about to say something, something reassuring hopefully, but then Iggy stops glaring at the tiny barely-a-quarter-inch cut like it’s a personal affront and looks up at him with a frazzled sort of smile — which is… wow, be still, heart, don’t fucking give me away with your loud thumping. Iggy clears his throat. “Perhaps you should sit the rest of the session out. And we ought to put a bandaid on that.”

“On this?”

They put a bandaid on it. Well, they kind of just swathe his pinky in a bandaid. Gladio is going to be absolutely merciless with his teasing if he sees it at training the day after. Thus, Noctis resolves to quietly ditch it in a couple of hours. And he tries to tell Iggy he’s perfectly fit to continue cooking, but Iggy’s starting to look sorta stressed out, so Noctis goes back to observing — the original plan, which kinda seems less fun now, but he gets to unabashedly eyeball Iggy so that’s a plus.

His advisor’s a force to be reckoned with in the kitchen, his actions quick, sure and precise. He’s efficient, the way he is with everything else in his — well, Noct’s — life. It’s kind of amazing to watch. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Noctis knows he’s supposed to be taking notes for his secret santa. It’s just, Iggy’s like a storm when he’s on a mission, brutal, arresting, awe-inspiring. It’s all part of what Noctis finds sexy, and Noctis can’t exactly imagine being that for Iggy, which is a little depressing but... maybe Iggy has a thing for clumsy and socially inept. He’s not sure how that’s going to fly with forkingandspooning114, though.

Does clumsy qualify as sexy?

He’s still trying to figure that out, when Iggy slides a plate in front of him. “Dinner is served.”

Noctis blinks at the dish. It looks good, kinda familiar, but then Iggy made it, so ditto. “Thanks, Specs.”

“Have you gotten everything you needed for Prompto?” Iggy asks solicitously, as he seats himself opposite Noctis.

“Uh, yeah. We’re good.”

Iggy considers him. “Would it be helpful if I made a couple of notes on the recipe?”

Noctis shrugs as he digs into the chicken. The meat's tender, and the sauce creamy but not too creamy. “Yeah, sure.”

“Then you shan’t be attempting this on your own in Prompto’s kitchen?”

“Specs.”

Iggy delicately cuts a portion of his own fillet, spears it with his fork, then tears a chunk off with his teeth. Okay, that’s weirdly hot. Noctis stares at Iggy’s bobbing adam's apple as he swallows. “I’m serious, Noct.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Noctis agrees, distracted by Iggy’s adam’s apple, but it’s not like he’s been planning to go burn down Promp’s kitchen in the first place. Iggy seems somewhat mollified by his answer and drops the subject, so Noctis is left to enjoy the meal in silence for the next couple of minutes. He scarfs it down with relish, but there’s just something about it that feels... Hm. “Hey, Specs? This tastes sorta familiar.”

Iggy pauses, fork in mid-air as he replies, “Well, of course. The recipe’s an exact copy of mine. If you hadn’t told me otherwise, I’d have thought Prompto took it straight out of my notebook.”

Wait. “Really?” Noctis stops chewing. Because that’s just—

“It’s a common enough dish,” Iggy shrugs, “And it’s something I’ve adapted off existing recipes. I’d say it’s certainly possible for someone to have made the same adjustments as I. No cause for alarm.”

“Do you wanna check the rest of the recipes? See if they’re yours? What if someone stole—”

“In your own words, Noct, it’s not a big deal.”

How is that not a big deal? Iggy’s worked his ass off on those recipes. “Just check them.”

Iggy accepts Noctis’ phone and scrolls through the recipes, expression politely neutral as he does so, which annoys Noctis because that usually means he thinks Noct’s being stupid or unreasonable or whatever. He stops scrolling after a while. “Well, they’re all rather similar.”

“So someone stole your recipes?”

“They’re just recipes,” yeah, recipes Iggy created for Noct.

And Noctis is about to demand they call up the citadel’s security and have them pull up footage from the Private Secretary’s Office, but then his wrath is promptly derailed by the sudden realisation that someone in the citadel stole Iggy’s recipes for the Ignoct secret santa, and that’s… That’s… Well, he’s a little conflicted, because one, stealing is bad, but two, someone close to home ships them hard enough to go to such lengths, and that’s kind of, sort of heartwarming in a… weirdly, intrusive sort of way. Well, at least, he’s got someone’s support if he and Iggy work out and Noctis declares his plans to beget heirs via surrogacy or something.

“Do you know who it might be?” Noctis asks after a while.

Iggy stares at him for a moment. “Perhaps a Glaive or a Crownsguard.”

Great, he’ll have to ask Nyx or Gladio. Noctis finishes the rest of his dinner in a hurry.

“Is there anything else I can help you with tonight?” Iggy asks, while clearing the table.

Noctis blinks. Another loaded question. He tries to think of puppies and chocobos and anything but Iggy in a leather collar. “Uh. Nah, I’m good. Thanks for dinner, Specs. We should do the cooking together thing again sometime.”

“Certainly,” Iggy says.

Then Noctis is retreating to his bedroom to mull over the identity of forkingandspooning114, mind racing at warp-speed, already making plans to waylay the Glaives and Crownsguards, because he's gotta figure out who's his ally in this, you know. And if it's a little strange that Iggy left his Very Important Notebook unattended long enough for anyone to copy fifty pages off it, well... he's only human, isn't he?

#ffxv #ignoct #ignis x noctis #Noctis Lucis Caelum #ignis scientia #prompto argentum #fanfiction