They’d finally made it to Altissia, and everything had gone horribly wrong.
Ignis had a moment of pride when Noctis successfully negotiated the Leviathan ordeal. He’d spent his entire life preparing the new king for his role, and even though Noctis had the political intrigue of a sack of potatoes, he’d somehow made a good impression.
That was about the only satisfaction he found, though. The city was destroyed. Noctis was still in a coma. Luna had been stabbed, her body nearly washed away, but she’d somehow ended up on the edge of a pile of debris, Umbra guarding over her, of all the creatures. It was an impossibly lucky fate.
And Ignis. Well.
He’d been bedridden for a few days. Luna came and sat by his side. She sounded pale, worn thin, injured in such a way it should’ve been a mortal wound, he was told. She’d taken his hands, traced it over her abdomen so he could feel the wound there. It’d been stitched back together but it felt sore, aching.
Still, Lady Lunafreya was kind, was everything Ignis remembered her to be, from their brief meeting when he’d gone to see Noctis, during his time in Tenebrae. She put her own hurt aside, and she’d channeled her powers, her healing magic of the Oracle, and pressed her hands over his unseeing eyes.
“It may be beyond me,” she admitted quietly, after. Ignis’s world was still black. The one eye, they’d told him, his left one, was ruined. There was heavy scarring, and it was a miracle in itself that they hadn’t had to actually remove the eye. Still, it was useless to him.
His right eye, though, the doctors still weren’t hopeful, but Luna had seen fit to at least try. Ignis was quick to accept his reality, though it was perhaps the cruelest thing that could happen to him. He’d prided himself in his ability to see the world crystal clear. What was he now? He didn’t hold any optimism that he’d see again. He knew he’d simply have to relearn how the world worked.
---
For a while, Ignis had felt utterly useless. He tried, of course, but it had been quite a blow to his self-esteem, reduced to walking with a cane, tripping over everything. Noctis was guilt-ridden over the whole thing. He’d let Luna get injured, let Ignis be blinded, after all. Prompto was practically clinging to Ignis, and he appreciated the help, but it was certainly not doing his ego any favours.
Aranea had sent him a few messages, and Ignis had ignored them. He was grateful, at the very least, for the assisted text option on his phone that played them audibly and let him dictate responses. Still, Ignis couldn’t quite find the heart to respond. His play with Aranea had been entirely based on their dynamic, the power struggle, and it just wasn’t something Ignis wanted to deal with. He wanted so desperately to be treated normally and he didn’t think he could handle the rejection.
Noctis had insisted that they chase Ardyn down and get their revenge. The chancellor had fled when his assassination attempt on Luna had failed.
They were on their way to Gralea when they encountered Aranea again, in the ruins of Tenebrae.
Ignis was losing hope that he’d ever recover any of his vision. He could sense light out of his right eye, though. Sometimes, he could almost make out blurry, fuzzy shapes or the hint of colour. But most of it was vague, useless, and only enough to trip him up, to remind him that he’d truly never be the same again. Ignis would have preferred the blackness, because then he could abandon all of that awful hope that made it so hard to heal and move on.
“Iggy lost his vision in the Leviathan attack,” Noctis had told Aranea quietly, but Ignis heard it. The only benefit of all this was that his other senses were quickly heightening—adapting, sharpening to make up for the loss of sight. He could hear things, sense things, that previously would have been lost on even Ignis’s sharp mind.
“That’s a damn shame,” Aranea sighed, and Ignis thought just maybe he could hear something in the words. Understanding? He’d been avoiding her after all. Empathy? Maybe that was it. But he could’ve sworn there was something else there too, something that he couldn’t place words or thoughts to.
Ignis had decided he wouldn’t avoid her, nor would he seek her out. Noctis had wanted to get some rest though, before they pressed on. And inevitably, Ignis found himself holed up in one of the old, ruined buildings where Aranea had set up camp.
“You’ve been ignoring me.”
The words weren’t a question—nor were they necessarily a threat. They were a statement, hanging in the air between them, and there was a coldness to them. Typical Aranea.
“I have been,” Ignis admitted, because there was no way he could deny it, no plausible excuse he could come up with. He was blind, not dead, and he was well aware that she’d texted him. He had wanted to see her, of course. He wouldn’t voice it. But things were different now.
Ignis wanted to see her, but he could imagine her so clearly in his mind, it was nearly the same thing. He was seated on the little cot she’d set up. Barely more than a mattress, thin and hard and rickety. She was standing before him. He could sense her dominating presence. She was still in her armor, he could hear it moving as she walked over. She would have one hand on her hip, back arched, watching him from half-lidded eyes. Probably a scowl on that gorgeous face of hers.
“Why?”
He hadn’t expected the question, nor did he expect to hear the dull thud of Aranea’s armor falling to the floor at her side. Ignis had expected it was all but over between them, and here she was, nearly in a warzone, her soldiers outside. Hell, his companions, his king, outside. And Aranea Highwind was letting herself go in front of him, a blind, crippled man.
