#{ ask.

suggestive starters meme ( nsfw )

“I thought perhaps we could maintain a high sense of propriety…” A dry utterance, but he’ll cater to the other’s words all the same. It’s not as if he has anything against doing so, after all, and perchance he even sat so far away to provoke such a reaction. Not that he would ever admit nor suggest such a n admission, of course.

He stands; slowly, languidly. Eyes fixated ‘pon the other with quiet intent yet still carrying about some modicum of lackadaisical interest. It feels— far too hot, suddenly, as if the small room they’re in bears a heater he’s not yet aware of, yet perhaps this coil in his core is arousal speaking to him, a soft murmur that Nyx will indeed perhaps… try something if he were to place himself where the other wishes. Then again, it is what he hopes for, and he’ll do so with subtle coyness. 

He approaches as quick as he dares to. It is a game between them, after all, whether or not to showcase his eagerness. Of course, he’ll not give up his disinterested farce so easily: Nyx will have to work for it, and, privately, Ignis believes he enjoys the challenge.

And perhaps he also enjoys the way Nyx will pant after him, enjoys the way such attention will be lavished upon his figure, enjoys the way that he can make Nyx grunt and groan. It feels like such a gem, to be privy to the way Nyx can be like this. 

❥   𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧  𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  ,  𝐚  𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐜  𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞  . @rogueoracle

“Then hold it not.”

Here, he is wholly concerned. Such hopelessness is unfitting of an Oracle, yet who is he to judge? Such valour, such strength—he has no doubt the duty of days and deaths weights unimaginable amounts ‘pon the shoulders of the woman before him. Certainly, ‘tis not something for a lady of her age should bear but bear it she has and bear it she must. 

The entirety of the world relies on her. Ignis can only hope to spare her some amount of the pain.

❥   𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧  𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  ,  𝐚  𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐜  𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞  . @moralhymn

Figurative, perhaps, are those words yet Ignis wonders if there are indeed literal bones in the man’s closet—bones, he suspects, that are not immoral in nature, more-so tangents of self-hatred and seldom the suffering of others for the Accursed he is not anymore—but he is spared the sight wholly given his lack of ability to do so, and his unseeing stare turns to the man that utters such cryptic words. Death, he knows, is something Ardyn seeks, has always sought, yet the Astrals denied him the one wish they wholly favoured; he wonders, then, if the bones he speaks of are not of others, but of himself. 

How funny, the philosphical mind Ardyn presents to him; how interesting.

How concerning. 

“I have left bones in my closet also.” He thinks, briefly, of the helpless cries that haunt his sleep at night—not at all able to be compared to the ones that wrack Ardyn’s mind, not just in slumber but by day as well—, of people he has failed to save or has not been aware that needed saving, of his own follies and failures to prevent the deaths of the ones close to him. He thinks, too, of the wretched things that he cannot begin to imagine clawing at Ardyn’s brain, needing, wanting, to tear him apart over and over. He knows they’re a figment of his imagination. He knows they’re born of tragedies past. Ardyn should know that, considering the scathing presence of the Scourge have come and gone with his death and resurrection, but how sure are they it has disappeared completely? How sure are they the Scourge has been eradicated completely? 

He leans heavily against the wall. He should not entertain such thoughts. They lead into a hopeless spiral, not he is not willing to dig further, to feed until it is so massive it consumes his entire existence. He thinks, maybe, for Ardyn before it had been the rage sating the hunger of his monsters, with far more dire consequences and sufferings that Ignis could ever hope to imagine. 

“The dark provides much room for thought,” Ignis says softly. He blinks once, twice, before moving over to the man, the soft breathing an easy guide to follow. Ardyn is sitting, he thinks, when he reaches out. Fingers meet shaggy strands and he strokes a gentle pattern through them, can imagine the wine locks parting like water—for he’s been patient with untangling the knots ‘pon Ardyn’s head, inside his head—, and exhales softly. “I know that all-too-well myself. But here we’ve each other. Pray tell you know I accept the things that haunt you, the things you carry, just as you accept mine.” Not that his mountain can ever match Ardyn’s, but ‘tis a mountain of things all the same. 

❥   𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧  𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  ,  𝐚  𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐜  𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞  . @moralhymn

“Are you sulking?”

They are the first words that come to mind: teasing, mostly, yet with the undertone of concern. Perchance something he’s done has summoned doubt to the forefront of the other’s mind and, with such a thought, Ignis observes the older man: weary, war-torn—haggard appearance only accentuated by the mere knowledge Ignis carries of Ardyn’s past, all his sins and wounds and ethereal, sought-for saviours—and wanting; ‘tis a half motion Ardyn makes towards Ignis that accompanied his words, aborted halfway as if Ignis would recoil at it, and Ignis’ heart aches at that. The realization is– not a happy one, to say the least. 

He reaches out himself, lets twine their calloused fingers together, and holds tight. Ardyn’s touch is familiar, seeping into the deepest depths of his being, and Ignis could say it is something like home. He wants to regard it as home. 

“There is no need for poetic language to convey your desire for comfort,” he says; his voice lilts still in the tone that jests, yet he pulls Ardyn close all the same. Secure and tight is his embrace, clutching the man and pressing flush against him. A tentative motion, cautious, as he lifts his chin, watching carefully each twitch in his expression, any sign that this is not welcome. The stubble ‘cross his chin scratches at his nose, and a soft huff of amusement leaves his lips before he presses lips against Ardyn’s gently—feather-light, as if in silent query—then holds him tighter. 

How Would Your Muse Seduce Mine?

“Your Highness…”

Never has anything rendered Ignis at such a loss for words. Of course, the prompt had merely been a soft joke of sorts, if only to lighten the mood, yet he thinks perhaps there is some years-old longing in the prince’s voice, for something more, and Ignis wonders briefly if something in his own expression betrays his own feelings, his own thoughts towards this situation.

It is… complicated, that’s for sure, considering Ignis’ position as advisor to the future King. If he accepts such feelings, the action of one kiss, what exactly would erupt from that? How can they possibly take that one thing back if they were to ever regret it? Or worse, enjoy it? He knows—maybe, perhaps, uncertainly yet so surely—he will. He absolutely will. Feelings long-buried never diminished, only hidden, yet they were cast away for good reason in the first place.

𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭  \  sentence starter pack,  i.

“Your kindness is appreciated.”

He is ashamed, truly, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thankful for the help Prompto is giving him. He’s certain Noct can’t even bear to face him—Ignis has become the personification of everything terrible at Altissia, after all—and Gladio has his hands full of looking after Noct and Ignis at the same time. Right now, they’re both up ahead, and Ignis can feel the gap between himself and the others widen evermore with each passing minutes spent in this darkened hole. 

He will never see again, but that doesn’t mean he cannot be useful in some way.