#fellas I now have over a hundred asks in my inbox it’s going to take me a while to get to new ones

[spittyfishy]

For Kiibo, do you miss your professor?

Kiibo’s having a time and a half lol

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

At the risk of disheartening some of my followers, I opted to strike while the iron of my inspiration was hot and turn out the next chapter of my ongoing Blind!Ignis fic, rather than tackle the current contents of my inbox. I will absolutely resume writing headcanons in short order (and I haven’t forgotten about your request, @violet94!), so I hope it won’t be too much of a disappointment to ISEB fans if I continue following my muse for just a little while longer because honestly I just want to get to the naughty bits as fast as possible mama is thirsty for some smut.

As always, you can follow the link above or click below for the full text; SFW (for now, heh).

As it turns out, the strategist was slightly off in his original estimates; in actuality, Ophelia must have stood at five and a half feet or taller, which he discovered entirely by accident the time he went to reach for a sack of flour he kept stored in the highest cabinet of Mr. Tostwell’s kitchen, only to learn she had already retrieved it for him without even needing the help of a step stool.  

She also had dark features, evidently—“Boring brown eyes, same color as my hair,” she had confessed at one point, after he’d inquired about it in an effort to spark polite conversation while they rolled out a unit of pastry dough together—although it made next to no difference to him, considering he couldn’t make heads or tails out of what he was looking at to begin with.

She’d been working at the grill for a little over a month now, and had proven herself adept in both culinary skill and matters of hospitality; her father’s secret Baklava recipe alone had made a sizable impact on the establishment’s revenue—the fresh honey harvested from a hive of Killer Bees swarming just south of the city and baked directly into the crust had been quite the hit with the locals—but it was her ability to effortlessly charm the frowns off even the crankiest of customers that had made Mr. Tostwell’s newest hire such a valuable asset.

“Does your wife know you don’t wear your wedding ring while you’re at work?”

The strategist glances up from the mollusks he is shucking and widens his unparalyzed eye. “I beg your pardon?”

He can almost hear the sound of her lips peeling back into a wry grin from the other side of the preparation table. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to presume—husband, perhaps?”

She had turned the same charm she normally reserved for cantankerous patrons on him more than once since being hired; the reserved woman he’d interviewed had given way to a much more vibrant character now that she was truly in her element, dropping cheeky quips around him while her arms were buried to the elbows in pastry dough and making herself readily available whenever he needed her help. And while she’d offered to accompany him on his walks home on days when their schedules happened to coincide—“We’re both headed in the same direction,” was her reasoning, since she apparently lived not two blocks from his apartment complex—he hadn’t been sure whether her inquisitiveness was merely a facet of her affable personality, or a reconnaissance mission into his personal life.

But there was no mistaking her intentions now—one didn’t generally probe into the absence of marital tokens without expecting to elicit a certain response—and Ignis wasn’t particularly interested in encouraging flirtatious behavior. “I’m not married,” he says dryly.

“Really?” The audible squish squish of dough being kneaded squelches against the countertop. “I must admit, I find that rather surprising.”

The hairs on the back of the his neck tingle in mild annoyance, but he ignores them and returns his attention to the bowl of half-shucked mollusks in front of him. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Squish squish. “Something about perpetuating the species after an apocalypse comes to mind.” Squish squish. “We can’t very well expect to survive as a civilization with a flock of unmarried bachelors running around.”

“The flaw in your argument is neglecting to account for the female’s contribution to the equation. I’d go so far as to say it’s more crucial for women to secure robust partners, not men.”

“Rather self-important, aren’t we?”

He establishes his grip over a slick mollusk and shrugs. “Hardly. It’s all about ratio—a single man can father over a hundred offspring, circumstances permitting. The same can’t be said for the reverse.”

The squelching of Ophelia’s pastry dough reaches nearly a fever pitch. “Is that how you proposition most women? No wonder you aren’t married.”

But the feigned acrimony in her voice is cut off by the curse he mutters when the wet shellfish he is attempting to pry open escapes his fingertips and clatters onto the floor. “Drat.”

Several employees under Ignis’ supervision had been quick to overcompensate for his fallibilities in the past—eager to convey their empathy toward the blind strategist and stepping annoyingly on his toes in the process—but Ophelia had shown enough mindfulness not to get in his way thus far; in fact, she’d scarcely made any indication of acknowledging his ocular impairment, except only to ask what order he preferred to arrange his paring cutlery when she went to unload the dishwasher for the first time.

“It’s near your left foot,” she says simply.

The strategist drops to his knees and gropes at the floor, his pinky finger finally finding slimy purchase against the wayward arthropod. Before he can toss it into the garbage bin he knows is five paces to his right, however, he hears the sound of her footsteps circling around the preparation table and stopping beside him.

"I wouldn’t normally deign to do your work for you,” she whispers, reaching for his hand and withdrawing the soiled creature from his grasp, “but your favorite customer has just arrived. I can sense his surliness from a mile away.”

