#iris amicitia

gladio, to whom sometimes sword-wielding seems more natural than even breathing, thinks he is far too rough for the first noble girl to really catch his eye.

you first come into in his view on a harmless assignment. it’s barely even a task worth calling an “assignment.” it is a nicety, a sweetness. be a friend for his sister – a guideline, in some ways, to ensure she still knows the way of a noblewoman when surrounded by rowdy, young boys. an assurance that she has a fellow, older girl to confide in, while their father stays busily sworn to the throne.

soon, you show yourself to be skilled in sewing; enough to teach iris how to make her beloved moogle plushies. then, skilled enough in chocobo-racing to help the little lass ride side–saddle. and, just for you yourself, skilled enough in perceiving gestures to be absolutely sure that her older brother hates you.

he must, given the way his golden eyes flickered away from your gaze the very second they met.

gladio gave no kiss on the hand as a usual knight would, when he bowed at his father’s introduction. you fingers met his palm for only the barest amount of time that could be considered socially acceptable. he then pulled his hand away from yours within seconds. you wanted to excuse it as just a passing quirk. you were both young - it would not be the first time a boy seemed disgusted at having to appeal to the opposite sex.

only the sentiment stayed as you grew - far past the age of “cooties” or stuck out tongues, he barely greeted you with more than a terse nod and the occasional “thanks for looking after Iris today.”

your responses were ever polite. “of course, sir amicitia.” yet he flinched at that, mumbled inaudibly, and waved it off with a nod.

it is not until iris is old enough to care for these noticings herself that she pipes up.

“oh - gladdy doesn’t really like his title.” she explains, adjusting some loose thread on her black skirt as the two of you take a long walk through halls of the royal citadel.

“he says it sounds too much like our dad. you can just call him gladio like all of his other friends!”

your tongue makes a pass against your lips. there is an urge for bluntness that you want to avoid; you would never want to insult the brother that your young friend so cares for, the esteemed crownsguard.

instead, you settle for something more neutral and cordial.

“i don’t believe your brother considers me a friend, iris.”

the younger girl’s eyes widen, black eyebrows raising before knitting together in thought.

“what do you mean? he likes you plenty!”

sure that she’s only treating this all with a girlish naïveté, you shake your head.

“he’s loud and boisterous with his friends, iris. like with the prince or ignis - with a good deal of protectiveness too. he barely gives so much as a word to me.”

your words mix in with the sound of your heels against the floor, a sound which only comes to a stop when iris clicks her tongue in thought and shrugs.

“oh, that? that’s because he likes you.”

for a being of constant composure, you almost trip over your own feet. so off balance, you feel ready to careen down the marble hallway. instead, your momentum swerves. you face your smaller friend, whose expression is equally parts calm and humored.

“yeah! really — he’s just awful at talking to you.”

denial, the first stage of any revelation, is set on your tongue first.

“iris, don’t.” you huff through your nose. “i’ve seen your brother on dates with all sorts of women, he’s not some tongue tied child. when they flirt, he flirts back. don’t make up things like that.”

and iris, oh sweet iris, always perky, lets a pout pull at her smile for once before shrugging.

“yeah, but we don’t know them - not me or the prince or anything. he’d feel weird doing that with you, since you’re my best friend. boys are awfully silly about stuff like that, huh? plus, he thinks you’re too prim and proper for a rough and tumble crownsguard - honest, told me himself!”

the words come from her, yet you’re the one whose throat lodges. not with denial anymore nor even surprise, but with anger. an anger you more than rail into the brown haired knight without hesitation the next time you catch him for even a moment alone.

there is no novelistic flattery or secret charm to be found here. in fact, his golden eyes widen at the sheer intensity of your rage. how dare he assume your wants or your type? how dare he hide behind iris rather than ever make an attempt to know you on your own terms? how dare he make it out as if you can’t choose the type of future you want, as if you’re some untrained damsel who would fear the roughness of a trained soldier; you’ve lived under the war and long-growing nights just as many days as he. you’re no little girl to whom his terseness can be washed away as childhood teasing – and he’s far too much of a man for such an excuse at this point.

“— deciding other people’s reaction before you’ve ever given them a chance to know you? you really are your father’s son, amicitia.”

it’s a harsh blow, one that cuts as deeply as the strike of opposing metal on his skin, but not undeserved. left humbled, he swallows it, insults and all, with the bitter medicine that you were right. he had inherited his father’s tendency for presumption and pride.

for the first time, properly then, the knight takes a knee to the noblewoman in front of him without running from the feeling it invokes. his apology is rough around the edges, clumsy even, the very reason he had stayed silent for so long. and yet, not without growth.

“i wasted a lot of time, didn’t i?” he clears his throat. “i - i won’t be stupid enough to ask for a date or to think a sorry will smooth things over.”

he exhales through his nose, eyes meeting yours with a seriousness usually preserved only for the royal family. “i’ve been stupid, getting to know things about you from Iris or from so far away. just… let me have a chance to start knowing you close up? if it’s not too late.”

an attempt at something more important than propriety or likability: an honest, balanced friendship. your nod, your slightly annoyed “fine,” it’s all softer than you want it to be. not because of a mutual crush or even interest – not even because of his bended knee or honest words. just because… well, his eyes do look an awful lot like Iris’ when they are soft and pleading for your time. you never were good at saying no to that face.

it’s a slow build to friendship from there. then, and only then, when he has read your favorite book back to front. when he has watched the early mornings spent tending to your racing birds. when he has allowed himself a true laugh at your inside jokes with iris. when he let your hand intertwine with his at the news of another cruel and vicious daemon attack – without pulling away – does he ever dare to suggest more.

more comes. it comes so naturally then, that all those childhood moments of waved off titles and jilted greetings seem hazy in the mind.

