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colouredbyd · 2 months ago

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The Nightingale VI: The Capitol Has Teeth

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: a wounded alliance begins to form. old memories resurface under the cover of night—constellations, names, and things left unsaid. the arena is changing, and the Capitol is already tightening its grip.

warnings: scenes of violence, characters death, graphic content, blood, emotional distress, violence, injury care, body horror (mild), themes of control and helplessness, mild language, intense fear, reflective of the brutal nature of the Hunger Games.

word count: 8.9k (totally didnt take 3 days to write)

authors note: i love this chapter so so much, ugh. ps. so many hidden easters in this chapter..

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This is day two of the Games, and the Garden is changing.

The trees loom higher than they did yesterday—though maybe it’s not the trees that have grown. Maybe it’s me, shrinking by the hour, forgetting how to measure anything except the ache in my chest and the sound of my own heartbeat.

The canopy above is a patchwork of rust-colored leaves, their edges curled and blackened like they’ve been touched by fire. They drip something sticky onto the ground, sap or blood or something that smells too sweet to be natural. The earth beneath our feet shifts softly sometimes, like it's breathing. And in the corners of my vision, I keep catching flickers—ghosts of motion, glimmers of light that vanish when I try to focus. I turn my head and see nothing but bark. Stones that look like teeth. Vines that might’ve been ropes.

We don’t speak. There’s no need to. The silence between us is heavier than the air.

Regulus walks ahead, every step deliberate. That same quiet intensity he’s always carried—like he was carved from silence and taught how to move without making the world flinch. He reads the terrain with his eyes, his hands, the angle of his shoulders. Every few paces, his fingers lift to the back of his neck—light and quick, like a whisper he’s trying to chase away. I’ve seen him do it before. I didn’t think much of it then. But now, I see how often. How unconscious. Like a tether—his mind checking a leash only he can feel.

He hasn’t spoken since last night. Neither have I. There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t come out as a prayer or a scream.

Yesterday there were three cannons. Three faces in the sky.

Emmeline Vance from District 4. Mundungus Fletcher from 12. Hestia Jones from 8.

I didn’t know them—not really. I remembered their faces at the Reaping, the slight tremble in Hestia’s hands, the way Emmeline had kept her chin raised too high, defiant even when her voice cracked. But names blur quickly out here. Still, I forced myself to look. To hold their eyes as long as the sky would let me. It felt like the only thing I could offer—acknowledgement. A witness. Something human.

My heart clenched, waiting for a fourth. Bracing for the face I wouldn’t survive seeing. But it didn’t come.

No Regulus.

And the relief that washed over me was sharp and selfish and so full of guilt I could barely stand it. Because part of me still thinks that as long as he’s alive, I can be too. Like if I can just keep him breathing, I won't become one of those faces. A name no one knew well enough to mourn. But maybe that’s a lie we tell ourselves to keep walking.

I glance at Regulus again and wonder, not for the first time, what it’s cost him to survive all this. What corners of himself he’s had to cut away to keep going. What softness he’s buried. What screams he’s swallowed.

His profile is turned to the trees now, neck long and throat bruised with old scrapes. There’s a sliver of dried blood along his collarbone—too thin to worry about but too stark to ignore. His hands hang loose at his sides, stained from the last time we dug through mud for shelter. Hands that used to tremble in the Capitol’s glare. Hands that no longer do.

The Capitol doesn’t need to kill you with blades or bombs. It just waits. Patient, calculating. Watching as the days chip away at you until there’s nothing left but instinct and ash. Until the war lives in your bones and mercy is a myth you no longer afford. It doesn’t pull the trigger—it hands you the weapon, then teaches you how to aim at yourself.

It silences you slowly. Hollowing out the soft parts first—grief, love, hope—until only survival remains. It makes memory sharp. Makes kindness dangerous. It turns every name you loved into a weakness, every soft moment into something that could get you killed. That’s the Capitol’s real talent: it doesn’t need to kill you. It teaches you how to do it on your own.

And Regulus—he carries every one of those lessons behind his eyes. He walks like someone who’s memorized loss. Like the air itself cuts him, and still he keeps moving. He doesn’t look back. Maybe because he can’t. Maybe because looking means remembering. And remembering means bleeding all over again.

But I do. I always do.

Because someone has to. Someone has to hold onto what we were before they renamed us tributes and strung us up like symbols. Someone has to remember that we were people once. That we had birthdays and favorite songs. That we laughed. That kindness wasn’t a liability.

I wonder if he remembers that, too. Or if he buried hope with the rest of the dead.

We keep walking, the Garden thick around us, the silence breathing down our necks. And still, I say nothing.

But gods, I want to.

I want to call his name and watch it settle on his skin like something warm. I want to press my hand to the curve of his spine and remind him that he doesn’t have to carry all of this alone.

I want him to look at me the way he used to—like I was something he couldn’t afford to lose.

Not here. Not in the Garden, where the trees eavesdrop and the wind keeps score. Here, tenderness is a trap.

He doesn’t need to tell me why he’s quiet. I already know.

The longer we’re still, the louder the Garden gets. The wind carries laughter sometimes, or the sound of footsteps that don’t belong to either of us. Once I swore I heard my mother singing. The exact lullaby she used to hum when I couldn’t sleep. The notes hung between the branches like fruit.

Because we both knew the truth: the arena isn’t just a place.

It’s a mind.

It watches. It learns. It carves open your past and feeds it back to you with blood on its fingers. It waits until you forget you’re a tribute, and then it strikes. Not with teeth or claws, but with memories. With softness. With the illusion of something kind, until it becomes the thing that kills you.

I walk beside him now, watching the way he moves—controlled, deliberate, like he’s holding something back. Maybe rage. Maybe grief. Maybe something colder. There’s a part of me that wants to reach for him, to remind him I’m still here. That we’re not entirely gone yet. But I don’t.

I haven’t spoken since the camera shattered. I don’t think Regulus has either.

The Garden is quieter than it was yesterday. Not peaceful—never peaceful. Just… still. Like the calm that presses down on your chest right before a scream. Even the birds are gone, if they were ever real to begin with.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve blinked without seeing anything at all.

How many times I’ve heard my name, whispered low and sweet, threading through the trees like a secret—and turned to find nothing but bark and silence. The branches know my name now. They’ve learned how to say it with the same lilt my brother used to, the same pause my mother would make before pulling me into her arms.

I think I’m starting to forget what real sounds like. What true sounds like.

We were moving through a dense patch of undergrowth when something ahead caught the corner of my eye. It wasn’t a sound or a cry—just the faintest flicker of motion, too small to be a threat, too subtle to ignore. I stopped. My foot hovered above a root as my gaze dropped to the forest floor, sifting through the layers of leaves and dirt.

That’s when I saw him.

A boy, half-swallowed by the roots of an overturned tree—limbs tangled like he’d fallen from the sky and the forest had tried to claim him before he hit the ground. His body was twisted awkwardly, one leg bent beneath him, the other dragged out behind like he’d been running and never quite stopped. Dirt smudged his cheek, blood crusted at his temple, and his arm was curled protectively over his ribs, as if even unconscious, he was trying to shield something.

For a breathless second, I thought he was dead.

Then his fingers moved—just once. A faint tremble, barely there.

I stepped forward before I even realized it, breath catching in my throat.

“We can’t,” Regulus said. His voice was low.

I turned toward him, but he didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on the boy, sharp and gleaming like the blade he kept hidden at his side. I could feel the tension coiled in him, the way his breath had shortened, how his grip on me tightened just slightly as the boy coughed again.

“What if it’s a setup?” Regulus muttered. “What if someone left him there to draw us out? We’re in the Garden. Nothing’s real here. Not pain. Not mercy. Not dying.”

His hand was still on my arm. The contact sent little aftershocks skimming through my nerves, but it was the way he said dying that made my stomach twist. Like he wasn’t afraid of it, just tired of watching it happen.

“I don’t think he’s pretending,” I said, softer now, but steady. “No one pretends to bleed like that.”

Regulus didn’t let go. He looked at me then, and for a moment, his expression faltered. Just enough for the mask to slip. Just enough for me to see what was beneath it—fear, maybe. Or something heavier.

“I can’t protect you if you walk into a trap.”

I swallowed hard. His fingers were still wrapped around my arm, thumb brushing against the inside of my wrist like he was trying to convince himself it was fine. That I was still breathing. That I was still warm. I could’ve told him I wasn’t the one who needed protecting, not from this, not now—but the words stayed in my throat.

“I’m going,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to come with me. But I’m not walking away.”

I moved toward the boy, lowering myself into a crouch until my knees met the damp, moss-covered earth. The scent of soil and something metallic filled my lungs as I leaned closer. His breathing was shallow and ragged, every rise of his chest uneven, as if each breath was a decision his body had to wrestle with. Blood had seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, a deep maroon stain spreading across his side, dark and tacky. Most of it had dried, crusted in streaks where it had mingled with dirt and sweat, but fresh droplets still clung near the wound—bright enough to mean danger, slow enough to mean time was running out.

His body looked wrong somehow, too twisted to be resting, too still to be safe. One leg was curled beneath him in an unnatural position, the angle of it suggesting a break or worse. His arm had fallen across his ribs, bent awkwardly as if he'd collapsed mid-flight and never gotten the chance to move again. His face was pale beneath the grime, the sort of pallor that came with too many hours of pain left unattended. One eye was swollen shut, puffed and bruised, while the other remained barely open, glassy and confused. He blinked once, slowly, as if even that motion cost him something. His gaze didn’t quite find mine.

He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. There was something delicate about him, something unfinished, like he hadn’t been given enough time to grow into himself before being thrown into this place. His lips were cracked and flaking, the corners stained with blood and dust. I studied his features, searching for a name, a memory, anything to anchor him to the world outside this nightmare.

He must have been one of the quiet ones during the interviews—the kind of tribute whose voice got lost beneath the roar of louder stories. The kind no one truly noticed until their portrait appeared in the sky, accompanied by that mournful anthem. He didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look like he belonged in the Games. But then again, none of us did.

The heat coming off him was feverish, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. It radiated from him in waves, pulsing with every weak breath, and I knew then that the wound had festered longer than it should have. His body was fighting a war it was already losing.

Behind me, I felt the shift of movement before I saw it—Regulus lowering himself into a crouch beside us. His expression was unreadable, all sharp lines and shadows. He didn’t speak. His eyes scanned the boy with clinical precision, taking in the damage, calculating the risk. One hand hovered near his knife, fingers ghosting the hilt like a reflex, like his body didn’t quite know how to be still without the comfort of a blade in reach. But he didn’t draw it. He stayed where he was, close but guarded, alert but not hostile.

The suspicion had not entirely left his features, but it had softened. Not into trust—Regulus didn’t give that freely—but into something quieter, something cautious and heavy with restraint. It was enough. For now.

“His leg’s broken,” he said, scanning the injury like it was a riddle. “Might be his ribs too.”

He stared at the boy a moment longer, then reached into his pack without a word.

That was the thing about him. He didn’t believe in softness, not out loud. But he still acted on it, always in the quietest ways.

Regulus took most of the weight, one of the boy’s arms draped across his shoulder, the other hanging lifeless at his side. I stayed close, supporting from behind, one hand steady on his back, the other ready to grab him if he collapsed. He was light—too light—and every step made him wince. He didn’t say a word. Just stumbled and clung on.

Regulus led the way, his pace steady but quick, each step a careful rhythm, as though he was trying to stay two steps ahead of danger. His eyes flicked over his shoulder frequently, watching the boy who staggered just behind, trying to keep pace. I saw the way his jaw tightened with each stumble, the way his grip on his knife never fully relaxed. He was wary, cautious, a man who had learned the hard way to trust no one. Not even someone in a condition like this boy’s.

The boy’s breathing was shallow, rattling in his chest like the prelude to something worse. He coughed, a wet, miserable sound that seemed to echo through the quiet woods, and muttered something I couldn’t catch. His voice was weak, barely a whisper, and when his head dropped forward, I felt a momentary surge of panic. For a moment, he looked like he might just collapse, crumple under his own weight, and we’d be left here with him, an easy target for whatever might be watching from the shadows.

I slowed my pace, moving closer to him, and whispered, my voice tight with worry. “We’re almost there,” I said, though it felt more like a promise to myself than to him. “Just hold on.”

I wasn’t sure if he even heard me. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and he swayed as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with the effort of standing. I could feel Regulus watching us, his gaze sharp and calculating. He was already thinking two steps ahead, thinking about the next danger we might face. Even here, in this moment, we weren’t safe.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of winding through the underbrush, we emerged into a small clearing. The trees opened up just enough to give us a breath, the weight of the forest lifting slightly, as if the earth itself had parted to let us pass. The ground beneath us was soft, covered in thick, spongy moss that swallowed the sound of our footsteps, offering a temporary reprieve from the harshness of the forest.

Regulus moved swiftly, lowering the boy to the ground, his movements more tender than I would have expected, more careful than he probably intended to show. I knelt beside the boy, brushing the damp curls from his forehead, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. It was too much warmth, too much for someone so young, someone who had already been through so much.

His breaths came in short, labored gasps, each one sounding like it took all the effort he had left. I could feel the weight of his fever in the tremors of his body, the way his skin was flushed, slick with sweat despite the coolness of the night. I gently pressed my fingers to his wrist, trying to find his pulse, but it was weak, barely there.

I didn’t know how long he could last like this. The wound he’d sustained was bad, worse than I had first thought, and there was nothing we could do for him right now except wait. Wait and watch, hoping it wasn’t too late.

The air around us seemed to hold its breath, the quiet of the forest pressing in from all sides. For a moment, the world felt impossibly still, as if the trees themselves had paused to witness what was happening here.

Regulus moved behind me, his presence a quiet shadow at my back. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his gaze on the boy, feel the tension in the way he stood, watchful and poised. He wasn’t ready to let go of the boy, not yet. I understood that—this was dangerous, and we couldn’t afford to trust anyone fully, not in the Garden.

But as I looked at the boy, his chest rising and falling too slowly, his body trembling with fever, I knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going to last long unless we did something

I reached for the canteen with steady hands, though inside, I felt anything but calm. The metal was cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the boy’s fevered body. I tilted it carefully toward his mouth, trying to find the balance between urgency and gentleness. “Can you drink?” I asked, my voice quiet, measured, like I was afraid the sound itself might scare him back into unconsciousness.

His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and rimmed with dirt, glassy with pain and exhaustion. They looked too old for someone his age—haunted, like he had already seen too much. He blinked up at me slowly, uncomprehending, and his cracked lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Only a thin rasp of air, dry and broken. I tilted the canteen again, just enough to let a trickle of water touch his mouth.

He flinched slightly at first, then swallowed—a small, effortful motion that looked like it took everything out of him. A second later, he coughed, the sound low and grating, each breath catching in his throat like it was scraping against gravel. I steadied his shoulder, trying to keep him upright as his body shook. His skin was far too warm beneath my fingers, and his pulse fluttered weakly like a moth against glass.

Behind me, Regulus stood motionless, arms folded tightly across his chest, his frame half-shadowed by the last light filtering through the trees. His face was a mask—neutral, unreadable—but I knew better than to think he was at ease. His eyes didn’t leave the boy, not for a second. Every twitch of movement, every inhale, every subtle flicker in the boy’s expression was caught in his gaze. He wasn’t just watching—he was assessing. Calculating. Always preparing for the moment things might turn.

The boy stirred a little more, his head turning slightly as his eyes squinted against the light. I leaned closer, my tone softening into something gentler, something I hoped he could anchor to. “Hey,” I murmured. “You’re okay. We found you in the woods. You were hurt, but you’re safe now.”

His gaze darted between us, unfocused and flickering. I saw the fear begin to rise in his eyes—not wild panic, not the kind that screamed or thrashed, but the quieter kind, the kind that sank its teeth in slowly. It was buried beneath layers of exhaustion and pain, but it was there, tightening his expression, making his breath catch as he tried to place where he was and who we were.

“We need to know your name,” I said, more gently now, as though coaxing it out of him could unravel some of the fear. “Just your name, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away. His attention snapped to Regulus, narrowed in on him like he sensed something dangerous beneath the silence. I followed his gaze and saw what he did—Regulus hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked, but the stillness of his posture was deceptive. He was coiled beneath it, ready. There was a tension in his stance, like the entire forest could shift and he’d still be the first to react. Something in the boy recognized that. He wasn’t just looking at a stranger. He was looking at a threat.

Finally, after another strained pause, the boy swallowed and whispered, “Evan.”

His voice was paper-thin and frayed at the edges. The name hung between us for a moment, fragile and weightless. I turned to Regulus, catching his eyes for a brief second.

I looked back at the boy and nodded. “Okay, Evan,” I said softly, like his name was something sacred, something I didn’t want to break. “We’re going to help you. That wound—it needs care, but you’re not alone anymore. We’ll take care of it, and we’ll figure the rest out together.”

Evan’s gaze didn’t waver, but something inside it dimmed slightly, like he didn’t quite believe me, like he’d already seen too much to think anything here could be safe. “There’s no such thing,” he murmured, his words barely audible, worn thin from pain. “Safe doesn’t exist here.”

I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

Regulus finally moved, crouching low beside us, his knees brushing the moss, and his shadow stretched long and dark over the clearing. His presence was grounding, solid, but it brought with it the weight of reality. This wasn’t just an act of kindness. It was a decision with consequences.

His voice, when it came, was quiet but firm. “Are you alone?”

Evan’s head dipped in the faintest of nods. “I don’t know where my district partner is,” he said, voice rough. “We got separated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of possibilities. Regulus glanced at me, and for a second, I saw the flicker again. He was thinking. Calculating how this changed things. How long we could afford to care.

“When?” Regulus pressed.

“Since the bloodbath,” Evan said. “I tried to climb a tree after. I Thought I saw movement. I fell. Think I broke something.” He winced as he tried to shift. “Been there since. Two days, maybe.”

I reached for the first aid kit, pulling out a strip of clean cloth and the last of our antiseptic. The gash on his side had bled through his shirt. It was ragged and deep, but not too wide—if we kept it clean, he might have a chance.

“This’ll sting,” I warned, my voice low, almost apologetic as I prepared the antiseptic.

Evan didn’t flinch at my words. He just nodded, his fingers digging into the moss beneath him like it might anchor him to something solid, something real. The tremble of his hand was faint, almost imperceptible, but I saw it—saw the effort it took for him to hold himself still. His skin was already raw, burned with the fever he’d been running, and I knew this was going to make it worse.

