#she deserves it ffs

[ssaraexposs]

The way he wants to prove WRONG to Atsushi. The way he wants to prove that he's not like Dazai. He knows Kyouka deserved better from him and also knows he actually owes her. After everything they've been through, he saw the change in her eyes. He's seen how much she's grown, and how much she worked for become the girl he saw in that right moment.

[eskawrites]

sometimes i still think about the fact that nancy is one of the most powerful, plot-critical characters in stranger things, and how she has led her own arc every single season--from driving the search for barb to taking down the lab to figuring out the flayed to being a fucking general by the end of season 4. and about how she was taking care of the kids during the last half of s3 and how she was the leader of the hawkins group in s4. like, i really cannot emphasize that enough. once the main character with superpowers and the actual war veteran chief of police are out of town, nancy is the unquestionable leader. the person everyone turns to without thinking twice. i’m serious. nancy is a teenage girl who has her every move questioned and doubted and still the only people more powerful than her in the show are a girl with superpowers and a war vet.

and when danger--physical danger--shows up, she doesn’t fucking hesitate. she’s diving straight into the upside down. she’s leading the older group to safety again. she’s shoving aside the 5 different traumatic experiences she just witnessed to put together a multi-step military operation and she’s taking point to go shove a shotgun in vecna’s face. and yeah, they end up not being alone when they face vecna because el is there, but nancy doesn’t know that. she’s fully intending on going to kill an adult man who has control over an entire dimension and has been murdering people with his mind, even though she has no backup, no superpowered el, no hopper and his government contacts, nothing.

and yet.

AND YET

the vast majority of natalia dyer’s press for s4 was about a love triangle. and i get it, a lot of interviewers can’t get away with not asking those questions, but you know what else you could ask about? nancy’s growth over the last 4 seasons. how it felt being the leader of the hawkins gang. how she thinks nancy feels after losing another friend. what was running through her head when vecna had her. what her thoughts are regarding nancy’s plan, or what’s going through her head during that final scene when she’s *checks notes* standing behind the show’s protagonist and looking at The Plot as it rises from the ground.

or, i don’t know, ask her what it’s like being the person handling guns on set. what those upside down night shoots were like. what her thoughts are on nancy’s choice of college! what she thinks about the perm! for fuck’s sake there are only a thousand different questions that would’ve been far more interesting or at least personal to her character. but no. every interview boils down to team steve or team jonathan, as if a tired, already resolved love triangle is anywhere near as interesting as literally any other part of her character

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 32

PREV

He had the first week back from Thanksgiving break off from both classes and practice.

The week off of classes leaves FF feeling like getting stabbed has been a net positive experience for him.

First he feels like it really cemented the apparent friendship he had with at least Andrew and Neil. Second, he technically had a job offer in his Freshman year. Third, and most important, his language professor who had wanted him to come and speak to his gen-ed Latin class of over 100 students told him not to worry about it and that he had gotten one of FF’s friends to agree to the presentation instead.

His relief was so immediate and all-consuming that he hadn’t even had the energy to pretend he was upset that he had been replaced. Thankfully his teacher just chalked it up to relief that he wouldn’t have to stand up and present when his stomach was healing from the surgery.

Coach Wymack and Abby wouldn’t even let him go to the Court. Kevin had tried to argue quite a few times on Sunday when that decision had been made. Argued that he could sit in and watch for strategy purposes if nothing else.

However, even Kevin couldn’t guarantee that FF wouldn’t get accidentally run into / knocked against considering his complete lack of presence.

Matt had rushed into Abby’s house having made a bee-line for it upon reaching the airport.  “Smiths! You got stabbed!” Matt yelled as if informing him of his own predicament.

“Yeah.” FF agreed as if it were something that could have been debated.

“What happened?! Nicky just sent a pic of the flowers he got you and the card?” Matt had asked pulling his backpack off his shoulder and to his front as he unzipped it and rooted around for something before pulling out an orange envelope. “This is from me and Dan, you remember her right?” Matt had asked.

FF thought of quiet conversations he has overheard over the phone and not so quiet noises Matt makes when engaging in some phone sex with his girlfriend.

“Yes, I remember Dan.”  FF had said diplomatically and accepted the card.

The card was sitting on the nightstand at Abby’s house next to the card the Monsters, his grandma, other teammates, and some cards from friends he had made outside of Exy. It feels nice to look at the multiple cards all wishing him well.

His Grandma was going to stay for two weeks and Abby was being incredibly kind to put them up

He spent most of that week sleeping, spending time with his grandma, getting yelled at by Abby for trying to do chores, and spending time with the Foxes that came to visit him.

Nicky had come over to hang out every day without fail. Most of the upperclassmen who were on the original ‘miracle’ team of the Foxes stopped in to see him regularly. Even Jack stopped in to complain about how Captain Neil presented a danger to the rest of them before giving him a Get Well Soon card and leaving.

It was a strangely thoughtful card that he’s near positive Jack’s girlfriend picked out for him. When the end of the week and the first game that FF would need to sit out from approached Coach Wymack asked if he wanted to come.

“You can’t play, but you’re still a Fox.” Wymack had said and his grandma had encouraged him to go and spend time with his friends. She’d hold down the fort for Abby, cook up a bunch of food for the the team to enjoy when they got back late.

So FF climbed onto the bus and sat next to Nicky who had declared himself FF’s bodyguard for the evening who’s safety he would only pass off to Coach Wymack during the game proper.

***

They’ve come so damn far from the worst team in the Division. His kids are thriving and because of that he’s gotten a larger budget. A larger budget to better help his kids with. David would be lying if he said he didn’t spend some nights wishing he could tell himself of a few years ago just how good it would get.

Still, the match is a lot closer than it should be.

He looks to his side and sees FF sitting there watching the game with rapt attention.

He looks as Sheena fumbles a pass that his newest problem child had mastered the timing of a month before. He sees Kevin’s shoulders go up in anger but Neil’s quick reflexes save it before the play is fully fumbled.

Neil makes a feint to pass to Kevin and the goal lights up putting them in the lead by 2 goals. David thinks of the numerous plays that would have gone smoother with the kid next to him playing instead of Sheena but there was no point in wishing for things that couldn’t be.

FF wouldn’t be playing until the Spring Championships started up and David would need to address FF’s medical hiatus and Lisa’s ‘family emergency’ that had her leaving the team.

It always stung when a Fox left but it hurt less when it was of their own volition instead of in a body bag.

He looks to the side again and thinks of the numerous decisions he had needed to make as Kevin slept in the car on the way to the hospital. Honestly, if he still was thinking about going after the hospital.

How the fuck did the hospital just leave the damn kid in a hallway for over an hour? He hates the thought of FF laying there in pain and bleeding watching as people went by.

He’s grateful that the kid didn’t seem to remember it.

