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innoctuousYou know, whatever innoctuous comment that had led them here — and, in retrospect, he knows exactly what it had been — he might not have thought to find himself in the sort of situation that merits parsing through a handful of bits of paper that lead into the ( prospective ) understand of one such thing as subspace and the implication of slipping into such a thing, and while he thinks he. Gets it, there are always going to be a myriad things that he can't quite wrap his head around, and tends to defer to Ignis to make an informed decision.
Though. They had had a lengthy conversation about all of that, and while he will always trust the older implicitly, he does think he understands it. And what's more — he wants it. That separation of what he knows as far as the day-to-day to what he's been thinking Ignis is able to give him, and while he'll never make such an innoctuous statement as I should put a bell on you, so I know when you're coming ever again, he can't say that he's displeased with where it's led.
He'd left the ultimate choosing of such a thing to Ignis himself, because he's always thought he had an eye for … the beautiful and the delicate, because Noct is convinced that if this thing is more than discreet, there's something wrong. ( Ignis Scientia, the most discreet, especially when it came to keeping those possessive marks of his beneath the lines of clothing he knew would cover his prince, so as not to draw attention to them. ) And — honestly? For as much as he wants this, as much as he's sure he craves it, he finds himself nervous the day of the proverbial unveiling, because of what it means, because of what it entails, even. If. He finds himself waiting with a half-hard cock at the thought of being. Gods.
Collared. Collared by Ignis. The very idea of royalty willingly succumbing to such a submissive role should be unheard of, and maybe it is — but let it not go without saying that Noctis Lucis Caelum is sure to be a trailblazer for his bloodline, and not in the way he's meant.
( That might be in bad taste. But does anywhere here care? Absolutely not. )
He's not fidgeting. He absolutely fucking is not — but maybe he is just a little bit as he waits for Ignis to finish with what's required of him elsewhere; Noct doesn't much carewhat else is required of him at this point, just that he make his appearance relatively quickly unless he wants his prince to combust from waiting, but of course it's not as long as he thinks it is when he finally hears the key turn in the lock, and the crowned prince pulls himself up from where he'd been fidgeting on his sofa to make his way into the kitchen, busy himself with the contents of the refrigerator as though he hasn't been waiting for this for like. Half of his damned life.
He's got his fingers in a jar of peanut butter when Ignis finally enters, and the door swings shut behind him, turning to pop those two fingers in his mouth as his gaze settles on the frame of that of his chamberlain, gaze admissibly curious.
Though. They had had a lengthy conversation about all of that, and while he will always trust the older implicitly, he does think he understands it. And what's more — he wants it. That separation of what he knows as far as the day-to-day to what he's been thinking Ignis is able to give him, and while he'll never make such an innoctuous statement as I should put a bell on you, so I know when you're coming ever again, he can't say that he's displeased with where it's led.
He'd left the ultimate choosing of such a thing to Ignis himself, because he's always thought he had an eye for … the beautiful and the delicate, because Noct is convinced that if this thing is more than discreet, there's something wrong. ( Ignis Scientia, the most discreet, especially when it came to keeping those possessive marks of his beneath the lines of clothing he knew would cover his prince, so as not to draw attention to them. ) And — honestly? For as much as he wants this, as much as he's sure he craves it, he finds himself nervous the day of the proverbial unveiling, because of what it means, because of what it entails, even. If. He finds himself waiting with a half-hard cock at the thought of being. Gods.
Collared. Collared by Ignis. The very idea of royalty willingly succumbing to such a submissive role should be unheard of, and maybe it is — but let it not go without saying that Noctis Lucis Caelum is sure to be a trailblazer for his bloodline, and not in the way he's meant.
( That might be in bad taste. But does anywhere here care? Absolutely not. )
He's not fidgeting. He absolutely fucking is not — but maybe he is just a little bit as he waits for Ignis to finish with what's required of him elsewhere; Noct doesn't much carewhat else is required of him at this point, just that he make his appearance relatively quickly unless he wants his prince to combust from waiting, but of course it's not as long as he thinks it is when he finally hears the key turn in the lock, and the crowned prince pulls himself up from where he'd been fidgeting on his sofa to make his way into the kitchen, busy himself with the contents of the refrigerator as though he hasn't been waiting for this for like. Half of his damned life.
He's got his fingers in a jar of peanut butter when Ignis finally enters, and the door swings shut behind him, turning to pop those two fingers in his mouth as his gaze settles on the frame of that of his chamberlain, gaze admissibly curious.
