#i. about. » she was fire and light; and ash and embers. «

[jensettermandu]

song worthy - jang wonyoung

genre; smut

pairing; show-goer!wonyoung x rockstar!female reader

content; set in the mid 2000s, cigarette use, mentions of wiccans/witches (wony being referred to as a witch at times), still channeling the inner dirt-bag/rockstar core (claiming it <3), rockstar!reader x show-goer!wony. smut; switch wonyoung/reader, cunnilingus (both giving/receiving), fingering (both giving/receiving)

synopsis; wonyoung gets stoped by the frontwoman of the band that's been making a buzz lately and gets offered a deal she can't decline, especially not with the mutual desires that linger in both of their gazes.

wc; 5.4k

masterlist

a/n; this is from a scrapped story, but enjoy!

Y/n’s cold hand dug into the pocket of the black leather jacket before taking out a wrinkled and soft pack of cigarettes. Another sniffle followed, her nose cold as she took one out and put it between her lips, eyes woefully looking at three cigarettes left and no money to buy more.

“So much for being a performer.” She mumbled as the money her band earned was close to nothing. The impulsive decision of dropping school to pursue a band with her friends was biting her in the ass. It felt impossible to do anything right for the forlorn singer who had been negative about her life since the day she was born. 

She put the pack back, searched for the zippo, and groaned when she realised that she had thrown it into the van earlier after lighting her previous one. Her friends were already gone after leaving her behind since she couldn’t crash at theirs; the girl having no place to stay the night at.

The streets were half empty, people passing by and minding their business and cars speeding along the road. She held the stick between her glossy lips, looking around, hearing sirens somewhere in the distance, being well aware of how unsafe this area was and it did make her anxious—at the back of her head which she ignored. 

The wired headphones blasted Jennifer’s Body by Hole and small stones dragged along the wet concrete behind her. Y/n looked back to see a girl walk out from behind the alley she had come from. Unaware of the frontwoman’s presence since her gaze was on the ground beneath her platforms. 

Y/n quickly took the cig out of her mouth. “Hey, hey, wait up!” She called for the stranger, almost stumbling over her duffle bag as she caught onto the girl’s bare arm, stepping over the bag in the process and managing to stay on both feet.

“Are you out of your fucking mind!?” She harshly exclaimed, yanking her arm out of the band member’s grip. Her eyes were hard at the sudden and blenching intrusion that made her back up a step. The girl’s eyebrows raised into a frown as she looked over at the lead singer who was looking back at her. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, but I just need to borrow a lighter–if you have one on you that is.” She quickly spouted out an apology, noticing she scared her. Y/n’s eyes searched for why the girl seemed so familiar. 

It clicked for Y/n when she looked over at the inch-taller girl. She had seen her in the crowd the past two shows and she remembered because she had a face and style hard to forget. The girl who had just raised her voice at her came as more than a poser. She was dressed in black fishnets with ripped sheer tights under, a small top, exposing most of her skin and a mini leather skirt with a studded belt.

A silence followed after the apology as the taller girl sighed through her nose with fingers looking through the black Rachel bag. She took out a pink bic and Y/n almost in haste grabbed it as she finally had something to light the cigarette with. 

“Thank you,” she muffled out with the cancer stick between plump lips. Her hand came up to cover the side where a gentle yet cold breeze blew at them so the fire wouldn’t blow out. With that she ignited it and inhaled, filling her lungs with the smoke as the tip caught an ember before it turned to ash, burning along the white.

The girl watched the girl she knew as Y/n, the lead singer of the band that just performed.

“Were you at the show?” Y/n questioned her while handing back the lighter, sticking her right hand into the pocket of the leather jacket to keep herself from getting even colder. The taste of the smoke was strong on her tongue, the cheap cigarettes had to suffice as she could not afford any better brands. Not like she had money for a nicotine addiction–not having money for a place to live–but it was too late for consideration.

“Yeah…” She simply confirmed.

Y/n nodded at that and her eyes trailed along the slim figure in front of her and they only stopped on her thighs. She pointed down at her thigh with her head, blowing the smoke to the side while flicking at the cigarette between her fingers. A garter on the girl’s left thigh with a pentacle. 

“Are you Wiccan?” She questioned, knowing enough about the pentacle to know that Wiccans who often identified as witches used them although not all witches were Wiccan.

“You’re the first one to ask me if I’m Wiccan and not Satanist…But yes.” 

Y/n hummed and looked back up from the garter with the steel pentacle. “They usually use an inverted one.” She pointed out, knowing better than to assume the girl was Satanist as they usually used inverted ones. The two had significantly different meanings to them. 

The brunette tilted her head, dark hair falling down her shoulders and over her pale skin that was illuminated by the shitty yellow lights that went along the sidewalk the two girls stood on. 

“So…This is where you offer me a cigarette, rockstar.” The girl said, doing a once over at the lanky musician. Their eyes met, both having slept in smudged eyeliner although the proclaimed Wiccan could see the tiredness and bad nights of sleep on the other girl who chuckled and took out the cigarettes.

“What do I get for a cigarette?” She questioned her and the latter raised her eyebrows as she looked at Y/n who tilted the pack and showed the content inside, three sticks pathetically waiting to be smoked. 

“Only have three left so it’s a big offer.” The singer added. She usually wouldn’t offer or give anyone cigarettes if she only had two or three left. Especially if she had no money. 

“You get the honours of being a kind human being.” She gave the only thing she had to give as she toyed with the lighter in her hold, igniting it and letting go. Her eyes came up and looked at the girl in leather who hummed unsure with smoke coming out of her nose, catching the little shining gem on Y/n’s left nostril.

“What’s your name?” Y/n asked. 

“It’s Wonyoung.” 

She nodded at that, the lead singer still needed a place to stay the night and the weather was turning colder as it was close to being 2:30 am. She took another quick drag and blew out the smoke before licking her lower lip which tasted of vanilla and tobacco. 

“Okay…What would I get for a cigarette and two tickets to the show next Friday, Wony?” She offered Wonyoung. 

The tickets were somewhat expensive, around 20 bucks, 10 for entrance to the club and 10 for the band's show. Expensive or not, Y/n saw no reason for Wonyoung to deny because who said no to free tickets? She always carried a few on her as they at times worked like money. Aside from the duffle bag filled with clothes and another pair of shoes, they were her most prized possession at the moment. 

The deal was made as Wonyoung’s fingers nimbly reached for a cigarette from the pack as she spoke. “What do you need?” She asked before putting the stick between her plump lips, covering it from the wind and lighting it with the pink bic. Her gaze came back up to Y/n after as the smoke they blew out trailed away from them. 

“A place to stay for the night…I have the tickets in my bag.” Y/n pointed to the bag behind her feet while hoping that the newly met stranger would let her crash. In the end, she seemed harmless as she was hot and liked their music if she had shown up to three shows. It wouldn't be Y/n’s first time crashing at a stranger's place.

“My car is parked right there…I live along the boulevard.” Wonyoung said and pointed along the sidewalk where a black sedan stood. That was enough for Y/n to turn around and get the duffle bag.

Wonyoung eyed the lithe girl who turned her back to her. At the moment her confusion was how the whole idea seemed ludicrous because why on earth did the frontwoman need a place to stay? She didn’t ask though because she felt like it wasn’t her business and neither did she judge. In the end, she got two free tickets and the band’s lead singer all in the deal. The new sex symbol among showgoers. There was no need for complaints. 

“Let’s get going then.” Y/n sighed, huffing as she slung the heavy bag over her shoulder while ignoring the pain of the strap straining through the leather jacket and against her shoulder. 

Wonyoung led the way as they walked beside each other, the heels of their chunky boots dragging along the wet concrete, unconsciously kicking at small pebbles as they approached the car. 

She opened the BMW E36, the lights blinking as the locks released and Y/n put the stick between her lips while opening the back seat to put her bag inside while the witch got into the driver’s seat. The doors slammed closed after them and the frontwoman got into the passenger seat in the front as Wonyoung started the car.

“Are you like a fan or something?” Y/n curiously questioned once she was settled, glancing at Wonyoung while slightly rolling down the window to let out the smoke just like the driver's side window was down. It let in the cool breeze and prevented the smoke from lingering longer than needed. 

Wonyoung scoffed out a short laugh at the question, the singer rather fixated on her being a fan because she was going to let her stay the night. “Tickets to big bands are too expensive for me and there’s been a buzz about your band…You take what you can.” 

Y/n laughed at the reply, eyes crinkling as the grin stayed until it turned to a softer smile. She shook her head and reached into her pocket once more with her free hand, throwing the butt of the cigarette out the window. 

The speakers in the car played the album Paranoid by Black Sabbath, the CD case lying on the dashboard with a few other cases. Y/n took out the stolen MP3 from her pocket, not having money to buy a device that expensive she found a different way to get one. With that, she turned off the music and the blasting from the wired headphones stopped as she took them off. 

“I can’t deny that you guys have great songs and you, a great voice.” Wonyoung complimented as even if the band was just a try after hearing the buzz about them, they did catch her attention because it was just what she liked. A mix of grunge, alt, heavy metal and punk rock with lyrics sung raw and with emotion. 

She ashed the cigarette out the window while looking at the girl who reached into the back seat, blatantly, not minding that she was in a mini skirt and Wonyoung did not mind it either as her eyes beckoned at the exposed skin of her long legs and further, getting a glimpse of the black lace underwear.

Y/n let out a breath, Wonyoung’s eyes went back to the road when she sat back in the seat after shoving her headphones into her duffle bag. The car smelled of cigarettes and sweet vanilla, and there was a faint smell of strawberries as there was an old and aired-out car freshener hanging in the rearview mirror shaped like a strawberry with its colour drained—from how old it was. 

The dark-haired girl looked at the driver of the car as she rested her cheek against her fist, elbow resting by the window that let in cool air. 

“You have a quite soothing voice,” it was almost like a purr coming from Y/n, complimenting Wonyoung’s voice. It made a smile grace her lips as she glanced at the singer, flicking away her cigarette. 

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Wonyoung stated although there had already been a silent agreement between the two of them when they first looked at each other and Wonyoung agreed to let Y/n stay the night. 

There was no denying the mutual attraction that came from looks to music taste and demeanour. 

All Y/n did was shrug while Wonyoung sped through the almost empty street. “You did say you liked my voice and I thought you knew that we would share a bed tonight.” She leered out, pointing out the obvious as neither was going to let this opportunity slip. 

There was a hot girl dressed in grunge, driving Y/n to her place.

A hot lead singer was asking to crash at Wonyoung’s place.

Wonyoung sniffled, Y/n’s eyes catching how her pierced nose scrunched up before trailing further down at the nipples protruding through the thin black shirt. Her skin was catching goosebumps from the breeze let in through the windows. 

“It would be quite nice to hear a lead singer’s voice under different circumstances.” Wonyoung beckoned, welcoming to the idea the singer in question brought up. 

Y/n bit her lower lip and Wonyoung’s eyes landed on her once again, the two constantly glancing at each other. With each glance a heat grew in the cool air of the car, a tension thick enough for a knife not to be able to even cut through it. 

The sexual desires grew with lust hazing in the air, growing like a fog in the morning as Planet Caravan started to play. A fixated look as she trailed her eyes up the exposed stomach of the singer. The light pink butterfly navel jewellery with three dangling gems was just one of the things that caught Wonyoung’s attention.

“And to see the hearts.” She added, seeing the two heart shapes protruding through Y/n’s shirt. Y/n looked down at her chest, the two piercings with heart-shaped jewellery outline showing through the small tee. 

A sly grin came onto the frontwoman’s lips, tongue poking at her canine as her eyes attended to Wonyoung’s body. “Might make you a fan tonight.” It smugly left her lips and Wonyoung chuckled, turning the car and slowing down as she drove into the neighbourhood with fingers tapping against the wheel. 

The two were getting jittery and wanted to make it to the apartment as quickly as possible because their sexual desires and lust would suffocate them both soon enough. 

“What if the roles get reversed?” The witch questioned as she parked the car, stating the possibility of the vixen in her passenger seat becoming the fan tonight. 

The vixen in question let out a breath, questioning herself if she was in love with the woman who parked the car. It wasn’t love—the two of them were just horny and found each other hot in so many ways. 

“Then there’s gonna be trouble.” Y/n gave a heads-up, opening the door just like Wonyoung did as they both got out. Doors slammed closed as the lithe girl opened the backseat and quickly got her stuff. 

The door shut and the car got locked, the bag being slung over the almost sore shoulder once again. Y/n’s eyes looked around the empty neighbourhood as everyone seemed to be asleep at around 2:30 am. Her eyes landed on the two-story apartment building with an external staircase that they were heading towards. Everything was a luxury for the singer who did not have a place to call home yet after getting kicked out of every place. 

“Do you often let band members stay the night?” Y/n asked, looking up at Wonyoung who walked ahead of her on the stairs, catching a glimpse of her ass covered in sheer tights and fishnets. The shaking of the metal stairs resonated through the empty night, leaving an echo as their heavy boots collided with them. 

 “I’m no groupie…You were just convincing enough, hot too.” Wonyoung replied over her shoulder as she didn’t bring any band members home. This was the first one as no one in the other bands had stood out like the girl behind her who made the small stage her playground while delivering vocals with emotions and different techniques depending on the song. 

It felt almost weird for Wonyoung to hear the singer talk as her voice was contrasting to the one she sang with. She’d sing and vocal fry, but spoke in a tone that made it hard to believe she was the same person. It left her more than intrigued and needy for more. 

Y/n smiled at the reply and they reached the second floor and the first door right by the stairs. Wonyoung took out the keys to the door from the small purse she had and inserted the keys into the lethargic keyhole. The door jammed as she twisted the key and bumped it with her shoulder for it to budge open like she always had to open it. With that, she managed to push it open fully and stepped inside, grabbing hold of the wall to remove her boots.

“Where’s the bedroom?” The question left Y/n’s lips the second she stepped inside and closed the door after her. The cursed duffle bag fell to the wooden floor with a loud thud and Y/n somehow managed to pry her heavy boots off her feet, each one falling to the floor with a thud. 

The one-bedroom apartment was dark as the brunette hadn’t turned on any of the lights and instead grabbed the arm of the leather jacket. “Right this way, star.” Wonyoung’s tone was torrid as she pulled Y/n after her, walking through the open kitchen and living room. Guiding her the short distance from one door to another that she pushed open. 

The bedroom was merely lit up by the lamp posts and other passing lights outside that were gandering through the creaks in the blinds. 

Y/n shut the door with her foot and Wonyoung turned around, her eyes murky with lust as she looked at the girl. Her hands clutched onto the lapels of the leather jacket, pulling the frontwoman into her whose lips parted right away when they met Wonyoung’s. 

It was almost tacky how sloppy the kiss got as their slick tongues met—the two loved it. The singer's barbell was pulled at and brushed against Wonyoung’s teeth. Slender hands ran to the back of the witch and grabbed hold of her ass under the mini skirt, gripping the warm and soft flesh between fingers that threaded through the sheer tights and fishnets. 

Wonyoung pulled her closer, breathless moans falling from both girls as she stepped back, pulling Y/n along while tilting her head, her tongue toying with the hard barbell. 

The kiss tasted of vanilla, strawberries, and cigarettes, lip gloss mingling, making Y/n pull back and capture Wonyoung’s lower lip. She sucked on it, tongue dragging along her lips until Wonyoung’s legs hit the bed and Y/n’s hands came up to her small tee. She tugged it over her head, discarding it to the side before shoving Wonyoung to sit on the bed and hastily removing her leather jacket. 

The heat coursed their bodies, everything going south as it throbbed with need between their legs. Y/n’s hand threaded into dark waves as she tilted Wonyoung’s head up, capturing the plump strawberry-tasting lips, pushing the girl back until she had her lying down on the bed. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” That gruffly voice came out from the singer, close to the one she would sing with and Wonyoung’s chest heaved as Y/n’s wet lips ran down from her lips. Kissing down to her jaw almost heedlessly with how messy it was, panting hot air against her skin.

“I’ve left your last two shows all wet because of how hot you’re on stage,” Wonyoung admitted, lost in the moment when lips wetly trailed down to her chest. A gasp fell from her lips at the teeth grazing her hard nipples before getting engulfed in Y/n’s warm mouth. It was enough to make her hips buck at the throbbing between her legs, Y/n’s one hand roughly grabbed hold of her skirt, bodies almost flush against each other. 

“You sure you’re not a groupie?” Y/n humidly chuckled against Wonyoung’s chest before burying her face in the breasts, nipping and sucking at the ample flesh. Faint and needy moans fell from Wonyoung’s lips as she looked down at the band member with her hand in her hair, pushing Y/n further down. 

“Mhm…” Wonyoung breathlessly confirmed and Y/n dropped onto her knees between the girl’s legs on the hard and cold floor. “Never planned on actually fucking you.” Yet here she was, about to fuck with the vixen she only thought of fucking. 

She bit her lower lip, hips lifting off the edge of the bed where she was lying when Y/n hooked her fingers under the skirt and every other piece of clothing. The two were too eager to wait around, wanting nothing more than a taste of the Hellmouth they both were entering through for the night. 

Y/n yanked at the clothes, hearing something rip in the process as she pulled them off of Wonyoung’s legs before she dropped the tights and skirt onto the floor. The brunette was left naked on the bed. Her pussy dripping with need just from the rough and messy handling by the lead singer who kissed her warm thighs. 

Y/n grabbed hold of Wonyoung’s right leg who hooked it over her shoulder before slumping back down onto the bed. Her eyes were on the dark ceiling as her chest heaved before she closed her eyes and drowned in the kisses that were being scattered along her inner thighs. 

Y/n pushed Wonyoung’s other leg further apart, her eyes landing on her dripping cunt and her fingers eagerly came up to her puffy pink folds. The girl’s lips parted with a gasp at the cold fingers that ran through her lips, gathering the slickness and spreading it up to her clit. The small nudge on the bundle of nerves was enough to make her let out a vague whine with thighs tensing up. 

She coated her fingers in Wonyoung’s slickness, spreading her lips with them as she moved forward and kissed the fleshy mound, feeling how Wonyoung stifled her hips from bucking. The brunette's warmth was becoming a sopping mess, the slickness running down to the sheets as Y/n pulled away with her mouth and wetted her lips. Her eyes fell on the clit she revealed by spreading her open with two fingers. 

“Oh–I’m gonna make you fucking dizzy,” she muttered under her breath, lips attaching around the swollen and slick clit—followed by a sharp suckle and flicking of a skilled tongue.

It was enough for Wonyoung to moan, the action being so precipitous that her chest tightened at the gasp she let out, hand flying into the dark hair and fingers tangling in it as her back arched before she slumped back with her other hand clutching onto the sheets. 

Y/n savoured the taste on her tongue, massaging the clit with her tongue, Wonyoung continuously let out small whimpers and gasps as her hips rolled into the girl’s face unable to lay still at the pleasure running through every nerve in her body. Her blood running warmer and making her body heat up even more. 

Y/n’s fingers dug into the flesh of her thigh that rested over her shoulder and pulled her closer to the throbbing cunt. She moved her other hand away from the thigh she was holding onto to keep Wonyoung from closing her legs and moved it down. 

Among the sucking and flicking at her clit, Wonyoung’s stomach tightened in anticipation when she felt two fingers caressing her clenching hole. Y/n brushed her middle finger over it, the wetness letting her easily slip her finger into the warm and tight wetness. Her walls throbbed around her finger as she decided to push in a second one, both fingers getting sucked right in by the girl’s tightness.

“Y/n—” Wonyoung moaned, hand tugging onto her hair, making the latter moan against her heat, working her tongue faster on her clit. 

“Fuck.” She breathed, Y/n’s fingers pressing and caressing her g-spot in a way that was making her thighs spasm and the orgasm quickly build up. Her hips pushed more into Y/n’s face, her pussy squelching from how sopping she was, the warmth around the fingers inside her squeezing as her whole body slowly tensed up. The occasional brush of the barbell against her sensitive clit was making her light-headed and whiny.

“Oh fuck—” It hit Wonyoung so quick, her words fading as she let out a harsh gasp, eyebrows furrowing and mouth falling slack as she arched her back, the back of her head pressing into the mattress. Breathless whimpers and whines fell from her lips as her body convulsed at the orgasm that hit her, being enough to make her ascend for a second before falling back down to earth. 

Y/n slowed down, pulling out her fingers as she dipped her head to lap everything leaking out of her grasping hole. 

Wonyoung heaved for breath as her hot body relaxed with her heart pounding, enjoying the last of the slick muscle cleaning up the mess she was made into. Y/n hummed and pulled away, taking her fingers covered in the latter's juices into her mouth and cleaning them up too. 

Her leg came down from the shoulder and Y/n pulled back, grabbing the hem of her tee and pulling it over her head. The small piece of material got thrown to the side before she stood and Wonyoung sat up. 

The brunette’s grip was harsh as she grabbed hold of the meagre wrist and pulled the girl onto the bed. Y/n’s back hit the soft mattress as she pushed herself up with her head on one of the pillows. Her eyes barely being able to focus because of how uncomfortable the heat between her legs was as Wonyoung crawled over to her and settled herself between her legs. 

Her limber fingers ran along Y/n’s thighs as the witch bit her lower lip, looking at the latter’s chest with two pierced nipples, adorned by heart-shaped jewellery with light pink gems just like the ones in the navel one. Contrasting from the dark grunge clothes she’d dress in. 

“I’m gonna have you running back for more…” Wonyoung mumbled, her fingers hooking under the skirt and pulling it down Y/n’s slim and bruised legs, discarding the piece of underwear in the process too. 

“What do you need me running back for, Wony?” Y/n questioned as the girl on top leaned down, resting her arm beside Y/n’s head. Bodies pressed into each other, the gems of the piercing rough against Wonyoung’s nipples and she chuckled. 

Y/n caught the taller one's lower lip and sucked on it with her hands wrapping around her shoulders. “Free tickets—” She breathed out, kissing down the defined jawline before dipping her head and kissing under it. Her fingers sneakily ran along Y/n’s inner thighs, the wetness smeared and thighs tensing around her body. “And good sex.” She finished while humming when Y/n tugged at her ear with her teeth.

“Better make me feel as good as music does then.” A shaky breath followed Y/n’s words, the puff of air hitting Wonyoung’s ear and making her shiver—her fingers running through the wet folds. Wonyoung’s mouth trailed kisses all over the lead singer’s neck, leaving it wet while her fingers worked to gather the wetness to the bundle of nerves. 

Y/n’s hand grabbed hold of the dark hair, pulling the girl back up as their lips met. It was as messy as before, slick tongues pressing as they both tilted their heads to get more of each other. The whimper from Y/n was muffled by the mouth sucking on her tongue when Wonyoung circled her clit with her fingers. Softly she continued to circle it; teasing as the frontwoman’s hips continued to buck in need. 