He wasn’t going to mention it to any of the other Foxes, not even FF if he could swing it. He has no doubt that at the very least Andrew and Neil would go on a rampage and he’s near positive that Kevin would take special delight in it considering a week on he was still bitching about what he had seen in the Nutritionist office.

He’s not sure what Nicky would do but he knows it’d give him a headache.

Nicky takes a hard hit that has him subbed out for one of the freshman backliners. Nicky’s a little woozy and Abby confirms a very slight concussion that she’ll keep an eye on during the trip back.

They win by slimmer margins than they should but it’s to be expected.

“Coach Wymack?” FF asks.

“What’s up?” David asks.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom. It...uh...well it takes a while now.” FF says and David can read the embarrassment.

“Meet us at the bus. Be careful.” he orders.

FF nods and heads off.

Neil and Matt are on press duty and David preps the press to let them know about FF and Lisa. There are some questions about what kind of medical hiatus but David declined to answer knowing that Neil and Matt wouldn’t let it slip either.

His last two players get showered and on the bus.

He does a count and gets the correct number and starts the bus.

They’re just about to get on the highway when there’s a shout, “Wait! Where’s Smithy?!” Nicky exclaims full volume over the general conversation that had been going on throughout the bus.

David frowns, he had counted-

Abby. He had counted Abby’s head next to Nicky.

“Oh god dammit.” he says.

***

FF looked at where the bus should have been waiting for him.

He closes his eyes and hopes that the bus will appear between blinks. 

He opens his eyes again and finds...nope just fans milling about heading to their own cars and home. He gives a hopeful look across the parking lot wondering if the bus maybe just got moved back somewhere so that they could get out easier after he went and made them wait?

A lot of people. Some kids. Some disappointed Belmonte fans. Some excited Fox fans. Some general Exy fanatics who were discussing what the Belmonte team would need to do to stay in  for the Spring Championships.

No Palmetto State Fox team bus.

He swallows a bit of disappointment and moves past it.

He pulled up his phone to plug in Abby’s house and saw that it would be a 4 day hike from Belmonte. He looked down at his shoes contemplating if they’d make the over 300 miles of walking. The doctors and Abby had been very clear not to do too much exercise but surely it wouldn’t count since he was just going to walk? They said walking was fine right?

FF sighed at the thought.

Yeah, it wasn’t going to work.

His stomach hurts at the thought of a 5 hour car ride. Maybe there was a bus station nearby and he could make his way back via greyhound.

He was looking at his phone again when it started to ring and Nicky’s face was on his screen to let him know who the caller was.

He hit the answer button, “Hello-“

There was an inhale and FF had been on the receiving end of this quite a few times at this point so he held his phone the entire length of his arm away from his ear, “SMITHY, ARE YOU ON THE BUS OR DID WE FORGET YOU?!” Nicky screeches and it hurts his ears even from an entire arms length away. He wonders how in the world Nicky can stand being that loud with his minor concussion.

He stares at his phone dubiously for a few moments, worried that Nicky may shout again.

“Smithy?! Smithy?” He hears Nicky’s not quite as loud but very concerned voice. FF decides to bite the bullet.

“Hello Nicky, I am not on the bus.” He says.

“We fucking LEFT SMITHY!” Nicky yells and FF can hear a collective groan from across the line.

He may even hear Coach Wymack yelling something about ‘again’ and feels shame burn in his stomach. He should have just held in his pee. He hadn’t really needed to go that badly and it’s not like Coach Wymack doesn’t take bathroom breaks.

“It’s okay.” He rushes to assure Nicky. “I can…grab a bus or something. You don’t need to come back, I’m-“

“Young man, if you say that you’re fine I can not be held responsible for what I will do when I see you in the next 20 minutes.” Nicky threatens. “I also can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do to Neil since I feel like he’s infected you somehow.” He says.

He hears a distant “Hey” followed by an even more distant “Man, I hate to say it but I think he’s right.”

“I don’t want to bother you.” He says.

“Smithy, you are so far from a bother it is insane. How about I stay on the line with you okay?” Nicky asks but something has caught his eye.

Two kids haven’t moved as the rest of the world continued to. He watched as they clung to one another and no one seemed to take notice of them. He doesn’t understand how anyone could miss them with the bright orange children’s jerseys they had on. One sporting 01 - Josten and the other 10 - Josten on the backs.

“That’s okay Nicky. Call me when you’re close.” He says and makes his way over.

He can see the little boy’s hand holding the little girl’s hand tightly and is careful to walk around them in a way so that he wouldn’t appear out of nowhere. “Hey,” he squatted down to their height and the little boy still jumped slightly, dropping a small book to the ground, and the little girl hid her face in his shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just noticed you looked a little lost.” He says and his muscles won’t pull in a way to offer a reassuring smile but he hopes he can convey it through his tone.

The little boy visibly swallows down nervous spit, “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” He says holding on tighter to the little girl.

“Smart, continue to do that.” He says immediately, “Can you just nod yes or no for me?” He asks instead.

The boy thinks for a long moment before nodding affirmatively.

“Great, good job.” He says, “Did you come to the stadium with your parents?” He asks

A nod in the affirmative.

“Do your parents know where you are?” He asks.

He shakes his head in a negative.

“Are you lost?” He asks.

Another negative.

“So you mean to be right here?”  He wants to clarify.

A nod in the affirmative this time.

FF takes a moment to piece together what he knows and looks down at the book.

An autograph book. “Oh, you wanted to get an autograph from Captain Neil?” he asks.

The little boy looks up but it’s the little girl who answers. She finally takes her face out from his shoulder. FF’s eyes can’t help but see the large burn scar on her cheek but also see how her eyes sparkle with delight, “You know Captain Josten?!” she exclaims in delight.

“Millie!” The young boy says. “He’s a stranger!” he hisses.

“Nu-uh!” she shakes her head, “Number 13!” she points at his jersey he had worn in solidarity. “He passes to Captain Josten!” she says brightly. “See Brandon?” she smiles.

It could just be a fan jersey though FF highly doubts that anyone would buy fan merch for him. He is no Kevin Day, Captain Neil Josten, or Andrew Minyard.

Still the little boy, Brandon, looks at him with wide eyes, “You’re Smith?” he asks.

“Yeah.” FF nods, “Captain Neil is my Captain.” he says.

“I love Captain Josten! I wanna marry him!” Millie says and FF can’t help but wonder if Andrew would squash such adorable competition. “His face is like mine!” she giggles.

“Yeah, your face is as cool as Captain Neil’s is.” FF agrees with completely sincerity.

“We came out here to get Captain Josten’s signature” Brandon says with a pout, “All the adults were in the way and it was...kind of scary.” he admits with a flush.

