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They had been searching for hours, the corridors stretching like a cold, unfeeling labyrinth. Noctis’ chest grew tighter with each minute, the guilt coiling in his chest right next to his growing fear.
Finally! They spotted familiar blonde hair amid the nondescript metal surroundings.
Except it wasn’t the relief Noctis had hoped for.
Prompto was curled against the far wall with his arms wrapped around himself. His clothes were torn, and his face was streaked with dried tears. Angry, purple bruises bloomed along his visible skin that felt like a punch to Noctis’ gut.
“Prompto—” he started, voice coming out rough from worry.
Prompto gave a small, instinctive jolt. “Noct?” He blinked, as if disbelieving his eyes.
Noctis forced a smile, but his lips trembled. He crouched down, keeping some distance between them. “Yeah. It’s me. We’re all here.”
“Can you tell me his condition?” Ignis asked, voice carefully neutral.
“He—” Noctis started, but Prompto cut him off with a shaky laugh.
“Like shit but hanging in there.”
Gladio’s voice was controlled, but his fists were tight enough to whiten his knuckles. “Bruises on his collarbone and arms. Split lip. Looks weak. Dehydrated.”
Noctis did not even dare to think about what Prompto might have endured. He wanted to wrap his hands around Ardyn’s throat and squeeze until the last breath left the bastard’s lungs. He wanted to burn the keep to the ground, destroying every shred of evidence of what his boyfriend had to endure. But Prompto was here. Getting him somewhere safe was what mattered most right now.
Prompto attempted a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine,” he said too quickly. “Just a few scrapes. Nothing serious."
Noctis moved closer, reaching out to examine a particularly nasty cut on Prompto's arm. "Let me see—"
Prompto flinched away. His eyes widened in what looked like shame, and he immediately tried to cover the reaction. "Sorry, just—it's sore."
"Noct," Ignis cautioned, having heard the subtle sounds of movement. "Be gentle. We don't know the full extent of his injuries. Too much pressure could aggravate them."
Noctis withdrew his hand, the pit in his stomach gnawing deeper. Something wasn't right. Something had happened to Prompto that had left wounds deeper than his skin. The way he recoiled from touch, the way his eyes darted around the room, never quite meeting theirs, the way he hunched his shoulders as if trying to disappear into himself. It told a story Noctis wasn't ready to hear.
Ignis’ jaw tightened. “Prompto, let us help you. We need to get you someplace safe.”
“I’ll be fine.” But no one believed him.
“You’re weak,” Ignis reasoned. “If you will not allow Noctis to help you, at least allow Gladio.”
Prompto didn’t argue when Gladio scooped him up, although he tensed like a wounded animal at first. But then he sagged into Gladio’s hold, his body going limp as if his bones had turned into lead. Gladio’s glare could’ve melted steel as he carried Prompto toward the stairs.
The room they found was small but secure, a forgotten corner of the Keep that must have once served as a guard station. A dusty cot stood against one wall. There was also a fireplace, which Noctis lit with a fire flask. Gladio laid Prompto down as gently as if he were made of glass. Ignis knelt beside him, feeling over his body to check on his injuries. Prompto hissed when Ignis’ fingers brushed the worst of the cuts on his arm.
“I can mend myself,” Prompto muttered.
Ignis leveled an unseeing gaze at him. "You have been caring for yourself in that cell for far too long. Allow us to take over that burden now."
Prompto didn't respond, but the way he slightly relaxed under Ignis' touch was answer enough.
Ignis reached for the medical kit. His fingers found the clasp, fumbling slightly before managing to open it. He felt inside, identifying the familiar items by touch and selected the package of antiseptic wipes.
Ignis' hand found his face, fingers delicately tracing the line of his jaw, then moving up to locate the injury by touch. His movements were methodical but impeded by his lack of sight. "Prompto, I'm going to clean the cut on your temple. It may sting."
Prompto made a small sound of acknowledgment.