I dabbed the cloth across his wound, and a sharp hiss escaped him, his breath a shallow, quick intake, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t pull away. He just endured it. The sound of his breath was the only thing I could hear, ragged and unsteady.

I focused on the task, moving carefully. The world around us felt distant, like everything else had slowed down in that moment. The air was thick, heavy with the tension between us. Regulus remained quiet, his gaze fixed on Evan with a mix of watchfulness and something else—something unreadable. He handed me what I needed without a word, his movements precise and fluid, like he had already decided he would do what was necessary, whether he wanted to or not.

The silence stretched, a fragile thread that might snap at any moment, but it held. We worked in synchrony, each of us trapped in our own thoughts, the weight of what was happening pressing against us, unspoken but shared. The moment felt like it was balanced on the edge of something unnamed, something too complex to voice.

When I finished, I leaned back slightly, wiping my hands on my pants, suddenly aware of how still the air had become, how heavy my own breath felt.“You need rest,” I said, trying to make the words sound like a command, but it came out more like a suggestion—a plea. His body was barely holding itself together, and I could see how exhausted he was. He needed sleep more than anything else.

Evan blinked slowly, his gaze drifting between us. I could see the questions in his eyes—too many to count, and none of them answered yet. “Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

I opened my mouth to answer, but the words felt like they were stuck. I didn’t have a good answer. Not one that would make sense to him, or to me, for that matter. But before I could speak, Regulus answered, his tone low but firm, like he was stating a simple fact.

“We’re not sure we are.”

His words hung in the air, sharp, blunt. There was no malice in his voice—just the quiet honesty of someone who had learned the hard way not to promise things he wasn’t sure he could keep. I felt the weight of it, the honesty of it, even though part of me wanted to argue. Wanted to say that we were helping, that there was something between us that demanded it. But Regulus had said it. And in that moment, I couldn’t deny it.

I glanced at him sharply, but his face didn’t shift. There was no anger, no bitterness, just an unwavering calm.

Evan’s eyelids fluttered shut as if the effort of staying awake had finally become too much. His voice came in a soft rasp, as fragile as his breath. “Fair enough.”

The acceptance in his words struck me more deeply than I expected. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pleading. He was just... resigned. Maybe it was the fever, or the pain, or just the weight of everything that had happened, but in that moment, his voice was quiet, but there was a sort of strength in it too. The kind of strength that didn’t come from fighting back, but from accepting the world as it was—however hard that might be.

And as he lay there, silent, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, I felt something shift. Something delicate, but undeniable. It wasn’t that I understood Evan, not fully. But in that moment, with his simple admission, I felt connected to him in a way I hadn’t expected.

I looked back at Regulus, catching the fleeting glance he gave me—brief, unreadable—but I could sense it. Whatever had brought us here, whatever decision had been made when we chose to help him, it wasn’t just about the boy on the ground. It was about us. And whatever was happening between us, unspoken but felt, was just beginning to unfold.

Regulus stood again and moved to the fire pit, kneeling to strike the flint. I stayed by Evan’s side, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips moved soundlessly—like he was whispering something to himself in sleep. Maybe a name. Maybe a prayer.

Across the clearing, sparks jumped from stone to kindling. The fire began to catch. Regulus didn’t look at me, but I could feel the tension still radiating from him like heat.

He didn’t trust Evan. But he’d carried him here.

And something about that mattered more than either of us could admit.

It's been a few hours since Evan fell asleep. I tried to sleep. I really did, but I couldn't take my eyes off the horizon above me. The sky above isn’t real—too static, too perfect, as if someone painted it from memory and forgot that stars are supposed to flicker. The air smells like damp earth and something artificial beneath it, the Capitol’s idea of what a forest should be. It’s close but never quite right, like a lullaby sung off-key.

Beside me, Regulus lies just barely within reach. Our arms aren’t touching, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him radiating in the space between us. I can sense the rhythm of his breathing in the rise and fall of the silence, the way the air stirs gently whenever he exhales. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s thick with the weight of unspoken things, of years that passed without permission, of names we don’t call each other anymore.

I don’t know when I started watching him instead of the sky.

The years haven’t changed the shape of him, not really. He’s still all edges and quiet restraint, still wears silence like armor. But in the dim blue light, with the trees casting soft shadows across his face, he looks younger. Softer. Like the boy I used to know before the world asked him to become someone else.

( i highly recommend playing Space Song by Beach House here)

My gaze lifts to the stars, or the simulation of them, and a thought drifts through my mind before I can catch it.

“I used to draw stars on you.” I say.

The words slip out quieter than I expect, drifting into the dark like breath on glass. They hang there for a moment, fragile and unclaimed. My voice barely belongs to me—it sounds younger somehow, like it was pulled from another version of myself. I don’t even know if I meant to say it aloud. Maybe it’s just a memory trying to make itself real again.

But he hears. Of course he does.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes. The rhythm of it is steady, but there’s something underneath it now—something old and aching. Then, after a pause that feels too full, he murmurs, “On my wrist.”

His voice is rough, like it had to scrape its way up from somewhere deep.

Another pause. Longer, softer.

“My arm. My collarbone, once,” he adds, as though he’s cataloging each place with care, brushing dust from the bones of the past. “You got bolder every year.”

A smile finds me, faint and slow and a little sad. It hurts to hold it, but I let it bloom anyway. “You always moved before the ink dried.”

“You always scolded me when it smudged.”

“I didn’t scold,” I whisper, the corners of my voice tugged by something tender. “I just… hated when they stopped looking like stars.”

He turns his head, just enough that I can see the side of his face in the blue-dark hush. The sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth. There’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier, something raw and open that I recognize, even after all this time.

“They looked like stars to me,” he says. His voice is steady now, quieter than the night, but clearer somehow. “Always.”

I close my eyes for a second and let myself slip backward, into a different time.

I used to steal ink from the shops when no one was watching. A cracked bottle, a stolen brush, a piece of charcoal snapped in half and hidden beneath my coat. We’d sneak into our hideout—our haven in the woods behind the lumber mill, where the branches reached toward the sky like they were trying to remember it—and I’d press his hand flat against the floorboards, the skin of his wrist pale and waiting.

He was always so still for me. Not for anyone else. Not even for himself. But for me—he let me paint on him like he was a blank space meant to be filled. Only for me.

Never for anyone else. Not for the world. Not for the Capitol. Not even for himself. But when I touched him, when I painted him, he became quiet in a way that felt like surrender, or maybe trust. He let me draw constellations on his skin like I was writing a language only the two of us could read.

He’d watch me with those storm-colored eyes—eyes that never gave anything away unless you knew where to look. Half-curious, half-somewhere-else. Eyes that carried entire winters in their silence.

I always began with Altair. The lead star. Three dots in a line—clean, sharp, deliberate. A shape with direction. Then I’d connect it to Vega, to Deneb, tracing faint arcs across his forearm, letting the brush kiss the contours of his bones. I’d mark Orion’s belt along his wrist. Sketch Canis Major where his veins ran faintly blue beneath the surface. Each stroke was careful, slow, reverent. A sky unfolding. A map no one else could see.

Sometimes, when I was finished, he’d flex his fingers slightly, and the stars would shimmer. Smudge. Shift. And I’d scowl like I didn’t expect it, even though I always did.

But other times, he’d just let them sit there—those tiny galaxies drawn down the pathways of his hands—like he knew they weren’t really stars. Like he knew they were promises.

And like he needed them anyway.

“I learned constellations just so I could give them to you,” I say now. “I didn’t have anything else. Not really. No money. No gifts. Just ink and time and my hands.”

“You gave me more than that,” he says quietly. “You gave me a map.”

My chest pulls tight. I don’t answer.

“You said it would help me find my way back,” he continues, the words hesitant now, like he’s stepping over glass. “Even if I got lost. Even if I was taken away.”

I turn my head toward him. His profile is made of angles and shadows, but I see him. I see the boy he used to be beneath the man the Capitol sculpted. I see the softness he buried.

“I didn’t think you’d ever really leave.” I whisper.

He’s silent for a long time. Too long.

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” he says finally, and his voice cracks like something old breaking open again.

The ache between us spreads like ink in water.

I reach out before I can stop myself. My fingers brush against his wrist, finding the place I used to start with. That delicate patch of skin beneath the bones, where his pulse beats like it remembers me. I press there, gently. My thumb moves in a slow, absent circle. My body remembers the motion of drawing.

“I always started with Altair.” I whisper.

His breath catches. “You did.”

“Three dots. A line.”

“You were always so careful about it,” he says, his voice low, almost tender. “So precise. You’d tilt your head when you worked, like you were trying to see the stars from a different angle. Bite the inside of your cheek when you were focused. You got ink on your nose half the time.”

A laugh escapes me, soft and slightly stunned by the memory. It catches in my throat, but it’s real—like it came from somewhere deep and untouched by the passing years. “And you never told me.”

His silence lingers for a moment, and then the faintest smile touches his lips, but it’s more in the way his eyes soften than anything else. “I liked watching you forget the world.”

The air feels thicker between us now, heavier with the weight of something unspoken, something raw. It’s an intimacy that feels familiar, but different, like we’re seeing each other in a light we haven’t allowed ourselves to look at in far too long.

I trace the memory of Altair now, just the lightest touch of my fingertip across his skin. No ink. No need for it. The shape is still there, imprinted beneath the surface, burned into both of us. A constellation we never erased. A story neither of us stopped carrying, no matter how much time has passed or how much we tried to forget.

His voice is quieter now, almost reverent when he speaks. “Why Altair?”

I pause, my finger hovering for just a second longer. The air around us feels thick with the weight of his question, as if the answer means more than I ever realized. I exhale slowly before speaking, my words soft but sure. “It was the first star I learned. It means the flying bird in Arabic.”

He’s quiet for a long time, the kind of silence that feels like it could stretch on forever if we let it. I keep tracing, my finger moving along his skin like it’s the only thing tethering me to the past.

“You were so angry, back then,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears me. “And quiet. Like you didn’t trust the world not to hurt you, so you stayed locked up tight. I think… I wanted to give you something gentle. Something that didn’t take. Something that didn’t demand anything.”

Regulus randomly flinched, one hand shooting up to the back of his neck. He pressed his palm there for a beat too long, like he was trying to smother a sudden sting.

“Something I could hold,” he says, the words fragile, like they might slip away if he doesn’t let them go now.

I nod, my throat tight, and keep tracing, my hand steady despite the trembling inside me. “Something you could follow.” I whisper back, the words tasting bittersweet on my tongue. It’s the truth, and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

He shifts. His wrist turns under mine, his fingers brushing my palm. The contact is so slight, but it feels like gravity.

“That’s when you started calling me Starling,” I say softly, watching him through the dark.

But he shakes his head, slow and certain. “That’s when I understood why.”

I blink. “What?”

He exhales, like the words cost something to carry. “The first time you sang to me, I called you Starling. I think I was twelve. Maybe younger. But I didn’t understand the name then. Not really.” His voice drops lower now, like he’s peeling something open inside himself—something delicate, something hidden. “Not until you started tracing constellations on my arms with your fingers. Not until I saw how you looked at the night—like you could read it.”

I stay quiet. There’s something sacred about his voice right now. Like if I speak too soon, it’ll break the spell.

“You didn’t just look up at the stars,” he says. “You pulled them down. Wove them into songs. Hid them in your laugh. In the way you moved. I started calling you Starling because I thought it sounded small and beautiful. Something fragile, something soft.”

He pauses, and I feel it more than I hear it—that moment when something shifts in him.

“But then I saw you,” he continues, quieter now. “Really saw you. And I realized… you were never small.”

His voice hitches, just slightly, like the truth is scraping its way out of him.

“You made me feel like you were reachable,” he says. “And that terrified me.”

My breath stutters.

I want to tell him he was the only one I ever drew stars for—that no one else’s skin ever felt sacred enough to hold a sky. That I memorized the way his veins curved just so I could map the constellations with more care on his pale skin. That I sometimes woke up at night with ink-stained fingers, reaching out for a boy who was already fading into headlines and hollow eyes.

Instead, I just look at him.

“You always smudged them,” I say.

He closes his eyes. “I know. But I remembered every single one.”

It happens so fast, I almost don’t have time to understand it. One moment, I’m lying there beside him, my fingers gliding over his skin, tracing the shapes of constellations that feel almost sacred—quiet, intimate. The moment is soft, and time feels still, a fleeting sense of peace that I cling to like a lifeline.

But then, without warning, everything shifts. It’s not like the breathless panic I’ve felt before, the kind you get when you're running, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air. No, this is something entirely different.

This is fire. It burns through me, flooding my chest with heat so sharp it feels like it could tear me apart from the inside. It steals my breath in one agonizing, violent wave. My ribs feel like they’re closing in, the air choking on its way out, and I can’t do anything but gasp in frantic desperation.

A scream claws its way up my throat, raw and strangled, as if it wants to rip through me, but it doesn’t come out right. It’s twisted—broken.

It’s not even a scream anymore. It’s just agony, squeezing the air out of my lungs, twisting it into something unrecognizable. I claw at my throat, desperate for some relief, for just a single breath. But the fire inside only grows, the pain consuming everything until all I know is the burning in my chest. The stars I was tracing, the peace I felt only moments before, seem like distant memories now. The world tilts, spins, and I can’t find my footing. Everything goes dark at the edges of my vision.

Regulus is there, though—his hands on me, pulling me toward him, but even his voice feels far away. I hear his name, his frantic shouts, but they don’t make sense. It’s like I’m drowning in this fire, trapped in a nightmare I can’t escape. The world around me starts to blur, a thick haze of panic and pain. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is claw at my chest, trying to get air, trying to fight the fire that’s burning through me.

“Reg—” I try to say his name, but it comes out cracked and broken.

My fingers twitch, then seize. My whole body is shaking, twisting with something I can’t name. It feels like my insides are folding in on themselves, like they’re being turned to ash from the inside out.

Regulus is on his feet in an instant.

And then I feel it. A cold pressure on my neck, Regulus’s hands—frantic, shaking as he tries to steady me. His fingers are everywhere, his voice breaking through the fog of panic, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except for the suffocating burn that fills every inch of me. Every part of my body wants to scream again, but nothing comes out. Only the fire. Only the suffocating weight of it.

Regulus was on me in seconds. “What is it? What’s wrong?” His voice cracked. “Tell me where it hurts—tell me what’s happening—”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even find the air to scream. My throat burned. My vision blurred. It felt like something was crawling inside me, twisting up through my spine, dragging barbed wires through my veins. I hit the dirt, shaking.

“Reg—Regulus—” I choked out, barely managing the sound. “I—I can’t—”

He caught me before I collapsed fully, hands gripping my shoulders like he could hold my body together through force alone. “No, no, no—stay with me. Look at me. Breathe.” His voice was wild now, breaking in places. “Breathe, please. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

I dropped to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings, convulsing, nails digging into the dirt. My insides felt like they were tearing, every nerve lit up with flame. “Can’t—breathe,” I gasped. “It—it hurts—inside—”

“Where?” Regulus dropped beside me, eyes wild. “Where does it hurt? Starling—look at me.”

My hand flew to my ribs, fingers twitching violently. Regulus followed the motion, his hands already on me, searching, trying to stop the shaking. I could feel the panic building in him, in his breath, in the sharpness of his voice. “What is this? What did this?”

Evan stumbled out from behind the trees, his face pale, eyes wide with confusion. He looked between Regulus and me, his breath shallow and quick. "What’s going on?" His voice cracked, the panic seeping through with every word.

Regulus's voice was tight, his eyes frantic as they flicked over me. “She’s hurt.” His words were clipped, jagged. “She was fine—just a second ago—”

I tried to speak, to tell them I was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat constricted, and I choked again, a violent, desperate gasp of air that scraped through me. The pain was crawling up my chest now, sharper, more intense with each passing second. It was a fire, biting at my insides, and it felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out.

Regulus was still watching me closely, his hands trembling at his sides. Then, in an instant, his gaze snapped down to my shirt. His eyes locked on the blood, barely visible at first, just a thin red line starting to stain the fabric beneath my ribs.

His breath hitched, and I heard him mutter, almost to himself, "A cut." Then, louder, with a growing urgency, “There. A thorn. A branch must’ve scratched her—”

I wanted to shake my head, to tell them it wasn’t that, that it wasn’t just a scratch, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. The pain was suffocating, pulling me deeper into something I couldn’t escape.

Evan stepped closer, his expression stark with fear. “She barely moved,” he said, his voice trembling. His gaze flicked from me to Regulus, looking for answers.

Regulus's fingers brushed over my skin, just above the wound. I felt the slightest touch, and I screamed again, the sound tearing through me like a jagged, broken thing. The pain intensified, the fire spreading through my chest and down my limbs, as if the poison was winding its way through every part of me.

Regulus's face went pale, the reality of the situation sinking in. “It’s poisoned,” he said, his voice low, dark with the weight of the truth.

“Fast-acting. It must’ve been one of the plants.” His words were grim, carrying the knowledge of something far worse than a simple wound. The poison was already inside me, coursing through my veins, and I could feel it.

He moved quickly, grabbing cloth from the first-aid kit and pressing it against the wound, hard, as though trying to stop the poison from spreading. I barely registered the motion, my head swimming with the overwhelming sensation of burning, of being torn apart from the inside out.

“Stay with me,” Regulus’s voice cut through the haze, hoarse and desperate. His eyes were locked onto mine, his face drawn tight with fear, but his hands were steady, pressing the cloth harder against my side. “Look at me. Breathe, Starling. Please.”

The world started to fade. The edges of my vision blurred, the colors and shapes melting into a dull, dark haze. My limbs felt distant, almost foreign, as though I couldn’t feel them at all. There was ringing in my ears, a high-pitched whine that clawed at my mind, and I thought—I thought—I might lose myself in it.

Regulus’s hand gripped mine, his voice low but firm. “Stay with me, (Y/N), I need you to fight this. Please.”

I wanted to tell him I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him it was too much, that I was already slipping away, but the words wouldn’t form.

And then, as if the world itself had decided to turn against us, I felt the ground shudder beneath us.

At first, it was just a tremor, a soft shake that could’ve been mistaken for a gust of wind, but then it intensified. The trees around us creaked and groaned, their trunks bending unnaturally as though they were being pulled by an invisible force. The leaves rustled, a low, eerie whisper carried by the wind.