A thought occurs to him. He doesn’t want to leave these kids and brave the crowds to find someone to announce the lost kids. It would only be about 12 more minutes before the bus comes. Coach Wymack would be able to help and...

“They’re coming to pick me up pretty soon. How about we stay right here and we can get Captain Neil’s autograph together?” he asks.

Both kids light up at the idea. “Really?” they both ask.

“Yeah, I also want Captain Neil’s autograph.” he says because he does. He’s wanted Captain Neil’s autograph for AGES but had been too awkward to ask. Then Greg had come and made it seem like FF would want it just to sell it or something.

Now he has the perfect excuse.

***

David pulled into the spot he had left almost half an hour ago and barely managed to put the bus into park before most of his more senior players were prying the door open to go look for FF.

Nicky had called but FF hadn’t picked up and it had set his more paranoid players’ teeth on edge.

The only one that stayed on the bus was Nicky since Abby had a firm grip on him.

David sighed and told everyone else to stay put before exiting the bus and began the herculean effort of trying to spot FF in a crowd.

It actually wasn’t too hard as he found his players standing and watching as FF crouched with his back to them as two little kids in orange Fox jerseys were re-enacting something for him.

He’d be tempted to let them keep going if he didn’t remember Abby’s list of specific things FF shouldn’t do with his still healing stomach and squatting like that was definitely on the list.

“Smith.” he says and watches as the Freshman jolts and tips over, thankfully onto his side, from his squatted position.

The kids get nervous when they see him but then their eyes both lock on Neil’s face. For a moment his heart aches for his player, plenty of kids have cried about Neil’s scars but then his eyes land on the little girl’s face more properly and...

Oh...

Those are stars in her eyes. David looks at the two different Josten kids jerseys that the Palmetto store had released.

FF recovers from his tumble admirably, “Coach Wymack,” he says getting up onto his feet. “These two are lost, can you see if there’s a way to contact their parents?” he asks.

David nods and pulls out his phone and steps away slightly.

He watches over the interaction that happens next.

**

As promised, FF had taken the awkward lead of asking for it and had them form a line. It had been weird but he watched as understanding dawned in Captain Neil’s eyes as he saw the two Josten jerseys. It had felt even less weird to get Captain Neil’s autograph when Matt had jokingly gotten in line behind Brandon because he too wanted Captain Neil’s autograph.

FF felt a little bad that Captain Neil had been so flustered by the requests but at least he finally had the Captain Neil autograph he’d wanted since last March. It also felt nice when Captain Neil had smiled the way he did at Millie when she babbled about how they matched.

Andrew had bumped into him in the way that FF was learning meant that he was pleased with whatever FF had just done. Kevin and Aaron had been the ones to ask if his stitches were okay after his startled tumble.

Millie and Brandon’s parents were incredibly grateful and swore to continue to be lifelong fans of the Foxes. Millie and Brandon themselves had been more excited about their Captain Neil Josten autographs than being reunited with their parents. They had waved goodbye with Millie loudly proclaiming that her and Captain Neil would get married someday.

Climbing onto the bus he was subjected to a check over by Abby when both Kevin and Aaron dragged him to her. Then he was sat down next to Nicky who shoved him into the window seat and cuddled up. “I won’t lose track of you if I’m on you.” was his logic.

The bus ride resumed.

“I didn’t know you liked kids.” Nicky says head on FF’s shoulder. “I’ve watched you go to the other side of the street to avoid middle school kids.” he adds.

FF feels ice in his stomach.

“Middle school kids are mean.” FF says and doesn’t properly answer the question but Nicky is just concussed enough to not call him on it.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

Like I said in my last part I will be tagging people separate from the actual update going forward. Still any requests to be added to the tag list feel free to put in the replies here.

[whos-hotter-jjba]

Hottest JJBA Outfit Bracket - Narciso Anasui Preliminary Poll

[leavemeslowly]

I want Eddie to smile like that at Susie in s2

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

welp since some of those shitty leaks turned out to be true, those rook's rest leaks are going to end up being true and from the very bottom of my heart i wish c*ndal a very never get work adapting anything again i hope by the end of this your reputation is worse than benioff's and weiss's because it's all you deserve.

[toaarcan]

You ever think about how extremely traumatic the first two arcs of the Archie reboot would've been for all the characters?

They're just living their normal lives, when one day Sonic starts babbling about a completely different history where most of them were in extremely dire straits, and starts using Nicole to overwrite their extant memories with those of the previous universe.

Like, imagine being Sally in that situation. You come home from a dangerous but routine mission to find all your friends acting like you've just come back from the dead. They hand you your computer and suddenly your mind is filled with memories of a much different world to this one, a much darker and more painful one, filled with death and constant betrayal. Your last memories are now filled with weeks of watching your mechanised, vivisected body mindlessly serve your nemesis, and try to kill your friends and family. You were (probably) awake when Eggman carved you up with a blowtorch, while monologuing creepily about how smart you are, right before he crammed a cannon in where your brain should be. You almost died because Eggman designed your new form so badly that you ran out of power on your first mission as his pawn, only to be 'saved' by someone who loved you, and now doesn't exist.

But it's not just that. That would be bad enough. You also remember that this other version of you had a living mother. A mother who loved her and supported her and tried to be there for her. Yours has been dead since you were a child. You're still a child, but you've never felt less like one than you do right now. You had a brother too. He had a wife and a daughter, you had a niece and and a sister-in-law. They're gone. In fact, they're not just gone. They never existed. You have memories of people that never existed. All your friends apparently do. These other versions of them all had families. Here, they're all orphans, except for Rotor, who now remembers a world where his father wasn't an abusive bastard that serves Eggman out of some warped sense of social darwinism, something he can never have in this one.

On the other hand, your father, whom you know as a kind, generous, and reasonable man, was in this other world a controlling, emotionally abusive asshole, a major factor in a massive mental breakdown you endured and struggled with for months on end.

And then shortly afterwards, these memories begin to fade. Maybe you're okay with forgetting Mecha Sally. Maybe you're okay with forgetting that Nigel was ever Maximilian. But now you're also forgetting Alicia and Elias and Megan and Alexis, people who only existed in your memory. You won't remember how many people Eggman killed with the Super Genesis Wave. There will never be justice for them, and in a few short days, you won't even remember their names.

[maximusboltaqon]

sometimes i start to like gorgon a little bit too much and have to remember the alecto storyline again and go ohhhh right. i would kill him with my fists if he were real.