Ignis struggled opening the antiseptic wipes, his frustration evident in the tight line of his mouth.
"Here," Noctis said quietly, moving closer and taking the package. "Let me."
For a moment, Ignis looked as if he might protest. Then his shoulders slumped slightly. "Thank you."
Noctis tore open the package and handed a wipe to Ignis and guided his hand to Prompto's temple. Together, they cleaned the wound, Ignis' touch impossibly careful. Prompto’s breath hitched when the antiseptic touched his skin, but he didn’t pull away.
"The cut isn't deep," Noctis reported. "It won't need stitches."
Ignis nodded, his fingers finding a small bandage in the kit. Again, the packaging gave him difficulty, and again, Noctis helped without comment. There was something heartbreaking in the way Ignis refused to abandon the task, determined to transcend his own disability to care for Prompto.
They worked in tandem, Ignis’ hands performing the actual care while Noctis guided and assisted. Antiseptic on the split lip, ointment on the bruises, painkillers offered and accepted with a hand that shook more than anyone acknowledged.
"Your wrists," Ignis said suddenly, his fingers having discovered the abraded skin where restraints had bitten into flesh. "They'll need to be wrapped." Contained fury underlined his words.
Prompto's gaze flew away, fixing on a point on the wall. "It's not as bad as it looks."
"It's exactly as bad as it feels," Ignis countered. "And they feel like they've been rubbed raw."
Silence fell as Ignis selected bandages, his movements more sure now that he had found his rhythm.
Gladio paced the small room like a caged lion. “That fucking—”
“Gladio,” Ignis cautioned.
The shield clenched his fists, taking a steadying breath. "I'm going to check the perimeter. Make sure we're secure."
No one stopped him as he left. They all understood he needed space to process his rage, to bring it under control before it boiled over and burned Prompto in the process.
Once all his visible injuries were tended to, Ignis placed a gentle hand atop Prompto’s. "I suspect there are more injuries we cannot see," Ignis said, his voice carefully neutral. "Your ribs, perhaps? Your back?"
It took him a moment to answer. "Ribs. I don’t think they’re broken. Just... bruised."
"May I?" Ignis asked, hands hovering over Prompto's torso.
Another nod, barely perceptible. Ignis' fingers gently probed Prompto's ribcage through his shirt, pausing when Prompto's breath caught.
"Here?" Ignis asked.
"Yeah."
"Bruised, not broken, as you said. But they'll be painful for some time." Ignis selected a roll of bandages. "We should wrap them for support."
Removing Prompto's shirt revealed more bruises and cuts. His body was a map of abuse that made Noctis's vision blur with tears he refused to let fall. He helped Ignis wrap the bandages around Prompto's torso, trying to be as gentle as possible, noting how Prompto's muscles tensed at each touch, as if bracing for a blow he should know wasn’t coming.
When they finished, Prompto sank back against the thin pillow, exhaustion evident.
Ignis packed away the remaining supplies. "You should rest now," he said, his hand finding Prompto's shoulder. "The painkillers will help, but sleep is what you need most."
Prompto's eyes were already drifting closed, whether from the medication or simple exhaustion, it was hard to tell. "Thanks," he murmured.
Ignis squeezed his shoulder once, then stood. "I'll go find Gladio. He shouldn't be alone for too long."
After Ignis left, navigating the room with careful steps, Noctis remained by the cot. He watched Prompto's face, searching for signs of peace but finding none. Even in near-sleep, his brow remained furrowed, his jaw clenched. His fingers flexed as if fighting off ghosts.
Without thinking, Noctis reached out and took Prompto's hand, enfolding it in his own. I had always been a natural way for them to show each other comfort, even before they started dating, but this touch might as well have been a brand from how Prompto reacted.
His eyes flew open, his body going rigid. For a split second, pure fear flashed across his face. The sight made Noctis’ heart stop. Then recognition dawned, and Prompto relaxed, but only slightly. He didn't pull his hand away immediately, but discomfort was evident in the way his fingers remained stiff within Noctis's grasp.