The ground beneath our feet shifted again, a deep, unsettling rumble like the earth itself was alive and angry.

Regulus’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with panic. “The arena... it’s changing.”

The trees began to move. Not just sway in the wind, but move. Their branches twisted, reaching down like fingers grasping for something to hold, something to claim. The ground beneath us seemed to shift, warping and rippling in ways that defied logic. It was as if the earth itself was trying to consume us, to pull us deeper into its hungry depths.

Regulus pulled me up, his hands shaking as he dragged me to my feet. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

Evan was already moving, his face a mixture of disbelief and terror. “What’s going on? What the hell is happening?”

“There’s no time!” Regulus shouted, urgency flooding his voice as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes frantic. “The trees—look at the trees!”

I could barely keep up, each step feeling like a battle against the poison coursing through my veins, my limbs weak and unresponsive. But I could hear it—the snap of branches, the groan of the earth, the sudden, unnatural stillness that filled the air. Something was coming.

And then, we saw them.

Through the trees, coming toward us, two figures emerged.

Caradoc Dearborn and Charity Burbage, both from District 10.

Their weapons drawn, their faces grim. They didn’t see us at first. Their focus was elsewhere—on the shifting ground, the movement in the trees, the unsettling sounds of the arena alive with fury.

But then, they stepped too close.

Charity took another step forward, her eyes still scanning the shifting landscape, her footsteps heavy against the uneven ground. The wind was picking up, howling through the trees as the air grew thicker, heavier. The world felt off balance, like something had tipped and we were all about to fall into its chaos.

She didn’t notice it at first, the ground beneath her feet moving, the soil rippling like water disturbed by a pebble. She took another step—and then, with a sickening crack, the earth buckled beneath her.

Her foot sank into the ground like it was soft mud, but there was no give, no escape. She tried to pull it out, but the ground around her was shifting, curling around her ankle like a viper’s grip.

Charity’s scream rang out, but the earth didn’t let her escape. She tried to pull her leg free, but the ground twisted around her, thick roots and vines wrapping around her like serpents. Her hands scraped at the soil, but it was no use—the earth had claimed her.

Caradoc rushed forward, his face pale with fear, but before he could reach her, the ground opened wide beneath his feet. His body jerked as he fell, his hands flailing for something—anything—but the roots shot out like claws, dragging him under.

His eyes locked onto mine, wide with terror, as the earth swallowed him whole. He struggled, his body convulsing, but the soil was stronger, crushing him until there was nothing left but an empty hole where he had been.

The arena stood still for a moment, as if savoring the silence it had created. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The echoes of their deaths reverberated in my chest, the horror of what the arena could do to us settling like a cold stone in my gut.

The forest was trying to eat us.

My breath came in short, ragged bursts against Regulus’s neck. I could feel his heart pounding like a war drum.

Regulus had me in his arms before I fully understood I couldn't walk. My legs had gone limp, a dull weight dragging behind the panic in my chest. I could feel my fingers twitching against his shoulder, but I couldn't lift them. The pain had shifted—no longer sharp, just heavy. Like something inside me was curling inward, fading.

“I’ve got you, love” Regulus murmured, voice close to my ear. I could feel the strain in it, the tightness, like he was fighting to keep it from cracking. “Just hold on. Please.”

The nickname made me want to cry.

Evan was ahead, hacking at a wall of thick vines that had grown impossibly fast, curling over the path we’d come from. The ground shook beneath us—roots bulging and splitting the earth, trees bending low like giants being pulled from the sky.

The Garden wasn’t just alive. It was hunting.

“Faster,” Evan called back, his voice wild with terror. “It’s closing!”

My breath hitched again. Regulus faltered, feeling it.

“(Y/N)?” he asked, stopping just for a second. His eyes met mine, desperate. “Stay awake. Stay with me. Just a little longer, alright?”

I wanted to answer. I wanted to tell him I was trying. That I didn’t mean to be slipping. But my lips were too heavy.

“I don’t want to go.” I finally managed, my voice barely a breath.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said fiercely. “You don’t get to leave me. Not again. Not like this.”

A branch snapped behind us. The ground moaned as if something deep beneath it had begun to stir.

Regulus turned and ran, gripping me tighter against his chest. I could feel the pounding of his heart, fast and wild. For a moment, I imagined I was the star again—drawn on his skin, clinging to the lines of his pulse.

Behind us, the trees twisted inward, forming a wall of writhing limbs and screaming bark. The last glimpse I caught was a blood-red moon above the canopy, blinking like an eye.

Evan screamed again—something about the path—but all I could hear now was Regulus’s breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Real.

The world was shaking. The earth howled. And through it all, Regulus ran.

I wanted to tell him thank you. I wanted to say his name. I wanted to scream.

But all I could do was close my eyes and hope the forest didn't get there first.

They are watching us, always.

It is only day two, and already the Garden is trying to chew through our bones.

The Capitol has teeth.

taglist: @fadingcollectivenightmare @spidermansfangirl @foulwaterss @slaybestieslay946 @aelinwya @yvessentials @sickly-afraid @urfunnyvalentin3 @hufflebubble53

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e1dritchjackal0pe · 5 months ago

Note

Hi !

I’ve really enjoyed your writing and thought I’d take a stab at an ask ! Cause I’ve been in lost boys hella since I recently watched the movie for the first time and am rabid for these boys , especially Marko lol. Also no rush and no worries if you’re too busy.

Ps. Sorry about how long this is.

I’ve been dying for Someone to write an angst fic with Marko that takes place during the film and where he recently turned his mate, who hasn’t fed yet so is only half cause I need some convoluted way for her to survive lol, gets staked instead of him by accident. Marko , being extremely possessive and over protective was able to keep her existence hidden from Michael and kept her away from Max , much to his and David’s annoyance who though he was being a bit overprotective but David enjoyed seeing his brother so happy and generally enjoyed the brighter presence she added to there family.

Somehow the frog brothers failed to notice her sleeping wrapped around the front of Marko, head buried in his chest maybe somehow covered by his jacket, her favorite sleeping position since she turned, so she gets staked through the back of her shoulder waking up Marko and the boys with her scream. Ensue angry chase scene and a panicked and pissed Marko.

Sorry this is so hyper specific but I’ve had this exact scenario bouncing around my head for WEEKS lol.

ℭ𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 ℜ𝔢𝔡

Note: I wasn't able to put as much time into this as I would have liked, and I did make some small changes (not enough to ruin the story for you, I hope). I made this a sort of unofficial add on to my first Marko fic, but I hope you enjoy it!

Something strange bleeds in through the placid blanket of sleep, all distorted and warm, humming like heartbeats. Slipping through the dark fog in the faint chime of hushed whispers. Voices exchanging softly, all dim and low like they were sharing secrets. It has you twisting under your sheets. Tugging the barrier of the soft blankets up higher and closer over your head, burying your face in the pillows in an attempt to muffle out the sounds, desperate to escape fully back into the comfort of a deep sleep.

It's still daytime. Something instinctual, deep in your gut and the back of your mind assures that the sun is still high up in the sky, scorching and hot. An intuition that you don't quite understand yet, but it has your limbs turning heavy and lax, muscles relaxing beneath the sheets and covers stretched over your body like a cocoon. Your exhaustion has you going numb to the world, the delicate rhythm of the waves crashing outside the cave muting down into nothing, the sound of the quiet voices vanishing.

It must be the boys. Awake already. It would strike you as odd on any other circumstance, and to a degree it does, but your sluggish brain is quick to let go of that train of thought. Letting it slip away as easily as a branch snagging away on a rock in a river, catching momentarily before it succumbs to the strength of the current and disappears downstream.

The insistence that something is wrong fading into an ignorable afterthought. Forgettable like the brush of fingers along the nape of your neck. The pale scuffle of shoes along dust and stone ignites a tremble down the notches of your spine, as though your body is begging for you to wake up and investigate while it simultaneously sinks further into the old mattress, desperate to soak up the weak scraps of heat that's soaked into the blankets.

Something isn't right, something isn't right . . .

It's like a chant. A primal whisper that coils through your bones and sinew. Leftovers from your ancestors, remnants of the instincts that had kept them alive, but it all seems null and void against the fatigue that seems to press you down like a physical weight. Even while hidden away from the sun it seems to sap you of all your strength, turning you as pliant and weak as melted wax left out beneath the midday sky.

It's impossible to even try to rouse yourself. It's as though you're held under water. Tucked away beneath the pressure of the ocean, tucked into the dark of it while the world above soldiers on. Sleeping now feels like dying, a part of you disconnecting and hibernating, all while your chest still expands and your heart pumps sluggishly in your chest. So much softer and lethargic since you've drank his blood. It makes you split, cut into two halves. One screams and nudges for you to finally tug the blankets back from over your head and search for the source of the voices that are still dully bouncing from the stone walls of the recessed hotel, while the other piece demands that you finally relax and pass out again.

The strength of that debilitating exhaustion sweeps back over you, making the sound of the angry, masculine voice that rises up high within the cave, reverberating from the dust covered stone, dim and distant. As though it's miles away. You hardly register the disturbed sound of pigeon wings fluttering in the air, the noisy thump of shoes pounding along the floor in a rapid pace.

"There's one over here." You hear from far-away, murky and vague. Another layered scuffle of feet follows, and your brain just barely recognizes the rustle of fabric - a curtain being shifted out of the way. Close by and along the edge of your bed. The same curtains that border the sides of your mattress. It has your pulse spiking, seeming to ricochet in your chest, and yet your body remains immobile and heavy limbed. Trapped inside your own body as though you're truly and finally dead.

"What about this one?" The question rises up through the air, carried by a heavy but youthful tone. Thick with determination. "He didn't say anything about them."

A nervous voice pitches up then. Uncertain and a little shaken: "I don't know guys. This doesn't seem like a good idea, maybe we should wait for Mike."

Mike. Mike. That sounds familiar from somewhere - someone. A name mentioned in passing. Mike. Michael. A discussion carried on by the boys while they were all encircled around one of the burn barrels one night, hunched close while sipping on lukewarm beers and rolling joints. So casual while they considered the fate of a complete stranger as though they were discussing dinner and not the destiny of a man's soul. Some poor sap that had apparently caught the eye of Star. She hadn't wanted it to go far, but then again, it's never supposed to go that far. But David wanted the guy dead. He was meant to be her first, her ticket into finally bringing her over to the other side. The fresh blood that would make her one of them.

She hadn't been able to do it.

She told you as much, curled up on your bed one evening with tears in her eyes. You couldn't blame her, and you wouldn't. She's the only normal one here apart from Laddy. Just as trapped as you. Turned into a monster, something beyond humanity, clinging onto her own soul with just as much conviction and hopelessness as you are.

She told you then, that it was a punishment for her when David had tricked Michael into drinking his blood. She gazed up at you with damp eyes, unshed tears glittering in them like diamonds, threatening to spill while she had clutched onto one of your pillows. Fingers digging deep as though she meant to tear the silk with her nails.

"He wants me alone. He turned Michael to keep me trapped, I just know it."

A wave of muddled scents breaks past the barrier of the linens and blankets. Unfamiliar and thick, coated with cologne and shampoo that you don't recognize. All of it twisting with something even more out of place here. Something alive. Heat and life and blood. Iron, warmth, and salt. It's distinctly human. Living.

The alarms go off in your head. Raging and flashing red in a way that's violent. It seems to be enough to push your spirit back into your limbs. Vigor slipping back into you, and it gives you enough strength to move under the covers. It pierces through the fog and black packed inside of your skull, parting the cloud of it all like the split of lightning striking through a peaceful storm. You feel slow, arms lazy and weakened as you use them to slip the layers of blankets from over your head, crumpling them down just enough to peek over the edge of the rumbled sheets.

Your eyes blink, lashes fluttering as you try to fight the sleep weighing your lids down. Your vision blurs a little, straining through the exhaustion, but when you notice the three figures standing above your bed and looming over you, it has you sucking in a strangled gasp.

They're children. Looking lost, dressed in camo and gear as though they've prepared to fight a war. Youthful faces staring at you with equal surprise and one even screams. His wide blue eyes reflecting a visible panic while he stumbles back away from the other two. Another swears, cursing sharply under his breath while he flinches. But it's the one closest to you that moves. His dog tags glinting and chiming from a movement so sharp that it had to be a reflex, but the determination burning in his eyes is purposeful.

You just barely notice the pointed wood clutched in his fist, cut and shaped to be lethal. A weapon - a stake.

"Shit, get her!" The one beside him cries, eyes wild while he clutches onto the others shoulder in an alarmed grip.

An animal kind of panic tears through you, lighting up your nerves like lives wires, electricity and adrenaline burning through your veins with the white heat of fire. You jerk up - or try to - but the way that you had fallen asleep, face pressed into the cushions and stomach flat along the mattress impedes your mobility. Your limbs struggle, sleep thawing in your tired arms and legs, weighed down by the blankets.

"Kill her, kill her!" One shouts all while the blonde in the background yells at them to stop, but it falls on deaf ears. It's chaos. Voices clamor and shriek, your heart thumps like it might explode while you struggle to tear yourself free from the weight and length of the blankets. The boy wielding the stake lunges forward with a war cry. Lurching onto the bed just as you manage to scramble free from the covers.

A panicked shout rips from your throat as you claw across the mattress, moving as though you've been lit on fire. Crawling wildly across the bed in an effort to make some space between the two of you, but he's much quicker despite the gear weighing him down. The exhaustion that still clings to your bones and the confusion blanking over your mind makes you clumsy and slow regardless of your fear.

"Marko!" You cry even while it feels like poison on your tongue, scorching inside of your mouth.

"The bitch is calling in the calvary, you gotta get her before they wake up," someone shouts in a panicked rush.

Your fingers reach around onto the edge of your bed, fastening on to drag yourself forward and down onto solid ground but the mattress sinks behind you. The weight of someone's body pressing it down as they scramble up close to you. It has your head whipping around, just enough to glance over your shoulder. It's like slow motion when your eyes latch onto the sight of the stake, raised high. Poised in the air, high above the boy's head in an arch. There's hardly any time to act and fear sinks in your gut, chilled and frozen as he drives it down with all the strength he has in his body; his lips curled in a hateful snarl.

He's going to kill you. This is it. This is how you die. Your mind screams it over and over again on a broken loop, but your body acts all on its own, raising your leg back to strike him and unbalance him from your mattress. You both land blows on each other at the same time. Your foot meets him square in the chest, kicking out with enough force that you can hear the breath rip out of his lungs in a strained burst.

There's no time to rejoice when it knocks him back. The stake is already piercing your skin. It sinks in deep, parting flesh and muscle beneath its lethal point. The boy collapses and tips over the other side of the bed just as you hurtle yourself onto the floor. You don't initially realize that you're screaming. You feel it first. The strength of your agonized wail shreds up your throat as though you've swallowed nails, but that pain is secondary to the fire and anguish pulsing through your shoulder. The stake is still wedged inside of your back, burying past skin and meat, prying at your shoulder blade like it means to rip it free from the sinew keeping it intact with the other bones.

You're bleeding. You can smell it, sharp and distinct in the panicked air. The pain is crippling. Ripping and engulfing, eating up your spine. You have to force yourself to breathe past the agony, twisting around onto your knees to face the danger with unshed tears blurring your vision. It strains your shoulder as you back away, scrambling on bare palms and feet to get away from them.

All three of them are pulling at each other. The other boy dressed in camo is tugging at the other, trying to pull him up from the floor while he eyes you with terror and hatred, all while the blonde pulls at him like he's trying to nudge them toward the mouth of the cave. They're all yelling. Voices overlapping in a crazed hysteria.

The one with the army beret - the one who stabbed you is now on two feet, and he looks like he's willing to make a second attempt. You shuffle wildly on your hands, wincing past the searing ache that's pulsing and ripping up your spine. The stake lodged in your back, pinned near the edge of your shoulder blade and it impedes your movement, the bone nudges up painfully against the wooden intrusion with each jerk and reach backwards. Your eyes sweep around the cave in a panic glance, bouncing around to the entrance, judging the distance between you and it before you fleetingly scan over Star's bed and then Laddie's, expecting the worst. Expecting to see carnage and bloodied corpses. Your stomach drops for an entirely different reason when you see that they aren't there. There's no lump hidden beneath the covers, no rise and fall of his or her breath. They're gone. Terror grips ahold of you. The thoughts in your mind running off in a wild swarm.

It has your attention frantically shifting over the large gap in the southern wall, dark and wide like a mouth, overcome with dead roots. The boys are hidden somewhere within. Slumbering and concealed, ignorant to what's happening. God, what if they don't hear you? What if they don't care? What if he doesn't? It makes you nauseous. Insecurities and all the assumptions you've been clinging onto well up, all of the honey covered words he's fed you seem bitter. Turned acrid from your fear.

Your voice hitches in your throat, the air shuddering in your lungs while the hush of his name sits on the tip of your tongue. Doubt weighs it down. Insecurity and fear tell you that he won't answer. Whispering that you're on your own.

But then the boy with the blue bandana wrapped around his head is stepping forward, already clasping a stake in a white-knuckled hold. The resolve in his eyes is haunting. The desire to kill you fervent and glaring in his stare. That's all it takes to have your voice spilling from you, rising up in another terrified shout as you crawl over the dust and stone while your arm prickles and burns.

"Marko!"

"Say your prayers bloodsucker." He practically spits it out, lips twisting in a grimace as he moves towards you and your muscles coil, body pulling taut in preparation for a fight.

And then combined voices echo out from the pit gapping out from the wall of the cave, layered and distorted from the depths of it as though creatures from hell were all climbing up to answer the call. Hissing and snarling in layered tones that trembled within your bones. The three boys freeze in place, locked by an icy grip of fear as their heads all collectively turn in the direction of the hole yawning open the earth.

You can smell their terror spike. Electric and thrumming with adrenaline as they all suddenly grab onto each other, talking over each other in a frightened rush.

"Shit, they heard her," one of them notes.

"Guys, guys, we gotta go." It's the blonde that's repeating it over and over, stumbling over his words while he jerks on the other's arms. They give in without any resistance. Fear alive and bright in their eyes, even while the kid with the bandana points his stake in your direction and tosses a quick "This isn't over" at you as the three of them take off in a brisk jumble in the direction of the entrance, rounding around the broken fountain with the speed of people lit on fire.

