Aranea Highwind is not a shy woman. If she likes the look of you, she'll sashay right up to you, grab you by the scruff of the neck, stuff you into a red and black backpack and put you on a shelf in her immaculately decorated frontroom.

But the first instant she sees you, the only thing she wants to do is duck behind cover and try to still her heart.

The second instant, You take her breath away. Because you send two fifty-caliber bullets hurtling her way faster than any marksman should be able to, hitting her chest armor with a one-two punch that leaves her wheezing like she hadn't quit smoking a decade ago.

You saunter up casually, secretly thrilled that you actually made the shot. High on adrenaline and self-praise, you cock your hip as you stop in front of her, your shoulder propping up your rifle, a custom Designated Marksman Rifle, the D.M.R. .50. Or "Deemer", as you had affectionately taken to calling it.

"It seems you forgot one crucial detail, miss dragoon," you sneer. "A sniper always-"

Your pompous exposition is interrupted by aforementioned dragoon driving her high heel directly into your gut. Her incredibly toned leg kicks you right off your feet, turning you into a human cue-ball as you knock the eight-ball that is Ignis Scienta straight into the corner pocket. The corner pocket in this case being a stack full of heavy, high-grade oil drums.

You land painfully on the pavement, clutching your poor stomach. Thank god Ignis had been too low on supplies to make dinner, or else you would be hurling it up by now. You stand on wobbly legs, making a mental note to steer clear of Aranea's leather-clad stems.

"You kicked me during my victory monologue?!" You wheeze incredulously. "That is so rude! Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting to use that line? I mean... Not all that long, but it's still incredibly disappointing!"

Aranea props herself up on one elbow. "Fuh-wheeze! Fuh... Go Fuh... Fuh..."

She gives up trying to curse at you and settles for showing you her middle finger. Struggling to her feet, she just manages to bring up her lance to a blocking stance just as Noctis thrusts at her. Cranking the charger on her Mk3 Stoss spear, both she and the prince are thrust forward just in time for her to avoid Gladiolus' ridiculously-sized greatsword.

Prompto dives in the moment he gets a clear shot, fanning the hammer to his revolver and emptying all six cylinders point-blank into Aranea's torso. The air is still, thick with gunsmoke. Then, a passing breeze blows the last wisps away, revealing one thoroughly unamused dragoon with six new dents on her sizeable chest plate.

Prompto gulps. "Uh... Heh-heh... Soooo, do you come here often?"

Just as Ignis is crawling out from underneath the oil drums, Prompto is launched into Noctis, sending the both of them skittering across the pavement and into a fresh stack of oil drums, burying all three of them.

Aranea turns to Gladio, looking bored. "Ah well. Looks like it's just you and me, big boy."

"Hey!" You squeak indignantly, frantically shoving bullets into a magazine.

Aranea ignores you, flicking her hair to the side. "Let's just hope you last longer than your friends. Your Sniper here seems like kind of a quickshot."

"Why, thank you very much, miss lady," You preen. "How kind of you to- hey, wait a minute..."

Gladio wastes no time, summoning his shield and charging at the dragoon with suprising speed. Aranea jumps towards him, coiling up as she lands on his shield. With a grunt, she pushes off of it, twirling in midair and kicking Gladio forward with the help of his own momentum.

The king's shield hits the ground hard, tumbling painfully before stopping himself by clawing at the pavement. With a roar, he summons his greatsword, swinging it overhead as he charges forward.

Aranea manages to block at the last second, forced to her knees by the impact. Struggling to her feet, she growls through clenched teeth at Gladio, using all her strength to hold the muscled galoot at bay.

He grins menacingly. "You sure know how to work a lance," he grunts.

With a mighty groan, Aranea cranks the charging handle to her spear, the magical thrusters engaging and shoving the sword to the side. She brings her leg up, almost lazily, into Gladio's groin.

Instantly, he collapses like a sack of potatoes with an un-manly squeak.

"Hm. Not much cushioning for my poor little shin on that kick. Maybe that huge sword is compensating for something," Aranea hums, making sure to step on the face of the king's shield as she seductively sashays towards you.

"Time out, time out!" you yell, still frantically reloading. If only you had bought an extra mag instead of that dumb Cactuar figurine...

"Looks like it's just you and me, Quickshot," she purrs, her low voice having just enough rasp to send tingles down your spine. Her stride is exaggerated to the extreme, each foot crossing all the way to the opposing hip, making her wide hips entrance you with their movements. She is trying to distract you, and you know it, but watching this swishing sidewinder casually saunter up to you, you can't bring yourself to care.

You shove the final bullet into the magazine, slamming it home into the receiver and cranking the charging handle. Just as your finger rests on the double action trigger, Aranea's lance comes careening in from the side.

CLANG!

Sparks fly, and dust and flame fill the air. Aranea Highwind becomes acutely aware of a fifty caliber barrel resting against her throat just as you feel the tip of her lance graze your neck, it's momentum stopped but the butt of your gun. The two of you lock eyes, pale blue on deep green. Out of your peripheral vision, you notice that her face is quite cute. Plump smoochers, kissable cheeks, a massive nose for extra-powerful nuzzling...

Wait, what are you thinking?! This is the enemy! Who cares if she has luscious, silky silver hair that smells of lavender and machine oil, your two favorite smells?! So what if her skin is glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, it's heavenly scent tickling your nostrils?! Big deal, she has huge F-cup breasts that you want to nestle your head between as she strokes your hair! She's still trying to kill you!

Aranea's mind buzzes. A sniper, calculating her lance's trajectory and blocking it that quickly? Don't they normally just sit in towers, pissing in jars?! Just who exactly is this kid?

And 'kid' Isn't too far off! She can see all your twenty-something smarm and charm melt away as you get a closer look at her, turning into a hot mess. A cute mess is more like it, Aranea thinks. Her maternal instinct is welling up just looking at you! If you didn't have a gun to her throat she would have picked you up princess style and carried you off to her private chatau for a thorough, dominant spoiling.

You press the gun harder, fixing her with a hard glare. You hope she mistakes your blush for exertion from the fight.

Aranea relents, raising her hands and letting her lance dangle from her fingers loosely. "Alright, alright. You win this round, cutie."

She internally cringes, the nickname far too sweet compared to her standard insulting nicknames. It has it's desired effect, however, and your hazy eyes are enough to tell her the pet name caught you off guard. Knocking your gun's barrel aside, she leaps into the air, trailing a finger from your stomach up along to under your chin, brushing a thumb over your lips as she launches into the night sky.

You slump to your knees, though wether it's from fatigue, embarrassment, or good old fashioned hormones, you aren't sure.

Day begins to break, and the only traces of the dragoon are a beaten heap of friends and a card with a phone number fluttering down from the sky, emblazoned with crimson lipstick.