[luzisahomosexual]

I’m in dire need of Elodie Moreau art…

pls tag me if u see any🫡

[moonjellyfishumbrella]

I LOVE READING ACTUALLY I LOVE WRITERS I LOVE THEN THEY CREATE

If you are an ace attorney fan and have finished the main storyline and are waiting for the drop next year (or just dont mind spoilers i guess) you need to read 'and the tree was happy' by zombiekittiez

I love writers and their writing i hope op releases some sort of novel i hope they have and idk it yet this was FANTASTIC. Not to he that person i think this can be annoying at times but like... this is The ace attorney fanfiction, coming from someone whos been reading them since middle school i think. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY JEEZ WOW WOW WOW WOW i feel enlightened

I feel like i have ascended

I was listening to Esperanza Spalding while reading this so this feels biblical honesty

I love being reminded of why i love writing and literary works and AAAAA my heart swelled this was so good

If you're an AA fan you just have to read it its the law and for your own good

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

This is the "Syd troupe" that is nothing but "Carmy haters" in disguise, and you know what I do with those? I fully and completely take a huge dump on them block them on the spot, because you can definitely be "Team Sydney" or even an anti, without being a Carmy hater

BTW what does height have to do with anything? Is it a fucking defect being short? AND THE ACTORS ARE THE SAME MOTHERFUCKING HEIGHT. Also is it too much to ask? An IQ high enough to understand he's the protagonist of the show named after his character, so his character is most definitely not just a "short man with a short fuse", you just don't really understand the show you're watching and the depth of his character, the MAIN character, that's the real problem, not Carmy's height or length of his fucking fuse. I ALREADY BLOCKED HER ASS.

[lovelyrotter]

yknow i love transmasc/tboy dirk always and forever but the way some ppl treat transmascness vs transfemmeness in HS's narrative........kinda sucks. like the whole thing about how being transfeminine is a literal transient experience and lets the character in question (any character) truly escape the oppression of HS's narrative-as-a-character which is patriarchal and toxic (lord english, hussie-the-character to an extent. i guess. idk ive seen a lotta ppl lump SI-hussie in w/ this), which is great and does hold weight as an analytical lens esp with how hussie irl is nonbinary. but where does this leave transmasc characters. why are we treating (headcanoned) transfemme HS characters like this and then tbh gleefully dooming (headcanoned) transmasc characters to eternal narrative suffering brought by LE and then mocking them for being ''gross tboys'' full of ''icky testorerone'' so its their fault theyre in this perpetual torment really? because they ''''chose to be a man''''? dunno man its starting to feel bad. especially since some bnf's who are really into this fan theory do actually kinda treat the general idea of transmasculinity like somthing to hold with tongs at arms length away from them. as if its alien or infectous or something and then get really mad when equally dysphoric transmascs do the same with feminity. why are we dooming dirk strider to eternal toxic-masculine suffering and what does that say about how we treat real life transmasc folks both in and outside of the fandom

[ebenelephant]

i'm sorry but any time i see mcu canon natasha romanoff – or even fandom natasha romanoff to be honest – i just get so pissed, because this woman's whole thing was about wiping out the red in her ledger, and even if you argue that the events of the first avengers movie would've been more or less the same, there's no denying that by the end of avengers 2 she's saved billions of people. let her fucking lie down. let her fucking sleep. even the fandom is obsessed with her 'redeeming' herself, or perceiving herself as redeemed but never allowing her to actually achieve that – bitch she fucking did that already! let her retire!

[heartshapedtrap]

oh brother gojo’s corpse is being weaponized as a tool… group suicide in ten minutes

[azureblooet]

How the fuck would Cult of The Lamb characters wear glasses wait oh god oh fuck i designed all these bitches like they were humans oh god oh fuck

[sheepwithspecs]

Distraction

|| FFXIV || Rated T ||

Ao3 Link

If there was any hope left for her in this wrung-out shell of an existence, it lay in the knowledge that she did not want to leave this room.

Have the stars always been so… calming?

Fordola let out a soft breath, her eyes lifted to the twinkling expanse stretching from one horizon to the other. Her latticed window afforded her a picturesque view of the sleeping Ala Mhigo, the darkened buildings illuminated not by candlelight, but by the pale wedge of moon hanging above the jagged peaks beyond the city wall. Wispy clouds floated over its gentle face, breaking apart as they drifted eastwards.

She had never been much for stargazing, but endless moons in a dark dungeon cell would change anyone’s opinion on the night sky. It had been next to impossible to sleep the first night in her new bedchamber, her eyes constantly drawn to the peaceful heavens. The window was one of the things she enjoyed most about her newfound independence… that, and the bedchamber which contained it.

While not free by any stretch of imagination, General Aldynn had been true to his word when it came to relaxing her restrictions following Charlet’s demise. Fordola had been given a room of her own near the palace barracks, complete with the barebone furnishings and a guard stationed outside the door at all times. There was even a stipend, an admittedly meagre amount totaling less than half the pay of a common foot soldier. But most importantly, they had agreed to remove the enchanted choker from her neck.

These were privileges, they said, for services rendered to Ala Mhigo and Gyr Abania. In her mind, it was more akin to slack on a straining dog’s leash. The slightest provocation and they would just as easily strip of her their so-called privileges, marching her back to that miserable cell without a word of reproof. The message was clear: only good little girls get treats.

Still, it was better than nothing. And it wouldn’t be forever; one day, the Ala Mhigan army would have no choice but to declare her sentence served and set her free upon the world. She would be her own woman again… if indeed she had ever belonged to herself at all. Until then, it was better, easier to bite her tongue, bow her head, and accept the few creature comforts allotted by her captors.

She had a window of her own, a cot that didn’t reek of piss and moldering hay, and the illusion of privacy. Three square meals, a solid roof over her head. Distrust at best, hatred at worst. No citizenship, no rights, an extra crust of bread serving as the occasional kindness. In all fairness, service to Ala Mhigo was not very different than service to Garlemald. 

In the past, Fordola might have easily balked at the idea of her current situation. Could such a life even be called living? Surely the hangman’s noose was preferable to kneeling at the feet of those who’d murdered her father in cold blood. But despite her pain, her crimes, her failures… despite their much-deserved hatred of her and the Crania Lupi… she was not ready to roll over and give up the fight. Not yet.

Loathe as she was to admit it, M’naago was right. A lifetime of atonement stretched before her, reading for the taking—and take it she would, one day at a time. It was a burden, no doubt, but one she gladly accepted, one she recognized was worth fighting for. The citizens of Gyr Abania, the Resistance, the former Skulls and their families, the Silver Griffins… together, they had the potential to become something far greater than the sum of their parts. It was a distant goal, to be sure, barely visible beyond the farthest horizon. But it was something to strive for, regardless. It was the sort of Ala Mhigo Yda would have wanted.

Live, Fordola. Find some hope to hold onto.

It had taken years, but Fordola finally understood what Yda had meant with her final words. A person had to have hope in something; in the end, it was the only thing that made existence worth the endless struggle. For so long, her own hopes had been tangled up with her allegiance to the Empire: citizenship, a better quality of life, the safety of her loved ones. Empty promises, all of them, serving to placate the masses rather than inspire any true sense of change. Those who swallowed the Garlean lies eagerly had been either too gullible or too obstinate. She had swallowed them too, even when the truth stared her in the face.