The growls from within the cavern raise up higher, drawing closer and it has the kids in a full-blown panic. Tripping over their feet in an ungraceful run as they try and reach the opening of the cave, slipping on the thick layer of dust the coats the floor. All of them screaming and pitifully staggering and clawing up the steps ascending up to the entrance, trying to carry each other up the incline as the snarls grow louder, reaching for roots and vines to help them rise.

Your arms tremble and your head rolls back on your wounded shoulder, suddenly lightheaded and weak. You can feel your lung snag and pinch as though it's being burned from the inside out, catching on the point of the stake when you inhale. It has you crying, a tear managing to trickle free as you keel over, your ribcage shuddering violently as you gasp.

You don't want to take your eyes off of them, desperate to track their panicked flee, but your eyes cloud over. Stars dot your vision, spotting and flickering in shifting colors as a vignette blurs around the corners of your sight. You collapse onto your elbows, arms quivering while you struggle to keep your face from flattening onto the ground. You can still hear them all wailing. Screaming and cursing as they scramble up to the entrance of the cave.

Despite your efforts though, you collapse, falling on your stomach while iron coats your tongue. Thick and wet. Bursting up from the back of your throat while you try to breathe, spitting up with each labored inhale. You can feel your life waning. The strength diminishing, shrinking under your skin. Dying out like a flame that's being smothered.

"Oh, my god!"

It's one of the kids. The tone of their cry is saturated with terror. Fear trembling within it noticeably, and you can hear the sound of claws ripping across the earth as the four of the vampires tear their way out of the chasm like creatures pouring out of hell. It makes that sick part of you - the violent, unrecognizable half that you've fought so hard to ignore and resist, delighted. A twisted kind of revenge soothing through you while you struggle to pull oxygen into your lungs.

You feel the chill of the stone against your forehead when it drops on the ground, hanging limply while blood chokes your throat. The hatred in you longs to ignore the agony crippling your body in favor of watching the kids get ripped apart, but the agony sinking and twisting in your shoulder, the air strangling in your chest, keeps you lamed and paralyzed on the ground.

You hear muffled screams and shouts. The dull thud of hysterical footsteps as they rush to escape before death can seize them. But you can't manage to lift your head up from the dirt. Not even when you hear David's bellow roll throughout the cave, crashing over the screams from the horrified children. The loud chaos of it all grows dim - distant as they're no doubt running up the mouth of the cave, crawling and shrieking while Paul's demented laugh rings out from somewhere far away.

It makes you jump when a pair of hands smooth over your shoulders, light like a caress, but you can still feel a heavy tremble run through the fingers. A voice hums out, cooing softly to hush you when a strangled sob wrangles out from your body. The way they handle you is delicate, softly turning you over onto your hip and lifting you up to cradle you against their chest as though you might shatter into a million pieces otherwise.

You're brittle. Clinging onto life while your heart trembles like a feeble, fluttering bird. It's instinctive when you cling onto the weight of the body, fastening on with trembling arms as you draw in a familiar scent with blood-soaked lungs. Breathing past the wet iron to try and notice the traces of spice and earth and musk.

Marko.

It's Marko.

Your fear makes you hold onto him. Clawing your nails into the thick fabric of his coat with desperation, the hatred buried beneath it all turned dull in your panic. You try to say his name, but your throat tightens, choking on blood. You can feel his fingers grip your bicep, holding you still and you know that he's looking at the stake punctured deep in your flesh. His hold is nowhere close to the to the wound and yet it flares pain across your nerves, making you twist in his arms while a gutted sob wracks from your body.

"I know, I know, baby. I know," he whispers it into your temple. He sounds so entirely unlike himself. He sounds panicked, shaken. "I have to take it out."

It's difficult to hear his voice past the roaring in your ears, but once the words make it past the hum, it's hard to resist the instinctive urge to resist and shove yourself out of his arms. It's like you can feel the agony already, simmering and slicing across your fried nerves like the edge of razor blades. But it's really the firm grip he has around your waist that keeps you secure in his lap, pinning you down as delicately as he can without injuring you further.

He whispers softly at the pained cry that slips past your lips, doing his best to soothe and distract you. It's a tone that you've never really heard from him before. Usually, his voice is all lightly barbed. Laced with sarcasm and thinly veiled insults. What little tenderness might have been there in the past had always felt too fake to you. So saccharine that it would become sickeningly sweet. Too good to be true. A guise of care and affection designed to pull wool over your eyes.

Maybe it's just the blood loss and the pain, but it sounds so genuine in the way that his voice trembles, soft and clipped as though he's barely holding himself together.

He cradles your face with a hand, the buttery chill of the glove feels like death on your skin, cold and intimate. It makes your lashes flutter, and you have to force yourself to keep your eyes open with how heavy they've grown, weighing heavy and threatening to slip closed. When he tips your head back from where you've tucked it against his chest, it still manages to strike you through the haze of it all, the emotions that seem to burn in his stare. There's so much reflecting in the soft blue of his eyes, usually delicate and bright with a puckish mischief, are now dark and wild. Chaotic and glassy with rage and fear.

He's actually afraid.

He looks almost broke. Split between anger and horror while he clings to your wounded body. You know that he's fantasizing about tearing those kids apart. Wishing that he was snapping their limbs from sockets with a wet, tortured pops. But instead, he's here, holding onto you as though you've already passed on. It makes your chest ache for an entirely different reason, longing and hope burrowing in alongside the pain.

"If I don't remove it, you'll die." It's matter of fact despite the worry lacing his tone. As though he's trying to slip away from himself, falling back into the familiar, callous skin to keep from being taken over by the terror and anger. But you can still feel it all in the tremors shaking up through his fingers and bones.

There's a protest lodged somewhere in your mouth, slick from the blood and caught on a broken gasp, but you don't have time try and voice it. He doesn't give you the time speak. He uses the distraction, acting while you're caught up trying to get the words out. Before you notice it, he's grabbing the stake and pulling. The oxygen leaves your lungs in a tight rush. You want to scream, but there's no air left in your lungs for you to do so, and all that makes it out is a ragged, splintered gasp.

Hellfire pours into your veins as he rips the wood from your shoulder. It slices ribbons up your spine, feeling bone deep and white-hot, acid lashing up your muscles and eating at your flesh with jagged teeth. You twist in his lap, writhing like a fish that's been tossed onto a dock and left to suffer and suffocate. He keeps you pinned still as best as he can, tensing the arm he has around your waist until it's as tight as a steel band while he jerks the stake from your body as though it burns to the touch.

There's hardly any relief once it's removed. The damage it's done is still agonizing, coiling through your muscles. It's as though the flesh on your back has been flayed. You feel exposed, pulsing; your legs kicking out against the ground from the excruciating heat and blades raking down your body, digging into the hole that's been brutalized into your shoulder.

The clatter of the stake skipping across the stone floor sounds muffled and deep, like gunshots bleeding past concrete walls. But his voice rises out above it, tucked close against the crown of your head.

"It's alright, baby," he murmurs, soft and tender, but still simmering with the hatred smoking underneath it all. "It's okay - I got you."

None of it seems real, and yet it's also horrendously tangible. You're suspended, floating away from yourself and simultaneously packed tightly within your own body. Crammed inside sinew and flesh that's too tight, too painful. Ensnared within veins and nerves that throb and sting.

"You have to drink."

His wrist is suddenly pressed to your lips, smearing and leaking red from a gash he's made with his own teeth. It's kneejerk to resist even though it isn't human blood. Your head twitches back on reflex, a minute, weak movement that's not entirely intentional. He's fed you a few times before. You aren't a stranger to his blood, but you still always find yourself avoiding it. Holding yourself back and fighting against your own hunger, refusing to properly hunt until you either bow under the weight of your own starvation and drink from him on your own accord or until he wrangles you into his hold and dumps the life from his veins into your mouth.

This time is hardly any different. He all but shoves his wrist past your teeth, wedging his flesh under your tongue until the liquid iron and vigor is pouring down into your throat. It makes you swallow on instinct, muscles working to keep you from choking and it has you swallowing down gulps of it. The flavor spills over your palate, metallic, rich and something distinctly Marko. You can't keep yourself from latching on to him. Clasping your fingers around his arm to keep him secure between your teeth, even though he doesn't make any attempts to fight against you.

He draws you closer, tucking his face closer into your hair, and you can feel his chest expanding with a breath as though he needs your scent to remind himself that you're still alive. The way he's holding you almost cripples you more than the wound torn beside your spine does. It's too tender for someone like him, turned detached and wild from all the years of brutality and murder, but now he's all softened edges and you can't help but to fall into the safety of him.

Life floods back into you with each gulp, syrupy and warm and languid. The hole made in the split meat and torn flesh of your back begins to mend in a sluggish process, stunted and slow by the dead blood that pours into your mouth. It's lost the vigor it once had, turned a little dull from the chill of Marko's reanimated body, used up for all of its nutrients and vitality. But to you, it tastes velvety and earthy, honeyed from your inability to compare it to fresh blood, and you drink it down with the desperation of an addict.

Your teeth have sharpened against your will, lethal enamel sinking deep into his flesh to pull more of that saccharine red out from underneath his torn skin. He cradles you to him protectively, holding you close as though he means to make himself a shield. Curling over you as best as he can, brushing his lips over your forehead as though it might soothe the pain.

It's easy now to let go of all of the betrayal and hurt that you've been clinging onto for all this time. Releasing it, even if it's only temporary, to allow yourself to indulge in the comfort of his weight pressed against you. You let yourself forget, sinking further into the press of his body. Allowing yourself to bask in the subtle chill of his skin, the scent of his cologne and natural musk.

"How is she?"

It's David. There's a rawness to his voice, a breathless edge despite the non-necessity of breathing. You don't look up. You can't. Your focus has dwindled down to the flesh in your mouth and the sensation of Marko wrapped around you, but you can hear David's anger.

"Alive." Marko answers, clipped. Strained from his own temper. "Did you get them?"

The thick silence that follows is answer enough and you can feel him tense up beneath you, muscles drawing up taut like he's making a physical effort to restrain himself, to keep himself calm. His face is still pressed to your skin, but you know that he must be glaring up at David, eyes burning and dark.

"I want them dead." He spits it out like it's venomous, toxic and stinging on his tongue.

"I know," David answers, but it sounds like a promise, a reassurance. "We'll take care of it."

You hear the soft scrap of boots tracing over dirt, telling of his departure, but the scattering of voice bouncing from the dark walls of the cave let you know that he isn't far, talking closely with the others.

"They got Star. And Laddie," comes Dwayne's hushed tone. It makes you wince. Guilt and nausea curdling in your stomach. Mike. One of the kids had mentioned Michael. The name's been seared into your brain from all of the hours Star would spend talking about him, from all of the times that David had discussed his fate; either killing him or cursing him with the same disease that's been passed onto the rest of you. It makes you wonder if this is some sort of revenge. A means to get even for affliction that David has damned him with. He was tricked - given no other choice just like you had been, just like Star.

You pray that she's okay. That Laddie is safe. That they've been rescued instead of kidnapped, but regardless of the hope your stomach still sinks like lead.

You gorge yourself on Marko's blood until you feel sick with it. He doesn't pull you back from his flesh as he typically would, allowing you to feed until you can't. It's only once you extract your fangs from his flesh that he leans your head back, urging your chin to tilt with the pressure of his thumb on your jaw.

He looks exhausted, dark bags beginning to blossom under his eyes, and his skin has turned pallid. He's lost the life that his victims' blood had brought to his cheeks, the blush now dull and white now that you've drained it for yourself. He's weary, and the embrace he has around your middle has weakened, lethargic. But he still holds you close, cradling you as though you might disappear otherwise.

"You alright?" he asks, and his brows pinch close, worried and fatigued. His face is shadowed from the dark, distant traces of light glinting softly from the scant threads of sun that sneak in from the fractures in the ceiling.

You loathe how cherished you feel. How safe you are in his arms. It's bitter, and it makes all of those complicated feelings rise up again, all twisted up and confused like a pile of crossed wires. You want to hate him. God, you really do, but he makes it so hard. He makes instinct and reason, desire and hatred all spin out, clashing and mixing, until you can't differentiate one from the other. Your betrayal is still raw. Hurting and alive, but the closing of the wound on your back, the taste of his blood on your tongue and the tender emotion in his eyes makes it easy to forget.

"I'm alright." It hurts a little to speak. The sting from your screams is still present, slowly healing alongside the other damage on your body.

"From now on, we sleep together. I don't care if it's just us or with the others, but you're staying with me."

You want to object. Your bed has been your only place of peace - until now, that is. A small haven that hadn't been infiltrated by the boys or just Marko. Sleep is your only solace, the only time that you were afforded the solitude of being alone. But the conviction in Marko's eyes can't be argued. But even if it could be, you don't think you would fight against it. Maybe it'll wear off, but as of right now you can't imagine being anywhere else. The thought of him pulling away from you and leaving you cold on the ground makes you cling to him all the harder, seeking out his weight and scent - a comfort that you've hardly allowed yourself to accept.

"Okay." You agree, tired, broken and put back together once again by the blood of the man you should despise. But that grows harder and harder each day. Your hatred should be as easily as breathing, but you grow further out of touch with it with every passing second. It seems impossible to hate him with how carefully he holds you, keeping you secure to his chest as though you're something worthy of worship.

There's no disgust or ire when he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, smearing his own blood onto his skin, staining each other in it. You can still feel the wrath thrumming through his body, tensing up his muscles while he keeps you close. As soon as the sun sets you know that he'll leave with the others. Take off into the night quell the fire running in his veins, to satiate the bloodlust twisting up inside. And you know that by the time that the morning rises, Michael will probably be dead.

You can't remember the first time you've wanted him stay. It seems like a lifetime ago, and you had convinced yourself that you would never entirely allow yourself to want him again. Not in any compacity, and yet the thought of him leaving seems sour. It makes your gut flip and tighten with unease. He hasn't kissed you since that night out on the beach at the concert, when you were both high off of blood and the charge of your emotions. It's left you both uncertain, unsure of how to traverse your already strained relationship. Where it brought you closer in some respects, it's also driven you further apart in others.

You're still hesitant. Clinging onto your slipping humanity with shaky fingers and drawing closer to Marko has always seemed like it would denounce that fragile part of yourself. But right now, you can't be bothered to care about that. You press closer to him, hiding you face into his neck, breathing in the fragrance of him from the gold coils of his hair.

"Can we stay like this for a minute?" You whisper it into him, private and tentative.

One of his palm's splays over the back of your head, keeping you close, inviting you further against him. You feel him nod, a light movement that nudges him further into his throat. You'd be able to hear his heart thud and skip if he had a pulse, and somehow, the silence in his chest is calming. The chill and quiet of his flesh, the spice and metal of his blood, all lulls you into something almost dreamlike.

"Yeah," he replies. Just as hushed, clandestine. A private murmur between lovers. "We can stay here for as long as you need."

You can't tell him that maybe you'd want to stay this forever. That secret remains unsaid, just for you.

#marko the lost boys #marko x reader #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys #the lost boys marko #the lost boys x reader #tlb 1987 #marko tlb

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kayharrisons · 8 months ago

Text

If you got a boyfriend, I'm jealous of him. But if you're single, that's honestly worse [Tyler x Reader x Bjorn] [NSFW, 18+ ONLY]

He doesn't know what's worse; his cousin's girlfriend or the fact that he can't get her off his damn mind.

A/N: 18+ only!!! i promise igddtdts is STILL in the works but I wanted to get this lil brain bunny out ehehehehe yes the song is a line from gorgeous by taylor swift also PS this is a FIC in no way do I condone cheating or anything like that so like. Don't go out and do that, it's bad!!!!! I'm DEBATING a part 2 for this but we'll see

Warnings: jealous behavior, possessive thoughts, Temptation™️, cheating, Bjorn knows he's fucked up here but he makes no efforts to change LMAO, exhibitionism, accidental overhearing of Sex, Cheeky Wank Mention™️, sexual acts, Tyler's face gets ridden, unprotected sex (wear a condom!!!), reader is a lil bit of an attention seeking minx ehehe, footsie

He can't stand her.

Tyler's new girlfriend is a sweet thing, always attached to him at the hip, it seems.

She works down at the housing offices, had met Tyler when he'd came by to pay rent and sparks had flown. Or some shite.

Tyler is head over heels, acting like a fucking sap most days. It's not surprising, he'd acted as such with Rain when that doomed relationship had been a thing.

But Rain and Tyler had broken up (damn near split the entire group too, fuck you very much), had been over for some years now, it was natural for his cousin to go out and get out there again.

Hell, Bjorn had encouraged it. In less than polite terms, of course.

But damn, did Tyler need to get fucking laid. His cousin had been tense more often than not, always frowning, always moping.

Sad sod.

And so, he'd met her.

He'd made some dumb joke about rent that Bjorn couldn't even bother to remember, and she'd supposedly found it hilarious, and bam, here they were, going strong a year later.

He hadn't minded her, at first.

Sure, her laugh was always the loudest, easy to pick out amongst others. She laughed way too easily, seemed to find everything funny.

Sure, her smile was the brightest, brighter than any star Bjorn could recall seeing. It was toothy, framed by perfect lips, which looked oh so sof-

But then that had started.

His thoughts tended to wander, now.

She would show up to the shitty bar they'd deigned their hang out, wearing those damn pencil skirts that hugged her hips and backside just so, or those slacks that made her legs look longer. Her blouse would be untucked, a button or two undone and her elegant neck exposed. Sometimes her eyes locked with his for a beat too long and he felt a fucking current shoot up his spine.

Innocent enough.

But oh, how Bjorn had thought about tearing that skirt right off of her body, collapsing to his knees and feasting on her pussy until the only name she knew was his. Hell, he'd do it in front of Tyler, if he had to, just to get the fucking point across-

Fuck, he was fucked.

If there was a hell, he was going straight there. Normal blokes didn't fantasise about fucking their cousin's girlfriend. A cheeky wank or two over it, maybe, but god, Bjorn felt unhinged.

He could feel his self control slipping, with every interaction, with every meeting of eyes.

He felt insane every time he saw his cousin's hands on you. An arm around your shoulders, a hand on your thigh, a finger tucking your hair behind your ear.

All instinctive, sweet touches between a couple. Nothing offensive.

And yet Bjorn wanted to set himself on fucking fire every time he saw it.

