There should be something horrifying about that. If he hadn't had his friends with him, Prompto'd be dead already, or at least some writhing, mindless daemon-snack-to-be, waiting to be eaten. Instead, the recollection of the incubus' skin, smooth and pale and flawless, sends a rush of want spearing through him. Well. So much for the spell not working.

The order's not a hard one: stay still, and stay quiet. It's an order he's had before, more times than he can count. This time, he even has an end goal: two hundred pages. It seems doable. Two hundred pages isn't that long, right? Prompto's just got to hang in there until Gladio finishes his book.

Noctis Lucis Caelum is evil, and he loves it when Prompto's body is a slave to his music.

Prompto's never really alone anymore, and mostly, he's just fine with that. Mostly, it's exactly what he's always wanted. Only, his friends happen to be stupidly attractive. Like really, ridiculously, unfairly attractive. Strangers on the street actively stare at Gladio without a shirt on. Ignis wears sock garters, smooths them up his slender calves every morning like it's no big deal. Noct somehow doesn't realize that when he wades into the water to pull a fish out, white t-shirt on, the cloth plasters right up against his skin, almost see-through. So yeah. Prompto likes that he's never really alone anymore. But he's also never really alone anymore, and the approximately hundred thousand awkward boners he gets every single day languish in his jeans, untended.

Who'd been dead set on keeping Prompto from getting distracted during combat, after he got hurt one time too many? Noct. Who'd suggested the consequences? Noct. Who'd been dumb enough to think it was sexy instead of really, really stupid? Prompto.

Noctis wakes to the taste of something foul in his mouth, to the wet stone and hum of a haven underneath him; he wakes with a shuddering gasp, fingers grasping at the area where his father’s sword pierced his chest, only to find the soft beams of sunlight washing over him, and his deathly injuries no longer there. A boon, little king, Shiva had said, before she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Then, a few spaces away from him, Prompto sputters and coughs a raspy but undoubtedly heated, “WHAT THE FUCK?” Privately, Noctis echoes the sentiment. What the fuck.

Prompto stared, and stared, and stared. Gentiana only smiled. “Let me clarify some things,” he started. “I’m a favorite of the, um, the Six?” “Our Most Beloved,” Gentiana repeated. “Right,” said Prompto. “And because you knew I’d be lonely and, and depressed after Noct brought the sun back, you – brought me to a parallel universe??” “Yes,” said Gentiana, ever patient. Prompto needed a drink. Or twelve.

Based on a kinkmeme prompt: "Ardyn pretends to be Noct to get info out of/lead astray/etc the Chocobros. Except Ardyn is thousands of years old and doesn't know how to talk like a 20 y/o slacker. He's too verbose, he uses old slang people haven't used in centuries, he smiles too much, he guesses their romantic attachments wrong..."

Gladio gets his kinks indulged by the other three while camping and in heat.

Cor looked out at the thirty plus Crownsguard hopefuls with a flat piercing stare. “This is Prompto Argentum,” he said, gesturing to the young blond haired teen standing next to him. “He is a part of His Highness’ retinue. If you manage to land a hit on him, you can skip Basic training and move to Advance.” Someone in the crowd snicker as the rest of them stared, skeptical. Prompto Argentum was built like a stick, just waiting for someone to snap him in half. There was no way the Marshal was serious.

Ignis' cooking gives various status effects, depending on the recipe. It's never done this before, Prompto knows. This being the unstoppable urge to fuck his best friends, over and over and over again. Good thing they all ate the same meal.

When a routine hunt goes wrong, Gladio finds himself only half the man he used to be. But Prompto doesn't seem to mind. He knows all about how to handle this kind of situation. (Or, Prompto watches too much hentai and never lets an opportunity go to waste)

Prompto was sitting on a concrete barrier nearby, cleaning his camera lens. He looked up as Noctis approached. "Got what we need?" he said, tone neutral. Noctis shrugged, puzzled. "No luck. Shop's closed." He looked back over his shoulder. "Apparently some kid robbed them blind just a while ago. They're still sorting things out." Prompto tapped his foot, ducking and adjusting a dial. "Huh. That's weird. It was open when I went yesterday," he said. (The bros, unbeknownst to Noct, sometimes have to do some less-than-wholesome things for his sake. Kinkmeme fill, complete.)

Every royal is given Retainers. These Retainers are expected to attend to your every need, even the ones behind closed doors. This is a story examining Prince Noct's relationship with his three Retainers, told in segments and timeskips across several chapters.

Clarus claims that he can handle raising an infant Gladio on his own. Regis is certain that he no longer feels the bruise of an empty house without Aulea. They're both wrong. A little story about Clarus and Regis finding love, raising kids, and dealing with the unexpected news that Noctis may be the chosen king of legend.

"Just, you... you don't have wings." Noct gives him a funny look. "Who says I don't?" he laughs. In the world of Eos, legend has it one's wings are the physical manifestation of one's soul. Prompto does not have wings; instead he has two large scars on his back. (Kinkmeme fill, complete.)

"Thankfully," says Ignis, "the spiders in this area aren’t of the venomous variety." Prompto perks up, and sets a paper bag of cookware on top of a rock. "Well, that's a relief." "Certain other species," says Ignis, "are not nearly so benign." Noct laughs a little at Prompto's face, which is caught somewhere between terror and disbelief. "C'mon, Specs, quit trolling him. He's gonna wish he didn't come."

Much has been written of the Eidolons--Guardian Forces, as they are sometimes known. Of their power and timelessness, of their sometimes humanlike quirks, and of the great costs of using them. Esthar scientists say the part of the brain responsible for junctioning them also commands memory; the summoner who calls on them does so at the cost of his or her own past. But rumors persist of occasions when use of them has instead granted memories. Memories of other times, other places, other lives. Whether or not these memories belong to the summoned or the summoner has never been satisfactorily determined, but one must fall back on the wisdom of the ages which tells us: The Eidolon knows not only who you are and have been, but also who you will be.

What would change about the Song if the Chocobros and the Royal Guards were reincarnated into the world of Westros?

Nyx wakes up on an alien world, the imprint of the Ring of the Lucii burned into his finger. It's still not the weirdest thing that's happened to him in the last twenty-four hours.