She got what she needed and wanted as Wonyoung dipped her hand, swiftly pushing two of her fingers into the tight hole. She pulled away from Y/n, licking up the string of saliva between their lips as she watched the lead singer let out a whimpering moan that was light at the two fingers that started to move in her. 

Wonyoung worked her fingers, flicking her wrist as her palm met the slick and swollen clit, pressing and rubbing. The two long fingers engulfed in the snug pussy rubbed at the soft and spongy g-spot.

Y/n’s grip tightened in Wonyoung’s hair, hips rolling into her hand and the girl between her legs pushed herself up. Her eyes fell between their bodies, the sounds were lewd from the loud and very vocal vocalist and the slickness of her fingers dragging along the warm throbbing walls. 

“I’m not sure where you sound better, Y/n.” Wonyoung let out a satisfied hum and bit her lower lip. 

“Wony—” Y/n stopped and her chest heaved, the said girl stopping her movement for a split second as the heat on top of the singer disappeared together with the two fingers deep in her. 

Wonyoung pushed herself down and got down on her stomach. It was as if her mouth was watering, seemingly deprived of sex and she inserted her fingers back in. “Fuck that’s good.” Y/n hummed, Wonyoung licking up her slit before circling the clit, both of the girls rolling back their eyes—one in pleasure, the other at the addicting taste.

Her head tilted, flicking her tongue as she wrapped her lips around Y/n’s clit, fingers still driving inside the tight hole. Y/n’s back arched, hands tangling in Wonyoung’s hair as her hips moved into the warm mouth, the tongue slick and scalding against her cunt. 

“Shit—I’m gonna write a song about your mouth–oh fuck.” 

Wonyoung smiled at the words, doing her best to pleasure the lead singer with her mouth and fingers after getting an orgasm that made her feel like she ascended for a second. The slim thighs spasmed around her head and she reached her other hand up, cupping under the supple breast that fit right into her palm. Her fingers, toyed with the piercing and nipple as she worked her tongue harder against the clit between her lips. 

She could feel the walls tighten around her fingers, making her press down on the soft wall and continue the movement of her tongue. Fingers pinching and tugging at the hard nipple as Y/n let out whiny and light moans. The mess grew bigger on the sheets with each second, spit and slick covered her chin as her mouth worked sloppily on the girl’s cunt, making it so much more lewd.

Her thighs quivered at the warm tongue dragging and flicking over her clit. It made her head buzz at how deep she could feel Wonyoung’s fingers inside her heat unable to stop how she clenched around them with every movement. The slurping of the girl’s mouth was barely making it to Y/n as her ears grew muffled, not being able to think about anything but how good it felt.

Heat shot through her whole body as her legs tensed up around Wonyoung’s head, the orgasm running through every part of her body as Wonyoung only stopped once she was heaving under her just like she had done. She pulled her fingers out of the pulsating walls and licked everything up before pulling away, clearing her fingers with her tongue too while sitting back on her heels. 

“Song worthy?” She questioned with a sly smirk and Y/n hummed, pushing herself up and grabbing hold of Wonyoung’s wrist. “Totally, but this whole night is gonna be song-worthy.” She let the girl know, making her straddle her thigh, the wet heat pressing against the skin of it. Their lips met once again as she gripped Wonyoung’s hips, guiding her to roll them. 

masterlist

[liyliths]

.˚𓅆࿐ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 an aot au / inspired by the hunger games

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

series summary: survive. that's all you've known you're entire life - to survive. survive district 12, survive the reaping, and survive the capitol. but when you're reaped for the 98th annual hunger games alongside levi ackerman, will you seize the opportunity of rebellion when it arises? the mockingjay is singing, dear reader, please choose wisely.

"I don’t sleep," Levi finally mutters. You scoff. "Ha, funny." He pushes off the railing. "Fine then, I’m going back to my room." "Wait," you say instinctively, your free hand catching his wrist before he can leave. "Don’t go." Levi closes his eyes, considering for just a moment before sighing, pulling his hand from your grasp. But instead of leaving, he places his hands back onto the railing. "Alright." You glance down at the city below, your fingers tracing the patterns of your dessert plate. "I’m sorry I went after you earlier," you say.

pairings: levi ackerman x reader

contains: fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, hurt and comfort, semi canon compliant, character death, descriptions of blood, phycological trauma, rebellion, this is gonna hurt but be so rewarding, and any other warnings that come with aot characters/the hunger games universe

word count: 7.4k

playlist

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After a night of slumber, your team got to work on you and Levi by noon in preparation for the interviews. Your lessons with Hannes and Valerie are over, now the day belongs to Hange. You’re washed down, re-waxed which wasn’t pleasant in the slightest, and your hair was done into a neat updo. 

By late afternoon, your makeup was done. You were all ready aside from the finishing touch being your dress, which you were anxious to try on. Hange mentioned something about more fire, and even though you survived the first outfit, you wonder how this one will work. 

Will you and Levi be matching once again? Will you end up getting burnt? No, you trust Hange enough now to not question that. 

Hange returned to your room with what you guessed to be your dress. “Close your eyes,” she smiles.

It’s surprisingly heavy, the weight of it pressing against your shoulders, cascading down your frame like a waterfall of silk, and something feathery. It clings to your form perfectly, as if it were sculpted just for you. Hange moves quickly, fastening clasps, smoothing the fabric against your waist, adjusting the shoulders.

The texture is unlike anything you’ve ever worn. It isn’t the rough, patchy fabric of District 12, nor the sleek artificial materials of the Capitol. Instead, it’s a blend of soft and sharp, of feathers that ripple like shadows and embroidery that feels like embers beneath your fingertips.

“Alright,” Hange breathes, and you can hear the excitement underneath her voice. “Open your eyes!”

You blink your eyes open, readjusting to the bright lights above as you try to catch a glimpse of your reflection in the full length mirror before you. Your breath catches in your chest. The girl staring back at you is unrecognizable. Is it really you?

The dress is made of layered black feathers, so intricately placed that they look as if they were real, shifting with even the smallest movement. The bodice is tight, sculpted to fit you perfectly, the details glimmering like the dying glow of embers beneath a thick layer of ash. 

Your hands trail down the dress, where the feathers grow heavy and thick until they transform. The hem of the dress burns. Not literally, but the illusion is flawless. The edges glow with hues of orange, red, and gold, flickering like a dying fire, like a bird ready to take flight. It isn’t still, the flames seem to breathe, to move, licking at the ground but never consuming.

“Well?” Hange glances at you, watching your reflection in the mirror.

“Wow…” you breathe. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Hange clasps her hands together excitedly. “Of course, darling! You look gorgeous. Are you ready for the interview?”

Judging by the look on your stylist’s face, you can tell she’s talked to Hannes and Valerie by now. They’ve probably told her you’ll be hopeless in earning over the audience with your words, but you know they’re not wrong.

“No, not really. Hannes told me I have about as much charm as a dead slug,” you admit, absentmindedly fiddling with the feathers on your dress.

Hange does her best to stifle a laugh, gracefully clearing her throat. "Well, you charm me. Why don’t you just try and be yourself?"

Those words grate on your nerves, but you don’t find yourself mad at Hange. No, you’re mad at Hannes for even telling you those excruciating words yesterday in the first place. You are being yourself, but apparently, that won’t be enough. Not charming, witty, or charismatic enough to win anyone over.

You exhale, forcing the frustration down before it can fester. "Apparently, that’s not working out for me," you mutter, shrugging as you turn away from your reflection to meet Hange’s gaze.

She hums thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her chin. "Say, when you answer the questions, why don’t you pretend you're talking to a friend from back home?"

The suggestion makes you pause. A friend. Petra.

You could answer the questions as if you were talking to her. The way she’d listen, the way she’d smile, the way she always made you feel like your words meant something. Why didn’t you think of this? Not even Hannes or Valerie could have! God, Hange is a genius.

“Thank you, Hange. It’s a plan.” 

“Of course, dear. Now, let's get you going,” Hange quips, briskly guiding you by the shoulders to the waiting room where all the tributes prepare for their interviews. 

You two took the elevator to the waiting room just behind the huge interview stage. The ride was quiet, but just as you exchanged a small goodbye with Hange when the doors slid open, she grabbed your shoulder to stop you.

“Oh! How could I forget!” Hange says excitedly, fixing a few feathers on your dress and neatly smoothing them out. “Make sure you spin when you’re on stage.”

“What?”

Hange couldn’t help but laugh at your confusion. “It’ll be a surprise.”

Now your guess is more fire, just as she had mentioned earlier. “I’m excited to see what you’ve planned out.” you smile.

“Me too darling, me too. Now, move along. Levi should be waiting by now!” Hange exclaims, ushering you out of the elevator door. You don’t even get a chance to say goodbye before the doors slide close, leaving you on your own to find your seat.

You look for Levi, brisking over the tributes in their seats, who are all anxiously waiting for the interviews to begin. As your eyes scan the room, you catch a glimpse of blonde hair—Armin. You were going to wave, but you noticed he wasn’t exactly paying attention—too busy in a hushed conversation with the black-haired District 4 tribute. 

What business do those two have with each other? You’d never admit it out loud, but if you’re already petrified of that girl, Armin should be the last person that would ever want to be that close to her, let alone conversing with her! Well, even though he’s not very strong, that boy does have some brains. What if he’s trying to form an alliance? 

Though, if he were smart, he wouldn’t form one in the first place, because that’s a real easy way to get yourself betrayed and killed.

You don’t have much time to ponder on their business with each other, as you’re snapped out of your thoughts by none other than Levi calling your name. He’s sat in the back row of chairs, of course, being District 12. He’ll be the last tribute of the night to be interviewed, with you going right before him. 

It is hardly a laughing matter, but you can’t help but hold back a snicker at the thought of that boy in front of hundreds of thousands of Capitol citizens attempting to be charming. You imagine he’d give simple yes or no answers, or even be bold enough to ignore the questions entirely.

“Hey,” you whisper, picking up the bottom of your dress to sit beside the raven-haired boy. This time, he isn’t styled identical to you. He is dressed in a charming all black suit with fiery red accents, his hair neatly styled in a slick back. You can’t help but think he looks handsome, though you’d never dare to admit that out loud. 

“What took you so long?” Levi questioned, scooting over slightly to give you more room with your dress. 

You smoothed out the black feathers, exhaling in an attempt to blow out all of your anxiousness. Then, of course, just as you feel your nerves settle, you remember the fact he’s practically betrayed you, going behind your back to get trained on his own! How can he act like everything is normal?

“Hange just had to go over a few things with me,” you simply say, to which Levi gives a small nod. You notice the way he leaned forward, elbows propped up on his knees, nervously fiddling with the ring on his middle finger.

Don’t. Don’t ask. You don’t care.

But he’s anxious. Though, so are you. So is everyone! It doesn’t matter. Don’t ask!

Don’t—

“Are you okay?” you blurt out, your mouth moving as if it had a mind of its own. 

Fuck. Someone needs to cut out your damn tongue.

“What?” Levi is snapped out of his trance entirely, his scowl deepening impossibly more as if you’ve said something absolutely vulgar.

“Nothing.” 

“Fine.”

“What?”

“Idiot, I said I’m fine. You can probably guess crowds aren’t my thing.” Levi admits, now leaning back in his chair in an attempt to get more comfortable, his arms strung over the top of the backrest. 

“Yeah,” you make a noise between a scoff and a laugh. “Not either of our strong suits.”

A jarring voice interrupts your conversation from the television hung on the wall. Darius Flickerman, the man who has hosted the interview for the games for over twenty years, bounces onto the stage with his bright purple wig, styled with a matching purple suit. Really, what is with the Capitol and the ridiculous style?

The massive crowd erupts into cheers, a dizzying blend of colors screaming together. The introduction music blares, and Darius quiets down the noise. “Welcome, welcome, welcome, to the 98th annual Hunger Games!”

As the interviewer addresses the crowd, you watch as the District 1 tributes stand and make their way to the entrance to the stage, the black-haired girl who mocked you in the training center being first to go. 

While the interviews go on, you’re sitting in quiet concentration. This is your chance to get to know the people you’re up against. You finally learned District 1’s names, Pieck and Porco, and from what you observed, the two of them are pretty cocky. Though, what can you expect from careers? 

Next is District 2. Those two aren’t nearly as cocky, although they are clearly strong. The blonde girl, Annie, didn’t talk much in her interview, but the male tribute who you swear is built like an ox, Reiner, presents himself well. District 3’s girl was younger, probably about thirteen. The male tribute for 3 was Armin, and he was great at winning over the crowd.

Following District 3 was the black-haired girl who could rip you to shreds with just her glare, Mikasa. She doesn’t talk much, giving short and simple answers for Darius. He tries to challenge her and make her spill a bit more, but she doesn’t falter. Jesus, it would be one thing if she was eying you out of cockiness, but no, based on the fact she didn’t even try to win over the crowd, she’s even more frightening. 

The District 4 boy, Eren, had a bit more of a personality to present. He seemed cocky, but not as the District 1 tributes were. More confident, you’d say. Darius even brought up their team, complimenting their stylists for the designs this year, as well as pointing out their mentor, who's name you learn is Erwin Smith.

The next few tributes that stood out to you are a boy named Jean from District 7 who was quite the charmer, the tributes from District 8, Gabi and Falco, who are the youngest in the entire pool of tributes, and the pair from District 10, Sasha and Connie, who are from the livestock district. 

Now, you’re face to face with the entrance that goes straight into the stage. The District 11 boy is just about to finish up, and you can’t help but feel absolutely terrified. You’re up next. 

The thought of being in front of hundreds of thousands of people that are betting on whether you live or die is sickening. You feel bile threatening to rise in your throat. You squeeze your hand into a fist, feeling your clammy palms. Your feet feel as if they could give out in your heels, as if you’d topple over yourself the moment you start walking. 

The sound of your name pulls you out of it, and you look to see Levi gesturing toward the entrance to the stage. “What?”

“You’re up,” is all he says, and you swear you could feel your stomach plummet to the ground. 

With a shaky inhale, you try to ground yourself. All you have to do is answer the questions honestly, and if even Valerie said you’re likeable, you might say something that will win over the crowd. All that matters is getting through it. What’s the worst that could happen?

You feel yourself walking forward, as if you were in some kind of dream. You make your way toward the center of the stage, finding your seat beside Darius. You can’t tell if you’ll throw up, pass out, or blank everything out, or all of the above. The spotlight on you is absolutely blinding, and the crowd blends together in a dizzying array of colors that makes you nauseous.

Darius begins speaking, and you try your best to focus on exactly what he’s saying. “Back at the City Circle, that was quite an entrance you made,” he begins, tilting his head in admiration. “I think all of our hearts stopped, I know mine did.”

You force a small smile, gripping the armrests of your chair. You’re fine. Just answer honestly, as if you were talking to Petra. It’s okay. You’re okay.

“I was just hoping I wouldn’t get burnt to a crisp.”

Laughter ripples through the audience, Darius joining in with an easy chuckle. “Well, thank goodness you didn’t! You and your district partner certainly made an impression.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Now, I think we are all dying to know. You had the highest score among all the tributes. Can I ask how you managed an eleven?”

“Well, I—” you started, but stopped yourself before you needed to cut your tongue out yourself for speaking without thinking. You glance at Darius before shaking your head with an almost apologetic smile. “I don’t think I’m allowed to say, am I?”

Through the crowd from one of the balconies, you see the same bald gamemaker that fell into the punch bowl shout out, “no!”

Darius gasps dramatically, clutching at his chest. “Alright then, folks, I guess we’ll never know!” he jokes, earning another wave of laughter from the audience.

Your shoulders relax slightly, but the reprieve is short lived. His next words send a chill through your spine. “On a more serious note, back at the reaping…”

Your heart drops. No.

Darius reaches out, gently taking your hand in his, his expression softening. “You are the first volunteer in District 12’s history. What made you step forward for that girl?”

A pit forms in your stomach. You should’ve known they were going to bring Petra up. Your breath catches as your mind races, scanning the sea of faces for something, someone, to ground you. You manage to spot them in the crowd—Hange, then Hannes, Valerie beside them, all watching intently. Your eyes lock with Hange’s and she gives you a slight nod, encouraging you. 

Be honest. Don’t say too much. You have to keep Petra safe.

You steel yourself, your fingers curling slightly in your lap. “Well,” you begin carefully, “I don’t have much to lose.”

The audience murmurs, their intrigue only deepening. That surely was not the answer they expected nor wanted from you. But you don’t owe them anything.

Darius tilts his head, his brows furrowing before he pushes you more. “Really? I’ve heard you’ve got a sister. Some people say you volunteered because that girl reminded you of her. Is that true?”

Your blood runs cold. What the fuck?

In the midst of your panic, your fingers twitch as you instinctively pull your hand from the man’s grasp before you could compose yourself. Great, now that wasn’t very likeable of you! Though, how could you be likeable when they just asked you about your passed sister? Damn them! Damn Darius and everyone in the Capitol! 

You glance at your team in the crowd, and there’s a split second of hesitation, just enough for you to see them stiffen, their smiles faltering, uncertain of how to guide you through this. You notice Hannes gulp down a huge swig of his alcohol, shrugging as Hange whispers something in his ear.

How could they know about your sister? Let alone, why would they bring her up here of all places? Did they seriously dig that far back into your past? How much do they know? No, calm down! They’re just trying to get a reaction out of you.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come at first. Then, without thinking, they tumble out, sharper than intended. “Had.”

The weight of that single word lingers in the air. The audience is mostly silent, with a few “awes” echoing through the stadium. Fuck them.

“And that’s not true,” you add quickly, forcing steel into your tone. “I hardly knew that girl.”

It’s a lie. A blatant, ugly lie. And you hate yourself for saying it, you know Petra is watching this back home. You can only hope she understands why you had to say it, why you have to protect her, no matter the cost. You know her, and you know she’s kind and selfless. But they don’t need to know that.

Darius blinks, clearly taken aback, but he recovers quickly, pasting on a charming smile. “Well then,” he muses, “I think that was very brave of you.”

The crowd hums in agreement, though the tension still lingers in the air. You force yourself to breathe. You’re okay. 

Darius brightens again, shifting gears. “Your stylist truly outdid themselves this year. Can you tell me more about this dress you’re wearing?”

You seize the change in subject, pushing down the unease still crawling up your spine. “Yes, actually,” you say, straightening your shoulders. “My stylist said she has a surprise in store for us. Would you like to see?”

The audience erupts into cheers before Darius can even answer. He laughs, eyes twinkling with excitement. “Wait, is it safe?” he teases, throwing his hands up playfully. “Well, what do you think, folks?”

The cheers grow even louder, an eager chant building in the stands. You push yourself up from your seat, walking to the center of the stage. The lights shift slightly, dimming just enough to focus on you. You take a deep breath, then turn. Once, then twice, and around you go. The moment you move, the dress ignites.

Gasps echo through the crowd, followed by thunderous applause. The fire spreads along the black feathers, illuminating the intricate details of the design. You knew it, more flames. Hange, you damned genius. Then, the flames flicker and morph. The fire transforms into wings, feathers curling up your arms, shimmering like embers.

You spread your arms straight out, and almost gasp yourself. It’s just like a Mockingjay.

Darius reaches out instinctively, steadying you by the elbow as you regain your balance, fighting the spinning world in your vision. “Woah! Steady, steady!” he laughs, though his awe is evident. You regain your balance, holding his gaze.

“That,” he announces, turning to the crowd, “was extraordinary.” He extends his hand, gesturing toward you with a grand flourish. “Let’s give it up for her, folks! The girl on fire!”

The stadium shakes with applause, the roar of the Capitol deafening. As you retreat toward the backstage, you catch Hange’s eyes on you, giving you an enthusiastic thumbs up. By the time you make it backstage, you watch as Levi brushes past you toward the center of the stage for his interview. You can only imagine how much that boy hates crowds. 

You’re still in a daze for the first part of his interview, catching your breath in your seat. From what you hear, the interview goes as you expected. Levi gives short and blunt yes or no answers, though surprisingly he didn’t ignore any. Probably best not to, anyways. Then, just as you think they’re almost done, the sound of your name catches your attention.

"Your district partner has certainly caught the Capitol’s attention. Brave enough to volunteer along with that outstanding training score. Tell us, what’s it like working alongside someone like her? Is she an asset or a challenge?" Darius asks, eager to know more.

Levi slightly leans back in his seat, his expression unreadable. “She’s not weak, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, not weak at all according to her training score,” Darius agrees, eyes gleaming with interest before prodding some more. “But beyond that, does she stand out to you in any particular way?”

Levi tilts his head slightly, as if considering. How do you even answer that question? The pause stretches just a little too long, enough for the audience to lean in.

“She’s… different,” he starts. “Most people either break or bend when they’re afraid. She doesn’t do either.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Interesting,” Darius muses, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “So, would you say she’s someone you’d trust in the arena?”

“I don’t trust anyone. But if I had to?” he says, then pauses. The stadium is so quiet with anticipation you could hear a pin drop. “It’d be her.”

A ripple spreads through the crowd, soft gasps, whispers exchanged like currency. The Capitol adores moments like these. It’s exactly what they want, tension wrapped into something they can shape and manipulate. You can see right through it. They’re going to manipulate you two into something you’re not, and it’s going to make you look weak!

“Well, well,” he chuckles, turning toward the audience with a flourish. “Unfortunately, we have run out of time. It seems District 12 has given us quite the pair to watch, wouldn’t you say? Let’s give it up for the male tribute, Levi Ackerman!”

You watch as Levi casually waves into the crowd, exchanging a quick handshake with Darius Flickerman before retreating towards backstage. What the fuck was that?

By the time Levi makes it backstage, the other tributes have departed to their apartments. When the black-haired boy is just about to pass you, you grab him by the collar of his suit, shoving him into the back of a wall. He barely resists, letting you pin him down. The muffled roar of the audience still rings in your ears, but it’s nothing compared to the irritation burning in your chest.

You release his collar with a shove, your glare practically burning holes in his eyes. “What the hell was that?”

Levi doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he adjusts the stiff collar of his suit like this conversation is nothing more than an inconvenience. “What are you talking about?”

You scoff. “Oh, I don’t know. First, you go behind my back to get trained separately, and then act like everything’s normal. Now, the interview? Didn’t you want to keep your distance? Because it sure didn’t seem like that back there.”

Levi exhales through his nose, clearly unimpressed by your outburst. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You blink, thrown off. “Worked?”

Before he can answer, Hannes strides up behind you, rubbing his temple like he’s been dealing with a headache all night. “You two done having a lovers’ quarrel?” he mutters, shaking his head. “Because I’d love to go to bed without needing to drink an entire bottle of whiskey first.”