Jesus, maybe he needed to get laid.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

You let out a strangled moan as Tyler licks another hot, wet stripe from your core to your clit, your fingers tightening in his hair as you ground down on his face.

"That's a good girl," he groans, hands tightening on your hips, rocking you to and fro against his face. He gently sucks your clit into his mouth, before soothing it with his tongue, releasing it briefly. "Always ride my face so fuckin' well, darlin', always look so fuckin' good using me to get yourself off."

"Tyler-" you damn near sob, bucking your hips faster, and faster, as you feel that ever familiar tightening sensation that signals your orgasm is approaching. "Baby, fuck- I'm so fucking close-"

He groans again, removing his mouth and staring up at you, panting softly. His handsome face is soaked in your slick, his eyes dark as they hungrily rove over your figure. A boyish grin lights up his face as you whine. He stands to his full height, towering over you as he backs you over to your desk.

"The blinds aren't down-" you hiss, only to be silenced by a kiss that tastes of you.

"So?" he hums, nosing at your neck, kissing his way down to your collarbone, where he lightly nips a mark into your skin. He kisses further, over your clothed breast, swirling his tongue against the pebbling nipple. "All people are gonna see is me fuckin' my girl, just the way she wants it."

You moan softly, rubbing your thighs together at the thought. It's sinful, downright naughty, even. But it gets you... well, hot. Thinking about someone happening to glance in, to see Tyler balls deep inside of you, making you forget your own name.

Fuck, it makes you damn near gush a fucking flood.

Tyler smiles that boyish grin again at your moan. "Such a good girl for me," he coos, as he unzips his jeans, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. He pumps his hand up and down his shaft once, then twice, gathering the precum slowly forming at the head and stroking it up and down his cock with a stifled sigh. "Fuck, jesus- you want it-"

"Raw," you whisper, leaning back on your desk, legs spread wide for him. "Wanna feel you, Tyler. Need you to cum inside me so fucking bad, baby, I've been aching for it-"

He groans again, stepping between your spread legs and rubbing the head of his cock through your wetness. Both of your breaths catch in your chests, your eyes locking as he finally pushes his cock inside of you.

Your twin moans echo in the small building. Thank god it's your lunch break.

He doesn't start off gentle, like he usually does. No, neither of you have the patience today. The pace is damn near brutal, his hips snapping fiercely against yours, your cunt aching in the most delicious way possible as he fucks you hard and fast.

It's a miracle your desk is still standing, by the time you're done.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

"You alright, cuz?" Tyler grins as he claps Bjorn on the shoulder, collapsing into a seat beside him at the bar.

Bjorn grunts, not quite looking at him as he fidgets with the tab on his can of beer.

Tyler arches a brow. "Fucks sake, must've been a shite day if it's got you all quiet."

Rather the oppsite, Bjorn wants to spit back, Got to hear your girlfriend moaning and begging to get filled with cum, got enough material to fuel a thousand masturbation fantasies and fucking more. Close the blinds next time you fucking exhibitionist.

He of course says none of that.

"Summit like that." Bjorn shrugs instead. "So where's-"

"Hey," you grin, sliding into the seat beside Tyler. Bjorn almost groans.

Of fucking course it was the skirt today. God, he hoped some fucking grunt would come along and fire a pulse rifle into his head.

"Sup?" he greets, barely looking at you.

You're well used to Bjorn's behaviour by now but...

Well, that won't do.

You're in love with Tyler, yeah. Absolutely devoted to him alone, but...

You like the attention that Bjorn desperately tries not to give you. You like the struggle of watching him try not to stare at your ass in a skirt, or your tits in your blouse. You like watching his jaw tick and his knuckles tighten on his glass whenever Tyler gets handsy.

It's thrilling.

It's maddening when his eyes aren't on you.

God forbid he even thinks about looking at another girl.

You shift in your seat, crossing one leg over the other, completely casual.

Your foot stretches out, casually gliding up and doen Bjorn's calf. He tenses, looking at you with confusion, his brow furrowed in thought. Perhaps he thought you'd aimed for Tyler and missed.

You meet his eyes, sliding your foot up his calf, over his knee, up his thigh...

He inhales sharply, taking a sip of beer as he listens to Tyler chat about his work day.

You toy with the zipper of Bjorn's pants. Of course, you can't unzip but...

The feeling of something getting firmer beneath your touch sends a thrill down your spine, makes your pussy pulse with want. Your eyes meet Bjorn's again, and oh fuck, if the sight of the blue of his eyes being taken over by his pupils doesn't make your cunt fucking damn near gush...

You remove your foot, watching Bjorn's fingers tighten on his can, his eyes burning into your face, trailing to your lips, down your neck, your breasts...

His eyes snap up to the mark on your neck, his nostrils flaring as he leans back in his chair, throwing back the rest of his can in one smooth gulp.

"Gonna head," he grunts, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair and holding it on his lap, glancing between the pair of you. "Enjoy yourselves or whateva, alright? Try not to fuck in front of everyone, yeah?"

And he's off, before you or Tyler can even say a word. Tyler watches after his cousin with concern, brow pinched and frown of worry firmly set into his handsome face.

"What's up with him?" He ponders, and you hum, taking your eyes off of Bjorn's backside in order to smile at him.

"No idea."

#alien romulus #alien #bjorn alien romulus #bjorn x reader #tyler harrison x reader #bjorn alien romulus x reader #tyler harrison #tyler harrison x reader x bjorn

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billzoned · 2 years ago

Note

Hey, I don't know if you still write, but I imagine sapnap getting angry after losing in a game and taking it out on the bed-

anger

pairing :: cc! sapnap + afab! reader

content warnings :: explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it guys), dom! sapnap, sub! reader, edging, ..marking, choking, belly bulge.., hair pulling if u squint, praise.., bjs, creampie :o

word count :: 920

author's note :: i am indeed still writing! i just write excruciatingly slow and my motivated comes in small bursts most of the time. but requests are always welcome <3

(ps.) i am horrible at writing endings, and aftercare...oopsies? :'c

NOT PROOFREAD — nsfw under cut.

sapnap is one to get just a little bit...angry if he loses in something. it doesn't matter if it's a video game, or anything else– he'll get irritated. to make it oh so much better– he takes his anger out on you every time he gets the chance.

all that could be heard throughout sapnap's room was the sound of gagging and euphoric groans coming from sapnap. after he lost a manhunt (horribly), he had decided to take all of his anger out on you– in your vulnerable state of watching youtube videos in the room next to him, he had dragged you into his own room and decided to simply fuck your throat and try to blow off some steam.

your clothes were nowhere to be found– probably thrown on the floor somewhere as your throat convulsed around sapnap's cock as he harshly forced your head up and down repeatedly. you were clearly having trouble taking all of him into your mouth. "ah, god- come on, just be a good little slut and take it, yeah?" he mocked your struggles. but he rolled his eyes, grabbed your hair and pulled your mouth off of him anyway, letting you take a breather as you coughed from the severe asphyxiation you had experienced in the past two minutes– until he pushed your head back down and continued ravaging your throat until it was sore and raw. he kept fucking into your mouth until suddenly his cum shot down your throat and painting your mouth white with a loud groan.

finally, after what felt like eternity, he grabbed a handfull of your hair and roughly pulled you off of him and carried you to his bed. "you want to be fucked, don't you?" he said as he bent down to start his attack on your neck– biting and kissing all over the flesh until your skin was littered in pink-ish red marks. the noises you were making were enough of a confirmation for sapnap, as he trails his hand down from your stomach to your thighs, and finally to your dripping cunt. he slowly drags his fingers up and down your folds until he stops at your clit– rubbing small circles rabidly and hearing your small whimpers and quiet moans fall out from your lips. you were just on the edge of release, your noises getting just a bit louder and more desperate, until he stopped all of his movements and left you with a ruined orgasm.

"you're gonna have to beg if you really want to cum, sweetheart." he said tauntingly, slipping his fingers into your cunt. you looked at him with fat tears rolling down your face, trying your best to beg. "please, sap!! jus' let me cum-! please-please, please!" you beg, your destroyed voice trembling and filled with desperation. "hm.. i may consider it.." this went on for a couple of minutes until he finally gave you what you were begging for. your legs had started shaking uncontrollably from the overstimulation of his fingers moving rapidly in and out of your pussy as the coil in your abdomen snaps. you moan aloud and your eyes roll back into your head in pleasure– vision going cloudy– as sapnap looks down at you. "there you are... good girl, good girl.. doing so well for me.." he praised, as he pulled his fingers out of you.

he swiftly pulled you to the edge of his bed, lining up his cock with your entrance and pushing the tip in, before slamming into you and making you moan loudly. he grabbed your hips tightly– so tightly that they would certainly leave bruises in the morning. the continuous sounds of skin-on-skin slapping and the sounds of ecstasy coming from both you was simply intoxicating to sapnap. he couldn't help himself– he just had to wrap his large hand around your throat like a necklace and hear your struggled moans. "take it- fuck- take it f'me, yeah?" he whispered in your ear. he looked down over your body, his eyes stopping at the little bulge pressing up in your tummy every time he thrusted in and out. his head fell back from the sight– he wasn't even sure if he could last much longer from that.

your moans increased in volume as his cock brushed against your g-spot, waves of pure pleasure flowing through your veins every time he pounds into you. he slowly trailed his hand down from your throat to your stomach, and to your clit– rubbing it rapidly and stimulating the small bundle of nerves. the two of you weren't gonna last too much longer, that was for sure. with sap pounding into you and the two of you being in a state of pure ecstasy..it was bound to end soon.

you could feel the familiar feeling of your abdomen tightening, signaling you were close to your long awaited orgasm. suddenly, with one simple deep thrust from sapnap your orgasm hit you like a truck– your eyes rolling back into your head and a loud moan falling from your lips. sap's hips were soon stuttering as he groans, head falling backwards and eyes closing as his cum leaks into you. he takes a moment before he pulls out–asking if you're okay and slowly slipping out.

the last thing you remember is him saying, "i'll be back in a minute, alright?" before seeing his blurry figure getting up and walking supposedly to the bathroom to go get a wet wash cloth to clean you up.

AA I FINALLY POSTED SOMETHING I WROTE!!1!1!! it's 1 in the morning and it's not the best but hope yall enjoy! :3

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saps4hanaremoteaccess · 1 year ago

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kaartechofficial · 1 year ago

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maheshts497 · 2 months ago

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levellyscorner · 1 month ago

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Cowboy like Me (Outlaw!Bucky x F!Reader) Chpt 2

Summary: When Bucky Barnes and his gang derail a train expecting gold, they find a hidden heiress instead — sharp-tongued, silk-wrapped, and worth more than anything they came for. With orders to keep her close until a ransom can be arranged, Bucky is saddled with a woman who won’t beg, won’t yield, and turns captivity into a slow, dangerous game neither of them can win clean.

Tags: Outlaw!Bucky Barnes, Western AU, Enemies to Something Complicated, Forced Proximity, Hostage Situation, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Tension So Thick You Could Lasso It. Sharp-Tongued!Reader, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn (but not that slow), Dust, Gunpowder, and Glances, No One's Soft Here, Emotional Restraint (Literal and Figurative), She's Tied Up but Still in Charge, Rough Exterior, Worse Interior, One Horse, Two People, Too Much Heat. Reader Is Not a Damsel.

A/N: This story contains: one outlaw with more silence than sense, one heiress who doesn’t know how to shut up (and wouldn’t if she did), a horse that deserves a raise, and enough rope to make things interesting. Enjoy the ride and Yee-haw. PS: I Def got inspo from Red Dead Redemption 2

A/N for the chapter: It’s unholy o’clock, my back hurts, my brain’s melting, and yet — here we are. Chapter? Delivered. Dialogue? Unhinged. Bucky? Problematic. Me? Delusional but thriving.

Now I’m off to lay in bed and think about every single choice I’ve made — including what happens next. Spoiler: it only gets worse. For them. For me. For all of us. See you there. Bring wine. ♡

P.S. If they kiss, kill, or confess beneath the stars, just know I’ll be in the corner clapping like a feral raccoon high on angst and bad intentions. Chaos is the co-author now.

Word Count: 4,327

Chapter 1

Cowboy Like Me

"Forever is the sweetest con."

Chapter 2: A Lady’s Guide to Weaponized Grace and The Art of Verbal Warfare

The sky above was a deep, bruised indigo — the kind that looked almost wet, like ink bleeding across parchment. Stars hadn’t quite emerged yet, but the horizon had already swallowed the sun, leaving behind only the fading heat and the long, stretched shadows of desert scrub. The air had cooled, but not enough to bring comfort. Just enough to remind you that night was coming.

The ride in was silent, except for the horse’s hooves pressing into the earth and the soft creak of leather beneath you. Every step jarred your ribs. The rope was tight, dug in deeper the longer you laid there, and the saddle horn bruised where it pressed into your hip. But you didn’t complain. You didn’t ask for help. You kept your head turned toward the horizon, your chin tilted just high enough that it didn’t look like surrender. He hadn’t said a word since the train. Not when he tied you, not when he threw you over the horse like luggage, not when the sun dropped and the desert began to cool. You weren’t sure if he was ignoring you or if ignoring things was all he’d ever known. He rode like a man who’d done this before. Like you were a task. A weight. A body to deliver.

Camp revealed itself not in full, but in flickers — glimpses of orange firelight threading through the mesquite, weaving around low brush and stone. The fires were small, burning tight and close to the ground, sending smoke curling into the indigo sky like whispered secrets. You smelled charred mesquite, old coffee, leather. Heard only the shift of bodies and the occasional pop of sap bursting in the flame. Bucky rode in slow, measured the hooves of his horse kicked up dry dust, stirring the scent of worn leather, campfire ash, and sunbaked blood out of the dirt. The fireflies danced low to the ground, drifting through the dark like trailing sparks that refused to die.

You could feel the camp watching before you ever saw a face.

They heard him coming first.

Low murmurs hushed. The scrape of steel paused. Conversations shrank. Not a single weapon was drawn, but a dozen hands drifted to holsters, blades, and long rifles resting within arm’s reach. The first figure you saw was a woman crouched near a fire, a half-finished hare laid out across her lap. Her hands were stained to the knuckles, a bloodied skinning knife motionless in one of them. She didn’t rise. Just turned her head, tracking the sound like a wolf, eyes flicking from Bucky’s boots to the shape draped over the back of his saddle.

“Someone’s brought home a souvenir,” she muttered, not loud, but clear. A few heads turned. One of the card players—lean, red-haired, smirking like he’d seen the punchline already—sat up straighter on a crate. Another man, older, dark-skinned and broad across the shoulders, stood from his crouch beside a tack barrel, dusting his palms against his worn duster as he squinted through the haze. “Well, hell,” he called across the clearing, his voice slow and half-sharp with amusement. “Barnes, I thought we were hitting a train, not shopping for wives.” A few scattered laughs rose—small, dry, not mean-spirited. Just curious. Testing the edge of something that hadn’t yet revealed whether it was a story or a problem.

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

He let the horse carry them into the center of camp, past the fires and the still bodies gathered around them. The flames crackled low, sending streaks of gold across the dirt. The air shifted — not tense, but attentive. Someone whistled low. Another leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching the way your dress dragged through the dust, torn at the hem and stained with travel. No one asked who you were.

Not yet.

“Barnes,” the redhead drawled, shuffling his deck lazily, “you planning to explain that or just hope we all stop staring?” Bucky slid off the horse in a single practiced movement the ground crunching beneath his boots. “Tony’s idea.”

The words dropped like a stone into the center of the fire circle — small, but heavy. Final. A shift followed, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders straightened. Jokes died in dry throats. The redhead with the cards stopped shuffling and tapped the deck once against his knee. Even the broad man with the tack gloves lowered his arms, gaze narrowing with fresh interest.

Tony’s name didn’t mean fear around here — not exactly. But it meant something more dangerous: purpose. If Tony had a reason for bringing in a bound woman dressed like stolen nobility, no one was going to pretend it was random. You could feel it in their eyes.

That ripple of new calculation. Of knowing, suddenly, that you weren’t some sideshow mistake from a heist gone sideways — you were part of something. A move being made. A weight shifting across the board.

Bucky slid the rope loose from the saddle horn and stepped to your side. He didn’t pause, didn’t ask, didn’t make it gentle. Just moved like he had somewhere to be and you were coming with him. His arm slid beneath your legs, the other bracing across your back, and in one swift, practiced motion, you were in the air. The sudden shift made your ribs clench, breath catching as the rope strained across your spine. The fabric of your dress tore again, snagging briefly on a bit of leather, and you felt the air rush cold against your skin where silk gave way to dirt. He didn’t bother to flinch. Just adjusted his hold and turned. The entire camp watched him walk you in — watched you, really — like they were waiting to see if you'd squirm, if you’d cry, if you’d crack.

But you didn’t.

You kept your chin lifted, your expression smooth, letting your eyes drift over each face in the circle of firelight with the slow disinterest of a woman who had once been served wine older than this whole damn gang. The firelight clung to you — not like warmth, but like recognition. It caught in the threads of your ruined gown, shimmered faintly on the bruises forming along your arms, and painted your cheekbones in shadow and gold. Even ruined, you didn’t look out of place. You looked out of reach. Not a woman dragged in from a job gone wrong — but something rarer. Stranger. A pearl pried from the wrong shell. You weren’t dressed for this place, but you didn’t look lost in it either. You looked like you had chosen the ruin. Worn it like armor.

And they noticed.

Eyes tracked you as Bucky carried you through the firelight — not with pity, not with lust, but with something slower and heavier: suspicion. Calculation. The kind of stare that pieces together puzzles without knowing what the picture’s supposed to be. He didn’t bother explaining anymore. Didn’t glance at the faces turning toward him from the fires, from the crates, from the perches they'd taken for the night.

He just walked — straight-backed, silent, and utterly uninterested in the stir he was causing. He didn’t take you to the center of camp. He took you past it — to the outer edge where the shadows grew longer and the conversation didn’t reach. His tent was little more than a canvas lean-to pitched beneath a crooked juniper, tucked between two rocks and half-lit by the flicker of the nearest fire. There was no welcome there. No comfort. Just a worn blanket, a scuffed saddle, and the impression of a man who kept to himself.