As the seconds stretched on, Prompto's discomfort grew more pronounced. His hand began to twitch in his hold, an unmistakable sign that the contact was unwanted.
Noctis let go as if burned, shame washing over him. "Sorry," he whispered, moving back slightly. "I didn't think."
"It’s okay," Prompto mumbled, though it clearly wasn't. He drew his hand in close to his body, curling slightly away. "Just... not right now."
"Yeah. Of course." Noctis retreated further, giving Prompto the space he clearly needed. The distance felt unbridgeable.
The door opened, and Gladio returned, his expression marginally calmer, though anger still simmered beneath the surface. Ignis followed, using Gladio's elbow for guidance.
"All clear," Gladio reported, his voice low. "No sign of imperials or daemons nearby."
Noctis nodded, though his gaze never left Prompto's face. The blond had drifted back toward sleep, his breathing shallow but steady. He looked younger like this, more vulnerable. It was a painful reminder that he used to be a cheerful ball of sunshine before Ardyn had gotten his hands on him.
The room fell silent except for the soft sound of Prompto's breathing. In that silence, questions hung unasked, fears unvoiced. What had been done to Prompto in that cell? How deeply did the wounds go that they couldn't see? And perhaps most terrifying—would he ever truly be the same again?
Hours passed in the small room, marked only by the length of Prompto’s restless sleep. Noctis sat on the floor beside him with his back against the wall, close enough to be present but far enough to avoid causing distress. Ignis had claimed the room's only chair, his posture perfect despite his exhaustion, while Gladio leaned against the door frame, his powerful form a barrier between Prompto and anything else that may cause him pain. They spoke in hushed tones, not daring to accidentally awaken him.
"We need to get him out of here," Gladio said, arms crossed over his chest. "As soon as he's strong enough to move."
Ignis nodded. "Agreed. But I fear his wounds go far deeper than what we can see or treat here."
"What do we do?” Noctis asked. “How do we...help him?" The question settled between them, heavy with their collective helplessness.
"We start with the basics," Ignis said finally. "Food, rest, safety. We remind him that he's not alone anymore."
"And if that's not enough?" Noctis asked, his voice small.
Ignis had no answer for that.
Prompto stirred. He stared at the ceiling, confusion evident on his face. Then memory returned, tension coursing through his body.
"Hey," Noctis said, straightening but not moving closer. "You're okay. We're here."
Prompto turned his head, eyes finding Noctis. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it was a poor imitation of his usual bright grin. "Hey."
Gladio pushed away from the door, approaching the cot. "How're you feeling? Any better?"
"Yeah," Prompto lied, the word hollow. "Much better."
Ignis stood, making his way to the cot with careful steps. "We managed to find some rations in one of the storage rooms. Not gourmet by any means, but it should help restore your strength."
"Not hungry," he said quietly.
"You need to eat," Gladio insisted, his voice gentler than his words. "You've been through hell. Your body needs fuel to recover."
"Not right now."
Prompto never refused food.
"Perhaps later, then," Ignis conceded. "For now, more rest might be in order. Your body has undergone significant trauma."
A hint of panic entered Prompto’s eyes. "No more sleep. Please." The plea was soft but urgent, and it struck at something in Noctis's chest. He understood suddenly that what Prompto was afraid of was memories being brought to the surface.
“Is there anything you want?” Ignis asked.
Prompto's gaze darted between them, something desperate and unspoken in his eyes. "What I want..." he began, then stopped, his voice catching.
"Anything," Noctis promised, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "Whatever you need."
Prompto looked away, his hands twisting in the thin blanket. The silence stretched, filled with the weight of words he couldn't seem to form.
"Prompto," Ignis said gently. "We cannot help if we don't know what you need."
Prompto drew a shaky breath, still not meeting their eyes. "I can't..." he started, his voice barely audible. "I can't get it out of my head." His knuckles turned white as he gripped the blanket.
Noctis stilled.
