・Lady A・

              it’s not like he’s expecting sugar-coated words from the woman who could LITERALLY kick his ass all the way to altissia & back. it’s already miraculous enough that she’s HERE, putting up with his griping & whining, when she could’ve easily left him for DEAD back at the facility. but still ——- her bluntness makes his head turn, a pair of SAD blue eyes peeking out from behind wispy strands of flaxen fringe. his mind doesn’t get it, too beaten with fatigue & self-loathing to PROCESS her advice, so he blinks owlishly at her hardened expression. talk about pathetic …

                 ❝  yeah, but ——-  ❞  his voice sounds like it’s on the verge of BREAKING. because it is. so he looks away again, focusing on the flickering flames until his eyes are SORE from the brightness.  ❝  what if i want to be something that i’m just … not? y’know, like … normal. not just some CRAZY guy’s little science experiment.  ❞ 

                     it makes him feel SICK to his stomach, just the thought of it. he wasn’t created because he was wanted ——– he was created to be EXPLOITED. maybe if things were different, if he really was normal, then he wouldn’t have gotten himself into this MESS. maybe then he wouldn’t be putting his best friends ( his only friends ) at RISK. 

                      ❝  d’you … think i can still just be … me? ❞  

normal— dare the naivety of it all tickle her to extents that warrant the escape of a silvery hum. but no— she shan’t mock the misinformed ideals of a BROKEN boy. the dragoon swallows back the threat of laughter and, in its stead, musters a smile as comforting as she’s able. ❝ so you found out that your life didn’t start the way you WANTED it to. join the club. ❞  while circumstances naturally differed among the HAPLESS, she might bet a pretty gil there’d be no shortage of examples. every other person’s world is doubtless crafted in FALSITIES and disappointments— he ought to think himself LESS of a lonely case, for it’s a reality as ancient as their cursed star.

❝ talkin’ sense to a man whose mind is already made up— sounds like a damn waste of breath. ❞ 

❝ so go on, spit it out— tell me, what’s CHANGED... prompto? ❞  she near falters on a syllable, the utterance still a foreign thing to her lips. aranea spends so much time AVOIDING names, something of an expert at cutting the corners of awkward introductions. 

his arrival splits the gathering sea, a horde of people drifting asunder at the mere sight of him tumbling by. how he sidles up to her of all likely victims, MISTLETOE brandished in a desperately flawed demonstration of SUAVE. “you pull that stunt on all the ladies here?” she’s the heart to humour his QUESTIONABLE technique, budging not an inch from her place. “how’s that workin’ out for you? like ass, i’ll bet.”

a hand rises before the man, as if to dither over the POSSIBILITIES at her disposal— to swat away the offending plant, or to distance him? and yet she settles for neither, grasping fierce the neck of his SHIRT and leaning just enough to lay the ghost of a fleeting kiss ‘pon his speckled brow. “yeah, yeah— merry christmas, or whatever.” she releases him.

“just don’t expect too many of those.”

AND WHAT A GOOD MORNING IT IS

fCKN hides u away in her cleavage wHERE IT’S SAFE

he’s easy to provoke– far too EASY. and were it not for her impressive helm, the puckish glint in her eye would surely be for the WORLD to see. “lighten up, your royal SHYNESS,” the dragoon bites back - PLAYFUL yet PRACTISED in delivery - and ever as unfazed still by the churlish retorts of a BOY.

@aeriium | cont.

        IT’S AS IF HE CAN sense her touch before it’s issued, a soft, close-mouthed chuckle already surfacing from his chest as she delivers a few cordial swipes to his sturdy shoulder. Her words are often sharper than the weapon that she expertly wields, and yet Ignis has come to adore every good-natured quip – they fall from her lips as generously as sweet nothings.    

         AH, HOW HE EXPECTED that such an endearment – regardless of how naturally it had blossomed upon his tongue – would not be left unacknowledged by her teasing lilt. Unhurried is a steady hand as it extends, seeking out her fair visage so that his palm may cup the gentle curve of her jawline. 

            ❝ Apparently so. ❞ Supple leather brushes against her cheek, trailing fingertips downward to rest just beneath her chin. ❝ Suffice it to say that your influence is rather… overwhelming. ❞         

it seldom fails to FASCINATE the woman-- the way practised hands have long learned to locate the sweep of her jaw without error. how dangerously FAMILIAR she’s become to a blind man’s TOUCH, and his every blemish and blessing to hers. and stranger still, she allows for it - ENCOURAGES it - from no other but he.

“overwhelming, ‘ey? that’s a nice way to put it.” shifting an inch more, the sound of leather against leather is her only offered warning as the hand - that once lay atop a squared shoulder - slides downward to resettle upon his CHEST. can he still picture her face, after all these years? taste the FULLNESS of her lips with every stolen kiss in the dark-- visualise the narrow slope of her nose, and feel the fading freckles that litter her complexion ‘neath the brush of his fingertips?

in one abrupt motion, aranea grasps at the front of his shirt. she urges him LOWER with a purposeful tug, ‘til noses bump and lips are a breath from collision. “alright, lover boy. we’re done here.” a TEMPTING whisper and nothing more.

 “psh-- like talkin’ to a brick wall.” a hushed utterance from she, just as quickly forgotten as it is lost to the wintry breath of a bitter night. she regards him with watchful scrutiny, absorbing male’s defeated image with a trace of SYMPATHY for his tragic discoveries-- the sort that would sooner play along her brow and soften her stare, than it would dare to spiral into heartfelt conversation.

accompanied by the gentle sway of silvery crown, a deep intake of breath to pacify budding frustrations. “i don’t buy that crap,” there’s no delaying a woman with a sharp tongue, nor the way words see a swift end to his muddled EXCUSES. call it fate, call it mere happenstance, that their paths were to cross at all-- but he’d do well - she thinks - to remember that her objectives lay far from him. she was never here to hold his hand, not to spoon feed him their reality ‘til it seeps into his skull. if it’s a moment’s recuperation he so craves, then she’s heart enough to grant it-- though he ought to learn just as hastily that it does little good to live a life commanded by the MISDEEDS of another.

with naught but uttermost purpose - MERCILESS and DEMANDING - she wrenches her bloodied lance from felled beast’s gut, a lowly grunt departing in time with the brutal extraction. she casts her eye upon the ground thereafter, searching the ruins for those LINGERING few– but lo, nary a creature dares stir to life under thorough inspection. “gotcha–” heel collides with brittle remains as the woman leaps from MAKESHIFT pedestal - forged entirely from expired foe - to grace the earth at his side. and so concludes another night’s PERILOUS undertaking, weapon sheathed at last. 

“tch– well aren’t you cute, worrying about me.” comes a swift and sarcastic return– always HUMOURING his pleasantries as he has come to humour hers. “save it, specs. i’ve fought hairier battles without even breaking a nail.” her gaze is quick to find him bathed in everlasting GLOOM– still gorgeous - she notes - against the world’s unsightly state. “YOU, on the other hand,” death and decay lay at their feet, and yet she neglects all in favour of closing distance, so that knuckles may dust a broad shoulder once– TWICE.

“darling, hm?” a sweet simper.

“careful. sounds like i’m rubbing off on you.”