And that’s where he dumped you. Without so much as a warning, his arms shifted. His grip loosened. And before you could brace yourself, you slipped from his grasp and landed hard on the packed dirt. The impact jarred up your spine, sent a shock of pain through your ribs where the rope had rubbed raw. Your shoulder hit first, your hip second, and for a heartbeat, the only sound you heard was the rough hiss of your breath catching in your throat. Dust bloomed around you. Fine and pale, it settled into your hair, into the wet seams of torn silk, into the open cuts along your elbows.

He didn’t help you up. Didn’t even look down. He stepped back, wiped his hands on the sides of his coat like he was done with a chore, and turned his back on you. You sat up, slow at first, then faster — fighting against the awkward tension of bound wrists and stiff joints, legs scraping through the dirt. Your dress snagged on a rock, silk tearing audibly as you forced yourself upright. It didn’t matter. Nothing about you was soft anymore.

“I get it,” you said, voice loud enough to carry. “Rough day, long ride, no manners left in your bones.” That earned a few glances from the fireside. Someone looked up from cleaning a rifle. Another paused with a spoon halfway to their mouth. But he didn't turn around. Typical.

But you weren’t done. Not by a long shot.

You shifted your weight, forcing your legs beneath you despite the way your limbs trembled from the ride and the fall. The ropes at your wrists pulled tight again, biting into raw skin, but you sat up straight in the dirt anyway. “But I guess a man like you doesn’t need manners,” you called, loud enough for the camp to hear. “Not when someone else does all the thinking for you.”

That landed.

Hard.

He stopped walking. Not a stumble — just a pause mid-step, like something sharp had gone straight between his shoulder blades. The fire popped behind you. Someone at the far end of the camp shifted, boot scuffing against packed dirt. A bowl clinked softly where it had been set down. Still, he didn’t turn.

So you twisted the knife.

“Tony tells you what to carry, when to drop it, and which direction to shoot. You don’t even blink. That metal arm of yours must be real useful. Shame you don’t use your head half as often.” That did it there was a pivot of his heel, a coat swing and the crunch of dirt beneath his boots. He faced you fully for the first time since he’d dropped you in the dirt like a sack of grain. The firelight caught the edge of his cheekbone, gilded the line of his jaw, and glinted across the fine scratches on his metal hand as his fingers flexed once — a slow, controlled motion like he was reminding himself what restraint looked like.

He looked at you. Truly looked. Like you weren’t some chore he’d dragged behind a saddle, but something else now. Something harder to define. Something he might have to reckon with. And you met it — all of it — with your chin lifted, posture proud despite the ropes at your back and the ache coiled deep in your ribs. You let the silence hang, let it build around you like heat, and then, calm as anything, you added- “Didn’t mean to confuse you. I know taking orders leaves little room for independent thought. You probably haven’t made a real decision in years.”

The reaction wasn’t visible. Not entirely.

But you saw it — the tiny shift in the set of his jaw. The barely-there squint at the corner of his eyes. The way his weight rocked forward, like his body moved half a second before his temper. And then he came toward you. Not fast — not reckless — but with purpose. Each step heavier than the last, like the earth had started taking him seriously again. His coat flared behind him, dust rising in little clouds at his heels. He didn’t crouch. He didn’t lower himself to meet you. He stood tall, right in front of you, towering in the firelight, the tension rolling off him like heat off black iron. You craned your neck just slightly to keep your eyes on his, bound hands still knotted behind you, knees in the dirt, every inch of you aching — and none of that mattered.

Because the look on your face said you were winning. “You wanna say that again?” he asked, voice low, rough — not a growl, not yet. Something worse. Something tight and quiet and held just under boiling.

You smiled — slow, deliberately mocking, dangerous. "I said,” you replied, deliberately, “it must be exhausting being someone else’s trigger finger.” He stepped in closer. Just enough for you to catch the scent of dust and worn leather, sunbaked skin and the faint, sharp tang of cold metal. His shadow swallowed yours, the heat of him — sun, sweat, steel — wrapped around you like a second rope. “You got a real gift for pushing buttons you don’t understand.”

You didn’t even blink.

Your smile curved, lazy and lethal — like you’d been waiting for him to finally catch up.

“Ah- I was wondering when the lapdog would try growling. Took you long enough — or did Tony forget to give you permission first?” You let the silence hang for half a breath, then added, “Obedience must be exhausting. No wonder you don’t have room left for a spine.”

Whatever thin thread he’d been clinging to — professionalism, patience, pride — snapped silent and sharp like a gunshot misfire. The muscles in his jaw flexed. His metal fingers twitched once, then curled tight enough for the leather at his wrist to creak. He stared down at you, not with rage — not yet — but with something colder. Something quieter.

It wasn’t that you’d struck a nerve.It was that you’d hit it. Hard.

And he was still deciding if he’d let it bleed. “You don’t know a damn thing about me,” he said, voice low, but rough now — not tight like before. Looser. Rougher. More dangerous for how little effort it took.

You breathed in through your nose, slow and measured, feeling the smoke and dust settle deep in your lungs. You didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just let your eyes drag across his face like you were memorizing something you already knew how to destroy. “No,” you said, voice even, lips barely parted, “but I know enough.” And you saw it — that flicker.

Barely there. Behind the eyes. Behind the mask he wore like leather — stitched from years of orders, silence, control. So you leaned in.

Just a fraction. Just enough.

“I know what a man looks like when he doesn’t know who he is without someone else telling him. When he follows the sound of someone else's voice because the silence in his own head’s too damn loud.” His jaw tensed. Shoulders squared. But he still didn’t speak. “Tony says ‘jump,’ and you already know the height. You don’t hesitate, don’t question. Just pull the trigger and pray there’s no time left to think.” A shift. Sudden, sharp — his boots scuffed forward, closing the already small distance like a slammed door. The toes of his boots pressed into the fabric bunched at your knees. The campfire cracked behind you like a warning.

You felt the air shift.

You smelled the burn in it.

And then his hand moved — not the metal one. The real one. The one that still held heat and memory and all the restraint he hadn’t quite lost yet. He grabbed your chin. Not hard. Not soft, either. Fingers firm, thumb pressing against the edge of your jaw, tipping your face toward him like you’d somehow looked away, like he needed you to see something to hear what was coming next.

“You keep talkin’ like you’ve got the first damn clue what’s in my head,” he said, voice rough as gravel, “you’re gonna learn what it feels like when a man who’s spent years holding back decides he’s done.” The fire danced shadows up his throat, down your cheeks, turning everything sharp — angles and breath and fury. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was rooted. Like he didn’t trust himself to speak without anchoring the storm.

You smiled.

Because of course you did. A small, razor-sharp thing that barely curved your lips but hit him like a spark to dry timber.“Good,” you said, quiet and cool and braver than anyone should be in that position. “Because I’m dying to see what happens when the dog bites without waiting for the whistle.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. He just stared at you — the kind of stare that scraped the air clean between you, pulled every ounce of noise and breath and distance out of the firelight until it was just him, just you, and the weight of everything neither of you had said yet.

Then his fingers dropped from your chin.

Not gently. Not harshly.

They slipped away with the tension of a man unhooking himself from a live wire — not because it stopped sparking, but because he knew if he held on one second longer, it would burn him straight through. His jaw flexed once. The fire cast a flicker of gold across the fine line of sweat at his temple. Still, he said nothing. Just stood there — tall, rigid, hands now balled into fists at his sides like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hit something or just feel the ground stop shifting beneath him.

But the ground wasn’t going to stop. Not anymore. You’d made sure of that.

You sat still, bound hands behind your back, body sore and bruised and rooted in dirt — and yet somehow, you looked like the one in charge. Your voice was a whisper this time, but not soft. Not even close. "What's the matter?” you asked, gaze fixed steady on his. “Didn’t think I’d bite back?” That got him. Not visibly — not enough for the camp to clock it — but deep down, behind the storm in his eyes, something recoiled. Or maybe it lunged. It was hard to tell.

Then he turned.

Abruptly. Fully.

Not to leave. Not yet.

But just to get space — a breath’s worth of distance between himself and whatever it was you’d shaken loose in him. The silence that followed was brutal. The kind that pressed at ears. That made people fidget without knowing why. One of the men by the fire cleared his throat, too loud. Someone else shifted their rifle. Still no one spoke.

Until finally, from behind you, a slow voice cut through the air like smoke curling from a cigar. “Well,” Tony said dryly, footsteps lazy in the dirt, “that was downright romantic.” He stepped into view with the kind of casual sway only men like him could carry — unbothered, amused, hands in his coat pockets like he hadn’t just watched you verbally gut his second-in-command in front of half the camp.

Tony smiled thinly. “She’s a firecracker. Should’ve warned me. Hell, should’ve warned yourself.” Still, Bucky said nothing. You could feel it — the air between them thick with something unspoken. Loyalty. Resentment. Old ghosts dragging chains. Tony took a slow step closer. Boots crunching grass. Not toward you. Toward him. “Was a simple job. Hit the train. Take the goods. Now we’ve got a highborn hostage with a spine like steel and a mouth like a guillotine.” He didn’t look at you when he said it — only at Bucky. “You sure you can handle her?”

“I can handle her,” Bucky said flatly.

“Because I’m not in the mood for mutiny,” Tony added, softer now. “I don’t care if she’s dressed like a porcelain doll or if she’s got legs that could start a war. She’s not your responsibility. She’s ours. And if she becomes a problem…”

“I said I can handle it.” Bucky’s voice had dropped. Not loud. Not threatening. But firm — like steel cooling just before it cracks.

Tony studied him for a long beat.

Then he turned to you. "You're lucky,” he said. “You got him watching over you instead of me.” You arched a brow. “That’s the second time someone’s called me lucky today. For a hostage, I must be the goddamn envy of the West.” Tony let out a slow laugh. But it didn’t reach his eyes.“I like her,” he said, almost to himself. And then — casually, without looking — he reached down and grabbed your chin. His fingers were gloved, but the grip was real. Just firm enough to make you still. Just rough enough to remind you who was in control. “You ever been ransomed before?” he asked lightly. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of pulling away. Your voice was like glass cooled in fire. “You ever touched something too expensive to replace?” The words left your mouth like a velvet slap. Tony didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. His gloved fingers lingered against your chin just a beat too long, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw as if weighing whether he could get away with pressing harder. He didn’t get the chance Bucky’s voice cut through, quiet but clear — casual on the surface, but loaded underneath. "Steve's lookin’ for you.” Tony didn’t move his hand. But his eyes flicked, slow and sideways, toward Bucky. That lazy, dangerous kind of look that meant he heard everything — and wasn’t sure if he liked it.

“Yeah?” Tony said, voice flat. Bucky didn’t shift his stance. Didn’t step forward. Just leaned his weight into one hip like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t playing interference. "Says he might’ve got wind of the Hammerhead camp. Near Dry Creek, just past the old spur line.” He shrugged one shoulder, casual as a coin toss. “Could be nothin’. Could be the lead you’ve been waitin’ on.” The name landed. Hammerhead — one of the gangs that had been poaching jobs, sniffing too close to Stark’s supply routes for months. Mean bastards. Sloppy. Loud. A thorn in Tony’s side.

Tony’s hand dropped.

Not sharply. Not suspiciously.

Just… like something more important had taken root behind his eyes. “Huh,” he said, gaze turning distant for a breath. “About time those bastards slipped up.” He stepped back. Rolled his shoulders like the tension had never been there. Like he hadn’t had a grip on your jaw like it was a hinge. “Well,” he exhaled, smile crawling back onto his face like a snake returning to the sun. “I think that’s enough family bonding for one night.” He nodded toward you without looking. “Let her clean up. Get her a blanket or something. If she freezes to death before ransom’s paid, I’ll be pissed.” And with that, he turned and walked — lazy and loose again, whistling something tuneless under his breath as he vanished into the dark between fire pits and tents.

Silence stretched.

Bucky didn’t move.

Neither did you.

But when you looked at him — truly looked — something had changed.

You tilted your head, quiet. Measuring.

“You lied,” you said.

“Didn’t.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere just past your shoulder — not looking at you, not looking at anything. Just holding still like it cost him nothing. But you weren’t fooled. You saw the tell — a flicker too slow in his blink, the way his hand twitched at his side like it wanted to clench and didn’t. He moved before you could speak again. Reached into his dark coat. Pulling a knife — clean, dull-edged, old enough to have history. The firelight caught the steel in a single flare before he crouched.

“Want the rope off or not?” he asked, eyes still down.

You didn’t answer at first.

He didn’t look up.

Just slid the blade between the rough fibers looped at your wrists, careful and quick. You felt the tension give — not instantly, but in one deliberate tug that stung when the blood started to rush back into your fingers. The rope slackened and fell away, hitting the ground in a dull coil. The pain was immediate—your fingers prickled with a sharp, electric burn as circulation returned. You didn’t hiss. Didn’t flinch. You just held his gaze. Bucky stood slowly, the knife vanishing back into his coat. His expression didn’t shift. Not even a fraction.

But something in the air around him did.

“I didn’t want to tie you up.” The words came quiet. Unprompted. Blunt enough to land heavy between you. You looked at him—really looked at him—and you knew it wasn’t for your benefit. He wasn’t apologizing. He was just saying it because it had been sitting in his mouth too long and was starting to burn.

“Oh, well. That changes everything.” You shook out your hands, the raw skin at your wrists burning as you moved. “Should I thank you for the reluctant war crime? Or maybe write a glowing review of your technique?” He said nothing. Which was starting to become his favorite trick. “Come on,” you added, arching a brow. “What’s next? You want credit for not gagging me too?” That earned you a look — brief, sharp, the kind that flicked over your face like it was safer not to stare too long.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he muttered.

You smiled. Slow. Regal. “You always have a choice. You just picked the one that lets you sleep at night.” You saw it — the brief flicker in his eyes, the tension pull a little tighter in his jaw. And still, he didn’t say a word.

Coward.

He turned from you, footsteps already crunching toward the fire. “Walk away then,” you called after him, voice silk-laced with venom. “God forbid you choke on a little accountability.” His shoulders tensed. Just for a second. Like your words had hit bone, not just skin. But he didn’t stop. You let your head tip back against the rough wood behind you, the ache in your wrists throbbing like a second heartbeat. The fire crackled in the distance, its glow barely reaching where you sat. He hadn’t tied you up — not yet — but you knew better than to think it was mercy.

No, it was guilt.

And guilt, darling, was leverage.

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akireet · 1 year ago

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Yandere Asmodeus and Fizzarolli

With a Nifty Darling

Ps. I take requests ;)

● You three met at Asmodeus' club.

● You had no idea how you even ended up in the club but you did and when some fucker decided to hit on you? Well, they didn't come back in one piece.

● That's when Fizzarolli and Asmodeus saw you. You were stabbing some poor sap while manically laughing as blood flew everywhere.

● Fizzarolli couldn't help but burst out laughing. Seeing a small demon stabbing another demon that was six times their size while every other demon was avoiding the murder zone was hilarious to him.

● Some idiot thought it was a good idea to take advantage of this, however, and climbed on the stage, trying to harass Fizzarolli.

● Asmodeus, of course, saw this, but before he could even act himself, there you already were, stabbing the asshole with the same little knife.

"HAHAHAHAHHA STAB STAB STAB"

● They were in love.

● Fizzarolli and Asmodeus approached you, and you stopped your stabbing when a big blue hand picked you up.

"Hello darling, what brings you to my club?"

● Your neck cracked by how fast you turned your head as your one eye got bigger and your pupil got smaller.

● Don't tell anyone, but that scared the shit out of Fizzarolli and Asmodeus (and they loved it).

"GAHAHAH, you're a bad boy, aren't you?"

● You somehow got yourself out of Asmodeus' grip and began climbing all over him as you touched and poked anything your little hands could reach.

● This amused the both of them.

● And from then on, the three of you could always be seen together.

● Let's say this setting had happened BEFORE the start of the show. Their yandere tendencies aren't that noticeable as they definitely aren't in love with each other and you. But later on? OHOHOHOO.

● Moxxie was singing on the stage for Millie under Asmodeus, Fizzarolli, and YOU interrupted them.

"Give me a thrust." Fizzarolli takes this as his que to make trumpet sounds as you climb all over Asmodeus.

"Show me some lust." Que Fizzarolli, continuing the trumpet sounds as you mischievously look down at the imps from Asmodeus' shoulder.

● Yeah, in the end, you tried to stab Moxxie but were stopped. Poor you :(

● On another note, you don't really like being at the club. Cleaning is one of your favourite "hobbies," and sometimes you get overloaded with the need to clean when you're at the club. Asmodeus and Fizzarolli, of course, take notice of this and try to keep you at Asmodeus' Chambers. (Which can be quite hard as you are small, fast, and agile).

● After the Mammon incident, Asmodeus and Fizzarolli aren't as shy in showing their love as they were before. Fucking they don't do with you, sorry honey but you are tiny compared to them, but they love you all the same. What came as a surprise to them, though, was how inexperienced you actually were.

● Before, you were gigging about "bad boys" and all that, but when they declared their love for you, you just froze and stared at them with that big ol' eye.

● Hun? Are you okay? Why did you freeze like that?

● They look at each other with concerned glances, and in a minute, you just continue cleaning as if nothing happened, muttering about "roaches" and "winning."

● Ignoring that, Asmodeus' nicknames for you are "Darling, Sweetheart, Devil's Ivy..."

"Darling ____, please let's NOT harras the staff, okay sweetheart?"

● Fizzarolli likes to call you "Doll, their highness (as you two like to play pretend sometimes), Cheshire..."

"___ be a doll and give me the powder, please?"

● Their yandere tendencies aren't that visible for others (or for you at least), but they are insanely overprotective. You can't leave the palace without THE BOTH of them.

● There was this one time though...

● You were at the club, sweeping around feverishly when you bumbed into some random sinner, and they spilt alcohol on the table.

● "Fuck you're making a mess!" The sinner yelled at you, only to freeze in horror as you begun to bawl your little eye out.

"I- I'M THE MESS?! WAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

● The sinner might just have peed their pants when Asmodeus and Fizzarolli ran over. They were panicking as this was the first time you've ever cried (at least in front of them), and you wouldn't stop bawling your little eye out.

● They tried to calm you down but nothing seemed to be working, not even the funny faces Fizzarolli made that usually managed to make you cackle manically. Thankfully, you calmed down as you begun to fiddle with the small balls on Fizzarolli's hat.

● By this point, the sinner had already run out, and the one's left in the club minded their own business to NOT inquire Asmodeus' wrath.