Now that it was over, everything said and done… did she have the right to hope for something new? To put her faith in the dreams of a brighter future? It was a riddle with no easy answer, so far as she was concerned. In the end, she had decided that she could not place it within herself. If anything resembling hope remained in her blackguard heart, it lay solely in the hands of those she chose to fight for.

Her eyes drifted closed, chin pillowed on one hand as the faces paraded through her weary mind. Her mother, for one: they had not spoken since the day Fordola left to join the cause, her face burning from the fresh ink beneath her skin. Would Agnete be happy to know that her daughter yet lived? Would she embrace her as a child of Ala Mhigo, or shun her as a traitor to the Empire?

And Hrudolf, who had miraculously survived Specula Imperatoris. Gods only knew how much he deserved a proper apology for… for everything. The Warrior of Light had informed her that Hrudolf had been eking out a living as a helpmeet for an old widow, attempting to atone for his own crimes while waiting for the day the Resistance would show up to arrest him.

Hopefully that dreaded day would never come; if nothing else, Fordola would be all too glad to serve his sentence in addition to her own. It was partly her fault that he was even in this mess. She had always been something of a leader, even amongst her friends—ever the defiant one, with wild ideas that, more often than not, ended badly for those involved. They’d followed her with blind loyalty, and paid the price. Too costly a mistake….

Then there were the ragtag children of Ala Gannha, almost too young to inherit their parents’ fear and prejudice. Eager faces, dusty from their play, tiny hands tugging imploringly at her clothes. They clambered around her like excited puppies on her rare trips to the settlement, begging her to tarry by the flowering riverside and join in their games. Games that brought to mind her own distant youth: hopscotch, tag, hide-and-seek. Even a soldier as surly and serious as she could still remember how to pitch a ball or spin a jumping rope.  

Of course, she couldn’t think about any of them without her thoughts—as they were often wont to do—circling back to the first man to put his trust in her, who had all but begged her to be his friend. Arenvald… with his laughing eyes and crooked smile, hair constantly falling into his face. Arenvald, who somehow managed to get away with teasing her time and time again, most likely due to the fact that when she snapped back, his resulting pout was almost impossible to resist.

It was Arenvald who had all but insisted on regular visits to her cell, going so far as to sit in companionable silence on the days she refused to speak. Who had made a point of greeting her on every mission, even when the rest of the team seemed determined to pretend she did not exist. Who had saved her not once, but twice—another costly mistake, though he kept insisting that it could not be further from the truth. Who told her what she needed most to hear, even when she didn’t want to hear it. Who pushed himself closer and closer to her side, reaching for her constantly, if only to remind her that she was not alone—

Ugh! Fordola frowned, waiting for her heart to cease its stupid racing. Why was it always like this?! Lately it seemed that no matter where her thoughts began, they would inevitably land on him.

They were friends, they worked well together in the field, and they could often be found in one another’s company, true… but that’s where it ended. If his gaze lingered overlong at their parting, if his teasing sometimes bordered flirting, if they argued more like an old married couple than comrades in arms—how was any of that her fault?! He was one the one who’d managed to worm his way under her skin, into her thoughts, haunting her with the echo of that familiar smile. Only Arenvald would manage to drive me insane without being in the room….

“Lupis! Visitor!” The rough grunt was enough to yank her from her reverie. She turned from the window in time to see the door fly open on its hinges with enough force to smack the opposite wall, bouncing back with a rusty scrape of iron against flagstone. The intrusion itself wasn’t surprising; by their nature, the guards couldn’t exactly offer her true privacy. Still, most were willing to give a perfunctory knock before barging into her chambers.

To her surprise, her “visitor” was H’sutyo, one of the thaumaturges that accompanied the primal regiment on missions around Eorzea. Until recently, their job—alongside providing extra defense for the summoners—had been to keep one eye on her at all times. They had been instructed to activate the enchanted choker at the first sign of dissent, executing her before she had time to cause damage to herself or anyone else. Now many of them, including H’sutyo, worked as blasphemy hunters under Aldynn.

“It’s Arenvald.” With customary curtness, H’sutyo wasted no time in divulging the reason for her intrusion. She stood squarely in the center of the bedchamber, arms crossed and face twisted in a scowl. Although the Resistance griffin hood covered most of her head, Fordola could almost imagine her tawny ears flattened against her skull in clear annoyance. “Too stubborn to see reason, that one. Make yourself useful for once, and go talk some sense into the bloody fool.”

“Don’t know what you want me to do about it,” Fordola replied in the same brusque tone. She let her shoulders fall in a careless shrug, shaking her head at the very thought of talking sense into someone like Arenvald. The man was obstinate to a fault. Once he put his mind to something—befriending a disagreeable prisoner of war in a dungeon cell, for example—it would take nothing short of a Calamity to stop him from following through. “He’s a grown man. If he wants to be stubborn, I say let him.”

“Come off it!” H’sutyo snapped, tail lashing angrily behind her. “Everyone knows you’re the only one he’ll listen to, aside from the general, and I’m not about to risk my neck bothering him at this time of night. Besides, the lad would bend over backwards to please you. Anyone with half a brain can tell he’s sweet on you.”

What’s that supposed to mean!? Brushing the thought aside, Fordola reluctantly abandoned her window seat and reached for her sandals. It was clear that “no” was not an acceptable answer. Her admiration of the night sky would have to wait.

“What’s the problem, then? He ought to be asleep by now.” As should I, she couldn’t help but admit to herself. The midnight bell had already sounded some time ago. Mornings came early,  this time of year, and she was in no position to be caught sleeping on the job.

“Ought to be,” H’sutyo agreed. “It’s his legs, though. The chirugeons at Rhalgar’s Reach whipped up a tonic for the pain, but he refuses to even glance at it.”

“Well, what do you expect me to—”

“I don’t care if you have to force the godsdamned thing down his throat, Lupis! Just see to it that he drinks it, then get your arse back here before anyone finds out. I’ve already talked to Magnus,” she huffed, nodding to the guard standing motionless beyond the threshold. “There shouldn’t be any problems as long as you’re back before fifth bell, when the shift changes.”

“And if I’m discovered? What then?”  

“How should I know? Tell the truth and hope for the best. Or pray, if that’s more your style.” H’sutyo rolled her eyes. “Still, a few meandering guards in the dead of night shouldn’t be a match for the Butcher, eh? Not much of a Skull if you’re caught that easily.”

“Tch. Whatever.” A small part of her wondered if it might be some sort of trap, an insidious design to knock her off her feet and watch her tumble back to rock bottom. No more bedchamber, no more window. She could almost feel the crushing weight of that accursed collar, tight around her throat.

