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?