You whirl on him. “Hannes, what was fuck that?” you demand, motioning toward Levi. “Why did he—”

Hannes groans dramatically, cutting you off. “Because it made you look desirable! The audience eats that shit up. Tension, a little unresolved something, they love it.” He waves a hand vaguely. “You were already intriguing enough with your training score and that whole volunteering stunt, as well as your dress, but Levi’s little interview sealed the deal. They’ll remember you now.”

You blink, the weight of it settling over you. You knew they wanted you to be likable. You knew the approval of the Capitol, the gamemakers, and the sponsors were everything. But hearing it like this, like a game being played right in front of you, makes your stomach turn.

“It’s strategy,” Levi says simply.

And damn it, he’s right. You hate that he’s right. This stunt, though maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal, had to be what he and Hannes had agreed on during prep yesterday. 

You sigh, rubbing your face. “Fine, whatever. But next time, I’d appreciate a warning.”

Levi shrugs, his gaze flicking past you. “Next time? Let’s survive this first.”

You felt your chest tighten at that. Let’s? Only one of you is making it out of this. And now, for the first time, you truly wish you could do something about it.

Hannes claps his hands together. “Great, now that that’s settled, let’s wrap this up. Eat some dinner, say your goodbyes, get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

Everyone lingers. Valerie offers a surprisingly sincere well-wish, Hannes pats you on the back before heading for a drink, and Moblit nods politely before following Hange off to deal with last minute preparations.

But Hange, she lingers behind.

She doesn’t leave like the others. Instead, she rests a hand on your shoulder, her usual manic energy dimmed just a little. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she says, voice soft. “In the morning, I’ll be the one sending you off.”

You nod, swallowing thickly. Somehow, that makes it all feel more real. The Games are tomorrow. You’re running out of time. Then, you remember your interview, the way they practically used everything they could learn about you against you.

“Hange,” you call out. She stops in her tracks, turning back to face you. “Why did they bring her up?”

Hange must’ve understood who you meant by ‘her’ judging by the way her eyes softened. “My dear, the Capitol will do anything to break you. You just have to stand strong enough to not let yourself be another piece in their games.”

You don’t know what to say. Levi lingers too, standing just a few steps away. For a moment, you wonder if he’s waiting for you to say something. But you don’t. Instead, you just turn and walk away.

Damn the Capitol and anyone that has anything to do with the Games.

-

You were quick to make it back to the top floor of your apartment. You couldn’t help but feel sentimental, knowing this was the last night you’ll truly be safe. Surprisingly, you think you’ll miss hearing the banter between Hannes and Valerie. Tomorrow, you’ll be fighting for your life in an arena in which you don’t know you’ll make it out of. 

You know your team won’t be going with you. Hannes and Valerie will be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up your sponsors. Hange will be travelling with you from the very spot you will be launched up into the arena.

You scarfed down as much food as your stomach could possibly handle, even bringing some extra desserts and drinks to snack on before bed. Before you could make a break to your room, your team insisted on saying their goodbyes, even though they might still see you early in the morning before your departure. 

Valerie takes you and Levi by the hand, and with actual tears in her eyes, wishes you two well. She thanks you for being the best tributes to ever have the privilege to sponsor. And then, because apparently Valerie is required by law to say something awful, she adds in, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!”

She hurries out of the dining room, and you’re left with Hannes. He crosses his arms and looks you and Levi over.

“Any last advice?” you ask.

“The moment the Games start, make a run for it. Screw everything inside of the Cornucopia, it’ll be a bloodbath. Put as much distance as you can between yourself and the other tributes, and find a source of water. I’ll try to cover your backs with the sponsors.” he says. “Got it?”

“And after that?” Levi questions.

“Stay alive,” is all he says. It’s the same advice he gave you two on the train, but he’s not drunk and mocking this time. And you only nod. What else is there to say?

When you finally depart to your room with hands full of food, Levi stays behind to talk to Hannes. You’re glad. You two can exchange whatever words of parting you might have tomorrow. 

You shower after snacking, having hung up your dress neatly in your closet, scrubbing off all the makeup and fragrances that were meticulously placed onto you today. The warm water feels nice, and you wish you could stay here forever. Away from everything and everyone. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Unfortunately, since those kinds of luxuries do not exist in the world you live in, you finally step out of the shower. You dried yourself off with a fluffy towel, then retreated to your closet to find a robe. You spot your dress, now transformed into something that reminds you so much of a Mockingjay. How can Hange even come up with these design ideas? Like you’ve said—genius. 

You finally roll into bed, and after just about five seconds, you realize you will not be getting a wink of sleep tonight. You know you desperately need it, whatever ounce of energy you can preserve in the arena can make a difference of life or death. The arena. What kind of lands will you be in? Desert? Swamp? Ruins? 

Maybe, God be willing, you will end up in a forest. You know how to hunt and navigate, so you presume that could work. But there are also your fellow tributes, you won’t be alone, you could be stalked like prey with every step you take. 

Now, your heart is racing and you can’t seem to calm it down. You stand up from your bed, smoothing a hand over your face as you exhale and pace the room. Jesus, just rest, won’t you? 

But you know you can’t. You won’t. Your feet practically move on their own, grabbing a plate of leftover dessert and heading straight for none other than the rooftop. Seeing the stars underneath the moon one last night before you’re hunted like an animal would be nice, so you don’t stop yourself. 

The moment you burst through the door to the rooftop, you finally seem to catch your breath, feeling your heart slow as you take in the fresh cool air. Your bare feet track toward the railing, resting your elbows on top as you take in the city lights, taking a chocolate covered strawberry from your dessert plate and popping it in your mouth. There are exhilarating colors, echoes of cheers and laughter from below as the party goers celebrate. 

“You should be getting some sleep,” a voice calls out from behind, though you don’t have to look to know who it is. 

“Shouldn’t you be as well?” you quip back.

A pair of hands grip the ledge beside you. From the corner of your eye, you see Levi lean forward, dark hair falling slightly over his face. For a moment, you consider leaving. Going back to your room, forcing yourself into whatever restless sleep might find you before morning.

But the thought of being alone, of staring at the ceiling with nothing but the weight of tomorrow sitting on your chest, makes your stomach twist. The crisp night air wins, even if you have company.

"I don’t sleep," Levi finally mutters.

You scoff. "Ha, funny."

He pushes off the railing. "Fine then, I’m going back to my room."

"Wait," you say instinctively, your free hand catching his wrist before he can leave. "Don’t go."

Levi closes his eyes, considering for just a moment before sighing, pulling his hand from your grasp. But instead of leaving, he places his hands back onto the railing.

"Alright."

You glance down at the city below, your fingers tracing the patterns of your dessert plate. "I’m sorry I went after you earlier," you say.

“I get it. I might’ve done the same,” Levi says, his gaze not meeting yours as he watches the city, too. Another roar of cheers echo from the streets below, loud enough to hear it clearly from the top floor of the Tribute Center. “Jesus, listen to them.”

"I know." You shake your head, the absurdity of it all settling into something disturbingly familiar. “I just don’t want them to change me.”

Levi’s gaze finally settles on you, his brows furrowed together, laced with confusion. “How could they change you?”

You exhale, glancing away. “I don’t know,” you admit, shrugging. The thought has been gnawing at you for days, but putting it into words makes it feel heavier. “I just don’t want to become something I’m not.”

It reminds you too much of what Hange said earlier, the way she warned you about the Capitol breaking people down, twisting them into pieces that fit their narrative. The idea makes your stomach churn.

“I don’t want to be another pawn in their game.”

Levi hums quietly. A small acknowledgment, not quite agreement, not quite dismissal. You wonder if he understands.

“If I die in there,” you continue, voice quieter now, “I want to die as myself. Does that make sense?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watches you, really watches you, like he’s trying to figure out the weight of your words. Finally, he nods. “Yeah.”

You hesitate before speaking again, letting the words form before you let them out. “I keep wishing I could find a way to show them, to show the Capitol that they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a piece in their game.”

Levi exhales sharply, barely a laugh, barely a sigh. “Aren’t we all?”

You blink, considering that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe every person in Panem, at least in the districts, feels the same way, buried under the weight of a system designed to destroy them.

“Maybe,” you murmur. “I don’t know. All I know is that I’m tired of living like this.”

Levi doesn’t say anything else. The two of you watch the night life, cars bustling through the city and parties ongoing at every block. In the morning, just around ten, you will be in the arena with every citizen of Panem watching you and the rest of the tributes on live television, rooting on who they believe should win. 

You’re terrified. Hundreds and thousands of eyes will be on you, watching your every move, either mocking you or cheering for you. It’s hard to believe that in just a few hours you’ll be shipped off to that damned arena. 

Though, for now, you’re okay. Now, you are safe on the rooftop, watching the Capitol. For now, you can breathe. You might as well take in the peaceful moments before they’re stripped away from you. You look at Levi. Maybe talking to him will keep you from getting lost in your own head.

"Why did you do it?"

Levi turns slightly, brow raised. "What do you mean?"

"Why did you decide to train separately?"

His fingers tighten against the railing, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. Then, after what feels like forever, he exhales sharply. “Because it was the best move,” he says simply. “You needed the sponsors more than I did.”

You blink, thrown off. “What?”

Levi finally turns to face you fully. “They already expect me to be strong. You? You’re different. The Capitol loves a story, and that’s what I gave them. Hannes and I agreed on it.” 

He pauses, his gaze flickering over you like he’s trying to gauge your reaction. “As for the training… it was better to know where we stand before we get thrown into that arena.”

You scoff, shaking your head. Maybe he has betrayed you, after all. “And where do we stand?”

Another pause. The night air feels colder now.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know I don’t want to stab you in the back.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “That makes one of us.”

Levi’s gaze sharpens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. He just watches you, as if waiting for you to make the next move. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the fact that you want to believe him. You want to believe that not everyone in the Games is out to kill you. Maybe, he doesn’t want you dead, either. 

Absentmindedly, you take another chocolate covered strawberry from your plate and toss it over the edge. It meets the forcefield, flickering slightly before recoiling back, landing somewhere behind you.

"Why do you think they put a forcefield on the roof?" you ask.

Levi shrugs. "To make sure none of the tributes take it upon themselves to be eliminated before the Games."

“Geez,” you wince at the thought. You can’t really blame anyone for that, though. Might be an easier way to go, that or be mauled by someone in the arena. “And do you remember what that boy, Armin, was saying about the forcefield?” 

"Yeah. Why?"

"What do you think he meant by that?"

Levi sighs, rubbing his temple. "Good grief, is this another interview?"

"No!" you exclaim, waving your hands in defense. "I’m just curious."

Levi’s lips twitch slightly. "Who knows? That kid seems too smart for his own good."

"I guess so."

For the next hour or so, the two of you fall into a much more comfortable silence. You snack on the desserts you have left on your plate. You even came up with a game where you throw a strawberry at the forcefield, attempting to catch it when it bounces back. For a little while, it feels like things are normal. 

Though, you know that tomorrow, everything changes. For now, you let yourself pretend that the world isn’t about to fall apart.

Exhaustion finally begins to creep up on you, and you end up saying goodnight to Levi, retreating to your room in an attempt to get some shut eye. You spend the rest of the night in and out of sleep, thinking about all of the possibilities that might come in the arena. Despite your exhaustion, you don’t rest much. 

-

You don’t see Levi in the morning. Hange comes to you before dawn, gives you a simple dress to wear, and guides you to the loading area. Your final dressing and preparations will be done in the catacombs under the arena itself. A hovercraft appears out of thin air and the aircraft opens up, leading to a few seats. Before you get the chance to sit, a woman in a white coat approaches you carrying a syringe.

“This is just your tracker,” she says. You reluctantly hold your arm out, feeling the sharp stab of pain as the needle inserts the metal tracking device deep under the skin on the inside of your forearm. You assume that it’s for the gamemakers to keep track of you in the arena. 

The ride to the arena is quiet. Hange respects your space, and the only thing to distract you was your breakfast, and the barren windows in the hovercraft. When you glance outside, you’re so high up that the trees are just a cluster of specks. This is what the birds must see. Though, the only difference between you being that one is free.

When you arrive, you and Hange are escorted to the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. You’re led into a chamber for your preparation. In the Capitol, they like to call it the launch room, but in the districts, it is referred to as the stockyard. A place where animals go before they’re slaughtered. 

You are instructed to shower by Hange, and when you do, you fight back the urge to throw up the contents of your breakfast. Once you get out, you clean your teeth and change into the outfits all twenty-four tributes will be wearing in the arena. Hange, unfortunately, did not get a say in the design. 

The clothing is nice, though. The jacket’s material is clearly made for cold weather, so you can expect some cold nights. The quality of the boots are better than anything you could get at home with a great fit, good for running. 

You think you’re finished getting dressed when Hange pulls out a familiar pin from her pocket. It’s the gold Mockingjay pin Petra had gifted you. You had almost completely forgotten about it between the chaos of the days. 

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

“Off the blouse you wore on the train,” she says. “I figured you should have it. Though, it barely passed through the review board. Some thought the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an advantage, which is ridiculous! What could you do with such a small needle?”

You can’t find the right words through your nerves, so all you do is offer her a faint smile while she fastens the pin on the side of your jacket. “Anyways, they eventually let it through. They eliminated a ring from the District 2 girl, though. If you twisted the ring, a sharp metal piece came out, sharp enough to cut through flesh.”

“Why would she even try to bring something like that through?” you question.

“Who knows, darling. Here, walk around for me. Make sure everything fits right.” Hange gives a small shrug, sending you off to walk around. 

You shuffle around, rolling your shoulders back to make sure the jacket wasn’t too confining. “It all fits well.”

“Good then. All we can do now is wait for the call.” Hange says, offering a smile, though you can see the sadness behind it. “Do you think you can eat anymore?”

You decline, but chug down a massive glass of water. You find a seat on the couch, nervously messing with the hem of your jacket. Your palms are growing sweaty, and you can practically feel your heartbeat through your ears. 

No. You’re okay. It’s okay.

Nonetheless, nervousness seeps into terror as you imagine what is to come. You could be dead within the hour, or even before then. On top of that, you are going to watch people die. The same group of people you’ve spent training and prepping with for the past week are all going to die, aside from one lucky victor.

It’s okay. You’re okay.

Suddenly, you feel a hand on top of yours, resting on your knee. You see Hange offer a comforting nod, and you smile. You sit like this until a female voice announces to prepare for launch.

Sixty seconds.

Still clenching onto Hange’s hand, the two of you walk over to the tube that will take you into the arena. “Remember what Hannes said, run and find water. The rest will follow,” she says. You nod, feeling your fingers tremble as you clutch her hand like it was your lifeline. “And remember this. If I could bet on anyone, I would place everything I have on you, girl on fire.”

You feel your lips tremble. “Really?”

Thirty seconds.

“Really,” Hange nods. She squeezes your hand before pulling you into a tight embrace. You can feel your body tremor underneath her hold, though neither of you say anything about it. She only lets go once you hear the glass cylinder to the tube slide open and the female voice counting down the seconds before launch.

Carefully, you step onto the platform, your gaze locked onto Hange’s. “Good luck. Remember, I’m betting on you.”

Ten seconds.

You can only watch as the glass cylinder closes around you, fully encasing you inside of the tube. It begins to lift, and Hange gives you a reassuring nod. Right, get yourself together. Hange disappears from your sight as the platform rises. You’re in darkness for a few seconds, feeling the platform pushing you up into the open air, straight into the arena.

For a moment, your eyes are completely blinded by the bright sunlight, unable to take in your surroundings. As your senses adjust, you’re conscious only of a strong breeze with the hopeful smell of fresh pine trees, accompanied by the sound of rushing water.

A forest.

Then, you hear the legendary announcer, Paladin Templesmith, as his voice echoes all around you. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the 98th Hunger Games begin!” 

───────────────────────────────────────────

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a/n: yippe! interviews are done and we are heading straight into the games! in my outline, we've finished the first out of three "acts" ! i presume there will be about twenty chapters to this fic in total. next up obviously will be the games, and i am so excited to dive into reader and levi's dynamic, as well as start introducing the other characters on a more personal level. i can't wait for you to read it all! thanks for tagging along! <3

taglist: @fleshandbonez @reivelmin @estella-novella @zoozvie @snoopyluver20 @honeybunbunn @jjune-07 @lovetwiyor @levisbrat25 comment and ask to be added!

likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! thank you for reading <3

[levanswrites]

what’s it gonna take to break your heart?

pairing: steve rogers x agent!reader

summary:

He vows to keep his distance, tells himself it's wrong—you're too new, too young, too good—and he's your commanding officer.

But whichever way he bends the truth, he just can't seem to keep you away.

warnings: angst, slow build, inside the tortured mind™ of steven grant rogers, mention of age difference, light mention of blood/injury

word count: 1k

a/n: thought i'd write something from steve's pov, for a change. pt. 1 of my mini series: what's it gonna take? all parts can be read as stand-alone pieces. title by FINNEAS

One of these days, you’re gonna be what does him in.

You’re a wildfire, a blaze barely contained. Too young, too bright, too intense for someone like him. Next to you, he's just a smoldering ember, tempered by decades of ash.

Fresh-faced, barely in your mid-20s, yet hand-selected by Fury from the newest round of Avengers recruits. It didn't take long for the rest of the group to catch onto your talent and grit—started calling you their wildcard, the Ace.

Still, there’s no denying your age. Leagues younger than everyone else, with a certain vibrance in your eyes that sets you apart. 

Too young to devote the rest of your life to this kind of work.

And far too young for him to be feeling the way he does about you.

So he does everything he can to keep you at arm’s length, swallowing down every sidelong glance, every quick-witted comment and smile that eats away at his resolve.

But then you actualize the worst of his fears during a routine operation, throwing yourself head-first into a burning building, just moments away from collapsing.  

You, with a life teeming with potential, nearly taken in a heartbeat.

And Steve snaps. 

The Quinjet is barely off the ground when he strides through the haze of desert debris, making a b-line for you. Doesn’t spare you a second to catch your breath, dragging you by the arm to the rear of the cargo deck, raised eyebrows from the rest of the crew be damned.

By the time he releases his ironclad grip, cornering you against a stack of weapon crates, he’s scanned you for injuries at least three times over.

“What are you doing?” He hisses, chest heaving like he’s the one who’s just sprinted across a collapsing rooftop and leapt onto an airborne vehicle.

“What do you mean?” 

You cock your head earnestly, arms crossed as you stare up at him.

And he swears, he could end it all right then and there. 

Face covered in soot, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth—and you have the audacity to smile. The sharp corners of your lips pierce into smooth, rounded cheeks, still flushed red with exertion. As stunning as the day he first saw you, even with all the grime, sweat, and blood staining your skin.

Steve’s jaw clenches, concealing the tightness in his stomach with a gruff sigh. 

“You know exactly what. I ordered you not to engage.”

Not a flicker of hesitation when you fire back: 

“She had kids. I didn’t have a choice.” 

Directives and protocols gone by the wayside, earpiece tossed behind your shoulder as you head straight for a family trapped on the top floor—his orders to wait for the Quinjet buried in the dust. 

And he shouldn’t have expected anything less. 

He breathes through his nostrils, eyes fluttering shut, but all he can hear is the blood roaring in his ears.

But you did have a choice, he wants to argue. You don’t have to bear it all on your own. 

Why must you always be the one to rush to the frontlines?

But the words that come out are cold and detached, bypassing the part of his brain that wants to reach out and gently wipe the soot off your cheek: 

“That’s not the point. If the building had collapsed, you would have only added to the casualty count.”

“Maybe. But the Quinjet wasn’t gonna get there in time. I had to take the risk.”

A quiet sigh, gloved fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Agent, we don’t gamble with lives like that.”

Your sharp laugh cuts through the air, piercing his ears. Too sharp against the soft outline of your jaw, the smooth contours of your neck. You shoot him a look, the clarity in your irises reflecting his hypocrisy. 

“Funny coming from you, isn’t it Cap?”

There it was, that derision in your tone, a sneer on your pretty lips as you spit out his title like a a dirty word.

And damn him for wanting to taste it off your tongue, hear you gasp it into his neck as he presses you against the cold, steel-plated wall behind you. 

Leather gloves creak under his grip as he balls his fists, eyes darting to the wound on your upper arm when he can't formulate a quick enough response. A large glass shrapnel from the window you’d crashed through—a steady trail of dark crimson trickling down your forearm all the way to your dirt-laden fingertips, where it hits the floor in slow drips. 

“Just… go get that patched up.” 

Lips curling over bright teeth, you salute him with your injured arm without so much as blinking, a line of blood running back down your wrist. 

“Yessir.”

For the entire 7-hour ride from Lagos to base camp, he stays glued to a seat in the back of the Quinjet, head bowed over a tablet as he busies himself with sorting through gathered intel.  Desperately ignores your animated banter with Natasha and Sam from the other side of the cabin, where you drown out the steady drone of the engine with your bright laughter. 

When a sudden shriek sounds from your direction, he spares a quick glance, finding you with your arms over your head, laughing and swatting the air as Redwing circles teasingly above you. Nearly snaps his tablet in half the moment you suddenly bend over, the stretch of your tactical suit clinging to your hips as you reach for the drone control panel on Sam’s wrist.

As soon as the wheels screech down on the tarmac, Steve gets to unloading the jet, hauling crate after crate of equipment just to avoid meeting your gaze. 

Hours later, when the paperwork’s taken care of and everyone’s retreated to their quarters, he drags himself to the training room on base.

Throws his fists against a punching bag, each strike a desperate attempt to sweat out the impure thoughts. Praying he can free himself of the images in his head—images of you—he doesn’t let up until the first rays of sunlight hit the gym. The skin over his knuckles start to split after a while, but he doesn’t bother wrapping them. They’ll heal soon enough.  

And when neither the 4-hour gym session nor the scalding hot shower afterward washes you away from his thoughts, burning brightly as ever in the back of his mind, he sinks into bed, fuming. 

You’re too new, too young.

It’s a breach of protocol, he’s technically your commanding officer. 

You don't think of him in that way. 

Yet, whichever way he bends it, there’s no escaping the truth. 

It’s a sharp, exquisite kind of ache, one that wraps around his chest, tightening with every breath, until it’s the only thing he can feel.

And damn it, it’s a torture sweeter than anything he's ever known.

[kolawnk]

revenge, perhaps ?

