#makikoigami

[layann]

Happy first anniversary, Outsomnia! 

Yesterday Outsomnia, our Promptis Rockstar AU turned 1 year old! I really can’t believe that >o<

Right now the chapters are a bit more dramatic but we promise happier times for sure <3

Thank you all for your support and love during this time, every comment and fav and kudo and bookmark really encourages and helps a lot! 💕💕💕 

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[art-bit-me]

"No, I'm... I was fine, I just... I mean, I really am weak towards jump scares, they get me every fucking time, but otherwise I was okay. Am okay," Prompto struggled to reply, stumbling over his words and sighed deeply eventually, letting go of the prince's hand to run it through his hair. "Sorry."

Noctis blinked, his hand suddenly feeling cold and empty, as if he was missing an integral part of himself. He stared at his sweaty palm and back at Prompto's face, hidden in the dark of the night and only illuminated by the starlight and street lights of Insomnia. Half of these lights were reflected off his glasses, still he was... beautiful.

"Don't be," Noctis sighed and reached for his hand again, even as Prompto had shoved into his pants' pockets. "It's okay if we do this, right?"

-Chapter 28 of Outsomnia by @makikoigami

[ninemoons42-lestallumhaven]

(this is kind of sad, because the idea was a little sad to begin with. thanks to @milodrums​ for spurring me to write sad WOR Promnis, by sending me a link to this. thanks also to @makikoigami​ for hosting the writing sprint in which I drafted this.)

Quick Fic Pick 70: silver and ash

For once it’s a sound that forces him to swim up and out from the murky depths of sleep and the tangling cords of his nightmares, the low-level dread and the low-level wariness that he still can’t seem to shake off and that he’s almost accepted as the part of him that’s grown in the absence of the sun, in the absence of the stars, in the cold wash of the moon, and he opens his eyes and places his free hand over his heart. Presses the palm in over the weary too-tripping beat, the spiking pulse in his veins, and he feels that same pulse jump again in alarm when the bulb in the rust-eaten lamp next to his side of the bed sputters and throws the room into jittering shadows for only a moment.

The light that returns is a wan mockery of warm inviting gold, and he won’t ask for anything newer or better, because others need that better light, that brighter light. He can manage the semi-lit conditions of this falling-apart-at-the-seams camper for now. He can manage the spiderwebbing rays, the dust in the corners.

Soft complaining sound next to him: and Prompto reacts with all of his instincts. Hauls that wiry scarred form close. The circles he presses into the exposed skin of Ignis’s shoulder waver, and aren’t entirely perfectly shaped, and it’s still a surprise when that warmth seems to be enough, when the quiet broken notes falling from his lips seem to be enough. Some throwaway one-hit wonder that had been all the rage all those years ago, and why does he remember the tune and the words, why is there some part of his mind that won’t let the stale bubblegum-pop go? No one sings about hearts and stars and flowers any more.

Ugh, dark thoughts, he thinks, and he has to make an effort to push those away: so he presses his nose into the back of Ignis’s neck, and he draws in a deep heave of a breath. The strangely fragrant waft of -- old soil under harsh floodlights. The patient coaxing of hands stirring through small half-cracked pots, sowing little seeds, guiding the struggling plantlets. Maybe in a week or in a month or in a year Ignis will succeed, and he’ll at least be at home in the varying sharp savory wafts of green herbs, of plants that can be used to heal.

Maybe, Prompto thinks, and he clutches Ignis closer and try as he might, he can’t make himself go back to sleep just yet, and he doesn’t even know what that sound that had woken him up had been, and he opens his eyes and gets an elbow braced underneath the rest of him so he can lean up and over and -- well, at least he’s gotten over himself and learned to watch Ignis, watch over him, and make sure he gets the rest he needs.

Ignis is -- still bandaged all over, but at least he’s no longer completely helpless, not that he ever actually was in any sense of that word. Just -- hobbled, perhaps. Held back by darkness.

But Prompto remembers watching him earlier, the bright whistling arc of a staff in his hands, and the swift martial song of his movements as he played out the entire length of that weapon and used every last inch to his own advantage, and there’d been no need to worry about blindness, about accidents, now that he could move with lethal and precisely focused intent once again.

Intent like what Prompto knows lives keen and bristling in his own skin and nerves, wired straight to the guns he wears like neatly grounding weights at his hips, when he’s out hunting.