● Don't worry, little devil, Asmodeus, and Fizzarolli took care of the piece of shit that made you cry <33

You are never the mess.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I would like to remind everyone that Nifty IS NOT a child, though her body is small. She is canonically 22!! And is seen having sexual feelings towards other demons, so PLEASE do not come complaining in the comments!!!

Though criticism is appreciated ♡

#yandere hazbin hotel headcanons #yandere helluva boss #yandere asmodeus #yandere fizzarolli #yandere hazbin hotel

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nephtheless · 9 months ago

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My Hearthian, Nephrite... again ::D

Loves campfires, perfectly toasted marshmallows, and a well-aged sap wine.

Typically spends their time fixing small machines and troubleshooting computer problems, but loves to sketch at every opportunity.

Quiet, easily distracted/startled, and not very articulate. Nephrite is Nephrite.

PS. I would love to draw your Hearthian OC's if you will let me! Just send me a message with a name and description, including how they are most likely to be found spending their time, and who with ::)

#outer wilds fanart #outer wilds #outer wilds art #hearthian oc

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imagines--galore · 6 months ago

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||The Thread of Fate|| Part Thirty-Seven

Summary: Soulmate AU. They say the Thread of Fate connects you to your one true love. It may tangle. It may stretch. But it will never break. Wrapped around your little finger it tightens when it feels your soulmate is close and loosens when they are far. And becomes visible with the colors of your soulmate’s Nation when you finally fall in love with them.

Pairing: Zuko x OroraOC (ATLA)

Rating || Genres || Warnings: T+ Romance. Adventure. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Family.

Previous Chapters - Masterlist

A/N: BEACH PARTAY!!!! Also romance cuz, I am a SAP! Also some angst cuz.........blame these characters and their backstories okay! Honestly this chapter got away from me but I had SO MUCH FUN writing it :3 PS: The stories in this chapter are derived from different myths as well as stories from within the Avatar verse. I just mixed them up a little.

"So tell me again where Toph got all this new beach stuff?" Orora questioned as she tied her hair back with a square piece of cloth to avoid getting too much sand into it. Suki glanced up from where she had been pushing a pole into the sand that was holding up the canopy under which they could sit if they required some respite from the sun.

"Oh! She got a good deal on it!" The girl shrugged, not at all effected by the look in Orora's eyes because really, Suki was the only person who didn't think Orora was scary. Then again, Orora didn't find Suki's warrior face intimidating either.

Which was a big mystery to Sokka who found both of their expressions to be quite unnerving. And that was a much nicer word he was using.

Orora rolled her eyes as she adjusted the knot of the sarong she had tied around her waist. For their little beach party, the waterbender had opted to remove the unnecessary clothing items, such as armbands, gloves, shoes and pants. She still wore the colors of the Fire Nation, with her bandeau wrapped around her chest, and a pair of short pants that ended just above her knees and clung to her skin. The sarong provided some modesty, though it left much of her dark brown skin exposed.

Especially the scar that marred her abdomen.

Suki found her eyes flickering towards the puckered and raised skin. "Is that where....?" She trailed off, remembering the story Orora had told her how she got it. Glancing down at it, Orora sighed, her fingers gently tracing the scar as she nodded. "Yeah, it doesn't hurt anymore though, and I can hide it." She shrugged, not really bothered by the scar.

They all had them. Some, like hers, Aang's and Zuko's were visible.

Others, not so much.

And strangely enough those scars ran deeper.

Bumping her shoulder with Orora, Suki smiled at her friend. "Hey, no deep diving into that over-thinking brain of yours." She teased as she swung a friendly arm over her shoulders. "We're here to have fun." The Warrior stated as she began to lead them to where everyone else was helping set up the food station. "And admire our boyfriends." She added with a gleeful smile, one that had both girls dissolving into giggles, though with Orora, it was more of a nervous sound since she couldn't help the blush that stole across her cheeks whenever she would catch sight of Zuko.

Everyone was in their swimming costumes. Toph and Katara hadn't gone for the Fire Nation look as Orora and Suki had. Katara had simply donned the underclothes she usually wore beneath her water tribe clothing, with Toph following her example. Of course the colors were according to the Nation they belonged to. Aang had removed whatever covered his upper body and his shoes and had raced straight towards the water, where he was currently enjoying the waves he was creating. Sokka and Zuko had gone up to the house to get some of the gathered firewood and other supplies returning only a few minutes ago.

And the moment Zuko had taken to removing his outer robe, Orora had volunteered setting up the canopy a few paces away, and had dragged Suki along with her.

It hadn't taken long for Suki to pick up on the real reason behind Orora's eagerness to walk away. Which is why the first chance she had, she was leading the girl back to where the other were.

Sokka was eagerly cutting up some watermelon, with Katara saving the slices from her brother's vivacious appetite and passing them around. Zuko picked up two when the tray passed by, and made his way towards the approaching girls.

"Here, I got some for you." He said, holding out a slice for Orora who blinked at it as if she'd never seen a watermelon before. Suki, with a playful nudge at Zuko, that had him stumbling a little too closer to Orora, skipped off to join her boyfriend.

Chewing the inside of her mouth, Orora accepted the fruit, before forcing her gaze to drag up to meet his.

Though that turned out to be a bad idea because that meant she had to watch every inch of Zuko's bare chest and the sight had the blush returning to her cheeks in full force. When he had been last at the beach, Zuko had barely been eating, and it showed with the way his body had been painfully thin. Now though? With a good many weeks of good food and almost constant firebending training while teaching Aang, he was back in form. A form that included a toned, muscled body that would have anyone who found him even remotely attractive stare.

And Orora found Zuko to be extremely attractive.

In an effort to distract herself, the girl began to eat the watermelon. "Thanks." She mumbled through a mouthful, some of the juice from the watermelon streaking down the side of her mouth, staining her skin.

And prompting Zuko to follow the trail of the drop as it dripped down her chin. Unable to stop himself, he reached out to run his thumb against her skin, wiping away the residue and effectively stroking Orora's chin as he did. She stared up at him, her eyes wide. He could see the shifting emotions in them. A mixture of nervousness and something he couldn't quite place.

Though he knew it was a positive emotion.

With the way her gaze had kept flickering towards him even as she had been working on setting up the canopy with Suki, who's helpful nudge had placed them with barely an inch between them. Then again, he had been no different. Because as soon as he had the chance, his eyes would find Orora's figure and more then once, Sokka had to ask him to stop staring at her.

He couldn't help it.

While seeing her in the colors of his Nation had invoked feelings he never knew he had, seeing her in the swimsuit just increased them tenfold.

Or maybe a hundred-fold. He wasn't sure.

What he was sure, was that the urge to kiss Orora, which hadn't exactly been dormant for the past few days now, rose in full force. Making this the perfect moment to ask her what he had been meaning to all day.

"Orora, I-"

"Heads up!"

A giant wave came crashing towards the shore.

Pure instinct was what drove Orora to drop her watermelon, grab Zuko's wrist and pull him behind her as she kicked her leg out in an arc, cutting the wave through the center, leaving the both of them mostly dry, save the spray of water that came from the wave crashing on either side of them.

"Sorry!" Aang called out from where he was standing, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. "That one kind of got away from me." Orora rolled her eyes. "You need to learn to work with the wave and not against it by creating your own Aang." She advised. "Didn't Katara teach you that?" The tone of her voice was teasing, and loud enough for the other waterbender to hear.

"Hey! We've never had proper waves to work with before." The girl called, playfully frowning at Orora who grinned. "No time like the present then!"

Glancing back at Zuko, she stole a quick bite from his watermelon slice. "Save some for me?" Without waiting for an answer, the girl made her way towards Aang and Katara.

Leaving Zuko to stare after her retreating form with a slice of watermelon in his hand that only had one bite taken from it.

"Do you have to be that obvious about who your Soulmate is?" Came Toph's voice, snapping him out of whatever daze he was in as he watched Orora splash about in the water and laugh with Aang and Katara.

"I'm not obvious." He tried to argue, even as he forced his eyes away from Orora and looked at Toph as she stood next to him. The blind girl cackled. "Oh please. I'm blind and even I can see how obvious it is." She was holding a watermelon slice in each hand. "Now stop staring and brooding. You can stare and have fun instead." She suggested, before taking a bite from each of her slice and walking off.

————————–

What followed was an impromptu session of boosting a natural wave and riding it with an ice board. Having never had the chance to do that before, Orora was having the time of her life. It was exhilarating, every time she would watch a wave begin to crest, knowing she was giving it the power to go even higher before riding it on her ice board.

She did fall in on her first few tries, but practice did make perfect. In the end, it was Aang who did the best. Not because her and Katara were any less powerful, but because the boy was cheating a little by giving himself a little boost with a gust of air.

The three of them emerged from the waves, soaking wet and laughing, racing each other to where everyone else had set up and were having fun on their own.

Toph was being her lazy self and had kicked back and was lounging under the warm sun. Suki was standing above the moving figures of Sokka and Zuko as they played about in the sand.

"Er...what's going on?" Orora asked, a little confused at the look of determination on Zuko's face as he gathered a handful of sand. "Sokka challenged Zuko to a castle-bending dual." Suki replied, trying her best to hold back from laughing a the sheer absurdity of the name her soulmate had given the little competition.

Katara shook her head. "Leave it to Sokka to turn anything into a challenge." She laughed to herself, watching her brother use seashells to decorate his sand construction, a look of intense concentration on his face, with his tongue sticking out as he did.

"So, who's winning?" Aang asked, after airbending himself dry. "I want to say Sokka." Suki responded, but then she giggled. "But maybe you should judge for yourself."

She probably didn't want to hurt her boyfriend's feelings. Because while Sokka's construction was already crumbling in some places, Zuko's sand castle looked much more put together. Orora couldn't help but smile as she watched him work on his creation. Spying a seashell next to her toes, the girl quickly picked it up. Stepping up behind him, she reached down to hold the shell out over his shoulder.

Zuko glanced up at her, squinting slightly since the sun was right above her head. "Thought you might need this." She said, pressing the shell into his hand as she crouched down next to him, shoulders bumping. "Thanks." The boy responded with a small smile before returning to his nearly finished construction.

Resting her knees against the coarse sand, Orora smiled. "I didn't know you could make sandcastles so well." She observed, the sounds of the others giving Sokka tips fading in the background. Zuko shrugged. "I used to spend all my time at the beach whenever we came here, making sandcastles. Most days I had someone with me." He continued, a sadness overtaking the joy in his golden eyes. "Uncle." He began to list, his voice low yet firm. "Lu Ten." He cleared his throat while his fingers poked holes in the wall he had created to mimic windows. "My mother." His voice was barely above a whisper and the shift in his tone had Orora reaching out to gently lay a hand over his forearm. He stopped. "Even Azula."

Every bit of the confession hurt him. He'd never realized just how he had lost so many people to different reasons.

His Uncle he had lost because of his own stupidity. Given the chance, Zuko would beg for the man to forgive him for what he had done.

His cousin he had lost to the war. Sometimes Zuko wandered how different his life would've been if only Lu Ten hadn't died.

His mother he had lost to the Fire Nation. No one knew where she was, but in his heart, Zuko knew she was alive and out there somewhere.

His sister he had lost to their father and his idea of perfection. Azula's proclamation that she was to be an only child did hurt, but not as much as the knowledge that he would never have his sister back.

Maybe he never had her.

A warm hand against his cheek guided his sorrowful gaze to meet one full of determination, conviction and a gentleness that had his heart aching because did he still didn't think he was deserving of it.

"You may have lost your blood family over the years Zuko." His Soulmate spoke, her voice mirroring her emotions, the hand resting against his cheek sliding to stroke his scarred skin. "But you've gained a whole new family."

Under her guidance, his head shifted to where Sokka and Katara were arguing over something, with Aang trying to placate the two siblings, and Suki watching as Toph finally decided to grace them all with their presence. "Really? Is that what you call sand castles?' She scoffed.

An earthbending move later, one that had Sokka's entire structure crumbling, much to his dismay, Toph had created a perfect sand replica of the market place they had visited not even an hour ago. Complete with tiny human figures.

As everyone marveled at the creation, minus Sokka who sulked because his girlfriend was admiring someone else's sand creation, Zuko couldn't help the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"We both did." He said, turning back to look at Orora, reaching up to cover her hand with his own. Smiling the girl nodded.

"We both did." She agreed.

————————–

"Hey guys! Look what I found in all the stuff Toph got!" Aang called as he raced towards the group as they finished up their lunch. Sokka raised an eyebrow. "And a ball has you so excited because...." He trailed off, the exact opposite of Aang who looked like he would start vibrating with excitement.

"We can play a beachball game! I haven't played one in so long." He added to which Zuko gave Aang a look. "Probably because you were frozen for a hundred years." He pointed out, earning a few chuckles from everyone at the dryness of his tone. Aang gave him an annoyed look, before continuing. "Please!! I know we can scrounge up a net from that pile too." He aimed a finger towards the various items Toph had stolen, been gifted bought.

Sokka, wanting to recover from his failed attempt at impressing Suki with his sand castle skills stood up. "Come on you guys! It'll be fun!" Orora made a face even as Aang ran to try and find a net. "Do we have to?" She groaned out, having wanted to lie back and take a nap in the sun.

"Not stepping up to the challenge Orora? Are you scared I'll beat you?" Goading had always worked for Sokka when he wanted Katara to do something. And he knew it would work the same on Orora. The girl scowled, before scoffing. "If anyone will be tasting defeat Sokka it'll be you." She shot back, arms crossed over her chest.

The water tribe boy smirked, knowing he had her. "Then how about a game. Your team against mine. Winner gets bragging rights!" He held out a hand, which Orora shook with a firmness that actually had Zuko feeling concerned.

"I'm going to sit this one out and act as the referee." Katara stated, not wanting to get in the middle of her siblings little squabble. "And to make things fair, no bending." She added as she moved to help Aang set up the tent.

His smirk widening, Sokka reached out to grasp Suki's arm, before setting a hand on Toph's shoulder. "I call dibs on these two." He stated, to which Orora shrugged, a smile of utter confidence playing about her lips.

"You may have the greatest earthbender and the best Kiyoshi Warrior on your team Sokka." She responded, leaning against Zuko with a casualness as one would lean against a wall. "I have the Prince of the Fire Nation." It wasn't the title that had Zuko feeling proud, but rather the fact that she saw him as a strong player. "And the Avatar on my team."

Thinking that perhaps he had been a little too hasty with his pickings, Sokka glanced from his two teammates.

"You wanna trade?"

The question had him receiving a slap upside the head, courtesy of his disgruntled soulmate, and a punch to his arm, courtesy of an annoyed earthbender.

The game started out nice enough, with all of them following the rules, though the rules were bent a little to allow Toph to use her seismic sense to know where the next ball was coming from.

Surprisingly the three of them worked really well together as a team. Suki would call out or guide Toph from whatever direction the ball came from, while simultaneously defending the area in the back. Sokka with his highly trained senses as a warrior was able to predict moves before they even happened. The moment he would see the ball arching through the air, the boy would spring into action to deflect it.

On the other side of the net, the three benders seemed to be holding up rather well. Though it was a little difficult for them to not automatically rely on their bending, they made do through sheer skill alone. Orora, looking to practice her leg work, took to kicking the ball back every chance she got. It would've been considered foul if Suki hadn't been doing the same, so Katara let it slide.

At Toph's orders, Aang decided to plant his feet firmly on the ground and refrain from jumping too high. He was also afraid his instincts to use airbending would kick in if he were jump any higher then the net.

So he left the jumping to Zuko, who was surprisingly a good player. He'd actually been the first one to score a goal for their team, leaving everyone a little stunned because well, who knew Zuko of all people could play a good game. Since he was already tall, it made it easy for him to catch the more higher shots.

As for Katara?

She was enjoying the time by sitting there with Momo asleep in her lap while she petted his head. Every now and then she would call out words of encouragement as well as the score, though honestly, with how much each team was scoring, since they were all almost equally matched, she kept mixing up the scores.

It took about twenty minutes into the game before an accidental or rather instinctive use of bending on Toph's part brought the game to a temporary halt.

"Foul!" Orora and Aang called as Toph disintegrated the sand arch she had created to slide the ball back in their direction.

"Hey! She did what she had to do to defend her side." Sokka jumped to defend his teammate. "What, she couldn't defend her side without her bending?" Zuko responded, coming to stand beside his team. Suki frowned. "You're using your bending moves to defend your side." She argued back before all of them turned their attention to Katara who'd been braiding her own hair and had missed the bending usage. Seeing several annoyed faces aimed in her direction, the girl shrugged. "Why don't you go ahead and use your bending then? And Sokka and Suki can use weapons if they want." She suggested.

The six players paused, exchanging glances.

Simultaneously they grinned, similar expressions of determination on their faces as Sokka, who had been holding the ball threw it in the air.

"Game on!"

Once the bending began, their makeshift court became a little too contained. So the entirety of the beach became their court, and whichever team let the ball touch the sand, the opposing team would get the score.

There were several rocks jutting out from the sand. A physical aspect of the landscape Suki took advantage off as she launched herself from various heights to catch whatever shot Aang would hit in the air. Having been limited to only using Airbending, the Avatar was using the tricks he had learned long ago playing airball by giving every hit a little air boost, allowing it to fly across the beach.

Toph thwarted several of his would-be-scores. Wanting to practice her sandbending a little, the girl would block the path of the other team members. It was hilarious whenever either Aang, Orora or Zuko would meet one of her obstacles, either in the form of a sand wall, being locked in place by sand, or having a wave of sand throw them off balance.

Having brought his water tribe club to the beach, don't ask why, he had just grabbed it, Sokka was using the more heavier end of the weapon to his advantage by hitting the ball harder and hurling it back in the direction of the other team.

Every now and then the sun would glisten down on the slides and arches made of ice as Orora would either navigate the ball, herself and even her teammates by creating the constructions to help them score a goal. Since firebending wouldn't help him out in the game, Zuko was only using the physical motions of all that he had learnt. And they were coming in pretty handy since he was able to score quite a few times over the course of the game.

The game itself was chaotic, disorganized and fierce. Each bending move was ruthless, and each kick and hit had a strength behind it that would scare any seasoned warrior. If there was one thing scarier then an armada of soldiers, it was a bunch of teenagers determined to win the game. There was absolute pandemonium and barely any sense of organization with every single player giving it their all, barely stopping to celebrate a score. Which Katara had stopped keeping fifteen minutes ago in favor of creating ice crystals for Momo and watching him try to catch them.