013 ☆ watch me burn brighter

⊯sypnosis: y/n, a beloved singer, fell deeply in love with the famous model Park Sunghoon, whose charm quickly turned their relationship into a global sensation. She was blind to his flaws, believing love could change his troubled past. But two months ago, she discovered the heartbreaking truth—he cheated. The betrayal shattered her. Yet, despite the pain, y/n still finds herself haunted by thoughts of him. Now, with her upcoming single, she's channeling that heartbreak into art, pouring all the unresolved emotions into her music. It’s not just a song—it’s her revenge, her way of reclaiming herself. Little did she know, someone was watching her more closely than anyone else.

note: this one is kinda long soo make sure to read everything😌😌 more under the cut !!

The cheers were thunderous, echoing through the venue like crashing waves. The entire stadium vibrated with adrenaline and anticipation, every fan on their feet, lights flashing like fireflies in a thunderstorm. The massive LED screen behind the stage shimmered to life—blooms turning to ash, petals melting into embers.

And then, she stepped out.

YN.

She walked slowly, deliberately, draped in a sculpted silhouette of velvet and flame. Her face was bare but strong, her eyes glazed with a cold fire. She looked every inch like a woman forged in pain—and not just surviving, but ruling her own ashes. The stage was hers. The night was hers. The world was watching.

“I'm still myself, but my views and people have changed. Now, are you ready to see the new era of yn?” her voice asked through the speaker, low and smooth, nearly swallowed by the rising music.

The crowd lost it.

She performed with a grace that bordered on violent—dancing as if exorcising demons, her lyrics ripping through speakers like confessions. Each verse hit like a punch to the chest, each chorus like a scream that had waited too long to be heard.

But somewhere between the strobe lights and the screams, somewhere deep inside—YN felt it again.

The fear.

She didn’t let it show, not as she twirled through the fire-lit choreography of “Mirror Talk” or screamed the final notes of “Ashes in Bloom.” But backstage, where the stage lights couldn’t reach her, she could feel it. That cold prickle along her spine. That invisible breath against her neck.

He was still out there.

And worse—he was watching.

SUNGHOON'S POV

He watched the entire performance alone, in a dark apartment with nothing but his phone screen illuminating his face. When she sang the second verse of “No Apology,” it was like being gutted with his own knife.

"you swore you changed / i should’ve known / silence is still betrayal / even when it’s gold.”

He knew that line was about him. Or maybe not. Maybe it was about everything. Her label. The stalker. All the betrayals layered over each other until the only thing she could do was burn it all down.

He typed and deleted the same message five times before settling on just one:

She sat in the corner of her new apartment, knees pulled to her chest, surrounded by unopened boxes. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the city through the window.

Her phone buzzed again.

Not from him.

From a private number.

No message.

Just a video.

She hesitated, then tapped it.

The screen flickered.

It was footage—of her. Tonight. Walking backstage. But the camera wasn’t from the venue. It was low to the ground. As if it was taken from behind a door. From the shadows.

She froze.

Then another buzz. A message.

“i was closer than you thought. beautiful show tonight.”

Her breath caught. The world spun.

She didn’t cry. Not this time.

But her fingers moved quickly, and she opened her contact list.

She scrolled to his name.

park sunghoon (dni)

She stared at it.

Her thumb hovered.

Then—

Calling...

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taglist!! (req open) @curaheehee @sngj08 @tasnemluvs @honestlyatomicpanda @haerin-luv @angelzforu @hyuneskkami @nessas-archive @enhastars @rikidaze @leralise @nk-3554 @hyuneskkami @angelzforu @semi-wife @desistay

[bumblebeehug]

Hiii!! Nalu request: What if nastu was a fashion designer or maybe an artist and Lucy is his model/muse!

His Muse

Summary: Natsu Dragneel is an artist. In his dreams, appears a woman. Notes: i took way too long to start writing on this, lol. thank u anon for giving me a chance to dabble with some AU stuff<3 enjoy! Ao3 - FF.net

***

Natsu Dragneel had a life. A good one, by most standards.

His days were a predictable rhythm: mornings spent staring at blank canvases, afternoons wrestling with half-formed ideas, and evenings spilling beers with Gray and Erza at their usual spot. He had friends who cared about him, a roof over his head, and a reputation as a decent artist who sometimes stumbled into brilliance. But beneath it all was the quiet hum of something missing.

It wasn’t an ache, not really. More like an emptiness that hovered just out of reach, shapeless and stubborn. He used to think it was Igneel, his father – the man who’d disappeared when Natsu was too young to understand why. Finding him should have filled that space. For a while, it did. They’d laughed, reconnected, and healed wounds that time had only scabbed over. But when the dust settled, that hum was still there, as persistent as ever.

He tried to ignore it. But some nights, when he sat in his studio surrounded by the ghosts of half-finished pieces, he wondered if he was just... incomplete.

The night the dream came, he wasn’t thinking about any of that. He’d been frustrated, staring at the same canvas for hours. The paintbrush felt foreign in his hand, the colors on his palette dull no matter how he mixed them. Even his signature reds, the fiery hues that used to blaze across his work, seemed muted. Finally, he’d thrown down his brush and collapsed into bed, letting the world dissolve as sleep took him.

The fire came first.

It roared to life around him, wild and untamed, swallowing the forest in a wave of heat and ash. Natsu didn’t run. There was no point. He crawled through the dirt, every muscle heavy, every breath a struggle. His body felt smaller than it should, fragile like a broken animal waiting for its end.

The flames were alive, ravenous, and they surrounded him on all sides. He closed his eyes, letting the heat press down on him, waiting for it to consume him. Then, through his eyelashes, he saw it.

The moon.

It hung impossibly large in the sky, pale and perfect, untouched by the smoke curling toward it. Its light was soft, yet it cut through the chaos with an authority that silenced everything else. He could feel it – steady and calm, as though it were watching him. Holding him. Suddenly, the fire didn’t matter. He stared up at the moon, and for a moment, he felt... peace.

When he woke, his heart was pounding. His sheets were damp with sweat, and the faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. He sat up, running a hand through his pink locks, but the image of the moon refused to fade. It stayed with him, vivid and haunting, like an ember burning in the back of his mind.

The dream came again the next night. And the night after that.

Each time, it was the same fire, the same searing heat. But the moon was always there, waiting. Watching. And with every dream, he found himself drawn to it more and more, its light pulling him from the flames like a lifeline.

Until the night he heard her voice.

It was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the crackle of the fire like the moonlight itself. He didn’t understand the words at first – nonsense syllables that carried no meaning – but her tone was unmistakable. It was calm and soothing, like she was trying to ease the weight pressing on his chest. He wanted to speak back, but the words wouldn’t come, vocal cords severed by the cutting, searing fire. All he could do was listen, letting her voice wash over him, until the flames seemed to fade into the background.

When he woke that morning, the ache in his chest felt sharper. Clearer. For the first time, he realized: the emptiness he’d carried all these years wasn’t just a part of him. It was a space waiting to be filled. And now, it had a voice.

----------

Natsu’s friends noticed the shift before he did.

“You look like crap,” Gray said one evening, throwing himself onto Natsu’s couch with all the grace of a collapsing tower. “Are you sleeping at all? You look like you’ve been wrestling with demons in your dreams or something.”

Natsu didn’t reply right away. He wasn’t sure how to explain it. He was sleeping, but it never felt like rest. Every time he closed his eyes, the fire returned, blazing brighter and hotter than before. Each time, the moon was waiting, its cool light a balm against the inferno. And now, there was her voice, threading through it all like a melody he couldn’t quite grasp.

“I’m fine,” Natsu muttered, brushing Gray off as he hunched over his easel. His hands worked without thought, dragging a palette knife across the canvas. The colors burned: searing reds, luminous yellows, shadows of blue-gray smoke. The shape was abstract, but he could feel her there, in the way the paint moved.

“You’re not fine,” Gray shot back. “You’ve barely been out of the house, and all you do is paint. What is this, your ‘tortured artist’ phase? At least drink some water or something.”

“I’m not tortured,” Natsu grumbled, glaring at him.

“You’re painting fire,” Gray pointed out, gesturing to the canvas. “Again. You know, I think we’ve got enough flames around here. Maybe paint a puppy or something for once.”

Natsu rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Gray wasn’t wrong. The fire consumed every piece he worked on, spilling out in shapes that felt alive, almost restless. He couldn’t stop himself—it was as if the flames had seeped into his veins, demanding to be unleashed onto the canvas.

But it wasn’t just the fire. It was her.

At first, she was just a voice, murmuring through the smoke in his dreams. But as the nights went on, she became something more. The flames began to shift, their edges softening, and from them, her shape emerged. A silhouette at first, all curves and light, until one night she stepped fully into view.

Her hair was molten gold, cascading in wild waves that shimmered with the heat of the fire. Her skin glowed, almost translucent, as though she were made of the very light she walked through. Her eyes – dark, deep, infinite – held galaxies within them, stars swirling in an endless dance. She was beautiful in a way that defied reason, but it wasn’t her appearance that left him breathless. It was the way she looked at him.

Like she knew him.

“You’re not afraid anymore.”

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried through the fire like it belonged to it, like the flames were hers to command.

Natsu blinked, his body still much too heavy in the heat, but her words cut through the weight like a cool breeze. He wasn’t afraid. The thought settled in his chest, quiet and certain, even though he didn’t understand why.

The woman stepped closer, her bare feet brushing over the flames as if they were solid ground. The fire softened where she moved, its roar dimming to a low hum, like it bent itself to her will.

“That’s good. You shouldn’t be,” she said, her lips curving in a faint smile. “The fire isn’t your enemy.”

The words struck him like an ember to the heart. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what she meant, but no sound came. He didn’t need to ask. The answer was there, in the way the flames swirled around her, not hostile, but alive.

She stopped in front of him, so close he could see the way her golden hair shimmered with the heat. Her eyes caught his—dark and endless, full of stars.

“It’s you,” she said simply.

The words lingered in the air, sinking into him like they were meant to. The fire surged higher around them, crackling with energy that wasn’t threatening, but electric.

And then she was gone. The fire dissolved into darkness, her figure fading with it. Natsu woke with a sharp breath, his chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling. The room was quiet, but her words remained, seared into his thoughts.

‘The fire isn’t your enemy. It’s you.’ It wasn’t an answer. Not yet. But it was something. And for the first time in weeks, Natsu felt like he wasn’t drowning in the flames.

----------

A few nights later, Gray barged into Natsu’s apartment like a man on a mission.

“If you don’t see sunlight soon, you’re going to become one of your paintings,” he announced, kicking aside a pile of discarded sketches. “And I mean that literally. Like, one day we’ll find you trapped in a canvas somewhere, screaming for help.”

Natsu barely looked up from his work, a half-finished abstract piece where streaks of red and orange clawed up the canvas.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re coming to the club,” Gray declared, ignoring him completely. He grabbed Natsu’s jacket from the back of a chair and tossed it at him. “You need to get drunk, dance like the idiot you are, and maybe talk to someone who isn’t made of acrylics and gouache.”

Reluctantly, Natsu let himself be dragged out. He lingered by the door as Gray tossed him his jacket, muttering something about how it wasn’t worth the trouble. But Gray was already halfway down the hall, yelling over his shoulder, “Move it, ash-head. The world won’t wait for you to catch up.”

With a heavy sigh, Natsu followed.

The streets were crowded, alive with the nighttime buzz of the city. Neon signs flickered above storefronts, and the chatter of passing strangers blended into the rumble of distant traffic. Natsu shoved his hands deep into his pockets, trailing behind Gray, who strode ahead with his usual confidence. Overconfidence, if you asked Natsu.

The air was cool but carried the faint warmth of lingering summer, tinged with the smell of street food and smoke. Natsu glanced at the clusters of people outside bars and restaurants, their laughter spilling out into the night. It all felt distant, like it was happening on the other side of a glass wall.

“You’re gonna have fun,” Gray said, throwing a glance back at him. “You just don’t know it yet.”

“Doubt it,” Natsu muttered, kicking a stray bottle cap across the sidewalk.

“You’re impossible,” Gray groaned, rolling his eyes. But he didn’t slow down, weaving easily through the throngs of people as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

As they neared the club, the bass-heavy thrum of music grew louder, vibrating through the pavement beneath their feet. Bright lights flashed from the open doorway, illuminating a line of people waiting to get in. Gray walked right past them, nodding to the bouncer like they were old friends.

Natsu hesitated at the entrance, glancing back at the quiet street they’d left behind. It felt like a threshold, one he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross. But Gray grabbed his arm, tugging him inside with a determined grin.

“Come on,” Gray said over the noise, his voice almost drowned out by the music. “This is gonna be good for you. Trust me.”

“This is pointless,” he muttered.

“No,” Gray said sharply, “you hiding in your apartment and staring at a canvas for days is pointless. This? This is fun. You remember fun, right?”

Natsu didn’t answer, but he followed.

The club was packed, its bass-heavy music pulsing like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol, the flashing lights cutting through the darkness like electric blades. Gray wasted no time throwing himself into the chaos, chatting up strangers and tossing back shots like he was trying to set a new personal record.

Natsu lingered by the bar, nursing a drink he barely tasted. He watched the crowd move as if through a haze, their bodies twisting and swaying to the beat. It was loud, frenetic, alive – but it felt like something happening to other people, not to him.

He felt detached, like he was watching the world through a fogged window. The fire in his chest, the one that burned so brightly in his dreams, felt dim and muted here. The rhythm of the music didn’t match the pulse of his own heartbeat. The lights, no matter how dazzling, couldn’t compare to the glow of the flames he longed for.

He found himself wishing he were back in bed, chasing the faint hope of seeing her again.

Gray reappeared suddenly, breaking his thoughts.

“You look miserable,” he said, handing Natsu another drink. “Seriously, you’ve got to loosen up. Do I need to hire someone to dance with you, or...?”

“I’m fine,” Natsu muttered, glaring at him.

Gray rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic bag.

“Okay, fine, but I’m not letting you be a buzzkill all night. Here.” He shoved a joint into Natsu’s hand. “Loke’s stash. Top-shelf. Trust me.”

Natsu hesitated, then raised an eyebrow at Gray.

“This is your grand solution?”

“It’s a solution,” Gray said with a shrug. “Stop overthinking and just do something for once.”

Sighing, Natsu took a hit. The smoke filled his lungs, heavy and acrid, and for a moment, he felt like the world tilted sideways. The music became a low hum in the back of his mind, the flashing lights smearing into streaks of color. Everything blurred at the edges, and he felt... lighter. Unmoored.

“Better?” Gray asked, grinning.

“Sure,” Natsu said, though his voice sounded far away.

“Let’s go outside.” Gray tugged him toward the exit, and Natsu didn’t resist.

The cool night air hit like a splash of water, sharp and invigorating after the heat and chaos of the club. The alley behind the building was quiet, save for the muffled thrum of music and the distant sounds of the city. Natsu found himself crouching by a pile of discarded cardboard, fumbling for a match.

The tiny flame sputtered to life, small and weak, but it held his attention completely. He struck another match, feeding the fire until it grew. The flicker of light reflected in his eyes, hypnotic, drawing him into its dance.

The world around him seemed to fade.

And then she appeared.

She stepped out of the flames as if they were a doorway, her figure forming from the light itself. Her hair was swept into a high side ponytail, her bangs framing her face in a way that felt modern, almost casual. She wore fitted clothes, dark and sleek, clinging to her like the fire had melted and shaped them.

Natsu froze.

She was different, but it was her. He knew it instantly – the way her eyes glimmered, dark and infinite, holding entire galaxies within them. The way the flames bent around her, as if she commanded their very existence. No, that might be the joint playing with him. Still; there she was.

“Are you two okay?” she asked, her voice smooth and quiet, but with a resonance that seemed to vibrate in Natsu’s chest.

Gray blinked, glancing between Natsu and the woman.

“Uh, yeah, we’re fine,” he said awkwardly. Was he missing a shirt?

But Natsu couldn’t speak. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

And yet, here she was.

It was her.

----------

Natsu couldn’t get the image of her out of his head.

Even as he lay sprawled across Gray’s couch the next morning, staring at the ceiling with a pounding headache and the vague taste of ash in his mouth, her eyes haunted him. Dark and shimmering, like the night sky itself. The memory of her voice – smooth, calm, and impossibly real – echoed in his thoughts. Gray shuffled into the living room, yawning and scratching his head. He looked like shit. Natsu wanted to claw his own eyes out at the sight. Though, at least he was wearing clothes.

“You’re alive. That’s a good sign.”

“Barely,” Natsu muttered, dragging himself upright.

Gray tossed him a bottle of water. “You were acting weird last night. Even for you.”

Natsu didn’t respond. What could he say? Oh, by the way, the woman from my dreams showed up in an alley last night, wearing fire and starlight. No. He wasn’t even sure it had happened. It felt real—too real—but his memory of the moment was hazy, blurred by smoke and exhaustion.

Gray raised an eyebrow as he sat down on the arm of the couch, his eyes scanning Natsu’s face.

"So, who was that girl you were talking to last night?” When Natsu didn’t immediately answer, Gray clarified. “The blonde chick from the club? You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?"

Natsu froze for a split second, his pulse spiking. He hadn’t expected Gray to ask, though part of him had known it was coming. He’d been there after all; he’d seen Natsu’s reaction.

“I… don’t know,” Natsu said quickly, too quickly. He felt a strange twinge of guilt, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it. Not yet. He shook his head quickly, grabbing the water and standing up. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

Gray snorted. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

The walk back to his apartment felt heavier than usual, his mind spiraling as he replayed the night over and over again. He tried to convince himself it was just the high messing with him, but the memory of her was too sharp to ignore. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the scent of paint and turpentine greeted him like an old friend. His canvases stood in their usual places, leaning against the walls, half-finished and abandoned. But his eyes were immediately drawn to the center of the room.

She was there.

Sitting on his couch, her legs crossed delicately, as though she’d been waiting for hours. Her hair, now loose and cascading over her shoulders, caught the light from his window like recognisable strands of molten gold. She wasn’t wearing the fitted clothes from the alley – this time, her outfit was simple, a flowing dress that shimmered faintly with a light he couldn’t place.

“You,” Natsu said, his voice a breathless whisper.

She tilted her head, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Your landlord let me in.”

“My- what?” Natsu blinked, his thoughts tangling as he tried to piece together how she could possibly be here. In his apartment. In the flesh.

“I told him I was a friend,” she continued, standing and taking a step toward him. Her movements were fluid, almost otherworldly, like she was gliding rather than walking. She dangled a spare key on her pointer. “You should really make sure he doesn’t hand these out so easily.”

“Why...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “How are you here? What’s going on?”

“You invited me,” she said simply, her gaze steady.

“I- what?”

“At the club,” she added, amusement flickering in her eyes. “You gave me your address.”

Natsu’s face burned as the memory rushed back – a hastily scrawled note on the edge of a torn rolling paper, handed to her in a haze of smoke and desperation. “That wasn’t... I mean, I didn’t think-”

“You didn’t think I’d come,” she finished for him, her tone calm but teasing.

He stared at her, his mind racing. Everything about her felt unreal, yet here she was, standing in his apartment like she belonged there. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, but his hands itched to grab his brushes, to capture the way the light played off her skin, to bring her presence to life on canvas.

She stepped closer, stopping just a foot away. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Natsu said quickly, the word escaping before he could stop it.

“I like your work,” she said, gesturing to the scattered canvases and sketches that filled the room. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like... you paint fire, which is literally just a gas, but it feels… alive. Like it’s telling a story.”

Natsu blinked, her words sinking in slowly. She didn’t know. She had no idea she was the woman from his dreams, no clue that her face, her presence, was etched into every brushstroke.

“You like them?” he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

She stood, walking over to a half-finished painting propped against the wall. Her fingers hovered just above the surface, careful not to touch the wet paint.

“Like isn’t the right word,” she said softly. “I think I’m in love with them.”

Something inside Natsu shifted. The emptiness he’d carried for so long, the weight of feeling like something was always missing, began to lift. It wasn’t gone entirely – he could still feel its edges – but it was quieter now, overshadowed by the warmth of her words and the way she seemed to see right through him.

“I’d like to paint you,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

She turned to him, surprise flickering across her face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean... if you don’t mind. I think... I think I could make something amazing if you let me.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Okay. I’d like that.”

----------

For the next few hours, the room came alive. Natsu worked with a focus he hadn’t felt in months, his hands moving instinctively as he captured the way the light hit her hair, the way her smile seemed to brighten the space. She sat quietly, her posture relaxed, occasionally watching him with a curiosity that made his heart race.

When he finally stepped back from the canvas, his hands smudged with paint and his chest tight with anticipation, he turned to her.

“Well?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

She stood and approached the painting, her eyes widening as she took it in.

“Is that… me? It’s beautiful,” she said after a long moment, her voice filled with awe. “You’ve captured something... something I didn’t even know was there.”

Natsu swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to tell her everything – about the dreams, about the fire, about the way she’d filled a void he didn’t fully understand. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he simply nodded.

“Thanks.”

She glanced at the clock, then back at him. “I should go,” she said reluctantly.

“Will I see you again?” he asked, the question spilling out before he could second-guess it.

She smiled, a soft, almost shy curve of her lips.

“If you want to.”

He nodded, his chest tightening as she walked toward the door. She paused briefly, looking back at him one last time.

“Your work... it’s amazing,” she said. “You, as a person, are amazing.”

And then she was gone, leaving Natsu standing in the middle of his studio, the air feeling lighter than it had in months. The door closed behind her, but the quiet she left in her wake lingered, wrapping itself around Natsu like a warm blanket. For a long moment, he stood there, listening to the stillness of the room. The humming of the fridge, the faint background noise of a bustling city outside. It was as if the space had shifted with her presence, and now, without her, it seemed like a different place altogether. Lighter. Brighter, even.

Eventually, Natsu made his way back to his chair, his eyes drifting to the canvas in front of him. The portrait. The portrait that now felt more like a memory than a creation. She had become something more than just an image in his mind or a figure in his dreams. She was real. He had touched her, spoken to her, shared moments with her – moments that had shifted everything he had thought he understood.

He sat back, his gaze lingering on the completed portrait, the woman before him as vivid as she had ever been. Every stroke of the brush had felt like an exploration of something deeply familiar, and in the spaces between the strokes, he had found the truth he’d been searching for. The fire that had once threatened to consume him had settled within him, no longer a danger, but a part of him.

Since that night, he hadn’t had the dreams—the wild, desperate fires that once roared through his mind. No more lost, hopeless wandering through flames. No more questions without answers. Sometimes, he wondered if the dreams had ever been real at all, or if they had simply been a prelude, leading him here, to this. But it didn’t matter. He no longer needed the validation of dreams to know she was meant for him.

----------

In the quiet moments, when he would lie beside her, his body pressed against hers in the cool light of the moon, it all became clear. Their connection. The way her touch felt like a promise. The way they fit together, as if they had always known each other in some cosmic sense.