Intent, that he thinks he feels still crackling in Ignis’s own sleeping form, the hunch of him in his bones and his muscles, like lines wearing in deeper and deeper and the changes in their own bodies, constantly deprived of warmth and of sunlight --

And it’s a surprise, and it isn’t, when his eyes catch on the light-colored strands of Ignis, the wisps of untamed hair just at his ears: light enough and pale enough to be nearly bleached.

Oh.

Ignis is going gray, and it’s almost a wonder that it hasn’t happened sooner.

Sooner, what with the stress of three and four lifetimes crammed into something so much shorter. The stress, the rage, the bitter mourning tears, the sheer jagged pain. The bruises still yellowing on too-pale skin, a shocking contrast to stark purple-brown of scars born from magic and from fire.

Prompto has to bite hard at the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t burst into tears, so he doesn’t wake Ignis, so he doesn’t give in to the thorns and the weights around his heart. The hollowing howling agony that refuses to dull, that’s anchored firmly into the hollow spaces between his ribs.

And still that flaring bright pain doesn’t let him stay silent: so he presses his mouth to Ignis’s temple instead, and mutters small apologies as soon as he feels the tears come streaking and splashing down, damp and gathering in the short strands of hair, the vivid burn-lines.

“Prompto,” and the single word is clogged with all the world, all the emotions that he can now feel, jagging in Ignis’s heartbeat that he feels out with his other hand.

“Sorry sorry sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Not for that.”

And it’s his turn to be turned around, to be held: the entire breadth of Ignis pressed against his back, the bellows of him expanding and contracting in forceful breaths.

Prompto sobs, only a little, only enough to be heard and hushed and pulled closer, and he clutches desperately at the hand over his heart, until he can force himself to let go of his tears.

“Will you tell me?”

It’s a small thing, it’s such a stupid detail, and yet he says it out loud, because he can’t not say it. Because Ignis is asking him to say it out loud, and he gave up hiding secrets from Ignis -- from any of the others -- a long time ago.

So he says, small and clear and still fearful anyway, “You’re going gray.”

Still, silent, broken only by a startled breath.

And: “Am I?”

Prompto grabs that hand of Ignis’s in both of his own. “Yeah.”

Shaky laugh, unexpected, the exact opposite of the words that follow. “I thought I’d already gotten started on that.”

“This’s new. I think.”

“I believe you, Prompto. I just don’t believe -- myself.”

There’re too many layers in those words, and the layers make Prompto ache and make him wince, and he turns around and he covers Ignis’s temples with the palms of his hands, so he can pull him down, so he can kiss him.

Soft whispers against his lips, against his teeth. Ignis’s head falling back, opening up, baring himself, and Prompto redoubles his efforts and lets Ignis tug him closer, lets Ignis sift careful calloused fingers into his hair.

“And you,” he hears Ignis ask, gasping for breath, clothes pushed partly away, flat on his back.

Prompto shifts on him where he’s straddling those narrow hips, those muscle-corded thighs, and shakes his head. “I -- probably. Scratch that. They’ve gotta be there. I just can’t find them.”

“Then we can match.”

He laughs, a little, and he hears the edge in the sound and knows it for what it is, and he can say, “Yeah. Yeah we can.”

[layann]

A little quick something I did for chapter 37 of Outsomnia some weeks ago and I just forget about it. Sorry  (〃▽〃)ﾎﾟｯ 

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[layann]

Look, a wild Chocobutt appears! (for @makikoigami s Promptis Rockstar AU, Outsomia, Chapter 7 is out today. Read on Ao3 <3 )

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[layann]

Happy New Year! 

2017 was a restart for me (personally and art-wise) so I hope 2018 will be a nice year, too. And I hope a start with those two dorks might be best. Fan art for @makikoigami s Rockstar!AU “Outsomnia” (read on Ao3). New chapter will be out later today where they FINALLY go on a “date”, hehe. Pose reference by our favorite dorks of our fav band but that's not important. >D

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[layann]

Hey guys! So, @makikoigami is working on a Promptis Rockstar AU “Outsomnia” (currently more of an artist AU still). In wich the Prince of Garbage has his own band and Prom is an artist. Just a lot of comedy and a bit of drama but probably mostly awkward flirting and soap opera-esque stuff happening. Makiko writes it and I am giving some input and doodling stuff for it. New chapters will be out every Monday. 

⭐️　READ IT HERE on Ao3 <3　⭐️

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[layann]

Some doodles for @makikoigami fan fiction “Outsomnia”. 

⭐️　READ IT HERE on Ao3 <3　⭐️

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