“I don’t pity myself,” Ignis said quickly. “I’ll adapt. But you must admit, I lose a certain amount of appeal with…this,” and he gestured at his face. He’d taken to wearing sunglasses, to block out the sensation of light that irritated his right eye and tripped up his mind. And to hide the newly formed scars, thick and red and angry over his face.
Aranea didn’t say anything, but Ignis inhaled sharply when he felt her fingers—without the gloves, for once, trace over his cheek. She removed the glasses, and Ignis almost opened his mouth to stop her. But she pressed her index finger to his lips and instead he drew her finger into his mouth, let his tongue roll over the pad of her long, calloused digit, suggestive and warm and maybe a little bit needy.
“You’re changed,” Aranea agreed quietly, but she moved to straddle him all the same. She pulled her hand away from his face, pressed it square to his chest and shoved him down on the bed. “You’re not broken. You’re not any less desirable,” and Ignis noted that it was really the first time she’d ever admitted that she desired him, wanted him, that it might be more than just pure fucking at play here.
“You’re right,” Ignis agreed, and there was a certain new thrill as Aranea loomed over him. She’d tied him up more than once, had blindfolded him a couple of times, and perhaps he could think of it that way. It added another level of danger, of her wild, violent appeal. And it seemed Aranea still wanted him, and she was eager to prove that as she used him and violated him, at the edge of the world, so far from home, and so out of their element.
Afterward, Aranea pressed just a little bit closer than usual. She let a hand play idly over his stomach. And this time, she pulled a book out, and she was the one to open its dusty pages and read aloud to him.
“Will you ever get your eyesight back?” Aranea asked idly. She’d permitted Ignis to rest his head on her shoulder as she read. It was a silly story, some ridiculous romantic fantasy aimed toward young women, but Ignis missed reading, he missed it something fucking fierce, maybe almost more than actually being able to see the world around him, and he hadn’t worked up the resolve to ask Gladio to read those awful books of his to him yet.
“Unlikely,” Ignis replied quietly, because there was no sugarcoating it. “I can sense light in one eye. Sometimes colour. Lunafreya tried to heal it, but I haven’t seen any real improvement.”
“You’re strong,” the acknowledgement came as a surprise, and for a brief moment, Ignis wanted desperately to kiss the woman. He didn’t, but he smiled faintly, pressed his forehead into her shoulder in just a quiet moment of thanks. “You’ll adjust to this.”
“I will,” Ignis agreed. He stopped ignoring Aranea’s messages after that.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
FILL: Vortex (Ignis/Aranea, accidental pregnancy) (4/6 i lied)
Date: 2017-02-17 11:31 pm (UTC)Ignis had a moment of pride when Noctis successfully negotiated the Leviathan ordeal. He’d spent his entire life preparing the new king for his role, and even though Noctis had the political intrigue of a sack of potatoes, he’d somehow made a good impression.
That was about the only satisfaction he found, though. The city was destroyed. Noctis was still in a coma. Luna had been stabbed, her body nearly washed away, but she’d somehow ended up on the edge of a pile of debris, Umbra guarding over her, of all the creatures. It was an impossibly lucky fate.
And Ignis. Well.
He’d been bedridden for a few days. Luna came and sat by his side. She sounded pale, worn thin, injured in such a way it should’ve been a mortal wound, he was told. She’d taken his hands, traced it over her abdomen so he could feel the wound there. It’d been stitched back together but it felt sore, aching.
Still, Lady Lunafreya was kind, was everything Ignis remembered her to be, from their brief meeting when he’d gone to see Noctis, during his time in Tenebrae. She put her own hurt aside, and she’d channeled her powers, her healing magic of the Oracle, and pressed her hands over his unseeing eyes.
“It may be beyond me,” she admitted quietly, after. Ignis’s world was still black. The one eye, they’d told him, his left one, was ruined. There was heavy scarring, and it was a miracle in itself that they hadn’t had to actually remove the eye. Still, it was useless to him.
His right eye, though, the doctors still weren’t hopeful, but Luna had seen fit to at least try. Ignis was quick to accept his reality, though it was perhaps the cruelest thing that could happen to him. He’d prided himself in his ability to see the world crystal clear. What was he now? He didn’t hold any optimism that he’d see again. He knew he’d simply have to relearn how the world worked.
---
For a while, Ignis had felt utterly useless. He tried, of course, but it had been quite a blow to his self-esteem, reduced to walking with a cane, tripping over everything. Noctis was guilt-ridden over the whole thing. He’d let Luna get injured, let Ignis be blinded, after all. Prompto was practically clinging to Ignis, and he appreciated the help, but it was certainly not doing his ego any favours.
Aranea had sent him a few messages, and Ignis had ignored them. He was grateful, at the very least, for the assisted text option on his phone that played them audibly and let him dictate responses. Still, Ignis couldn’t quite find the heart to respond. His play with Aranea had been entirely based on their dynamic, the power struggle, and it just wasn’t something Ignis wanted to deal with. He wanted so desperately to be treated normally and he didn’t think he could handle the rejection.