Natsu closed his eyes, remembering how they had come together, bodies entwined, under the soft glow of moonlight. In those moments, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of her skin, the rhythm of their breathing, and the gentle hum of something deeper. A bond neither of them had expected, but one they both understood now.

She had been sent to him by the universe itself. His soulmate. His muse.

[z-zeph]

A few days after his birthday, Xiao found you burning his old letters in a bonfire of qingxin blossoms.

The bonfire roared, devouring parchment and petals alike. Qingxin blossoms—once symbols of celestial purity—curled into skeletal shadows, their ivory hearts blackening as flames licked the night. You fed another letter to the pyre, its edges crisping, Xiao's stark handwriting dissolving into smoke.

"What is this."

His voice cut through the crackle of kindling, colder than the flowers that wept in Dragonspine's frost. You didn't turn. You knew his stance—rigid, spear-straight, the jade pendant at his throat catching firelight like a malevolent star.

"Closure, perhaps," you said, watching a sentence fragment escape the flames—'protect you'—before it withered to ash.

Xiao stepped closer. Heat warped the air between you, yet his presence chilled the sweat on your nape. His gaze traced the scars peeking beneath your sleeve, the ones that ached in time with his karmic debt. Always linked, even in ruin.

"You kept them." A statement, laced with something raw. Accusation? Regret?

"And now I don’t." You tossed the final letter, its seal unbroken—the one he’d left after April 17th. The flames surged, greedy.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then—

A gloved hand seized your wrist, yanking you backward. Embers spiraled as you collided with his chest, the jade shard in your sternum vibrating like a struck bell. His breath fanned your ear, uneven. "You think fire can erase what we are?"

You tilted your head, exposing the scar he’d gifted you—a jagged line from collarbone to heart. "No. But it makes pretty light to see our scars by."

His grip tightened. You wondered if he’d break the bone. Instead, his thumb brushed the pulse beneath your skin, a traitor’s caress. Above, smoke coiled into the shape of dragons, their forms crumbling as they climbed.

"Fool," he hissed, but the word trembled.

You tried to smile, for him. "You kept count of the letters, didn’t you? Every one."

The fire dimmed. Qingxin ash settled on his hair, a mockery of snow. He didn’t deny it.

Was there someone else to write letters to? Was there someone else to long for? Was there someone else, but you? You, traveler of faraway lands, on the rare peaceful nights where Xiao found himself closing his eyes, did you know? Your feet had even roamed the grasslands of his dreams. He remembered, he had mentioned it to you in one of the letters that now served no purpose but to fuel the fire.

“...”

As he let you free from his claws, there it was.

A scrap of parchment clung to a stone, its edges still smoldering. Xiao knelt, glove hovering. His own handwriting stared back, accusatory, and his throat constricted.

‘There are… many people in this world who care… you…’

Fire had gnawed its edges into lace, the characters bleeding where embers kissed them—care reduced to a charcoal smear, you dangling like a severed nerve. He also remembered drafting those words by moonlight, the ink mingling with blood from a gash he’d earned defending a village that no longer existed. Pathetic. As if sentiment could armor her against the ruin he carried.

You didn’t look at him. Your gaze stayed fixed on the pyre, its flames reduced to a sullen glow. Shadows pooled in the hollows of your cheeks.

What were you thinking about?

The new faces you’d collected like trinkets in Fontaine’s glittering courts? The way that merchant’s daughter had laughed, bright and unburdened, as she tucked a silk flower behind your ear? Or perhaps the scholar from Sumeru, whose fingers brushed yours as he passed a scroll, his touch lingering just long enough to imply warmth without promise?

Xiao’s jaw clenched. He could’ve carved the answers from your ribs. Let him try. You’d built a gallery of ghosts in your marrow—every smile, every accidental touch, every ‘you matter’ hissed by strangers who didn’t know your blood ran with jade dust. But none of it mattered. Not when the letters he’d penned in stolen moments between battles lay in ashes. Not when you’d chosen to immolate even the possibility of his voice reaching you.

“They mock our suffering.” The words left him sharper than intended, a blade slipped from its sheath. “These… people.”

You finally turned, not quite comprehending exactly what the Yaksha was referring to, until you saw the resentment in his eyes. Jealousy, perhaps. You were no longer sure, unwilling to even try to decipher this beast's silences one more time. Firelight gilded the scar he’d left on your neck, the one that ached when rain brewed over Jueyun Karst. Your smile was a shard of broken glass. “But they care.” A pause. “Or, at least, they pretend to. It’s kinder than the truth.”

Kinder than you, went unspoken.

Xiao crushed the paper fragment in his fist. Let it cut. Let it burn. The pain was nothing compared to the way your aura buzzed now—a dissonant hum, as if the jade in your chest were grinding against his own poisoned veins. You were becoming a stranger. A mortal again, in the worst way. Fragile, hopeful, reckless.

He stepped into your space again, close enough that the heat of the dying fire prickled his skin. “You crave liars, then.” His thumb grazed the scar, a mockery of tenderness. “Tell me—do their pretty lies warm you when the shard freezes your lungs?”

You didn’t flinch. “Better lies than silence.”

The bonfire gasped its last breath. In the sudden dark, Xiao’s fingers found yours, pressing the crumpled fragment into your palm. A phantom confession. A curse.

“Then take this one, too,” he said, and vanished into a swirl of anemo and qingxin ash.

[imgoingtofreakoutnow]

Sketch me down, see me through – pt. 2

Summary: A couple of days after the sketch, things got a bit more complicated than what you expected

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: mentions of blood/sex/abuse, bit of violence, Astarion is a bit of a bitch but what's new, physical touch as a love language, first kiss, fluff

A/N: Enjoy the second part of this Astarion fic, here you can find Part 1 <3 (i wanted to post this tomorrow but i don't know how to queue posts correctly so @tripleyeeet @yn-ymn-yln enjoy!)

\_/

The cold light of the moon woke you up. It had slithered into your tent, bathing your pillow —and thus your face— with its silvery shine. You turned around, trying to fall back into your warm slumber, but with no luck.

Your head started roaming, thinking too much about everything. About the last few days and the subtle changes in Astarion’s behavior, his lingering gazes and the tension that stiffened his body every time you happened to tug him playfully or accidentally bump into him.

It was confusing, to say the least; making you rethink everything and pondering twice on every word you said before even uttering it.

With an irritated sigh, you pulled yourself up, sitting on your blankets as you stretched your neck and sore muscles. With another groan, you put on your boots and then walked outside.

The fire had burnt out, leaving behind just a few glowing embers that were bound to soon become cold, lifeless ash. The air stung the bare skin of your arms, colder than what you expected. You soon got used to it, thankful to that chillness for waking you up. Apart from a couple of owls shrieking in the distance and the snoring coming from some of the tents surrounding you, the camp was calm, a small Eden…

A rustling of leaves broke the silence, followed by some muffled swearing. Before you could reach for the dagger in your boot, a figure stumbled out of the woods, barely keeping themselves up. After a couple of unbalanced steps, the silhouette managed to stop, taking a deep breath as he straightened up, passing his hands through his silver hair.

“Astarion?”

“Oh.”

The moment he noticed it was you in the shadows, Astarion quickly passed his hands on his shirt, brushing away the leaves and branches that had stuck on the fabric. Then his signature smile was back on his lips, his grin as smug as ever as he leaned against a nearby tree.

“Hello, darling.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“I was performing my duty and keeping watch.” He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly as he scanned you, his eyes moving slowly up and down your body. “What about you, sweetheart?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you shrugged, trying to ignore his piercing gaze. “Too many thoughts.”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded, his focus shifting to his fingers. “I am familiar with the notion.”

You watched closely as he picked his nails. What you first mistook for a nervous fidgeting revealed to be something different, a thorough cleaning that also had to do with the red streaks on his shirt —barely visible in the darkness— and those same scarlet hues that painted his fingers and the corners of his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes, putting both of your hands on your hips; in the same way your mother used to when she found out you had done something that was against her rules.

“Why were you lurking in the forest?”

He chuckled, showing the tip of his canines and his teeth, still blood stained. “Lurking… such an evil word. I’m almost flattered.”

Astarion looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to indulge him in his jokes the same way you often did since you had become… friends? Close acquaintances? Occasional lovers? The label on your relationship —if you could even call it that— seemed to change with every new dawn.

Whatever you two could be considered, you stared unimpressed at him with your hands glued to your hips.

“I was just having a midnight snack,” he explained with a shrug, his head tilting backwards against the tree but without ever leaving your eyes. “You can stop torturing that pretty brain of yours now.”

“I thought we had an agreement.” You took a step forward as you frowned in confusion. “I feed you so you can stay strong and defend us.”

Defend me.

“That was the deal,” you continued, ignoring those few words stuck in your throat.

“Indeed it was.”

Astarion was still looking at you, staring into your eyes as he always did —with a grin plastered to his face— but there was something different in them this time. A dark glimmer you had only seen when he was on the battlefield. The look he reserved only to his enemies.

Your entire body crumbled in confusion, your face losing its frown, your arms falling on your sides in defeat. “Then why didn’t you ask?”

You hated how your voice almost cracked at the end of that sentence. How small you felt, how desperate as you begged for an explanation, and all of this, because of that softness near the fire.

After that night and the sudden indifference that followed, you had wondered many times if you had misunderstood that look in his eyes. If that tenderness you felt in his touch had never been there in the first place but created by your delusional mind, always craving for something more. Something real.

Or worse, if he had faked it so well that you had fallen for it.

Astarion’s gaze softened ever so slightly as he moved from the tree and stepped in front of you. You cursed mentally when your breath caught in your throat.

“You were sleeping too peacefully for me to disturb you,” he murmured, taking your chin in his fingers. His nails grazed your skin but you bit down a yelp of discomfort.

“But I’m glad to see that you’re as eager to help as always.” With a flick of his wrist, Astarion hit the bottom of your chin. “That’s what I like about you.”

It didn’t hurt, you had endured much worse treatments in your lifetime, but you knew it was not meant to. Not physically at least. You felt the strike tear into your belittled pride, his condescending tone ripping through it like teeth in the flesh.

“You didn’t want to disturb my sleep,” you repeated, your voice almost trembling in anger.

He took a step back, his arms open as he shrugged with a smirk until his back met the bark of the tree once again. “That is what I said, darling.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Like that’s stopped you before.”

As you waited for a sassy retort that didn’t come, Astarion remained silent as he crossed his arms. His eyes wandered away from yours to the deeper and darkest parts of the forest where the light of the moon couldn’t get past the thick canopy. You couldn’t tell if his elven ears had sensed something you were physically incapable to, or if he was just ignoring you like he did the past few days.

Before you could stop it, your tadpole squirmed behind your eye, reaching for Astarion. Searching for answers he wasn’t willing to give you with his own mouth. You managed to get only a glimpse of that darkness behind his eyes —an anger that he was barely able to contain— before your conscience smacked against a wall.

At the same time, Astarion’s head snapped towards you. “Did you really try to slither into my mind?”

An irritated surprise dripped from his voice, but you caught the flash of betrayal that crossed his face.

“I’m sorry.”

You pressed your palms to your eyeballs, trying to get rid of the prickly sensation of blooming tears. You took that moment in the black void to put your thoughts back into place; to calm your racing heart and give some sense to the storm raging in your head. “I just want to understand what’s going on, if I did something-”

“Why do you even care if I feed on you or not?”

Another wave of confusion washed over you as your hands fell to your sides. “What?”

“It sure must be draining for you,” —with a smooth movement, he pushed himself away from the tree— “letting me drink your blood every other day. Yet you always come through.” He smiled, his teeth poking through his grin almost menacingly. “So zealous and happy to please.”

He started circling you, like a murder of crows over a carcass. A sense of unease started creeping up on you, sending shivers down your spine as you followed closely his movements. You didn’t think he wanted to kill you, but if he put his mind to it, he probably could.

“But the question remains…” He took a step towards you, close enough for you to smell the blood stuck on his clothes. You moved backwards, immediately hitting a tree in your way. Astarion stood in front of you, his eyes almost piercing your soul. “Why do you do it?”

“You said it yourself,” you said calmly even though the blood in your veins had never pumped so quickly, “you’re stronger when you drink-”

He chuckled, clapping once his hands together. “I fear my point is not really coming across, so I’ll rephrase my question. What do you gain from that?”

“I… I don’t think I-”

Your words were cut when Astarion’s hand wrapped around your neck. He leaned closer, his breath tickling your skin and waking up a desire that was entirely uncalled for while you stared into the eyes of a predator.

“Sex, darling.” His whisper ran down your spine, shaking you to your core. “That’s what you gain from it.”

Memories flowed in your brain and you couldn’t tell if it was you who brought them up or Astarion. The digging of teeth in your throat and the metallic scent of your own blood stuffing the air around hit you harder than a sledgehammer. You were back on the ground, pinned down between him and the dirt. His hands held you down as he drank, roaming over your clothes, unclasping buckles and grasping handful of flesh.

There was the aching between your legs and the release that followed when his undivided attention moved from your neck to the rest of your body. And above all else, the pleasure of being wanted.

“That was not in the deal.” You shook your head as much as you could while your neck was still in his grip. “It’s something between us and you also gain from it.”

“I gain nothing from it.”

His grip tightened around around your throat as he hissed in your face, his nails digging a little too deep into your skin. Your tadpole squirmed, anticipating a wave of disgust and shame that shook every nerve and cell in your brain. You squeezed your eyes, almost overwhelmed by the revulsion pouring into you.

“You started it.”

You still remembered the first time it happened, a week or two into your agreement. Slightly light-headed from the blood loss, when Astarion moved away from your neck it took you a second to realize that he hadn’t left. He was still there, looking down on you with blood still dripping from his mouth.

“I could ease your pain, if you want. Just this one time.” His hand accompanied his words, slowly gliding down your chest and along your thighs. “But you have to ask first.”

Then it happened again. And again. And again. And then there was not one time when he fed on you that he didn’t eat twice.

You swallowed the memory, your throat barely moving in his grip. “If you didn’t want it then why-”

“Manipulation, sweetheart!” Astarion widened his arms, posing dramatically and thankfully freeing your neck. “I saw an opportunity to bring you to my side and I took it. It was instinctive, really,” he continued with a shrug as you massaged your sore neck, “almost too easy creating a connection between pain and pleasure so you’d feed me willingly.”

A crease appeared between his eyebrows while his face crumpled in a pained expression. “It didn’t matter what it took to achieve it as long as it served me and my safety.”

Despite the fear still screaming inside, despite every survival instinct left in you, you stretched out your hand to him. Your fingertips brushed his bare forearm for a mere moment before he pulled away, his face distorted by an angry smile.

“But you have outplayed me.” He clapped slowly, loud enough for an animal nearby to scatter away in fear. “Bravo to you.”

You shook your head, even more lost than before. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you truly think me so foolish?”

His scream left his mouth like a curse, raw and jagged at the edges as his hand clenched his shirt right above his heart. The smug facade had crumbled, leaving behind a boiling anger that contorted his face. You heard more scattering in the forest: a rustling of leaves, flutters of wings, terrified chirps and squeaks as all the creatures in the surrounding area ran away.

Not you though. Immobile as the tree you were pressed against, you stood where you were, looking Astarion straight into his eyes as he pointed his finger to your face.

“You hide behind words of selflessness but you’re playing with me just as all the others before you. Always wanting,” he hissed, despair slowly filling his eyes as he lowered his hand and raised his chin, “always pushing for more.”

You clenched your jaw as the lump in your throat grew with every new arrow that Astarion aimed at your heart. “You’re painting me as someone I’m not.”

He scoffed again, as if your words were the mere whining of a spoiled kid. Taking another step closer to you, you could almost feel his anger blurring the air around him, its heat tingling on your skin.

“Then what was that? That desire next to the fire?” He tilted his head as his index moved up along your neck. “For a moment there, when I looked at the portrait you made, I thought you actually cared,” —his lips trembled with ache— “that I wasn’t just the pleasure I pushed you to want… but then I touched you and I saw it.” Astarion grabbed your chin tightly, making you impossible to look away. “That craving in your eyes.”

He leaned even closer, until your faces were barely apart.

“What did you want so badly?”

Finally all the pieces of the puzzle that you’d been gathering in the last few days finally snapped together. The blur in your head cleared and everything —or at least, most of it— started making sense once again. Sighing shakily your relief, your fingers slowly reached for the steel hand clawing to your chin

“I just wanted that,” you whispered as your fingertips brushed the pale skin of his hand. “That soft, kind touch.”

His muscles tensed under your touch, but this time Astarion didn’t jolt away. Inhaling sharply, he let you encase his fingers in yours, gradually loosening his grip around your face.

“The interest that you showed in me, the pleasure you gave me,” you shook your head, your gaze lowered on your joined hands. “It was flattering and I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it, but I always knew it wasn’t entirely genuine. However, that closeness,” —your thumb moved almost instinctively as it caressed the back of his hand— “that softness you showed me…”

Your gaze snapped back up to him as you tried to breathe in as much air as you could. “I just wanted more of that intimacy.”

Astarion remained silent for a while, looking into your eyes as if —by not breaking eye contact with you— he would be able to catch a crack in your act.

When your tadpole squirmed, sensing Astarion’s doubt as he searched for more reassurance than just your words, you didn’t oppose any resistance. You pushed down the tiny ache of knowing that he still didn’t trust you completely and let your truest emotions come to the surface.

The moment the realization hit him, the anger on his face disappeared into thin air like smoke after a fire; all that was left behind was a broken relief. Astarion took a few steps back, letting go of your hand as he turned his back to you. He threw his head back and took a deep breath in, his hands planted on his slender waist.

As you followed him from a distance, you noticed a movement coming from one of the tents. Wyll was looking at you, his eyebrows creasing in worry as they keep darting from your face to Astarion, who was now pacing back and forth on the grass.

You wondered how long he had been standing there. How much he had seen. The mere thought made you feel extremely exposed, as though your clothes had suddenly became invisible to the naked eye. You silently reassured Wyll, your tadpole squirming even more behind your eyes while connecting to the warlock’s. You waved quickly at him, responding to his small smile, before he disappeared back into his tent.

You exhaled slowly, moving your gaze back to Astarion. He was still giving you his back, however he stood still under the moonlight, his hair almost reflecting the silvery rays. He looked like the moon itself: so beautiful, and yet so unreadable.

A sudden thought crossed your mind, the question that had been bugging you since the start of that entire ordeal, and to which you hadn’t got an answer yet. You took a deep as you got ready to utter those words, terrified of what the answer was going to be. Scared that the response would break your heart.

“Was it real, that kindness?”

Your voice trembled, barely able to contain the worry that threatened to spill from your eyes. “Or was it just another ruse of yours?”

Astarion turned around. His face was scarred by hurting despite the smile that was pulling his face.

“Of course it was real.” He held out his hands, almost trying to grasp the words he needed, before his arms fell back to his sides. “Otherwise, it would’ve made keeping you away much less painful to bear.”

You had never seen him look so helpless, so defenseless as he stared at you. Your heart broke at seeing him like, but there was still joy gushing through the cracks as you moved towards him. Taking those last few steps that kept you apart, you stopped only when your bodies were just a breath away.

“Why didn’t you talk to me?”

Moving carefully, you pushed your fingers forth until they gently brushed his hand. Once more, he tensed under your touch but didn’t move away.

“I’m not like you, darling.” His smug smile made a brief appearance before it split into an aching wince. “I don’t open up easily.”

“Really?” You couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle, which gained you a raised eyebrow from him. “It took me over a month to bring myself to sketch in front of anyone else. Honestly, I might be more mysterious than you are.”

Astarion scoffed playfully. “Darling, I am a riddle in vampire form: forever unknowable.” As you softly chuckled, his fingers moved and hooked onto yours. “However, I must admit that your secrecy is… very intriguing.”

“There’s nothing that interesting about my life,” you admitted softly, lowering your gaze. “It’s been a pretty boring existence before meeting you and the others.”

A second later, two fingers moved your chin up until your eyes were back into Astarion’s. Your breath stopped for a second when they moved along your jaw before gently cupping your cheek.

“There is —and never will be— nothing boring about you, sweetheart.” His thumb caressed your cheek as you stood still, too scared that he would take it back to move even the smallest muscle. “And even if there was, I’d be happy to hear all the tedious details. And perhaps contribute with some exciting tales if things do get too boring.”

You shook your head with a chuckle, gently tugging his hand. “I expected nothing less from you.”

He grinned, his hand moving down your neck and then brushing along your arm. “Am I already becoming so predictable?”

Before you could answer, Astarion wrapped his fingers around your wrist and brought your hand to his face. He placed your palm on his cheek and leaned into it. You immediately felt the tension in his clenched jaw, the sharp breath he took in and the way his fingers tightened around your hand.

“You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to,” you whispered softly.

“Trust me, I do.” He closed his eyes as he leaned more into your touch. “I want to feel your fingers trace my features and remind me of their existence. I’m just…” —he inhaled and exhaled shakily, before a small grin appeared on his face, “adjusting to it, you know?”

You nodded with a smile. You understood completely as your palm adapted to the edges of Astarion’s face, to his heat —slightly lower than yours— and to the way your cheeks were also flushing as you watched Astarion slowly relax into your touch.

Freeing your other hand from his grip, you cupped his face and gently pulled him with you as you sat on the grass beneath. The ground was moist, the due dotting the stems slightly dampening your pants, but that was the last thing that could bother you in that moment.

When Astarion sat in front of you, you leaned forward, kneeling as you pointed at his crossed legs with a nod. “Can I sit there?”

A mischievous glint shone in his eyes, something you should’ve expected, but you shook your head, your serious frown never leaving your face. “And feel free to tell me to go fuck myself if you don’t want to, because I will.”

His hands had moved to your hips before you were finished, pulling you in his lap as his smirk grew even wider. “Oh, I’m sure you gladly would, wouldn’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head and biting your lower lip as your cheeks started burning up. “Shut up.”

Then your thumbs moved, circling on his cheekbones. Astarion closed his eyes for a moment, his eyelids shuddering at every brush of your fingertips. His fingers dug slightly into your hips when the warmth of your hands left his cheeks to the chill air of the night; when your fingers started wandering on the rest of his face. You traced his eyebrows and then moved your fingertips along his nose and back up, always under Astarion’s scarlet gaze. When you passed them on his forehead, the tension in his face disappeared under your touch. It was almost like a spell, some secret magic that your hands had always possessed but kept hidden from everyone, even from you.

While your fingers moved almost on their own along those features you knew like the back of your hand, you studied those smaller details that you couldn’t make out from a distance. The wrinkles and circles around his eyes, the small imperfections in his otherwise flawless skin.

“See anything you like?”