Prompto’s voice cracked. "I need you to—please. Just pretend. Pretend you're the ones doing it. I need to erase the memory with something else."
None of them moved. There was only one way to interpret his words: a confirmation of the fear they had all silently shared. But the implication of what he was asking was like a poisonous snake rearing to strike the whole of them at once.
Noctis felt something cold slide down his spine. His first instinct was to refuse—it was wrong. Healthy rape play was one thing, but this…this was something else entirely. This couldn’t be what he needed. He wasn’t thinking clearly. This would only make it worse.
But the desperation in Prompto's voice stopped any refusal from forming on Noctis's lips. There was something broken that begged for any relief, no matter how seemingly destructive.
Gladio was the first to recover, his face hardening into a mask of angry disbelief. " You think that’s gonna fix anything? That’s just—fuck, Prompto." His voice was rough, but his eyes were wet.
Ignis was quieter, voice carefully controlled, but the strain was evident. “Prompto… are you certain?”
Prompto was crying now, his hands clenched on the blankets. “I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it.” His shoulders shook. “It just keeps replaying. I need to feel it, but with you. So when I think about it, it doesn’t seem as bad. Please.” The last word was a desperate sob. "Please."
The rawness of his plea silenced their protests. Noctis wanted to scream. That wasn't how healing worked. You didn't replace one trauma with another, even a controlled, consensual one. Yet, he understood the desperate need to reclaim control when you had none. To take back what had been stolen through deliberate choice.
He looked to Ignis and Gladio, searching for guidance. None of them wanted this. None of them believed it was the right path to healing. But none of them could bear to deny Prompto either, not when he was looking at them with such naked desperation, not when this was the first thing he had actively asked for since they found him.
"The three of us should discuss this," Ignis said quietly.
Prompto nodded, swiping at his tears with the back of his hand. "I'll... I'll be here."
The attempt at humor fell flat.
They moved to the far corner of the room, huddling together in a tight circle. Though Prompto couldn't hear their whispered conversation, he watched them with anxious eyes, his hands never ceasing their restless movement in the blanket.
"We can't do this," Gladio hissed, keeping his voice low but unable to hide his agitation. "He's traumatized. He doesn't know what he's asking for."
"I'm inclined to agree," Ignis murmured. "And yet, I wonder if denying him agency now, when so much has been taken from him already, might not cause damage as well."
Noctis stared at the floor, his thoughts a chaotic tangle. "I think he wants to reclaim the experience. Make it his choice this time."
"You don't fix a wound by stabbing it again, even if you're the one holding the knife," Gladio argued.
"Perhaps not," Ignis conceded. "But trauma recovery is not linear, nor is it the same for everyone. Some survivors do find healing through reclaiming experiences that were forced upon them."
"Not like this," Gladio insisted. "Not when he's still bleeding, for Astrals' sake."
"What if we say no, and he gets worse?” Noctis swallowed hard. "I don't like it either. But... I can't bear to refuse him anything right now. Can you?"
It took Gladio a long moment to reply, and when he did, it was with a giant exhale. "I still think it's a mistake."
"Noted," Ignis said. "But I believe this must be Prompto's decision to make. We can set boundaries, ensure his safety, but ultimately... We need to help remind him this is his body, and he has agency over it."
Noctis nodded slowly, the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders. "Then we do it. But we're careful. And if it seems like it's making things worse, we stop."
Noctis approached the cot, where Prompto had pulled his knees up to his chest. "Fine. We'll do it. But we won't hurt you. Not like that."
Relief washed over Prompto's face, his shoulders sagging slightly. "You won't. That's the point."
Ignis stepped forward, his expression grave. "Before we begin, we need to discuss parameters. What exactly are you asking for, and what are your limits?"
Prompto's gaze dropped. "I just... I need to replace the memory. I need it to be you instead of..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"We understand," Ignis said gently. "But we need specifics. Do you want us to restrain you? To use force? How far should this go?"