Then again, this was no ordinary Resistance Guard: this was H’sutyo. Under her care, her status as a prisoner had never seemed to matter. Fordola had been treated with the same offhanded disdain shown to everyone else. It was grounding, freeing in the sense that she never had to wonder what to expect next.

“Can’t you move any faster?” The tip of her striped tail flicked back and forth as she waited for Fordola to fasten her sandals.

“Hmph.” You ought to thank me for doing this in the first place, she thought, wondering if she should take the time to get properly dressed. It was probably not the best idea to be padding down the palace corridors in her nightclothes. If nothing else, it would be twice as humiliating for her if she did manage to get herself caught by the patrols. She decided against it almost as quickly, if only for H’sutyo’s thin patience. As though I have any say in the matter.

Even as the words crossed her mind, she knew them to be untrue. She would have gone to him regardless, simply because it was Arenvald. Because he’d given up so much for her already, and didn’t deserve to suffer for it. Because, despite everything, he was her friend. Her big, handsome friend with a heart of gold and a grin bright enough to light the Void. Who was apparently sweet on her… whatever that meant. It was almost too easy to ignore the renewed leap of her heart. At this point, pushing aside her own emotions was something habitual, almost instinctive.

Sweeping past H’sutyo, she stood in the corridor and watched as the door to her bedchamber was locked tightly. The woman gave no indication she’d even seen Fordola leave, striding off down the corridor at a breakneck pace in her hurry to return to her post. Magnus positioned himself in front of the door, glaring out at her from beneath the griffin’s beak.

“Fifth bell, Lupis.” His eyes slid away lazily, focusing instead on a patch of plaster above her head. The message was clear: she was dismissed.

What in the seven hells am I supposed to say?

Even as the question passed through her mind, Fordola knew that it was too late for second thoughts. Her knuckles met the solid wood with a sharp rap, the sound too loud in the otherwise silent night. There was no immediate answer, the tension stretching dangerously thin as she waited for any sign that the room’s lone occupant was awake.

Had she been tricked after all? What if Arenvald wasn’t even in his chamber? Quickly she scanned both sides of the long corridor, ears attuned to the smallest noise. Thankfully, she was alone… for now. Surely a patrol would come through before long, and she would have a lot of explaining to do if they caught her lurking outside her cell at this time of night.

She had almost resolved to turn back when a strained voice finally called from within the room.

“E-Enter.”   

Wasting no more time, Fordola pushed brusquely into the room, shutting the door firmly—but quietly—behind her. She glanced over the bedchamber with a cursory inquisitiveness; there was no reason to frequent Arenvald’s private space, but she had peered inside once or twice while waiting for him to fetch some forgotten item or drop off his mail. Now she allowed herself a moment of unchecked curiosity, cataloguing each item with the quiet efficacy offered by her training.

It was clear to her that, at one point, the room had been filled with all manner of comfortable furnishings. Even now, it held a sense of luxury that her own would-be cell sorely lacked. Several of the pieces seemed brand new, suggesting that they may have been commissioned by Arenvald himself.

Both the polished dining table and the writing desk were lifted higher than usual, leaving ample space beneath for the arms of his wheelchair. Rather than a taller armoire—the customary storage option in the palace—there was instead a chiffonier which undoubtedly held several shelves’ worth of personal effects. A three-legged stool in the corner looked as though it may have once been part of a set; now it sat forlorn, haphazardly covered by borrowed tomes and a crumpled tunic. A faint outline on the flagstone proved that there had once been a rug in the center of the room.

And there were other, smaller things, which helped to make the space all his own. A wooden trunk at the foot of the bed was covered in scuff marks, as though it had been hastily moved from one location to the next without much thought given to its upkeep or condition. Above the writing desk hung various scraps of paper: memos, fragments of letters, and what appeared to be drawings torn from an artist’s sketchbook. His beloved armor hung beside the chiffonier, polished to a gleam in the hopes that its bearer might one day take it up once more. The accompanying sword and shield, forced into premature retirement, rested against the shining sabatons. On the table, the worn leather knapsack which held his daily essentials stood at the ready beside a chipped washbasin.

“Fordola?” Arenvald sat up in bed, resting the bulk of his weight on one elbow. He was bare-chested, his hair mussed and face scrubbed clean of its usual warpaint. Squinting in the dim light of the flickering lamp, he gestured for her to come closer. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining, of course,” he added quickly, rubbing his eyes with his free hand, “but it must be after first bell—”    

Despite his welcoming smile, it was clear that he was not comfortable in the slightest. A sheen of sweat glittered on his brow, pale bangs clinging damply to his skin. There was a tightness at the corners of his eyes that ill-fit his easygoing expression, a tension that spoke of pain rather than peaceful repose.

Fordola averted her eyes, the absence of his warpaint somehow more disarming than his lack of a shirt. She headed instead for the washbasin, pouring a fresh supply of water from the pitcher and wringing out the sodden cloth with a deft twist. Steeling her nerve, she turned and advanced on the bed with all the grim determination of a medic on the battlefield. Arenvald’s smile faltered, brow creasing as he fell back to the mattress in the wake of her approach.

“What—?”

“Quiet.” She practically slapped the cloth to his forehead, mopping up the worst of the sweat with a rough, unpracticed touch. “I’m only here because H’sutyo told me to knock some sense into your fat head.” Arenvald gazed up at her in shock, flinching when her fingers brushed over the uneven scar on his forehead. After a moment he snatched the cloth from her, shooing her off with a petulant scowl.

“Can do it myself….” he muttered, running the cloth over his cheekbones and down his neck before tossing it onto the bedside table.

“You’re in pain.” It wasn’t a question; anyone with two eyes and half a brain could see the truth, false cheer be damned.

“It’s only my legs. I’ll be fine.” As though to contradict him, a violent spasm beneath the blanket contorted his smile into a grimace. He pressed his lips into a thin line, face scrunched in pain and fingers knotting themselves in the thick blanket at his waist.

There was nothing Fordola could do but wait for the spasm to pass, standing helplessly at his bedside and hating herself for it. Unbeknownst to Alphinaud and the other Scions, she had done her fair share of pestering the Phrontistery healers for answers. Unfortunately, there weren’t many to be had. Some wounds simply did not heal, or were too understudied for even the best magic to have any sort of lasting effects.

“There are cases,” Master Damielliot had finally admitted, “in which a person has regained the use of their limbs following a grievous injury. However, there are just as many cases, if not more, in which they do not. There is naught to be done but wait and see. In the meantime, your friend will simply have to make the best of his situation. Hope for the best, but be content with what is.”

Hope for the best… what a joke. If hope could heal, Arenvald would be running circles around the palace before daybreak. Instead, she was forced to watch as he suffered from a blow that, by all rights, should have fallen upon her.  