and when it becomes carnal? when all pretenses of childhood or friendship or noble posturing are left behind? you ride gladio for the first time and he wonders where he could have ever gotten the notion of you as “too prim and proper.”

it’s all so enhanced. enhanced by your love, by your warmth, by your rhythm, by both of your past experiences (though he balks at the thought of ever returning to another woman and or you another man after this; every part of him screams that you’re now only meant to be touched, claimed, used by each other and only each other.)

but more than anything, it’s enhanced by the moisture. it’s so sticky — shiny lube pushed inside of you in excess, warmed by how he’d smeared it across his fingers as they had poked, and prodded, and scissored the clear mix into your waiting and wanting slit. the extra of it lay glazed over his cock, his balls, your thighs and his, anywhere it could reach. he’s too large to have needed any less.

he watches as the wetness connecting you both — transparent, white stands pulled thin as you rise and then pressed back together with a disgustingly filthy squelch — gets messier and messier. mixed with pre-cum and clear liquid heat, it’s practically created a puddle. a wanton groan erupts from his throat when you grind into it. your clit rubs raw against the heated and slicked bush of brown hair on his pelvis, hands on the black lines of his tattooed shoulders in order to keep yourself steady.

a strangled “mmmphh” makes its way from his chest to his throat, trying to contain more of the sounds that so desperately want to escape him. his hips buck up instinctively — one hand on your hip to keep you there, the other dedicated to squeezing at your breasts. the softness gives him some focus, some level of purchase, without which his mind would already be swimming and hazy.

“f-fuck. baby—” his hips buck up again. it is a movement he doesn’t notice until your breath skips, the tip of him kissing at something spongy and tender. his breath catches too, a sinful noise that only makes you clench down, guiding him into the same reaction - the cycle of being stuck together. his hand draws down from breast to ribcage, to stomach, to the curve of your ass - meeting it with a spank. a reflexive movement, and instinctual one, met with another gasping moan and tight clench.

“fuck - fuck, easy, baby, can’t take it-! keep bouncing. please, angel.” he begs. gladio is prideful but not-so-much that he can’t admit that such a slow grind will drag him into climaxing far earlier than he wishes. usually he’s not without the stamina for more, but such a vice grip might milk him dry and he’s intent on savoring every sloppy moment before then.

you nod, practically drooling when you look down at the space (or lack thereof) between you both. gods, you’re both so sloppy that the thrusts are nigh frictionless. the connection pulls when you slide all the way up; his cock gives the slightest of twitches, no longer being surrounded by heat, lonely without the all-enveloping temperature of gummy walls. you’re not meant to be apart, he decides, hands guiding your descent back onto the far length. the dewy dampness of your folds unfurl around the shape of him - first taking the tip, then swallowing down inch after inch, then rising to repeat it all again.

the plapping sound of it mixes with your mutual gasps. it fills the room as his eyes squeeze shut and his head rolls back. all the worry he had – his larger size, his hesitation towards his feelings, the roughness of scars and skin – it melts away into relief. he no longer needs to be a boy worried about your perception of his stilted bows and terse nods - not when he’s inside you like this.

he’s inside you. he’s inside you. his mind could repeat it one million times and it would still never sink in. all it can do is wash over him in waves.

he can’t much think, hips meeting your rhythm on sheer instinct - the sticky mess of it all stays bubbling at the base of his cock, sticking to his pubes and glistening along your slit.

“angel – tell me you love me.” the beg is the only thing he can manage out and he curses, practically in regret, when you respond. the soft moaning of “i love you, ‘dio, i love you” draws out that which he was most trying to avoid. his cock kicks at the affirmation, and a long spurt of white soon ropes into the already wet mess, complete with an equally long sound that finds itself halfway between a groan and a whimper.

it’s the hardest he’s ever cum in his life. he wants to apologize - to get something out about how he should have warned you, or gotten you to reach yours first, but whatever was left of his coherence dissipates when you keep going. a kiss to his temple is all the reassurance he gets that you’ll stop at his word, and tiny crescents of red are left on your skin at how much harder his grasp becomes in turn.

he doesn’t think he’ll ever escape from this bed, nor would he ever want to. you love him. your body does in equal measure, so much it makes him jolt with overstimulation, a laugh aborted against your lips. he was so stupid to think it could ever end any other way.

ohhh~ neat~ And since the topic has been brought up I shall add to the Headcanon~

in Gladio’s episode of the brotherhood anime ‘Sword and Sheild’ when Iris runs off she finds some acorns and says she’ll give them to Gladdy. I think giving people little trinkets is just something the Amicitia siblings do, maybe Iris adopted it from Gladdy or they both could have gotten it from their dad. but either way it’s cute, the siblings share so many similarities and I love it~

Yet she is the one chosen anyways.

She arrives, and instead of merging with her past self she is 35 and tired.

She looks at her older brother and if he has to be younger then her in this life then so be it.

She looks at her younger self and knows she will try to keep this small part of herself innoncent.

She looks at her father and he says. "Daughter."

"Brother," Iris replies because its the only thing that will make sense and if that is yet another thing she will have to give up-

Iris spotting something hanging out of prompto's pocket: hey prompt I think something is falling out of your pocket

Prompto pulling out his wallet: oh yeah that's my wallet chain it tends to hang out from my pocket

Iris pointing at a keychain on it: is that a pokemon keychain?

Prompto seeing the keychain she's pointing at: oh yeah noctis won it at the arcade years ago during one of our first dates and gave it to me

Iris looking at the joltion: awww that's sweet of him

Prompto smiling: yeah I've kept it by my side ever since. I actually have an umbreon one I've been meaning to give to him but it's been so hard to find the right time with our schedules

Gladio's probably gonna fight anyone who heckles him for his dope flower crown at Crownsguard practice