Noctis had insisted that they chase Ardyn down and get their revenge. The chancellor had fled when his assassination attempt on Luna had failed.
They were on their way to Gralea when they encountered Aranea again, in the ruins of Tenebrae.
Ignis was losing hope that he’d ever recover any of his vision. He could sense light out of his right eye, though. Sometimes, he could almost make out blurry, fuzzy shapes or the hint of colour. But most of it was vague, useless, and only enough to trip him up, to remind him that he’d truly never be the same again. Ignis would have preferred the blackness, because then he could abandon all of that awful hope that made it so hard to heal and move on.
“Iggy lost his vision in the Leviathan attack,” Noctis had told Aranea quietly, but Ignis heard it. The only benefit of all this was that his other senses were quickly heightening—adapting, sharpening to make up for the loss of sight. He could hear things, sense things, that previously would have been lost on even Ignis’s sharp mind.
“That’s a damn shame,” Aranea sighed, and Ignis thought just maybe he could hear something in the words. Understanding? He’d been avoiding her after all. Empathy? Maybe that was it. But he could’ve sworn there was something else there too, something that he couldn’t place words or thoughts to.
Ignis had decided he wouldn’t avoid her, nor would he seek her out. Noctis had wanted to get some rest though, before they pressed on. And inevitably, Ignis found himself holed up in one of the old, ruined buildings where Aranea had set up camp.
“You’ve been ignoring me.”
The words weren’t a question—nor were they necessarily a threat. They were a statement, hanging in the air between them, and there was a coldness to them. Typical Aranea.
“I have been,” Ignis admitted, because there was no way he could deny it, no plausible excuse he could come up with. He was blind, not dead, and he was well aware that she’d texted him. He had wanted to see her, of course. He wouldn’t voice it. But things were different now.
Ignis wanted to see her, but he could imagine her so clearly in his mind, it was nearly the same thing. He was seated on the little cot she’d set up. Barely more than a mattress, thin and hard and rickety. She was standing before him. He could sense her dominating presence. She was still in her armor, he could hear it moving as she walked over. She would have one hand on her hip, back arched, watching him from half-lidded eyes. Probably a scowl on that gorgeous face of hers.
“Why?”
He hadn’t expected the question, nor did he expect to hear the dull thud of Aranea’s armor falling to the floor at her side. Ignis had expected it was all but over between them, and here she was, nearly in a warzone, her soldiers outside. Hell, his companions, his king, outside. And Aranea Highwind was letting herself go in front of him, a blind, crippled man.
“I don’t pity myself,” Ignis said quickly. “I’ll adapt. But you must admit, I lose a certain amount of appeal with…this,” and he gestured at his face. He’d taken to wearing sunglasses, to block out the sensation of light that irritated his right eye and tripped up his mind. And to hide the newly formed scars, thick and red and angry over his face.
Aranea didn’t say anything, but Ignis inhaled sharply when he felt her fingers—without the gloves, for once, trace over his cheek. She removed the glasses, and Ignis almost opened his mouth to stop her. But she pressed her index finger to his lips and instead he drew her finger into his mouth, let his tongue roll over the pad of her long, calloused digit, suggestive and warm and maybe a little bit needy.
“You’re changed,” Aranea agreed quietly, but she moved to straddle him all the same. She pulled her hand away from his face, pressed it square to his chest and shoved him down on the bed. “You’re not broken. You’re not any less desirable,” and Ignis noted that it was really the first time she’d ever admitted that she desired him, wanted him, that it might be more than just pure fucking at play here.
“You’re right,” Ignis agreed, and there was a certain new thrill as Aranea loomed over him. She’d tied him up more than once, had blindfolded him a couple of times, and perhaps he could think of it that way. It added another level of danger, of her wild, violent appeal. And it seemed Aranea still wanted him, and she was eager to prove that as she used him and violated him, at the edge of the world, so far from home, and so out of their element.
Afterward, Aranea pressed just a little bit closer than usual. She let a hand play idly over his stomach. And this time, she pulled a book out, and she was the one to open its dusty pages and read aloud to him.
“Will you ever get your eyesight back?” Aranea asked idly. She’d permitted Ignis to rest his head on her shoulder as she read. It was a silly story, some ridiculous romantic fantasy aimed toward young women, but Ignis missed reading, he missed it something fucking fierce, maybe almost more than actually being able to see the world around him, and he hadn’t worked up the resolve to ask Gladio to read those awful books of his to him yet.
“Unlikely,” Ignis replied quietly, because there was no sugarcoating it. “I can sense light in one eye. Sometimes colour. Lunafreya tried to heal it, but I haven’t seen any real improvement.”
“You’re strong,” the acknowledgement came as a surprise, and for a brief moment, Ignis wanted desperately to kiss the woman. He didn’t, but he smiled faintly, pressed his forehead into her shoulder in just a quiet moment of thanks. “You’ll adjust to this.”
“I will,” Ignis agreed. He stopped ignoring Aranea’s messages after that.