You smiled, mirroring his grin, as your indexes followed his smile lines until they brushed the corner of his lips. “What’s there not to like.”

“Good answer.” His smirk grew wider as his hand cupped your face. “Please, don’t hold any compliment back.”

Your thumb brushed over his lips, pulling down ever so slightly his bottom lip. “The same goes for you, fangs.”

Astarion cocked his eyebrow. “Fangs, really?”

“It’s cute, don’t you think?” You passed a hand through his hair, noticing the way his lips slightly fell open when you did. “Just like you.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “I would never use that word to describe me, darling. Not in a thousand years.”

His hands left your hips and moved to your face, caressing your cheeks before gliding to the back of your head. Your breath hung in your throat as he stroked your hair; as he pulled your face closer to his until your foreheads touched.

“But I have to admit, it sounds quite nice when you pronounce it.” His whisper hit your skin, warm and intoxicating, setting your face —your entire body— aflame. His fingers traced your mouth, a feather touch that you were not expecting.

“Perhaps,” he breathed again, even closer than before, “your lips could transform any monster in a docile and submissive creature.”

“Is that a request?”

“More a suggestion. For another time, perhaps. ” His fingers moved along your jaws, dreadfully slow. “But I wouldn’t mind a taste.”

His other hand, still wrapped on the back of your hand, pulled you in but your lips didn’t meet. Your fingers, that you had moved on his mouth, were keeping him away. When he moved back, eyes narrowed in confusion, Astarion was met with a mischievous grin.

“You should ask more nicely, fangs.”

His confusion was soon replaced by a pleased glimmer in his eyes. He snorted before cupping your cheek with his hand, his half-lidded gaze on you.

“May I taste your lips, darling?”

The low growl in his voice sent shivers down your spine, stirring your insides like a boiling stew, but you weren’t done. Not yet. You leaned in, stopping inches away from his face as your thumbs kept stroking his cheeks.

“I said nicely, fangs.”

Under your eyes, Astarion swallowed, his tongue darting in between his teeth and licking quickly his lips before he grinned.

“Please?”

“Very good.”

Your whisper brushed against his mouth a second before yours pressed softly on it, in a kiss so different from the rawness you were used to with him. So sweet and calm, even when he kissed you back, slowly opening and closing his lips on yours. He was in no rush as his hands stroked your hair, as they tentatively moved on your shoulders and along your bare arms —sending shivers alone your spine as he did so— until they covered yours. His fingers were almost trembling as they intertwined with yours.

You gently pulled back, gasping for air as you looked him in the eyes. They were still studying you, scarlet pools reading into the darkest depths of your soul and seeing things that they couldn’t understand yet. You weren’t used to that emotional closeness, to someone else being able to see you and wanting to know more.

It was terrifying, no denying that; but also kind of exhilarating.

Astarion smiled, almost as if he had just read your mind —and maybe, he really had. Nudging his nose against your cheek, he squeezed your hands in his.

“I believe you will truly ruin me, my dear.”

“For good or for worse?”

He kissed your lips again, a quick kiss but somehow deeper than before that left your head spinning even when he pulled back and shrugged. “That’s still to be determined.”

[kingnlionhearts]

4, 50, and 70 for the playlist asks 🥺

4 — nancy mulligan

i was blessed with a talisa & robb edit to nancy mulligan and i could not unsee the vibe. i love this song sm and it's exactly the kind of song robb would sing about taryn to their kids & grandkids

we got married wearing borrowed clothes

we got eight children now growing old

five sons and three daughters

tarynrobb's wedding (chapter 18!) will be really sweet because it's so last minute and unprepared, so taryn definitely might well borrow a dress from one of her ladies 🥺 i have vague ideas for tarynrobb to have four kids — what's four more!

she and i went on the run

don't care about religion

i'm gonna marry the woman i love

down by the wexford border

taryn always had big ideas for her wedding, but when she marries robb it's very simple and she wouldn't trade it for the world. taryn's follows the seven but robb carries the old gods. their wedding is done in the light of the seven, but taryn promises that they will get married again in front of a weirwood tree when they go home to winterfell 🥺

i never worried about the king and crown

'cause i found my heart upon the southern ground

there's no difference, i assure ya

robb loves her so much man 🥺

50 — would that i

top three hozier song for me 🥺 it's just so beautiful and perfect. robb stark would ADORE hozier, it's canon

with the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet

like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat

settle soft and as pure as snow

i fell in love with the fire long ago

robb describes taryn as the snow & sun because she's such a comfort to him. there's also something phoenix coded to me about this part too (shout out to celaena ainar — my rhaenyra oc — who robb descends from, since cel is cregan's mum!! and her family sigil is a phoenix 👀).

so in awe, there i stood as you licked off the grain

though i've handled the wood, i still worship the flame

long as amber of ember glows

how many times can i say robb is down bad for his girl

70 — sailor song

shout out to chapter 19 of lionheart (the wedding night). this song is basically an elegy to taryn's little dose of religious trauma (thank you to her septa)

i don't believe in god, but i believe that you're my savior

so here is a sneak peek for chapter 19 🫣

"As your husband—" Robb liked saying that. Part of him still couldn't believe Taryn was his wife. His wife. "—I have to make you feel good on your wedding night. Do you trust me?"

"Yes. But... Gods, I—"

"There are no gods here." Robb kissed her. "Only you and me."

i'm going insane just thinking about them damn.

i sleep so i can see you 'cause i hate to wait so long

and post-red wedding core whoops (i can't avoid the angst i'm sorry)

[tea-potato-gt]

A Borrower at the End of the World part 9

Word Count: 1300ish

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***

Three years ago…

As agreed, Jace stood before the fireplace the next morning. The embers that once contained a lively fire had long since disappeared and only ash remained in its place. The early morning light filtered in through the windows. 

Eventually, Jace grew impatient. He walked over to the wall the voice had spoken from the night before and knocked on it. “Boss? Are you there?”

In truth, Briar had been there for a while, he currently sat on the mantle behind a couple of old candles. Not a good hiding spot from a Bean when the candles could be moved so easily.

Briar had decided, after hours of stress and deliberation, he would help Jace. He was determined.

The only problem? He couldn’t bring himself to move. He had a clear view of the boy from where he hid. Briar stared at Jace, heart hammering in his chest, did the boy get taller overnight? 

Briar shakily spoke, “Y-yes. I’m here.”

Jace looked around for the source of the voice, it wasn’t coming from the walls, but it sounded close. “You okay, boss? You seem nervous.”

“I’m fine.” Briar might have sounded convincing if his voice didn’t break at the end. “W-Where’s your sister?”

“She’s still asleep, she wasn’t feeling good this morning.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, just a headache, nothing too bad.”

“Oh, good.”

Silence grew thick between them. Briar’s nervousness was contagious because Jace was quickly becoming uncomfortable too. When the quiet reached its peak, Jace finally spoke. “Did… Did you come to a decision, boss?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“I’ll help you… Teach you how to hunt.”

“Really?!” Jace was over the moon. He honestly had his doubts their mysterious friend would do anything. He half expected the man to leave the previous night. 

“But, I have three conditions.”

“What is it? I’ll do anything.”

The voice took a deep breath, “I’m going to reveal myself to you. I am never supposed to be seen by a Bean, let alone talk to one." I’ve already broken so many rules, my parents are probably rolling in their graves... But what’s one more?

“Alright.” Jace wasn’t sure how else to respond.

“My conditions are: One, you will never tell anyone else about me or what I look like. And two, you will not touch me or grab me. Ever.” The voice grew louder to emphasize how important this was. “And finally, you will do everything I tell you, exactly as I say it.”

“I promise.” Jace truly meant it. If it guaranteed his little sister’s survival, he’d do anything. Plus those conditions didn’t seem very hard to follow. He could keep a secret and he was good at following orders. (He’d been keeping the truth of their mother’s fate from his sister for a while. What’s one more secret?) Though he was curious why the man stressed not being touched. 

Briar took one last shaky breath, stealing his resolve. 

Was he really going to do this? Could he really believe the promise of a bean? But what other choice did he have?

He could always just leave, slink back into the safety of the wall and pretend he never met the kids. Return to his life of solitude. Bean free. Obligation free.

Then he remembered Layla’s sweet laughter. Her joy was contagious. The smile that slowly grew back on Jace’s face. It took so long for them to feel real happiness after everything they’ve lost. Briar couldn’t bring himself to take their joy by abandoning them when they needed him most. 

Briar would teach Jace all he needed to know, then the borrower could leave with a clear conscience and a full heart knowing these kids would survive and maybe even thrive in his absence.

With one last steadying breath, before his fear made him stop, Briar stood up and walked out from behind the candles. 

Jace's eyes widened as they locked onto a small creature moving on the mantle. At first he thought it was some kind of doll, then he noticed it was breathing and blinking. Its limbs moved so smoothly and purposefully, this creature was very much alive and real. 

The borrower was entirely exposed. No place to run or hide. Briar stood still and stared back at the boy. He felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. The boy took up most of his vision as he leaned forward towards the mantle to get a better look at the small man. Briar took a few steps back on instinct, but didn’t move otherwise. 

“I knew it.” Jace muttered under his breath.

Briar was taken aback. He’d never revealed himself to a bean before, but that was definitely not the reaction he was expecting. He grew suspicious, “knew what?”

“I knew you were small.” Jace turned his head to the side like a puppy. “I just didn’t know you’d be this small.”

Irritation made Briar tense. He didn’t like to be referred to as ‘small.’ Compared to other borrowers, Briar was usually a full head taller than most. He never had to strain his neck to talk to others like he was doing right now. Here before a child, he felt so… insignificant. 

But Briar stilled his face, he needed to keep control of the situation. Staying confident in front of a powerful being would ensure his saftey and authority.

Jace took another step forward. Upon closer inspection of the small man’s face, Jace saw wrinkles. The boy couldn’t tell how old the man was, but if he had to guess, his 40’s. He had several scars on his face, including one on his neck and another large scratch down his left eye. It looked like a rat or some other creature tried to scratch out his eye. 

From his shoulders down to his knees was a fluffy brown cloak. His boots were made of hand crafted leather. He couldn’t see the man’s torso or arms. Jace remembered the shadow had mentioned once he made his cloak out of rat skin, maybe this was the skin of the rat that tried to take the man’s eye. Hm.

Beneath his cloak, Briar was ringing his hands and pushing down the feeling of needing to protect his internal organs. Briar knew if the boy really did go back on the promise and grabbed him, no amount of clothes would protect him from a bean. 

“Okay, first thing’s first boy. Personal space. Take a step back.” Briar tried to sound confident, and authoritative, but his voice came out quietly. 

Jace still did as he was told, stepping away from the mantle and the man standing atop it. “Sorry, Boss.”

“How did you know I was…” Briar gritted his teeth, hating his next word, “small?”

“Well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.” Jace listed the various clues that brought him to that conclusion. The voice was speaking from the walls. The man’s inability to open cans of food on his own. Hunting for small creatures like rats and still having enough food for weeks. The list kept going, to the irritation of Briar. “I just didn’t realize humans could be so small.” Jace said with awe. If this was possible, what else could be out there?

“First of all, I’ve already told you, I’m not a bean.” Briar said irritated.

“Then what are you?”

The man hesitated. “A Borrower.”

“Borrower?” Jace said the unfamiliar word, it felt odd on his tongue. But what’s one more odd thing today?

“Yes.” 

“Do you have a name?”

“No. Not one I can give.” The small man shook his head. To borrowers, sharing a name was too personal. His name was a gift from his parents, much like his life. If he had nothing left in the world, at least he could still keep his name.

“Alright, Boss,” Jace nodded. The small man on the mantle seemed to be okay with this nickname sticking. “Shall we get going?”

“Sure, let’s catch us some dinner.” The borrower nodded at the bean. 

***

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[sad-scarred-sassy]

Let’s support our fanfic writers!!

What are your favorite Gwynriel/Elucien fics / fanfic writers? Tag them and show some love!🩵🌊🧡🌷

This is such a great trend! I thank you anon❤️ I’ll share my fave fics or the ones I think everyone should read! (There is so much more, but these are just the ones I ADORE off the top of my head)

Elucien

🌸 @crazy-ache OF COURSE I will mention her, all of her work is just so insanely good, I literally could recommend everything she has ever written, we are blessed.

Fic rec: Animal Instincts (!!! Still not normal about it)

🌸 @clockwork-ashes She’s incredible. She makes me feel so much, her elucien is so tender and REAL!!

Fic rec: All you have is your fire

🌸 @sweetvillaindarlinggod This is one of my fave Elucien fics of all time, please give it a read if you wanna swoon with just how hot it is.

Fic rec: I’ve been lost to you, sunlight (Flew like a moth to you, sunlight)

🌸 @running-on-backstreets This one choked me I swear this fic is everything to me. Lucien is always hot but this… THIS just affected my brain chemistry.

Fic rec: To Be Set Alight

🌸 @zenkindoflove duh?? Shes a literal Elucien queen. I think the first Elucien fic I’ve ever read was this one, and it stayed with me. Check out ALL her work because she’s THAT good.

Fic rec: Burn Forever with Me

🌸 @olenvasynyt shes so freaking talented and thorough? All of the stuff I’ve read by her had me on a chokehold. (Also she has a Lucien backstory fic that I have not started yet but GOD it looks insane!!)

Fic rec: Gold of The Richest Kings

🌸 @temperedink so many gems!! But I especially love this one where Elain and Lucien explore their bond and they get increasingly freakier (while being so sweet??)

Fic rec: Can I be close to you

🌸 @separatist-apologist literally everything this god has created but I cannot move on from her warewolf Lucien fics mmmkay? I had to. THEY’RE THAT GOOD.

Fic rec: All over you

🌸 @ataraxiasflame I am so obsessed with her fics. Read them all. She captures Elucien immaculately. Their banter is seriously to die for.

Fic rec: Light the fire bright.

Neris (because these are too freaking good not to mention)

🔥 @kateprincessofbluewhales the way she writes these two is just insane. The banter, the humor, the intensity, the heat (still recovering from that smut scene). Read it😭

Fic rec: With a sense of Poise and Rationality

❤️‍🔥 @separatist-apologist of course I also HAD to add this freaking Neris masterpiece here. Thank you very much.

Fic rec: No one likes a mad woman

Other ACOTAR fics (anon only said Elucien or Gwynriel but I can’t seem to follow instructions)

🥀 Feylin: @kateprincessofbluewhales yes you’re on this list twice bc how could you write this masterpiece and not expect me to lose my mind?

Fic rec: Soap Bubble

🥀 Feylin: @positivelyruined incredible, one of a kind, marvelous writing. Fic rec: The embers between us

✨ @bxriles and her incredible Hewn City fic that I am literally obsessed with???

Fic rec: Cave Canem

🥀 Feylin: @foxcort I adore her writing (I need to catch up on so much more) but I needed to add this here because it pulled at my heartstrings so fast and so intensely.

Fic rec: A prick of the thorn

Gosh! There are so many more I have to catch up on I literally will have to do another part soon. But for now enjoy these amazing works of art!

[achromant]

AND HERE WE ARE! My project for the gw2 'zine!

Featuring Baruhn, reflecting on his life so far, the challenges, the small sparks of joy, the horrors, loss and gain.

For clarification's sake; I did in fact plan to depict every stage of Baruhn's life, but uuh. File was already too big.

Might do a series of short comics (graphic novels?) though, because i fking love storytelling.

Let's look at my idiotic level of detail a bit, eh?

[Long Text Ahead]

Baruhn's story begins in the Plains of Ashford. An unsuccessful attempt to stem the tide of Ascalonian Ghosts leads to the demise of many year-long allies. Dozens of brave soldiers gave their life for a mere week of peace until the ghosts reformed. They always do. Soldiers don't.

Shaken in his faith in the Legions, the first seeds of doubt arise.

Until finally he found someone to trust with his pain. In a tavern at the edge of the Black Citadel, he gets to know this odd fellow, who is continuosly follow by the faint smell of sulfur. Although Baruhn knew where that path led, the warmth radiating from the old veteran in front of him was not only a physical, but an emotional one.

With the Three Legions busy with their internal quarrels, fighting over an empty promise, Baruhn took the first steps down a previously thought to be dark path.

Surprisingly, die Flame Legion was welcoming, their fires offered light and guidance, the embers igniting the skies like stars. Surely this was better than the cold metal over the Black Citadel.

Baruhn took to learning first, handling the small flames with ease after years of throwing fireballs at ghostly shapes. Then, he figured out how to teach, and that is where the real magic comes from. Nurturing a flame, protecting it from harsh winds, adding a bit of kindling and coal here and there. He even taught the more elusive ways of magic that wield smoke and ash.

Baruhn knew about the war, the countless lifes lost on the other side of the fence. But those were humans, and here he was among family.

That is, until he met Molly.

After a small recon mission that was assured not to be much of a hurdle, Baruhn found himself alone in a forest. The small fires he conjured for light and warmth only drew in the nearby villagers. Those with pitchforks and torches, with crude swords and a thirst for blood. He couldn't really bring himself to hate them, this was war after all. But at what cost are these battles to be won?

Trying to escape the villagers was a futile attempt. He sank to the ground, his own hot blood dousing the little flames beneath his weary head.

For some reason - maybe hope, maybe resignation - he forced open his heavy eyes, only to discover his wounds cleaned and bandaged with fragile white cloth. A small human girl, of all things in this damned forest, tried to help. Even in his weakened state, even with just one hand, Baruhn could have easily grabbed her and cracked her skull. But the only thing he did was listen. He listened to the ramblings of the small human, going on and on about faries made of leaves and gnomes of stone. She called him "bear".

When the villagers came, they saw the girl at his side. That was all it took for them to turn on her. She was to be executed like that beast that now slowly stepped in front of her. For the first time, Baruhn spoke to the girl. "close your eyes."

Fire roared, not red, not orange. not a warm, welcoming fire. Not one that belongs in a hearth, that thrives in the arms of a family. This was so much worse. This was years of inner conflict, of doubt, of closing his eyes on the other side of the fence. For the first time in his life, this was the only thing that he wanted to do, protect the little insignificant human behind him. Fire roared, and it burned wood and it burned flesh.

Baruhn picked up the little girl, she held tight to his horns, nestled in his mane. He ran for hours, years of military training finally useful. The little girl, Molly, lost her mother years ago. She burned in the fires of a war she tried to escape. "And your father? What about your family?", he asked between deep breaths. Molly was quiet for a while, then whispered, her voice barely audible, "My father burned today."

They stayed together, for quite a while. He protected her, and she, with her head full of stories, and a book full of dreams, protected him.

Things came, things went. Baruhn rejoined the High Legions, acting as a spy for Ash, keeping an eye on Iron and Blood.

Baruhn ultimately took on his role as Novice, then Archivist, then Commander. He helped during the struggles against Scarlet. A small flame here and there, some shrouding smoke, a well timed lightning strike. It was other people that finally defeated Scarlet, but he was always in the background, with all the small things at just the right time.

Mordremoth came, but with him new allies.

It was but a small tangent in the grand scheme of things. Watching the fragile sapling while waging war on the jungle itself.

Their relation was something more than friendship, something else than love. They were there for each other when they needed to be. Be it only to keep a flame burning or to banish the voices to the back of the head again, they walked the same path for a long time.

Tarir, the Egg. Aurene. A new flame entrusted to him, his to nurture, his to raise. A gamble, again. What if that little flame would some day devour the world? But Baruhn did, what he could do best. Teach.

Darker times came. Caudecus and the White Mantle. The raid on the Mursaat's prison. Then facing the last Mursaat himself.

Balthazar came, and in his wake a new kind of fire. A war, similar to the ones Baruhn had seen before, but still different. A war without a cause, war for war's sake. War against nature, against the world, like a child lashing out when there were none to help them up. Maybe Balthazar's flames were not too different from his.

After the festering swamp that Joko was, came the mountain, Kralkatorrik. Death was not a hindrance anymore, not for the Commander and his dragon. The story went as the story goes.

When it came to face the frost, the whispers, Jormag. Everything fell apart. Jormag pried into the deepest, darkest corners of Baruhn's life, dragged every doubt, small as it may have been, into the light. In the ice, every truth was warped, encased in whispers, in lies. It suffocated any hope and planted even darker seeds than anyone thought possible.

It was the spirit of the Raven that aided Baruhn. Even the black feathers of its wings were shimmering like rainbows in the moonlight.

A small piece stayed with him, just a fragment. Nevermore.

After that, the stars themselves. Astralaria.

So many stories that make a life, so many pieces. Every encounter, every step along the way is another fragment of the whole. People are made of other people, that is what it means to be alive.

[ashblooddragons]

My Heart, My Ruin (Chapter 6/?)

Dragonstone

36 ac

Rhaellas pov

We all stand in front of the funeral pyre where Grandsire lays dead. He passed in his sleep with a smile on his face, Father says it's because he's with Rhaenys again. 

It's a lovely thought, and probably true, but I know Aunt Visenya won't like it. She never did like how close Rhaenys and Grandsire were, but she accepted it. 

I try not to move much, I started my moonsblood just the night before and all I have to say is I'm glad I'm wearing black. 

I remember the first time I woke up with my moonsblood. It was a moon after Maegor's wife passed, I woke up in excruciating pain in my lower abdomen. When I lifted my covers to call for a maester I saw blood, so much blood from my core. I don't care how many lessons a girl has about their moonsblood, she will never be ready for that sight.

So here I stand as a Valyrian Septon chants as blood leaks from my core and feeling like a knife is twisting in my belly. 

I was a sobbing mess when I heard Grandsire passed, but none was as broken as Father or Aunt Visenya. For his Father has left him, he has no one to guide him besides courtiers. And Visenya has lost her final sibling, the only other person who understood what she felt when they conquered Westeros. They both lost someone dear, but I only lost a Grandsire who barely spoke to me if he didn't have to.

He always preferred Aegon and Viserys over me and Rhaena. From what Mother says he was trying to convince Father to marry another seeing as Mother had two pregnancies and failed to give him a son. Thank the gods Father ignored him. 

I breathe in the cold salty air that always has a darker edge that you can only find here. I've always loved the smell here, Mother and Aegon prefer the scent Driftmark brings with it's spices and overwhelming saltiness that seems to stick to your skin. 

Rhaena grips my arm as Vhagar moves forward to light the pyre. She was hit the hardest out of me and my siblings. She always wanted his attention, wanted to feel his love that he always gave Aegon and Visery. But no matter how hard she tried, he probably wouldn't be able to tell us apart. 

“Just a bit longer Rhaena, then you never have to feel his disappointment again.” I whisper to her as she glares at the pyre. 

With one look at her I saw the rage and fire in her violet eyes. I knew her sobs weren't because she lost Grandsire, it was because she would never be able to show him, he was wrong about our worth. To prove we are more than just broad mares that only need to be wed off. 