“Where’s your medicine?” she asked, once she was certain the worst had passed.

“Don’t… want it…” he managed, forcing out the words between clenched teeth. The spasm finally subsided and he let out a low breath, going limp against the mattress.

“I’m under orders to force it down your throat if you refuse. Now… where is it?”

“I don’t need the bloody draught!” he insisted crossly, reaching down to rub his thigh through the blanket. “I told you, I’ll be fine. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I know what to expect.”

“Who cares how often it happens?” She looked around, quickly sizing up anything that remotely resembled a vial or philter. “Just drink the damned thing and be through with it, I say.”

“You’re not listening to— oh, bugger off!”

“Bugger yourself!” she snapped back, feeling a little pang at the growl in his voice. In all the time she’d known him, he’d never spoken so sharply to her before. Still, if he thought intimidation was the key to getting rid of her, he was wrong. Arenvald could be stubborn, true… but so could she.

“Look,” she tried again, swallowing back her frustration, “if it takes the pain away—”

“It doesn’t take the bloody pain away!” he scowled. “It takes me away from the pain! Knocks me near senseless for bells at a time. Even after I wake up, it feels like there’s a ten-tonze weight pressing down on my skull.”

“Drink only half of it, then.” She crossed her arms, glaring down at him. “Or, better yet, have them fix the dosage.”

“You don’t think I’ve already tried?” He winced, biting back a gasp as another spasm shuddered its way through his heavy frame. “This is the best the alchemists can offer, and drinking half is no better than going without. But I’m telling you the same thing I told the healers: I didn’t survive Paglth'an just to sleep my life away. I want to experience everything, even if it hurts,” he insisted, jaw firmly set. “I’m not afraid of a little pain.”          

“Is that so…?” Fordola let her shoulders fall in a careless shrug. “In that case, I suppose I will bugger off.” She turned to leave, hoping that the route back to her cell had not filled with a sudden influx of guards in her absence. Although she trusted the likes of H’sutyo and Magnus—insofar as one could trust one’s captors—it was still hard to believe that this wasn’t some overly-convoluted trap.

“Wait—” Arenvald sighed, his gaze softening as he watched her retreat. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he admitted, at once both contrite and pleading, “and you can call me an arse if you like, but… stay, won’t you?” He reached towards her, palm outstretched, the corner of his mouth lifting in one of his most insufferable, irresistible smiles.

“What for?”

“Well… I can’t exactly walk this off,” he replied sheepishly, “and the only other option is to stare at the ceiling until the pain goes away. It’d be nice to have a distraction, for once.”

“Tch!” I’m not exactly free to make social calls.” Fordola hovered near the table, arms crossed and definitely not fidgeting. The fact that she wasn’t already on her way out the door should have said volumes, but she wasn’t quite ready to listen… not yet. “I was sent here on a mission, and I doubt the guards will be happy if they find I was dragging my heels to chitchat with their golden boy.”

“I’d take care of y—it,” he insisted. “I hope H’sutyo didn’t wake you up just to run her errands for her. I know I’m young, compared to the others, but I’m still too old to be scolded for not taking my medicine.”

“She seemed to think that I was the only one who had a chance of convincing you. Something about you “bending over backwards to please me”, I think.” Arenvald flushed at that, cheeks darkening as he attempted to stammer out a reply. Once again she found herself taken aback by how open his expression seemed to be without the paint to conceal his features. Naked, her mind supplied, and she felt her own cheeks burn in response.

“She also said….” Fordola licked her lips, wondering why she was bothering to bring it up at all. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she crept closer, hovering just beyond arm’s reach between the table and the bed. “H’sutyo also said that you were sweet on me.” The words tumbled out in a breathless rush, jumbled and barely comprehensible. It was hardly the interrogation she’d hoped for.    

“Maybe she ought to say less,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach at the look on his face, eyes averted and mouth drawn as he pulled himself slowly into a sitting position. He looked as though he might be sick… though perhaps that was just a byproduct of the spasm that twitched through him in the next moment.

Ridiculous, isn’t it? The words lay heavy on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bear to speak them aloud. No, don’t give him the out. Let him sit with it, stew in it.

But it wasridiculous, all the same. The idea that someone would want her, would wish for her company, in any capacity! She was the savage, the traitor’s daughter, the kin-slayer. Hated by Garleans and Ala Mhigans alike, a criminal almost from the moment of her birth. Unwanted, unloved. Unlovable. No one bothered to pine for the Butcher.

Find some hope to hold onto. She almost shook her head, the thought making her queasy. The idea that H’sutyo wasn’t wrong, that he might actually have feelings for her… that was the worst possible thing to hope for. Those who dared come close to her always met a bad end, and often didn’t live long enough to regret it. She didn’t have to look very far to see what came of knowing her, befriending her. Why should she be so foolish as to wish for the one thing she should not have? That, too, was too high a price.

Truly, I shouldn’t have been born—

“Fordola.” Something of her thoughts must have shown in her expression; she attempted to school her features into their usual neutral frown, but it was too late. Arenvald cleared his throat, picking absently at the bedsheets and refusing to meet her eyes. “Am I… is it that disgusting?” he asked in a small, dejected voice.

“What?” She blinked, her mind racing to keep up. “Is what disgusting?”

“What H’sutyo said.”

“That’s—it’s not—” Her tongue seemed too large for her mouth, the words bunching up in a knot at the base of her throat. How could she begin to explain the thoughts that plagued her mind? Arenvald would see them as a non-issue, waving her fears aside without a single care for his own wellbeing. Not once had he ever complained that she was the cause of his suffering; rather, the one time she dared to broach the subject, he filled her ears with such stern talk of duty and camaraderie and sacrifice that she eventually gave up on trying to make him see reason.

“I suppose,” she said at last, treading the subject as delicately as a snow-laden minefield, “that my answer would depend on whether or not she was telling the truth.”

“And if… she was?”

“If that’s the case—” Her heart was past her stomach now, far below her feet, hovering somewhere near the center of the star. She hadn’t felt this unmoored since she’d stood toe to toe with the Crown Prince, his pale eyes staring through her, weighing her every word against some inscrutable scale of his own choosing. When the wrong words, or the right ones in the wrong order, could easily spell her doom. Yes, it felt very much the same.

“If that’s the case,” she tried again, “I suppose I’d want to know why I’m hearing it from H’sutyo, rather than the source.” She stepped closer, scowling at the fact that she couldn’t loom over him while he was sitting up in bed. Who gave him the right to be so damn big? Big stature, big hands, big, stupid heart…. “You’re no coward, Arenvald.”