"We'll go slow," Gladio added, his reluctance still evident in his stance. "Check in with you throughout."
Prompto shook his head, an edge of desperation returning to his voice. "No. It needs to feel real. The realer the better." He looked up, meeting their eyes for the first time. "If not, it won't change anything."
Noctis and Gladio exchanged a troubled glance, the implications of "real" hanging heavy between them.
"Then what?" Gladio asked, his voice rough with emotion. "You want us to fuck you into the mattress when you're literally torn up down there? For fuck's sake, Prom."
Prompto looked away, shame coloring his features. "It doesn't have to be that hard," he mumbled. "But... you can't treat me gently either. That isn't... gonna cut it."
"Gladio is right, though," Ignis interjected. "You are not in the shape for this. We need to know that you are alright."
"I'll be fine," Prompto promised, though the tremor in his voice belied his certainty. "After... after Ardyn, this will be nothing in comparison."
The name hung in the air like a curse, the first time any of them had spoken it aloud since they found Prompto. Noctis felt rage surge through him again, hot and vicious, but he forced it down. Not now. Later.
"We need a safe word," Ignis said, his tone brooking no argument. "And a signal, in case you cannot speak. This is non-negotiable, Prompto."
Prompto hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine."
"'Phoenix' for the word," Ignis decided. "And for the signal... three taps, in quick succession, on any part of our bodies you can reach. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Prompto whispered.
"And you will use them if you need to stop," Ignis continued. "This is not about replacing one trauma with another. If at any point this becomes too much, you will signal us. Is that clear?"
Prompto nodded again, though his expression suggested he had no plans to tap out, regardless of how difficult things became.
Noctis felt a knot of dread form in his stomach. But he also saw Prompto’s determination for anything that might quiet the memories tormenting him. "Okay," he said finally. "We'll do this. But we're stopping if it gets too much, whether you signal or not."
"Thank you," Prompto whispered, and the gratitude in those two words was almost more than Noctis could bear.
As they finished their planning, a heavy silence fell over the room. What they were about to do was a transgressive act of love that none of them had ever imagined would be required of them. Yet here they were, preparing to step into roles they despised to help the person they loved reclaim something of himself from the darkness.
No one moved. The firelight painted their shadows long on the walls, turning them into monsters before they’d even begun.
Noctis looked at Prompto, his best friend, the cheerful heart of their group, now reduced to this broken, desperate state, and silently renewed his vow of vengeance against Ardyn. But that would come later. For now, there was only the terrible, pleading trust Prompto was placing in them.
"Are you ready?" he asked softly.
Prompto nodded, his eyes closing briefly as if gathering strength. "Yes. I'm ready."
Prompto lay on the bed, his eyes closed, breath deliberately slow and even as if in sleep. They all knew he was awake, waiting.
Gladio moved first, his footsteps deliberately heavy on the floor, the sound both a warning and a promise. His face was a rigid mask, features set in grim determination as he approached the bed. He lingered, standing over Prompto, his massive frame casting a shadow across the smaller man. Then, with movements that were careful despite their staged aggression, he lowered himself onto the bed, straddling Prompto's hips.
Prompto's body tensed immediately.
Gladio’s hands hovered, unsure. “Well, look what I found,” he started, but his voice broke. He tried again, rougher this time. “A pretty little thing, all alone and defenseless.”
Prompto trembled. “Please, just let me go!”
Gladio’s hands clenched the blankets. He couldn’t do it. Not really. He forced out the lines, did the actions, but every touch was gentle, every word strained.
His hands found Prompto's shoulders, pressing him down into the mattress with just enough force to feel real without causing pain. He kept his touch firm, impersonal, as if Prompto were a stranger rather than someone he loved.
"Don't move," he said, the command short and clipped, all he could manage. "Don't make a sound."
Prompto trembled beneath him, a full-body shudder that Gladio felt through his thighs. A small, broken sound escaped him—half protest, half fear—and the sound cut through Gladio like a knife.