“We're more than he ever thought of us, we are the riders of Dreamfyre and Meraxes. We don't need him to be breathing to prove him wrong. Because there are more like him, and we'll show them, we'll show them why they bent their knees to Grandsire. Not because of him, but because of his sisters.” I swear and Rhaena nods as she stands straighter watching as Vhagar lights the late King's pyre turning him into worthless ash in the wind.

I watch as courtiers who never even spoke to my Grandsire sob and talk about how wonderful he was. I have to fight a scoff each time someone stops me saying how sorry they are and how he was a good man. 

You would think he didn't burn their homes to the ground if they didn't bend the knee. I think as I roll my eyes as a drunk lord I know never even saw my Grandsire talk about how amazing he was.

I finally find the person I was dying to speak to since the news had reached my ears. I waste no time making my way over to the balcony he is leaning against.

I already know what he is looking at before I even reach him. “He is now riderless, a dragon without a rider is a cruel joke.” I say as I watch Balerion sleep where we had just burned his rider. 

Maegor shakes his head with a sigh. “No, it is too soon.” 

This peaks my interest as I turn to look up at him. His jaw is set in a tense line, his eyes are set on the dragon and with one glance I can see the embers of an inferno burning within them. I know he may say it it is too soon, but I also know he doesn't care anymore. 

“And who made the rules on when you can claim a dragon? What is it he used to say, ‘you claim or you die? And a Targaryen without a dragon isn't a Targaryen at all’?” I say knowing the quote will hit close to home for him, for it always did for me until I claimed my Meraxes.

He only hums as he looks down at me. I fight the blush that threatens to rise to cheeks as he pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Tell me, what does it feel like when you claim a dragon?” 

I think about his question as he turns back to stare at the Black Dread. “It feels like your soul is complete. It feels like home, like the world could burn but as long as you have that beast you could make it.” 

He hums and looks down at me again before turning back to the dragon we both know he will claim in the coming days, if not tonight.

I take this as a sign that the conversation has ended, but I have one final thing to say. “I don’t know if he loved you, I hope he did but Grandsire never was good at showing you his affection. But I want to know, you don’t need him, you have proven yourself beyond what anyone could imagine already. And you much farther to go, you don’t need him, never did, and neither did I.” 

And with that I turn on my heals leaving him to his brooding and thoughts. If only we knew of the darkness on the horizons, maybe my brothers would still be here, maybe it would be Rhaena as Queen instead of me. But of course these are just maybes, and there is nothing we could have done. For how are you to defend yourself from a threat you didn’t know was coming?

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Special thanks to my bestie @sugutoad for making the header for this fic! I swear I'd be lost without you girly!

TAGLIST: @sugutoad @ilikefelines @classicsimpforaaronwarner @mmogurl @sachaa-ff @athzhowakar @thelastemzy @themoonlitquill

[shhhhimwatchingthis]

Cinderella's Castle Rewatch Observations:

Come get some themes and lore!

Spoilers under the cut. Beware.

"If those flighty little feet of yours wander off again I may just have to remove them" foreshadowing my beloved

Jeff Blim Narrator appreciation. Love his physicality and the way he uses the whole stage. rolling around, crouching on stuff, leaning on beams

The Prince (meeting Ella): radiant. comely. a vision the stars themselves might envy.'

Ella: 'have you any other compliments to give? maybe about my eyes?'

The Prince: 'they are embers at midnight'

an instrumental of Neon plays in the background when Ella and The Prince meet

Side note about the Prince: He's an idiot, we all know that, but he's weirdly observant/on theme in comparing Ella to starlight. like it's the one thing he gets right.

'Poor mad ella. She is my curse. And I am hers.' They kill each other :)

'those great days when the sky was ash': Lore. A time in The Lands That Are were overrun with trolls. Why was the sky ash? What happened?

Jon Matteson's wide vacant eyes when he's controlling the unenchanted puppet of Sir Hop Alot in the Ashmore kitchen

from Stepping on your Grave: 'and I know now that I am no lawyer, so I'm leaning on natural law, and if it wanted to scale the balance toward my cause, I'd thank my stars'

Ella's patron is the Goddess of All That is Green and Good. Ella wears green through out the show.

Crumb is 'as green as summer'

Sir Hop-A Lot as a frog is, well, green

'when the light goes out only fire is just

'you shall be as radiant and terrible as I'

The blood of the innocent frees The Fairy Queen of Sweet dreams from her cage in the realm of death. Ella is resurrected by the slippers, made radiant and terrible. (after she, innocent, is killed)

Tadius as a dry humour/sarcastic comedy king. he brings such a cool/unique tone to this show.

When the people bow to Queen Ella Ashmore Jeff Blim is dressed as the Narrator and bows too(in other scenes he plays a guard, for ex, but he is clearly meant to be the narrator in that scene...interesting)

[the-bad-batch-baroness]

Where's Mommy?

Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Part 15

Summary: Wolffe's wife suddenly dies, leaving him a single father in the middle of a war.

Pairing: Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Characters: Wolffe, Plo Koon, Comet, Cara (child OFC)

Tags & Warnings: heavy angst, mention of death, off-screen death, spousal death, grief, hurt/comfort, family fluff, funeral

Word Count: 1.3k

Author's Note: How are we all doing after the last chapter? I know it was rough and I bet some chose not to read it, and that's okay. This chapter starts at the end of the funeral. The atmosphere is the same, but it is not nearly close to the level of sadness in the previous chapter. I'd say this chapter is similar to the ones that came before it; lots of Wolffe in his head. Side note, yay, this fic has reached over 20k words! As always, please enjoy 💚

Beta: @/beating-a-dead-plot

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After several hours, the raging fire had reduced into an unceremonious pile of smoldering charcoals and ash. Wolffe remained unmoved from where he first lit the pyre as if his feet were nailed down to the stone beneath him. Most of the patrons who gathered for the ceremony were now dispersed with only Plo and the Wolfpack remaining to stand in solidarity as the dwindling embers crackled and crumbled into more ash. Wolffe would be hard-pressed to know where the wooden ashes ended and where his wife's ashes began.

When the warm amber light of the embers was finally gone and the solemn silence dragged on, Plo stepped out of the formation and approached Wolffe. He stood beside his commander, hands folded neatly behind his back, and remained quiet and contemplative, a steadfast presence amid Wolffe's inaudible turmoil. Only a being greatly attuned to the Force could see through the soot-blackened fog and into such a broken heart. The pain emanating from it was palpable to where one might reach out and pluck its strings.

"She's gone," Wolffe said, his voice hoarse from breathing in the smoke. He cleared his throat. "She's really gone."

"She has become one with the Force," Plo said, his voice unwavering and solid.

"I wish I believed that," Wolffe sighed. He swiped a bead of sweat dripping from his brow and stared blankly as he rubbed the darkened liquid between his fingers. Those words might be comforting to others, like his general, but to Wolffe, they were as empty as his heart.

Plo placed a comforting hand on Wolffe's shoulder. "Our belief is what carries us forward."

Wolffe turned his head away from Plo and took a deep breath. "I don't know what I believe in anymore." He paused and shook his head. "I don't even know what I believed in before. The GAR? The Republic? The universe? Belief seems rather insignificant now."

Plo's eyes softened and he pulled something out of his pocket to present to Wolffe. "I am sure you will find it again."

Wolffe turned to face Plo and his eyes were drawn to the object he held. It was his wife's wedding ring. His shoulders slumped as he stared at it. He thought it burned along with her in the pyre, but he didn't look to see if she was wearing it. He picked it up from Plo's palm and inspected it with mild interest, rotating it in an endless loop. The gold band was smaller than his but had the same inscription on the inside, although abbreviated to fit, Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde, the Mandalorian wedding vows.

"Do you want to keep her ashes?" Plo asked. The question was innocent enough but held more care and concern than ever afforded to a clone.

Wolffe continued to rotate the ring in his hand, his thoughts far away from the present. "No," he said. "But Cara might." The idea of keeping his wife's ashes made Wolffe bristle on the inside. There was nothing about those ashes that rekindled fond memories of her. It was just meaningless dust to him, but Cara might not view it like that as she grew older, so he would be remiss if he took that memory away from her.

"Very well," Plo said. He turned from Wolffe and walked off towards the terrace entrance of the Temple to procure a suitable vessel.

Wolffe felt exhausted, more exhausted than he had been in a long time. In one rotation he lost his beloved wife and the place they called home. He should be used to it, losing people in the blink of an eye, but losing brothers was different. Clones were made to be expendable; casualties of war and a necessary loss. His wife, on the other hand, was not expendable. She didn't have a clone. There weren't more of her running around in the Galaxy. Her essence was gone forever and he couldn't get it back. The closest thing he had to her was Cara.

Wolffe settled on that thought and turned around to locate his daughter, the ashen pyre now behind him in more ways than one. He admired his men for remaining in formation for so long and how they stood still without a single question or complaint. Cara looked to be asleep in Comet's arms, which relieved Wolffe a bit. She probably cried herself to sleep, not that he was paying attention to her during the funeral, but he didn't blame her. He wished he could cry himself to sleep in his wife's arms, but that was never going to happen.

However, it was about time for him to stop feeling sorry for himself and get his head back on straight. He still had his child to take care of, a battalion to lead, and a war to fight. He didn't have time to be walking around with a boulder chained to his leg. So, with a crack of his neck and a roll of his shoulders, Wolffe approached his men, more specifically Comet. They both stared at each other silently for an uncomfortable amount of time before Wolffe finally spoke up, his voice low and unemotional. "Can I have my daughter back?"

Comet's eyes grew wide when he made the realization. "Oh, yeah, of course," he stuttered apologetically, then carefully handed the sleeping child to Wolffe. "Sorry. We both got a little comfortable."

Wolffe attempted a grin, but couldn't muster it all the way, and it looked more like a pained grimace. "Thank you." Comet returned the gratitude with a sad half-smile. Now, with his daughter placed safely back in his arms, Wolffe addressed the rest of his men. "Dismissed," he said, then walked past them without another word. They acknowledged the singular order with a silent nod and immediately dispersed in the direction of the barracks. Such an order was not to be argued with, nor one to be ignored, and Wolffe appreciated their swift obedience.

With heavy steps, Wolffe carried his sleeping daughter into the Temple and traversed the winding hallways back to their room. It was a silent walk, much like the one going out to the terrace, except Wolffe was alone with his thoughts this time. There was still much to be sorted out before he deployed, and with only two rotations to get it all done, he knew he needed to get out of his head and back into the mission mindset. His first step was to meet with Fox tomorrow morning, and depending on how that conversation went, he'd come up with the best strategy.

Once back in their room, Wolffe pulled back the blanket on Cara's bed with one hand, laid her down, then tucked her in. He looked down at her and smiled fondly. She was out like a light and he had to admit that the silence was nice for once. It's not that he didn't enjoy his four-year-old's constant bombardments of questions, concerns, comments, cries, and occasional screams but after a while, it grated on his nerves. His only solace was that she went to bed before him, so he could have some time to reset himself.

And now that she was in bed and asleep, he could do the one thing he'd been wanting to do all rotation; take a shower. He was only home for a couple of hours before his wife had her medical emergency, and then it was a non-stop rollercoaster ride from there. But it was finally time to wash it all away, and not just the soot that made a home in his hair or the odd smell that was creeping onto his skin, but everything. All of the emotions and stress, the knots that formed in his neck and back, and the ache in his heart needed to be washed down the drain.

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[strangesthirdeye]

CHAPTHER 9 : Echoes of a Name Unspoken

The Cipher Between Us

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first light of dawn stretched across the clearing, soft and golden, brushing against the treetops and bleeding into the canvas of tents like a warm sigh. The fire from the night before had burned down to embers, still glowing faintly beneath the ashes. Smoke curled lazily into the cool morning air, mixing with the scent of damp earth, coffee, and old leather.

Some of the gang had already started to stir.

Pearson, grumbling under his breath, stood near the campfire with a steaming tin pot in his hand, muttering about breakfast and how nobody helped him with the chores. The clang of metal on the cooking pan echoed as he stirred the beans.

The clatter of hooves came from the edge of camp - someone leading their horse back from an early ride. That might've been Charles, silent as usual, brushing down the animal with slow, practiced hands.

Tilly and Mary-Beth sat on a log nearby, blankets still wrapped around their shoulders, sharing a quiet conversation as they watched the sun peek through the pines. Karen, hair still wild from sleep, lit a cigarette and stretched like a cat, yawning audibly.

Miss Grimshaw was already barking orders with a coffee cup in hand, trying to get the girls to start on the laundry. Her sharp voice carried across the camp like a whip crack, cutting through the calm.

Somewhere to the side, Jack Marston giggled - Abigail chasing after him with a half-buttoned coat and a wooden spoon in hand. John, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, looked on with a scowl and a cigarette hanging from his lips.

And then, Arthur emerged from his tent. Silent, broad-shouldered, shadowed by thought. He scratched his beard, grabbed his journal from the table, and found a quiet place to sit. The smell of brewing coffee lured him in the direction of the pot Pearson had cursed over.

Dhani was already up, as usual. She crouched near her tent, wiping down her revolvers with a worn rag, fingers moving with quiet precision. She always started the morning by cleaning her gear - she said it gave her head a kind of clarity, like sweeping the dust from her thoughts before the day began. Her twin brother, Arthur, was often up early too, but today Dhani had beaten him to it.

The air was filled with little sounds - boots on dry grass, the crackle of the fire, the low hum of waking life. It was slow, familiar, and for a brief moment, the world outside the camp didn't exist.

A few steps away, you sat on an overturned crate with a small, dog-eared notebook in your lap, the pages full of spidery handwriting and diagrams. You had a pencil tucked behind one ear, and another in yours and as you scribbled something quickly - maybe a theory, a name, a memory. Your brows furrowed in thought, lips pursed as if the answer to a riddle danced just out of reach.

"Up early again?" Dhani asked, her tone casual but kind.

You didn't look up at first, still focused on what you were writing. "Couldn't sleep. Too much in my head," you murmured, flipping a page. Sherrinford's name appeared written on the book.

Dhani smiled faintly and leaned back, stretching her arms until her joints popped. "You and me both."

You both shared the quiet. No need to fill it. Two women, hardened by their own kinds of battles, existing in the same moment of peace before the chaos of outlaw life resumed.

Then, Dhani broke the silence again - softly, like one friend to another.

"You figure out anything new? About your brother?"

You hesitated before nodding. "Maybe. I'm not sure yet. But something about the way the law keeps brushing me off - it doesn't sit right. I just... feel it."

Dhani nodded, not pressing. "Well. If you need a second set of eyes, you know where to find me."

You finally looked at her then, and a grateful smile touched your lips. "Thank you."

Just beyond them, the clatter of a coffee pot starting to boil broke the stillness. The camp was waking up. But for now, in the early hush, two women sat with their thoughts and the soft rhythm of survival.

The faint clang of Pearson's ladle hitting the coffee pot had just broken the early calm when Dutch Van der Linde came striding through the camp. His coat flared slightly behind him, boots thudding with purpose across the dirt. His eyes scanned the clearing until they landed on Dhani Morgan, still seated near the tent, oiling the last of her pistols.

She looked up the moment she felt his presence, her instincts razor-sharp.

"Morning, Dutch," she greeted carefully, sensing something in his stride. Something off.

"Dhani," his voice rang clear across the space. Not too loud, but just enough to cut through all the ambient life of camp like a blade through canvas.

She turned, brow arched. "What now?"

Dutch approached with his usual calm swagger, hands folded behind his back, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. "Did Micah say anything?"

Dhani sighed. "he said he wants to give you a peace offering because he has been naughty" Dhani murmured.

Dutch frowned. "where is he?"

"His camp near Strawberry"

Dutch nodded. "I need you and Arthur to go get him."

Dhani paused, the strap she was buckling pulled taut between her fingers. "What the hell for?"

Dutch offered her a smile - not warm, not cold. Convincing. "He's one of us. We leave no man behind, remember?"

Dhani let out a breath through her nose, straightening fully. "He's a loose cannon, Dutch. A liability. Hell, last time I rode with him, he tried to shoot an unarmed man for looking at him. That was before he ended up in a cell. Why're we risking our necks for him?"

Dutch's eyes glinted. "Because he's loyal."

She scoffed. "Loyal? Micah is loyal to chaos. Not the gang. Not you. Just blood and fire and whatever helps him survive the longest. Hell, he's just been with us for six months"

"He's dangerous, sure. But useful," Dutch said, voice low now, leaning closer. "You know as well as I do - it's men like Micah who do what others won't. And we need that edge."

Dhani stared at him for a beat, her jaw tight. "You're dragging Arthur into this too?"

Dutch nodded. "He'll listen to you. He's rattled, sure, but you're the only one who can keep him steady. And you're sharp, Dhani. I need someone sharp watching Micah's back - and ours."

"Or you just need someone to clean up the mess when Micah starts it," she snapped, folding her arms.

Dutch's jaw twitched. "This gang needs strength. Micah's got it. He's a snake, maybe - but he's our snake."

"Until he bites us," Dhani muttered.

Dutch exhaled, straightening his shoulders. "I trust you, Dhani. This isn't up for debate."

That silenced her. Only for a moment. She could feel your quiet gaze nearby, and Arthur's shadow just beyond the tree where he was sitting, his gaze seemed to know what was happening.

Finally, Dhani nodded - once, sharply. "Fine. But when he burns this place down from the inside out, don't you dare pretend you didn't light the match."

Dutch smiled, like a man who had already decided the ending. "I trust you will tell this to Arthur."

Dhani nodded slowly. "yes" she muttered before getting up. She looked at you for the last time before going to Arthur.

You stared at her for a while. Dutch glanced at you.

"I must say, Miss Holmes. I heard you and Arthur managed to steal that wagon without a scratch on you." His grin widened, eyes sharp like a hawk sizing a kill. "That's quite the feat, Miss Holmes. First real outlaw work, and already making the rest of us look bad."

You looked at Dutch, looking right through his eyes. Eyes become cold. "I just observed the guards' patterns," You replied flatly. "The patrol wasn't random - it was methodical. That made it easy to predict when the wagon would be least watched."

Dutch gave a hearty chuckle. "And that is exactly what I've been telling Hosea, Dhani and Arthur. You've got the kind of mind that turns chaos into strategy. Hell, you saw a pattern in the smoke and turned it into gold." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "That kind of brilliance - it's rare in this line of work. Most of us go in guns blazing. You? You go in thinking two steps ahead."

You glanced down for a second, uncomfortable at the praise. "I just didn't want anyone getting hurt. That's all."

Dutch's tone softened, although the calculating look in his eyes remained. "That's noble. But understand, my dear... nobility and survival don't always walk hand in hand. You're clever, and you're useful. Which means you're part of this now - really part of it."

You tilted your head. "So it wasn't just about trust, then? Bringing me in?"

Dutch smiled like a cat. "Trust is earned. But contribution? That cements you." He took a step back and gave you a small, almost performative nod of approval. "You're earning your keep. That's all I ever ask."

As Dutch turned to walk back towards his tent, Hosea caught the tail end of the conversation from across the way. His expression was unreadable, but he slowly rose from his chair and made his way over.

"Are you okay?" Hosea asked gently.

You nodded slowly, eyes still on Dutch's retreating figure. "I don't know. But I think I just passed a test I didn't know I was taking."

Hosea sighed, offering you a small, understanding smile. "With Dutch? You're always taking a test."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The sun was burning high in the sky by the time Dhani and Arthur reached the ridge overlooking the small, rocky bluff. Below them, perched lazily beside a dying fire, was a familiar figure. Micah Bell, legs kicked out, hat tilted low, a cigarette burning between his fingers like he had all the time in the world.

Arthur scoffed. "There's the sonuvabitch."

Dhani's jaw was tight. Her hand hovered just a little too close to the butt of her revolver.

"I still don't get why we're doing this," she muttered.

"You think I do?" Arthur replied, sliding off his horse. "Dutch said go, so here we are."

"Dutch needs to stop thinking loyalty means dragging rabid dogs back to camp," she muttered under her breath.

They rode down the slope slowly, cautiously. As they approached, Micah grinned like he hadn't just nearly been hanged or left behind.

"Well, well, well... Ain't this a sight." He stood, arms open like he was expecting a hug. "Arthur Morgan and Miss Morgan herself - come to rescue poor ol' me?"

"No one's here to rescue you," Dhani snapped, dismounting. "We're here 'cause Dutch made it an order."

Micah chuckled. "Still full of fire, huh? Dutch knows what's best. That's why he's the one in charge."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Let's just get to it. You said you had a tip."

Micah laughed. "I got a plan to make it up to you."

"I don't even know what that means." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"I thought you were a tough boy... not one of those gentlemen... trying to protect his riding clothes." Micah sneered.

"I just know whenever things get real... you turn yellow, and lose your head. Sure seems that way." Arthur snapped.

"can we just... go back to your grand plan, Micah" Dhani cut off the verbal fight between the two men.

Micah chuckled. "straight to business. I like you, Miss Morgan." Micah took a breath and exhaled. "I guess you won't be riding with me to rob the banking coach... comes about this time into Strawberry? I heard one of the O'Driscoll boys... I heard one of the Driscoll boys yapping about it while I was inside."

Arthur's ears perked up at this. "come again?"

Micah chuckled. "you heard me, Morgan. You, me and the lady rob a coach"

"will it be ugly after that?" Dhani sharpened her gaze at Micah.

Micah shrugged. "we'll see" he said as he mounted his horse. "Come on, you two. We'd better not waste our time, wouldn't we?

Arthur and Dhani exchanged looks at each other before Arthur mounted his horse and Dhani mounted hers.

"There's a spot up this way with a good view of the trail." Micah pointed out.

The three of them lay low along the trail.

"What are you doing anyway, camping out here like some crazy hermit?" Arthur questioned.

"Can't exactly stay in town now, can I? And like I told you, I ain't going back to Dutch without a peace offering." Micah replied, simply.

"So what's the deal with this coach?" Dhani asked.

"What do you mean? Comes through about this time every day, like I said. The end." Micah replied.

"I mean... how many men? Guns? Riders?" Dhani added, questioningly.

"Nothing serious. It'll be fine." Micah replied, reassuring. Although it doesn't sound reassuring.

Arthur gently kicked his horse's side to increase speed. Now he is next to Micah. "I heard the banks have been hiring every trigger man they can get of late. The meaner the better."

Micah glanced at Arthur briefly. "You worry too much."

Arthur studied Micah's face for a moment. He then scoffed. "Forgive me if I ain't wholly faithful in something an O'Driscoll told you, when you were half-drunk in a jail cell."