“No, but—”

“And don’t even think about trying to blame it on the way you talk,” she snapped, trying to sound imposing. “You don’t have to be a bloody diplomat. I don’t want you to be one. You’re plainspoken, and straight to the point, and I… I like that about you,” she admitted, feeling her skin prickle in the start of a blush. “I always have, so don’t pretend that’s the reason you couldn’t tell me.”

“It’s not that!” he insisted. “And I did try, but I could never tell if you were clueless, or ignoring me, or playing along for your own amusement. One day it would seem like you wanted to be closer, but then the next day you’d shut yourself off from the world and glare at me if I dared to make a joke. I could never figure you out.” He smiled ruefully. “I still can’t, sometimes. But that’s what I like about you.”

“Y-You could always ask, you know!” She crossed her arms, trying to force the blush back down her neck and failing miserably. Her ears fairly sizzled with it, and she didn’t need a mirror to know that her face must have been as red as her hair, if not worse.

“Fordola,” he laughed, the sound loud and pure, “you’re a bit intimidating! Even you have to admit that much.” It sounded like a compliment, coming from him, and he probably meant it as such. “Do you know how many times I sat here and thought about confessing everything, only to feel that glare burning a hole into my skull?”

“What glare!?”

“The one you’re giving me right now.” Fordola tore her eyes away, huffing under her breath as he fell into a new bout of boisterous laughter. “Honestly, I can’t tell if you’d rather kiss me or slap me.”

“Tch!” It took less than two steps to cross the room, the toes of her sandals pressed against the bedframe as her hand met his cheek. It was less a slap and more of a tap, her first three fingers lightly thumping his cheek. He flinched in surprise, eyes widening as she leaned down to brush her lips over the same spot. His skin was clammy, notes of sweat and dust filling her lungs as she drew back, and yet it was still enough to send a muted shiver down her spine.  

“Both.”

“I… I can work with both.” He sounded breathless, as if she’d socked him in the gut full-force rather than lightly tapped his cheek.

“Yeah?” His hand rose from the bedsheets and she narrowed her eyes, waiting for the tit-for-tat that had once dominated their sparring matches. His fingers were rough, old callouses from his blade and fresh, newly healing ones from learning how to maneuver his chair. They brushed over her cheekbone, barely enough pressure to feel, before rising to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

The pad of his thumb swirled over her temple, following a strange path from her hairline to her cheekbone; all at once, she realized that he was tracing the lines of her tattoo. The knowledge brought on a renewed shiver, lifting the fine hairs on her arms. She remained frozen under his touch, eyes fluttering closed when he moved up to the lines on her forehead. How long had it been since anyone touched her like this? Not for healing, nor restraint, but simply to feel? She reveled in the feeling, her skin alight and heart thrumming against her breastbone.

“What are you doing?” Her limbs felt so heavy; it took everything she had not to collapse atop him, to drape her body over his and stay there until dawn, guards be damned. She shifted, knees pressed against the mattress to steady herself.

“Distracting myself,” he answered in a rough whisper, toying with the wisps of hair on the back of her neck. “Distracting you.” His lips followed his fingers, brushing over her cheeks, breathing her in. She let her eyes drift closed once more, offering a halfhearted prayer to the gods that she didn’t stink of blasphemy offal and stale air.

“F-From what?” She broke off in a gasp when he found a sensitive patch of skin behind her ear.

“Mmm… thinking?” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth only to pull away when she turned to follow. Even in this, he has to be a godsdamned tease. “Overthinking,” he added, kissing the other corner, “justifying why you shouldn’t stay right where you are… all the reasons you shouldn’t let yourself have this….”

“Arenvald—” He was right, infuriatingly so. There had to be at least one thousand reasons to push him away, she was sure of it, but none came to mind… save for one. “What time is it?”

“You want to leave already?” he pouted, giving her his best kicked-dog expression. “I thought you were going to help distract me.”

“But I’m supposed to….” She trailed off as he nipped at her jaw, her chin, her pulse. Teasing little bites that had her wanting to move, to writhe, to press herself against him and feel all two-hundred plus ponze of muscle pinning her to the nearest surface. “Fifth bell—Arenvald—seven bloody hells, let me think—” He grunted as she shoved his face aside, twisting around him to see the chronometer on the bedside table.

“Fucking— it’s a quarter to third!” she hissed, scrambling to full height. “Are you going to take that damned medicine, or aren’t you?”

“I’m not.” He leaned back onto his elbows, gazing up at her with an expression that was as pleading as it was sympathetic. “But if you kiss me—a proper kiss, mind you—I’ll tell them you gave it your all.”

“I’ve already kissed you once tonight,” she protested, rolling her eyes when he shook his head solemnly. “Fine, fine. What’s a proper kiss?” He tapped his lips, brows arching as he made his point without saying a word.

Something deep down told her that she probably shouldn’t. It was the same small, cynical voice that told her one day they’d have to talk about the whatever-this-was between them, and that nothing in her short life had prepared her for that sort of conversation. The thought frightened her more than the frontlines ever could… but that was the distant future, and this was now, and he wanted something she was willing to give. Fordola leaned over him, absently brushing aside his bangs as she searched his face. He seemed neither angry nor insulted, content to let her eyes roam his features without complaint.

“Do you want me to stay?” Arenvald nodded silently, hand slipping over the sheets to find hers near his hip. His large fingers swallowed her own, squeezing once before relaxing so that she could pull away, if she wanted.

“Do you want to stay?” She found herself nodding without thought, even as she leaned over his prone form.

“Yes.”

“But you can’t.” His voice was a whisper, breath tickling her parted lips. Their noses brushed and he squeezed her fingers again, harder this time. She kissed him once, pouring as much of the wanting that she possibly could into the firm press of lips. Simple, chaste. Over too quickly, but that couldn’t be helped.

“But I can’t,” she agreed, drawing away. Her hand slipped from his and he did not reach after her, curling his fingers into a fist on the bedsheets. Was he trying to keep the feeling trapped in his palm, like a child with a firefly?

Maybe next time. The thought flashed in her mind, brief and fleeting as a shooting star. Fordola wanted to laugh aloud at the absurdity of it, the idea of a next time. Surely this was something that, come the dawn, would fizzle and fade into memory like a burnt match end. Tangible, yes, but missing the vital spark that made it feel so nice, so warm. When she woke up tomorrow, the flutter in her heart would once again be manageable, easy to ignore. And Arenvald… well, he would go back to his overlong glances.

Even so, if there was any hope left for her in this wrung-out shell of an existence, it lay in the knowledge that she did not want to leave this room. Hope was the fact that Arenvald wanted her to stay, and that one day she would. That’s all it could be… but perhaps that was all it needed to be. If there was a brighter future, something for her to grab and call her own, it would be the day when she could for herself to leave, or to stay.  

Until then, she would simply have to make do with the memory of broad hands, soft lips, and what might have been.