The sound broke his heart. It made him want to gather Prompto into his arms and hold him until there were no more tears to shed. But that wasn't what he had asked for. That wasn't what he believed he needed.
So Gladio continued, his hands moving down Prompto's back in a parody of desire, his touch possessive. He didn't speak again, couldn't bring himself to voice the cruel words that would make this more "real." Instead, he communicated through action alone. The way he forced Prompto’s pants down and took his cock in hand. That was all he could bring himself to handle, an action that could at least bring him something good.
Noctis joined them, his approach quieter, his presence announced by the dip of the mattress as he sat beside them.
"My turn," he said, the words catching on the way out.
Gladio moved aside, allowing Noctis to take his place. As they exchanged positions, their eyes met briefly in a moment of shared grief. Neither of them wanted this. Both of them would endure it.
Noctis forced himself to prod at his entrance, making sure to use a lot of lube. He could feel how inflamed it was. He eased the first finger in, only pretending to be forceful once the digit was past his tender opening.
Noctis’ stomach twisted with every flinch, every whimper.
It felt like a violation. It was a violation.
But then—
Prompto’s breathing changed.
The initial trembling subsided, replaced by a different kind of tension. His breathing changed, becoming less erratic, less panicked. When Noctis touched him, he still braced himself for attack, still played the part of a victim, but there was a recognition now that seemed to be working its way through the layers of trauma.
Noctis felt the subtle way Prompto leaned into his touch even as he pretended to shy away from it. It was about their presence, he realized suddenly. It was the fact that it was them, not Ardyn, who were touching him. That made the violation tolerable. That made it, somehow, healing.
"We've got you," Noctis thought, knowing he would ruin whatever spell this was if he voiced it aloud. But he poured the sentiment into his touch, into the way he held Prompto—firm enough to feel real, gentle enough to communicate care.
Ignis was last. "Enough," he said, his voice coolly authoritative. "My companions have had their fun. Now it's my turn." The line was given perfectly, as if he were a trained actor rather than a concerned boyfriend. Ignis was the only one who could fully commit to the performance, who could separate his actions from his feelings enough to give Prompto what he asked for.
Prompto sobbed when Ignis pushed in, but it wasn’t the same sound as before. It was ugly and broken, but there was something like relief beneath it.
They were all crying by this point.
Prompto’s eyes opened, and he reached out, finding each of them in turn. His fingers clutched at them, no longer in fear but now in desperate affirmation of their presence.
"You're here," he managed to whisper, his voice cracking with sobs. "You're really here."
“We’re ever by your side,” Noctis said, hoping the blonde’s trademark line would reach him.
Gladio's hand moved to Prompto's hair, stroking it with the tenderness of not wanting to break the yolk of an egg. "Not going anywhere, kid."
Ignis didn’t say anything, but his hand found Prompto's, fingers intertwining in silent promise.
They stayed like that for a long time, their bodies connected but no longer moving, no longer playing out roles forced upon them, but giving the thing they had wanted to from the start: care. They rearranged themselves around Prompto, creating a protective circle of warmth and presence.
It was a tight squeeze, but they made it work, prioritizing Prompto’s comfort over any of their own. Ignis cradled Prompto's head against his shoulder, holding onto him as if he might disappear from his grasp. Noctis pressed his face against Prompto's chest, wrapping his arms around his middle. Gladio curled against Prompto's back, encircling all of them with an arm.
Prompto's tears gradually subsided, his breathing growing deeper, more regular. The rigidity that had gripped him for so long began to ease, muscle by muscle, breath by breath. He wasn't healed; they all knew that. But something had shifted, some burden lightened, some poison drawn from the wound.
Prompto fell asleep in their arms. Noctis studied the quality of his sleep. His breathing was even. There was no more restless shuffling, but his fingers still twitched. He didn’t look peaceful exactly, but the ragged edge of his distress had softened.
The three of them couldn’t sleep. Not after what happened—what they had done. Not when they were plagued with the question of whether they had truly helped.
But none of them let go.