"He kept yapping about it, saying how they've been hitting it on the regular. That's a good lead in my book." Micah replied, hands tightly gripping the reins.

"Damn O'Driscolls are everywhere now." Arthur muttered.

Dhani increased the speed of her horse just to ride next to Arthur. "Heard that, mostly they're in Valentine. Remember when you helped me settle the O'Driscolls at the doctor's office last time? yeah, everywhere"

"Bastards got a hold of most of Big Valley. Heard they took over some big ranch, north of here." Micah interjected.

"How the hell did you and Lenny end up down here anyway?" Arthur glanced at Micah curiously.

"You know how it is. A few loose ends, drink here, drink there." Micah said with sarcasm.

"What loose ends?" Dhani butted in.

"Nothing that needs to concern you. I always pay my share." Micah spoke with lazy confidence.

"It concerns me, when you put us in danger and we don't realize until it's too late. Like that move you pulled in Strawberry, making us kill half the town just for your precious guns." Arthur said through gritted teeth.

"Precious, they are... you need to roll a little looser, Morgans." Micah mocked.

Dhani scoffed. "Looser? I've seen you come full undone more than once now. And you've only been running with us a few months. Not to mention, what you bring is mostly troubles"

"Are we gonna rob this coach or bicker about it? What's done is done." Micah tried to change the topic.

"This doesn't end here" Dhani said.

"let's just get this done now" Micah said before he stopped, making the twins stop as well. "Alright, this is the spot. Hold up on this ridge." he looked at his watch. "They should be here, in a little bit. Hold tight."

"Which way will they be coming in?" Arthur inquired.

"Should be from over there. We'll need to hit them fast, before they get into town." Micah pointed out where the banking coach should come.

"Just don't lose your head this time." Arthur warned.

"Course, tough guy." Micah grinned. "They should be here any minute."

Moments later, a horse-drawn wagon with horse guards rides out of the woods. The banking coach rolled in. Arthur adjusted his bandana. Dhani loaded her repeater and eyed the treeline. Micah had two pistols and a smile that didn't belong to a man under orders.

"Look, there they are... right on time. Get covered up." Micah flicked the reins and started moving. "Come on... ride!" Micah laughed as he quickly descended the cliff.

Arthur and Dhani without wasting time sped up behind Micah.

The horses screamed, the driver shouted - Dhani took a clean shot and hit the lead horse's bridle strap, snapping it. The coach lurched. Micah whooped and fired wildly, dropping one guard before Arthur could shout for restraint.

"Goddammit, Micah!" Arthur cursed, as he shot several guards.

The coach did not stop. Micah laughed wildly.

"Stop that coach right now! It's just the driver left! Come on! So you wanna do this the hard way, do ya? See, I told you this'd be fun, Morgans!" Micah yelled.

"Is this fun for you?" Arthur yelled back as he shot at the upcoming guards who came from nowhere.

"Let's show these bastards! They ain't stopping! We need to take out the driver!" Micah said.

Arthur chased the coach, Hands took aim at the driver before he shot clean to the driver's head. The driver slumped forward and fell to the side. The coach started to slow down and then stopped completely. Arthur stopped behind the coach.

Instantly, Dhani and Micah stopped next to Arthur. Micah dismounted his horse and walked over the coach driver's seat.

"Hurry, get on. I'll drive. No need to keep your face covered now. It's just you and me, sweethearts. I'll give it to them, they put up half a fight at least." Micah holds the reins.

Arthur looked at Dhani. "you watch our back, okay?"

Dhani nodded before reloading her repeater. She then held the reins tightly.

Arthur climbed into the driver's seat - sitting next to Micah.

"Baylock! Come on boy." he called his beloved horse then his eyes catching the side of the driver's rifle. "Lookie here, a fine new rifle too. Here you go Arthur, from me to you. That's more your style than mine." he gave Arthur the rifle." What did I tell ya? Like licking butter off a knife." he added.

"Something like that." Arthur murmured - he gestured to the back where the valuables were kept." You don't want to just break it open here, be done with it?"

"Could be more than we can carry. And... there might be a second crew of riders tailing." Micah responded as he flicked the reins.

"Hell of a haul," he continued, leaning back with an arm over the backrest, grinning ear to ear. "Dutch is gonna have a damn parade for us."

Arthur didn't look at him. "This wasn't your parade, Micah. This was a job. And you were damn close to screwin' it with that stunt."

Micah shrugged. "C'mon, Morgan. A little blood keeps 'em afraid. Keeps 'em in line. You know how this works."

"I know how Dutch works," Arthur snapped. "And Dutch didn't say kill unless you had to."

Behind them, Dhani muttered under her breath, "You didn't have to. That guard was goin' for his rifle slow as molasses."

Micah's smile faded just slightly. "Funny. I don't recall you being in charge."

"No. But I remember being the one who pulled your ass outta that Strawberry jail. Don't tempt me to regret it."

The road narrowed as the hills rolled past, pine needles brushing the wagon wheels and the hush of the forest swallowing their words for a beat.

Arthur sighed and shifted in his seat. "This wasn't a clean job. Not like it should've been."

Micah gave a humorless chuckle. "Ain't nothin' clean in our line of work."

"Maybe not," Arthur grunted, "but it don't gotta be dirty for the sake of it."

They rode on in heavy silence, save for the rattle of the strongbox in the back and the occasional snort of Dhani's horse behind them. The shadows stretched long across the trail, and Arthur's jaw tightened with every jolt in the wagon.

Out of a sudden, a tree falls in front of the wagon, blocking the path. There stood a lone O'Drisscoll with a gun in his hand.

"Shit, now we're being robbed! Get across the river!" Arthur yelled.

But then-

BOOM

The coach they get on explodes soon they want to go to the side. The dynamite placed by O'Drisscoll exploded next to them making the coach overturned into the river. Micah and Arthur are thrown into the river while Dhani's horse bucks her off to the ground and runs away, making Dhani fall to the ground hard. 

Micah stood up and took cover behind the stone, hands pointing his gun towards the upcoming O'Driscolls. "What the hell? Come on, Morgans. Get out of there! You dumb bastards! You guys okay?"

Arthur groaned in pain as he began to move behind the stone. His clothes and skins wet with river water not to mention the bruises he got. Dhani took cover behind the banking coach - already shooting several O'Driscolls.

"I think so, just keep your head down." Arthur fired his revolver.

"Let's finish 'em. Here come more of them!" Micah yelled soon he saw a wagon full with O'Driscolls and the horses they were riding. Everyone covered their faces with some sort of cloth.

"Look out, Morgans. Wagon coming down the track. Let's get across!" Micah instructed as he pushed forward with guns firing towards them quickly.

Arthur and Dhani pushed forward. Aiming their guns and shooting at the O'Driscolls, some of them headshots. Moments later, some of the surviving O'Driscolls began to flee.

'Look at the cowards! They're running away! That'll show 'em! That should do it!" Micah laughed in victory.

Arthur stood up, hsi heart beating after a series of shooting that he experienced. Dhani put down her rifle. Her hands were shaking but she ignored it due to the adrenaline that was still there.

Arthur re-holsters his revolver. "Come on. Let's see if all this was worth it."

Micah walked towards the banking coach. "All I see is you, the lady, me, a river full of dead O'Driscolls and a lockbox."

"why is it every job I do with you ends in a pile of dead bodies" Arthur grumbled as he tails Micah from behind.

Dhani is already behind the overturned banking coach. She kneeled, looking at the still intact lockbox behind the coach.

"Since when did you have a problem killing O'Driscolls?" Micah taunted.

"you've got a point" Arthur muttered.

"let's strip this coach then. It clearly ain't going nowhere now" Micah said. "shoot the lock, Miss Morgan"

Dhani took out her own revolver and stood up - taking a little stepped back and aimed her revolver towards the lock on the coach.

BANG

The lock is broken.

"that should do it" Micah nodded with satisfaction then walked towards the lockbox and opened it.

There, Arthur saw another box. Micah motioned for Arthur to help him take the box to another place. Dhani holsters her revolver.

Both Arthur and Micah carried the box ashore. Micah took out his revolver and slammed a few times on the lock of the box then the box opened.

There, they saw a thousand piles of money in a box. Micah laughed with satisfaction, Arthur whistled while Dhani made an amazed face.

"Look at that. What's the cut here?" Micah asked as he saw Arthur kneeled and started dividing the money.

Half to Micah, Half to Dhani and Half to himself.

"Just make sure the gang gets its piece." Arthur said firmly.

Micah snickered. "Yeah, yeah. Like I said... big shadow, tiny tree."

Dhani glared at him. "just shut up, Micah. Keep pokin' him, and you'll be spittin' blood"

Micah raised his hand as if surrendered. "Always got that sharp tongue, huh? Gotta be exhausting bein' angry all the damn time. Maybe you just need a drink... or someone to keep you warm." Micah teased.

This disguised Dhani. Arthur stepped in front of Dhani, protectively.

Arthur sharpened his eyes at Micah. His voice is low. "like I said... that still don't mean nothing. Now, get out of here. Go see Dutch... but make sure you ain't followed." Arthur warned.

Micah mounted his horse. "I know, boss. I know. It's been fun!" he said for the last time before he takes his leave, leaving the twins there.

Dhani stared where Micah went. "He's going to burn us from the inside out." she muttered.

Arthur nodded once. "I know."

"Then why the hell did we just save him?"

Arthur didn't have an answer. Only the sound of hooves and the rising wind.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Camp was unusually quiet when the trio returned, the rising dust from the hooves of their horses stirring people out of their midday stupor. Dutch stood from his chair, cigar smoldering between his fingers as he strode forward with that wide, theatrical grin.

"Well, look who came crawling back from the edge of hell!" Dutch spread his arms like a preacher welcoming home a prodigal son. "Micah Bell, as wild and free as ever."

Micah swung off his horse like he owned the ground he landed on. "Good to be back, Dutch."

Dutch clapped him on the shoulder. "You did good. I always knew you'd find a way out."

Arthur dismounted in silence, face tight, jaw clenched. Dhani came down next, slower, her eyes trailing Dutch's hand on Micah's shoulder like she wanted to rip it off.

Dutch turned to Arthur, his grin still wide. "And you. My boy. I knew I could count on you. Even if you had your doubts."

Arthur grunted. "I still got 'em."

Dhani added sharply, "Don't forget who risked the most just to bring him back."

Dutch waved her off like a buzzing fly. "All part of the plan, sweetheart. All part of the plan."

Majority of the gang looked at Micah as if he was a parasite (which he is). Charles gave a nod, nothing more. Hosea, from across the fire, only frowned. You, who had been sorting books near the supply wagon with Jack earlier, stood up slowly, sensing the tension as soon as you spotted Arthur's expression and Dhani's tone of voice.

You then excused yourself from Jack which Jack just nodded. You walked slowly towards Arthur. Dhani was already walking towards her tent. Lately, after Strawberry, Dhani's mood seemed to be not good. Which was a bit worrying to you because you slept in the same tent and you observed her. Almost every night she would have nightmares that ended up you and her having a quiet conversation with tea every night just to ease her racing heart.

Arthur stood by the edge of the clearing, hat low over his brow.

You approached slowly, your voice soft. "That bad, huh?"

Arthur gave a tight shrug. "Bad enough."

You glanced towards where Micah was holding court. "Dutch looked... smug."

Arthur snorted. "Like a damn fox with blood on its muzzle."

You didn't press. You just stood beside him for a moment, watching the firelight flicker.

Then you asked gently, "Is this what Hosea meant? About Dutch not listening anymore?"

Arthur's silence was all the answer you needed.

You nodded. "i should see what Luna needs. We'll talk more later, okay Arthur?"

Arthur stared at you before he nodded. "sure... sure" he muttered.

You patted his arm before excuses yourself to go to the horses hitching post where Luna was munching on hay. Your face turned scowling.

"look at you,lady. Always eating." you scolded but then you picked up the brush to brush her silver body.

Luna nickered but kept on munching her food. Hands caressed her body softly, you hummed while brushing her coat.

Your childhood song was hummed by you. Your eyes focused on Luna's body.

Meanwhile, Micah's eyes casually scan the camp - and for the briefest moment, land on you.

Now this is quite new. Another new member he didn't know. Micah smirked as he walked towards you. Boots crunching on dirt.

"Well now... you're a face I ain't seen before." Micah said smoothly - hands tucked into his gun belt. Face grinned.

You don't flinch. You brushed Luna's mane before glancing at him.

"I could say the same. You're Micah Bell, I presume?" you muttered flatly.

Micah raised an eyebrow. Clearly he doesn't expect you to know his name. He chuckled. "And here I thought I was famous only in the right circles."

"Your reputation arrived before you did." You responded coldly.

Micah gives a low chuckle. "and you are?"

You looked at his face with emotionless eyes. "Y/n Holmes" you muttered, clearly you want him to stay away from you.

A pause. Micah's eyes narrowed just slightly. "Holmes, huh?" he chuckled. "Don't reckon we've crossed paths before," he added, voice coiled with suspicion and that usual sneer he wore like a second skin.

"I've never been here before last year," you responded calmly, your hand brushing along Luna's neck, the horse nuzzling gently under your fingers.

Micah hummed, his eyes falling to your hands, noting how delicate they looked compared to the grime under his own fingernails.

"Where are you from then?"

"London," you said, simple and unbothered, though you caught the twitch in his brow. His focus sharpened immediately.

Micah gave a long, low whistle. "London." He snorted, stepping a half-step closer with an amused scoff.

"Well, ain't that somethin'. A proper lady from across the pond, out here roughin' it with us dirty, no-good outlaws."

You raised a brow but said nothing, letting him talk.

"Let me guess..." Micah continued, smirk growing, "You used to sip tea at noon sharp, didn't ya? Pinky up, silver tray, all that pomp. Probably wore them fancy gloves too - tellin' folks how cold the weather was but never touched dirt in your life till now."

You didn't react, still running your hand along Luna's mane, calm as still water. That only seemed to goad him further.

"'Scuse me, m'lady," he mocked with an exaggerated bow and the worst fake British accent you'd ever heard. "Mind if I borrow your monocle and ask what in God's name you're doin' ridin' with us savages?"

You glanced at him finally, one brow arched, unimpressed.

He grinned widely. "Just sayin'. London's a long way from here. Ain't no palace or marble steps out here in the mud. You don't exactly... fit the look, if you get me."

Still, you said nothing.

Micah tilted his head. "What's the matter? Lost your tongue along with your title?" He chuckled low under his breath. "Bet you used to have folks stand when you walked in a room. Now you're sharin' campfires with men who've stabbed each other over stew."

"Maybe I've learned something you haven't," you said evenly.

Micah blinked, and the grin faltered just slightly.

"That the world's full of rats wearing gold rings," you continued. "And I'd rather stand in the mud with outlaws who speak the truth than in parlors with men who lie behind lace curtains."

Micah's mouth curved again, this time slower. His eyes narrowed.

"Well now..." he muttered. "Didn't expect teeth."

You gave him a tight smile. "Then you really don't know much about Londoners."

Micah chuckled again but didn't press further, retreating with a slight nod. "Gonna be fun watchin' you try to keep your boots clean 'round here, London."

Micah turned with a mocking grin and sauntered off, clearly satisfied with himself - or at least thinking he'd gotten under your skin. But before you could return to brushing Luna, you felt it.

A shift in the water.

You glanced up, and there he was - Arthur, standing just a few feet away near a hitching post, arms crossed, gaze sharp under the brim of his hat. He'd been there a moment, you realized - long enough to hear enough.

He stepped closer, boots crunching softly on the dry grass.

"Don't pay him no mind," Arthur muttered gruffly, his eyes following Micah's retreating back like a hawk tracking a fox. "He talks like that 'cause he ain't got nothin' else worth listenin' to."

You smirked faintly. "I gathered as much."

Arthur glanced back at you, eyes softening just slightly. "Still. Man's got a real talent for runnin' his mouth where it ain't wanted."

"He wanted a reaction," you said, calm and composed, brushing Luna's mane again. "Which is why I gave him something he didn't expect - silence."

Arthur gave a quiet grunt of approval, then looked away towards the treeline. His voice dropped just a bit, quieter. "You handled him better than most of us do. Hell, better than me sometimes."

You tilted your head. "Have you two always been like that?"

Arthur didn't answer at first. He reached into his satchel and lit a cigarette with a flick of his match, the flame catching against the morning light.

"I don't trust him," Arthur said finally. "Never have. Dutch does, for now. But Micah... he ain't the kind that stands with folks. He stands behind 'em - just far enough to stick a knife in when it suits him."

You looked up at him. "You think I should stay away?"

Arthur exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it drift upwards. "I think you already know how to take care of yourself," he said quietly. "But I'm sayin'... if he ever crosses a line, I'll know about it."

You stared at him, the weight of his words not lost on you. There was steel in Arthur's voice - not anger, but something more solid. A warning. A promise.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely.

Arthur gave a small nod, then looked back towards Luna. "Spoiled little thing, ain't she? Kieran's been treatin' her like royalty."

You laughed under your breath. "She's taken to him. Might as well call her Kieran's horse now."

Arthur gave a rare chuckle. "Well, if she gets too soft, I can introduce her to my horse. See how she likes the workin' life."

A quiet moment passed between you, easy and steady. Then Arthur tipped his hat and started to walk off.

"Oh," he added over his shoulder, "if Micah bothers you again, you come find me."

You smiled. "I will."

And with that, he was gone - his long stride disappearing between the wagons, leaving behind the warmth of quiet loyalty and the faint scent of tobacco.

 ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Sorry if it's short. I'm busy playing Detroit Become Human these past few days😞

- Dhani

[newnevermind-sanity]

This is probably going to sound more like word vomit but I have a lot of thoughts on Grimm and the Radiance and I would love to get it on paper. The difference between the Nightmare King and the Radiance are night and day, and I find it fascinating that the one with control over NIGHTMARES is the one that's way more approachable and inviting than the main baddie who burns as hot as the sun. Maybe in seeing their differences too we can start to understand (though I doubt we'll ever get an answer) why the Nightmare Realm is now apart from the Dream one.

The difference is the willingness to come down to a Mortal's level.

Grimm has a mortal form. It's one that embodies the cycle of life and death. Burn the father, feed the child. I think however child is not a correct word for what Grimmchild is at first, but simulacrum. A vessel for the new Nightmare King. Much how we were supposed to be a vessel for the Radiance, Grimmchild is a vessel for the Nightmare Heart in a cycle of life and death that fuels it until the ritual fails one too many times and the final embers go out. Whether or not that's willingly is up for interpretation and there's a lot that can be played with here.

The Nightmare King is how he is in dream, with the Nightmare Heart being, well, his heart: his source of power, tucked away in a realm he allows only a select few in. But most won't see that. Only the ones chosen to aid the ritual get to see it. Most people just see a polite troupe master that, while a bit unsettling and creepy, puts on shows to wow crowd, bows before any opponent, and gives kindness to those helping him. He's the one that treats us with the most respect. He disarms our perception of a Nightmare King by coming down to a mortal's level, by being kind and approachable. It's through this method that he's been able to keep going for so long. While others reject him for his nature and for being, well, the Nightmare King, those who are kind and most likely outcasts themselves, are more than willing to help a fellow outcast.

He does show however his real power in dream, but by then you know damn well to expect it. You know this is where he thrives. This is him fueling the fire before you throw him upon it for the child you carry. He is still the Nightmare King, he burns hot and bright, almost untouchable, but he dims that fire in the real world. Instead of an inferno, he's a warm crackling fireplace.

Furthermore he's not an all powerful god, he's a scavenger. He takes the flames of an old dying kingdom and burns them for his ritual, allowing for something new to be reborn from the ashes. He cleans up the last of the mess and leaves a blank slate for the next kingdom that he will one day return to. It may seem as gross and invasive to some who rather peace for the dead, but to others, they're just glad it's gone and can move on in their lives to build something new.

The Radiance on the other hand, is a blinding, burning sun, that can never be touched without serious repercussions.

She doesn't have a mortal form, only appearing in dreams. As such, she requires people to worship her in order to keep her godly form. She needs people to remember her. We're not told too much about the Radiance before she began to infect everyone, but I don't think it's a stretch to say that her moths left her for a reason. The Pale King is a much softer, more gentle light, that encourages thought and free will. Who wouldn't want that, when your previous god is oppressive and intrusive to your own thoughts?

It's hard to forget something like that, even through the generations. Told in whispers around the campfire of the previous god, they unwittingly keep her on life support, enough that she could concoct her scheme of revenge.

She appears as a blinding, burning light in dreams, offering unity at the cost of free will and thought. It burns, it's hard to resist in dream. It smells so sickly sweet that you want to throw up, permeating the senses and blocking all else. Even Void beings that are heavily resistant to this light can give in with enough prodding. There's no sense of humanity or kindness in it. There's no turning it off once it's there.

It's also very clear that she would not have stopped, not until everything was hers in Hallownest, or perhaps even beyond. In her own terror of being forgotten, of facing death in every sense of the word, she clawed her way back violently, not at all caring for the mortals destroyed in her wake, not at all caring about the repercussions to her living jailer, or that she's taking away others autonomy for the sake of being remembered and worshipped like the old days.

She is blinding, intrusive, hot, and at a distance she's warm and radiant. Up close, it's too much for any mortal. It hurts too much to stare into her and become blind to all else. It hurts to try and hold her at bay.

The only thing that can get anywhere near her and swallow her up, is the very Void itself, and the Lord of Shades who controls it.

With all that being said, what we're left with is two very different gods who don't talk about each other. Whether it was because there was no good place to put it, or whether it was on purpose, this is what we got. So then, what happened to make Nightmare split from Dream?

There's three options here as to what caused the rift.

It was a mutual split between two sides that never liked each other or thought it better to not have it together. (Possible, but unlikely. We do not have enough information to know their previous relationship. Friends? Siblings? Lovers? Absolutely loathed each other from the start? No damn idea. They're just connected through Dream with two very different ways of doing things, and I doubt they approved of one another once those were set up.)

Grimm began a conflict leading to the split. (Also very unlikely, unless his personality was different back then and this humbled him into what we see now. Grimm does not pick fights unless they help his ritual, and the only other time he would fight is in self defense, most likely.)

The Radiance began a conflict leading to the split. (Most likely with what we know, unless her personality wasn't as controlling and overwhelming back then. We don't have enough information to be sure.)

In the end it's left to us to speculate, and there's a lot to play with here. It's just important to remember the distinct difference between the two.

TL;DR: Grimm is terrifying and powerful, a swirling inferno, but he dims himself down to be much more approachable and welcoming to mortals like a campfire would be. Radi is terrifying and powerful, but doesn't dim herself down at all, and is just a blinding, burning sun that will melt your face off if you look at it wrong.