The strategist might’ve enjoyed the long-forgotten sensation of a woman’s gentle touch, had Ophelia’s implication not soured the moment. “Surely he’d prefer to be entertained by your charm, rather than stare at my grisly visage. You have the better way with people.”

“Perhaps, but there’s something wholly amusing about watching you squirm.”

His features crumple into a scowl, but he adjusts his visor before grudgingly stepping off down the path he had memorized that led to the grill’s outside seating area.

She isn’t wrong in her observations, exactly; although he couldn’t see worth a damn, it was impossible for the strategist to miss the usual miasma of crotchetiness that seemed to follow Cid Sophiar everywhere like a localized starscourge infection. Eighty years old and more stubborn than a feral Garulessa, Ignis continued to be perplexed as to why the former mechanic had chosen to remain in Lestallum after the daemons had been purged from Lucis, rather than returning to his beloved garage where he could rant at passing tourists from his customary spot in his favorite lawn chair.

“Evening, Cid,” he says, as he halts beside the cloud of wretchedness personified sitting at the table situated nearest the bazaar. “What brings you out on this warm summer night?”

“Same thing that gets me off my ass every night,” the old man replies. “I have a hankering for some shellfish, and you’re the only fella in this town who knows how to clean ‘em out properly. Nothing worse than having to pick sand out of my dentures.”

“I’m not sure I would recommend the Cleigne Darkshells this evening. They proved to be rather squirrelly back in the kitchen, so I’d watch out when taking a bite—lest they try and bite back.”

“I think I can handle a few measly clams by myself. Though Cindy probably wouldn’t mind it too much if they took a piece of my tongue with them, if it meant keeping my mouth shut for a change.”

The strategist hesitates for a brief moment, debating the wisdom of opening up a can of worms by furthering the conversation. “How is Cindy, by the way? It’s been a while since I’ve made the trip out to Leide, and I haven’t heard from her in some time.”

The chair before him squeaks under Cid’s weight, and he can almost envision the white haired mechanic slumping in his seat. “She’s all right, I guess. No doubt getting a little lonely by herself out there in the desert, although your boy Prompto always seems to find an excuse to drop by now and again.”

“Have you given any more though about returning to Hammerhead? Surely she could use the extra set of hands.”

“She don’t need my help. I’m about as worthless as a dead Gaiatoad, at this point. And just as ugly, too.”

His heart aches for the old man, who had once been so instrumental in the destiny of the Crownsguard and the king they served; the strategist had never forgotten the words of encouragement Cid Sophiar had bestowed upon them before their fateful boat ride to Altissia all those years ago—“Those ain’t your bodyguards, they’re you’re brothers” still rang clear as a bell in his mind—nor did he forget what it was like to feel utterly useless to the people around him.

“Come now, Cid,” he says quietly. “I imagine the garage is quite a bit duller without your colorful quips to brighten everyone’s day.”

To his credit, the former mechanic chuckles. “Maybe so. At any rate, I could ask you the same thing—thought you’d be itchin’ to race back to Insomnia the minute dawn broke over Longwythe’s Peak.”

A shiver runs up Ignis’ spine, and his eyebrows furrow behind his frosted visor. “I rather like having an undamaged roof over my head, as it so happens.”

“Crown City ain’t going to rebuilt itself, you know. Who better to lead the charge than one of the last men who lived there?”

Lestallum had remained largely unscathed during the long night, while the other regions of Lucis had commenced reconstruction fairly quickly due to the exodus of refugees eager to return to their former homes. Insomnia, on the other hand, had seen little repair since the rapture; with so few natives left alive after the city’s fall, the strategist estimated it would be several years yet before the province of his youth reached hospitable living conditions again.

“I think I’ll let Gladio and Iris survey the landscape in my stead,” he says, masking his displeasure with a small grin. “Wouldn’t want to risk stubbing my toe on a piece of rubble.”

“I don’t recall hearing anything about sprained ankles after you boys made it back from the Citadel. Or is there something here in Lestallum that’s tying you down?”

He can practically feel the old man’s red and rheumy eyes peering dubiously at him; Ignis’ reticence toward leaving Cleigne had less to do with wanting to remain close to his new life, and everything to do with preferring to stay away from his old one.

Because, to the strategist, Insomnia represented more than just a city of broken dreams; the miles of cracked pavement and collapsed infrastructure he had tread upon with his own two feet were tangible reminders of the people who had died there, and of the suffering that befell those who were unlucky enough to survive. Ignis himself had nearly succumbed to despair, buried under a mountain of grief when his best friend had fulfilled the Astral’s prophecy and perished alongside the starscourge, and the notion of returning home only to relive his nightmares day in and day out was almost as suffocating as the weight of the skull pendant he still wore pressing hard against his throat.

“I’ll consider my options,” he lies, and pivots back toward the direction of the kitchen. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear the sound of boiling mollusks begging for mercy. Care for an appetizer while you wait?”