That wasn't to say the game was without it's comedic moments.

Sokka was smacked in the face on several occasions. And sometimes by his own team. CoughTophCough.

Once they'd begun to use bending, Aang, in a fit of annoyance at having missed a shot had stamped his foot, triggering his earthbending by accident and making the ground shake just a little. Toph had been really proud of that.

After having scored a particularly ruthless goal against the other team, Sokka had all but swept Suki up in a passionate embrace, much to the embarrassment and grossness of everyone around. Aang had covered his eyes, red in the cheeks. Toph and Katara gagged. Orora and Zuko just felt plain awkward from where they stood next to each other, barely an inch away and yet unable to reciprocate how Sokka and Suki were doing so in that moment. Their gazes met for a brief second, before they looked away again.

The two Soulmates were rudely interrupted by Katara as she doused them with a wave of water.

Then there was the running into one another while trying to keep the ball from touching the ground. On several occasions the players would run smack into each other, often those who were on the same team. Minus Toph, who could quickly step out of the way whenever she sensed someone about to run into her.

One such moment had ended with Aang and Sokka knocking heads and falling back dazed as each of them saw stars in their vision. Katara was the only one who tended to them, the other four carrying on with their playing. Though she'd fussed over Aang more then Sokka, which had annoyed the older boy slightly. But then they were back in the game and it was forgotten.

Another moment had been Suki and Orora slamming into one another in the air. They'd both seen the ball as it hurtled towards the ground, and instinct had both girls jumping, with Suki managing to smack the ball away. However, neither girl was able to get pivot in the air, resulting in the both of them being knocked together and dropping to the ground. Luckily they had only been a few meters from the ground, so neither of them were injured.

Though it did have their respective soulmates rushing to their aid. Which would've been nice if the two girls hadn't been so preoccupied with winning the game for their team. They'd rushed off the moment they were up, leaving Zuko and Sokka to glance at each other, both equally stunned yet all the more infatuated with their Soulmates.

Orora seemed to have the worst luck when it came to running into people. She'd barely recovered after slamming into Suki when she went down a second time. Though this time, when she ran into Zuko, and the two of them fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, it wasn't so bad.

"Ow! My head!" Head pulsing from where she'd come in contact with a stray rock, Orora pulled herself away from where she had landed feeling her hands bury a little in the sand as she pushed up. Only for her body to freeze once she realized the position she was in. Zuko was no better as he stared up at the dangerously close face of his Soulmate.

Blue clashed against gold and time seemed to stand still.

Everything around them disappeared, their friends, the beach, the sounds of nature around them. All that existed in that moment was the two of them and how close they were.

They'd been close before, but never in an embrace as intimate as this one. One that had skin brushing against skin, chests heaving from the exertion of the game, warm breath running along the other's lips and cheeks flushed.

Her hands framed his face where they were half-buried in the sand. An instinctive rose within her, one that urged her to touch him, to feel him even more then she already was. Orora fisted her hands in the sand in an attempt to control her wayward thoughts.

One of Zuko's arms had instinctively wrapped around Orora's waist, and she could feel his fingers brush against the puckered skin at the side of abdomen. He allowed the tips of his fingers to run along the raised skin.

He felt, rather then saw her breath hitch, as her chest brushed against his, since their eyes were still locked. "Are you hurt?" He heard himself ask, unaware of the heated prickling sensation that seemed to be creeping up his body from where his legs were tangled with hers. A little preoccupied by the sudden warmth that sang through her body, Orora was only able to give him a slight shake of her head as her response.

They were both lost in one another, and yet somehow, neither of them had ever felt more seen. It was always that way, whenever they would lock eyes, but the sudden intimacy of that moment made them realize exactly what that feeling had been.

A feeling that simmered within their souls since the first time their eyes had met.

However, the moment was shattered by an angry voice. "IF YOU TWO ARE DONE MAKING EYES AT EACH OTHER???!!!! GET BACK IN THE GAME!" Aang all but roared from where he had been defending for their team all by himself.

That seemed to snap them out of the moment they were both trapped in. Scrambling to stand, the two teenagers raced over to where Aang was, red in the face, hearts beating fast and something akin to frustration and disappointment burning under their skin.

While Orora tried to push the feelings aside, so that she could analyze them later and discern them for what they were, Zuko's mind raced, reliving the moment over and over again.

He tried his best not to use his bending, but the excitement of the game as well as the unintentionally heated moment he had just shared with Orora caught up to him. Without thinking he threw out a punch that set the ball aflame as it flew through the air, sailing over Sokka, who ducked out of the way with a shriek.

They all watched as the ball finally came to a rest a good few yards away, black and smoking, before it disintegrated.

Every eye turned towards Zuko, who gave a sheepish smile and a nervous laugh. "Sorry."

Katara, who had taken a quick nap during the remaining game, declared the match over with no winner. Which earned her several shouts of disapproval. But one glare from the water tribe girl had the players scrambling as they parted in different directions under the guise of cooling off after the game.

With Orora and Zuko walking away in different direction, making it a point to not look at one another as they did.

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Sokka was the go-to meat guy. There was no doubt that out of all of them, he knew how to roast every kind of meat to perfection. Which was why he was stuck with cooking duty. And since he had no desire to suffer alone, he had dragged Zuko with him under the pretense that he needed someone to control the temperature of the fire.

As the only resident vegetarian, Aang had volunteered to prepare his own food, plus dessert.

For once, both Katara and Orora were happy to have someone else cook, leaving the two of them, along with Suki and Toph to lounge about under the canopy after the rather strenuous game.

"Haven't had that much fun playing a game in awhile." Toph claimed as she lay against the sand, arms crossed behind her head. Orora raised an eyebrow. "When exactly was the last time you played a game Toph?" She asked, to which the girl frowned in thought. "Does being in the Earth Rumble count?"

Katara was the one to respond. "No." She stated from where she lay atop a towel, her eyes closed. Suki, who had downed an entire waterskin spoke up. "I doubt any of us have had the chance to play a lot of games."

She certainly hadn't. Not when she was training as a Kiyoshi Warrior almost everyday since she'd been a little girl. Orora hummed in agreement, thinking back on all those days she had so sorely wanted to go outside and play in the snow, but had been told that it wasn't proper for a lady of her station. "The last time I played a game was....before my mother died." Katara admitted in a soft voice, prompting Orora to glance at her as she sat beside the younger girl. "But I did go penguin sledding with Aang, so I guess that counts." She added, the sadness in her eyes melting away to be replaced with a happy smile as she recalled how much fun that had been.

"Was that when you realized he was your Soulmate?" Suki asked, coming to sit down in front of Katara who sat up as well. Toph was still lying down but they all knew she was paying attention to the conversation. Katara pursed her lips, glancing down at her finger where only she could probably see the string.

Orora frowned. "You know I've always wandered, since Aang was buried in the ice so close to your home, did you ever felt your string tug? You must've passed his location many times no?" She asked, curious to know Katara's experience. The other girl hummed. "Now that you mention it." She muttered softly. "I did feel it tug once, a few years back when I was traveling through the area where we found Aang a few years later. But I was really young back then, so I had no idea what the tug was." She added with a shrug.

Tilting her head as she allowed her thoughts to voice, Suki added. "Do you think Aang finally emerged from the ice because his own string sensed you were close?"

They'd all heard how Katara had been a catalyst in Aang's emergence from the ice. Everyone had thought it had been fate.

But perhaps it had been more then that.

Her eyes widened as Katara shook her head. "No, it couldn't be that." She paused, not believing herself. "Could it?" She looked around at her friends.

Toph hummed in thought. "Suki's right. I mean, how many people passed by that area over the hundred years Aang was in the ice." She shrugged. "Not many since it was the South Pole, but still there were people. Aang could've emerged at any time, but he chose to break through the ice when you were nearest to him."

Orora, who had been listening to the entire conversation in thoughtful contemplation, let out a small laugh. "What?" Suki asked, as the other two girls turned to look at the older girl.

"Nothing, its just strange how by being Aang's soulmate, Katara is single-handedly responsible for all of us being here together today. I mean," She continued, glancing at Suki. "If what happened never happened, Suki, you would never have met Sokka because he never would've left the South Pole." Turning towards Toph, she continued. "And Toph, you would've stayed with your parents, and continued to fight in the Earth Rumble, I suppose." The girl shrugged. "Eh, I doubt it. My parents would've caught me sooner or later."

Picking up from where Orora had left off, Suki added. "And you would've never met Zuko." The mere thought of such a notion had a chill running down Orora's spine. "I never would've met Zuko." She repeated softly with a nod, her eyes flitting towards her Soulmate.

As gaze remained fixed there for a few moments, allowing Toph to nudge Katara, and for Suki to exchange a look with the younger waterbender. "Speaking of Zuko, has he asked you out yet?" Katara asked, trying to appear nonchalant when really she was dying to know how her two friends fared.

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"No, Sokka. I haven't asked yet. There! Are you happy?"

For the past ten minutes Sokka had been rephrasing the question over and over. At first Zuko had told him to mind his own business, but finally he had snapped. Mostly because he wanted to shut the boy up, but also because he was frustrated with his inability to form words around Orora that would have him actually voicing the question.

"Really?" Aang looked up from where he had been peeling some fruits. "I thought you would've asked her by now, since we are in a safe place with no immediate threat looming over us." He waved his arms in the air to add emphasize to his words.

Zuko sighed as he lowered the intensity of the fire to prevent the meat from burning. "I just haven't had the chance to ask yet." He admitted with a shrug, looking just as dismal as he felt. "I'm just-

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-waiting for the right opportunity to ask me. I know it." Orora shrugged. "We just keep getting interrupted." She added her eyes towards the sand where her finger drew nonsensical patterns. "Well why does he have to ask you?" Toph asked. "I mean I asked The Duke and that worked out for me."

Suki was the one who responded in Orora's place. "She doesn't want to ask him because Zuko already promised he would." Katara blinked at the Kiyoshi Warrior, a little surprised she would know that. "And I don't want to steal the moment from him." Orora added.

Toph scoffed. "Well if that little moment you two had during the game wasn't the perfect chance-"

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"-then I don't know what is." Sokka stated, turning the meat over the spit, only to jump back as the flames were given a little extra boost, courtesy of an embarrassed firebender.

"Don't take it out on the food!" Sokka exclaimed, even as Zuko regained a control over his emotions. Glancing in the direction of the canopy, Zuko sighed. "Don't overthink it too much Zuko." Aang advised from where he was now plating the dessert he had been working on. "Just come out and ask. Its not like she's gonna reject you or anything."

Humming under his breath, the young Prince nodded. "Right." He muttered. "Just come out and say it."

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It was nearing dusk by the time they were finally called for dinner. The girls had made their way towards the fire when Sokka had waved them over, and were now starting to settle down.

Despite the strangely charged air that seemed to linger between her and Zuko, Orora didn't want to sit away from him. The Prince was a little surprised when she sat down next to him, but smiled at her nonetheless before reaching out to give her hand a gentle squeeze.

Both dinner and dessert were finished in record time since they had all been starving. And once they were full and sipping on some leftover watermelon juice, Aang proposed a little idea.

"Hey, why don't we all tell stories?" He said, looking around with a smile. Katara smiled in response. "What kind of stories should we tell?" She asked, to which the boy shrugged. "Any story. From our Nation, or maybe one that we loved hearing when we were kids."

Zuko smiled. "Technically we still are kids." He stated in a dry tone, which had everyone around him chuckling. "How about you start Aang?" Suki suggested from where she was leaning against Sokka's shoulder with his arm wrapped around her.

The boy hummed under his breath, before nodding. "Alright! I've forgotten where I heard the story, but I'm gonna tell it anyway!"

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"Some people believe that long ago the spirits and humans lived together. And though it wasn't always harmonious, it was peaceful at times. But the humans began to fear the spirits more and more, and as the fear grew, so did their desperation to protect themselves."

"During that time there lived a young man who was seen as one of the braver ones since he did not fear the spirits. Or rather the spirits did not fear him. No one knew which it was."

"He was a firebender, and he would often leave his village to explore the nearby forest at night. With his fire to guide and protect him, he would chat with the spirits and enjoy the many parties they held."

"One day he came to know that some humans had destroyed a place that was sacred to certain spirits. The spirits were angry and wanted to take revenge, but he tried to prevent it."

"During his attempts, a spear flew through the air, killing one of the spirits. At such a brutal killing, and that too in front of them, the spirits were enraged, and their very physical forms began to manifest the negative emotions they were feeling."

"The firebender tried to find the being who had thrown the human spear, and was shocked to realized that it was a Dark Spirit. The Dark Spirit had tasted just a small amount of the darkness that thrived in the hearts of humans and spirits alike, and thirsted for more."

"It had been the one to throw the spear. The one who started the war between humans and spirits. He had also been the one to sow discord in the minds of the humans about the spirits."

"Desperate for the slaughter to end on both sides, the young man set out to find the opposite of the Dark Spirit, the Spirit of Light."

"It took him months, and along the way, he met several other people. An earthbender, an airbender and a waterbender. They became friends in their shared goal of stopping the war between spirits and humans."

"Finally, they found the Spirit of Light. They spoke to it of what the Dark Spirit had done, and it agreed to help. But at a price."

"The four friends would have to choose someone from them who would be the one to carry the Spirit of Light within. Not only that, but they would have to give up their gifts of bending to that person. For only when both humans and spirits would see the four elements united within a human body, accompanied by a spirit would the fighting end."

"It was a hard decision, but in the end it was decided that the Firebender would be the one to carry all the gifts."

"Honored to have been chosen, the man promised his friends that he would end the war and so stepped up to claim his rightful place as the first Avatar."

"Not long afterwards the Avatar and the Dark Spirit met in battle, with the Spirit being imprisoned forever. And though he had wanted to see humans and Spirits live together in harmony, the young man knew it was never to be."

"So the Spirit World and the Human World were created as mirrors of one another, where each would reside in peace, with the Avatar acting as the bridge between them since he or she carried the Spirit of Light within, as well as the four elements."

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Silence followed Aang's story.

"Was that...........was that a true story?" Sokka finally asked, to which Aang shrugged. "I'm not sure. It might be? Like I said, I don't know where I heard it before, and I'm probably mixing up some stuff." He added.

"Well whether that story was true or not, I thought it was great." Orora said, smiling at the younger boy, who grinned back. "Who's next?"

"You know Toph, I've always wandered how you became the Blind Bandit." Sokka spoke up from where he was sitting Suki. "How about I go next then?" Toph said, sitting up from where she'd been leaning back against one of the rocks that decorated the beach. "That can be my story."

Sensing the nods of affirmation from her friends, the girl began.

"I was about ten years old, learning everything I could from the badgermoles every chance I could get. It was there that I met an earthbender. From what he told me, he was a soldier passing through, and had seen me sneak away to the tunnels often." She held up a finger in Sokka's direction who had just opened his mouth to ask his question. "And before you say anything Sokka, my seismic sense wasn't that great back then, so I didn't sense him before." The boy looked a little shocked at having been so predictable with his question but stayed silent.

"Anyway! He came up to me and told me he knew what I had been doing." The girl smiled softly, the firelight flickering in her unseeing eyes as she continued. "And rather then ratting me out to my parents, he decided to help me train himself. I asked him why he would want to teach me, a girl who was blind. And he said that I reminded him of his son who he had to leave behind to go fight in the war." Toph shrugged. "He probably made up that part of the story cuz his heart did pick up when he said that, so I just thought he was hiding something else, but I didn't ask about it."

"We began to train, and honestly he taught me everything I know about earthbending that the badgermoles hadn't taught me. And finally, when he thought I was ready, he decided to take me to the Earth Rumble." A glimmer of excitement seemed to exude from her as she continued, smiling as the memories passed through her mind.

"It was a little tricky to sneak out, but we managed and the nights we would sneak away became the highlight of my week. It was so much fun sitting there and sensing all the earthbenders as they battled it out. Going there only had me practicing my seismic sense, and I could predict a person's move before they even made it. It only made me anxious to get out there and show them what I was capable of."

She shrugged. "The old soldier was hesitant, but he could see I wasn't about to back off. And before any of you ask." She held up a hand. "He never told me his name. I called him Old Man because that's what I had sensed him as when I met him."

"I entered my first competition just a few months before you guys came looking for me. I won the title the first time through," She revealed, before the excitement and joy all but disappeared from her tone and she frowned, looking a little sad. "But for some reason I never saw my friend again." She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling her legs close to her chest. "I had sensed him in the audience during the battles, but later I couldn't sense him at all."

A brief moment of silence followed Toph's reveal, with Orora, who was sitting on Toph's one side reached out to gently place a hand on the girl's forearm.

"It was so strange." She whispered, looking every bit the thirteen year old she was. "And I can't still make sense of it."

Shrugging away the hurt she still felt over her friend leaving, Toph concluded her story. "After that I defended my title for a good few months until these three showed up." She gestured towards Sokka, Aang and Katara. "And the rest is history."

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Katara tells the story of her Gran-Gran and how she left the North Pole in search of her soulmate rather then marry Pakku.

"Speaking of people who found each other." Suki said, hoping to help lift the dark cloud that now seemed to loom over Toph. "You guys told us how your grandmother was from the Northern Water Tribe. How did she get to the Southern Water Tribe? Cuz from what Orora has told me, her tribe is really stingy when it comes to their females."

Grinning and eager to share the story, Katara sat up straight. "Well, Gran-Gran, much like Orora, had lived her whole life by the rules and traditions of the Northern Water Tribe. But she told me how she'd always held on to the hope that she would meet her soulmate."

Katara frowned slightly, looking away. "But that changed when her father announced her engagement to a man named Pakku." Sokka grinned. "Though that all came full circle since he taught you waterbending." He chuckled, at which Suki, Toph and Zuko looked more then a little intrigued.

"What?"

Nodding with a small smile, Katara continued. "That part comes later. What happened then was the betrothal necklace was sent." Her hand went to the one around her neck, the very one her mother had owned and that Pakku had made for her grandmother. "But my Gran-Gran had already made the decision of running away."

"Kind of like you." Zuko whispered to Orora, who smiled before coming to settle against him, her head resting on his shoulder with his arm around her waist.

"Packing what she needed, Gran Gran left a few days before her wedding and escaped the fate that was decided for her."

"That took guts." Aang stated in an admiring tone, earning a smile from his soulmate. "It did. All she had was her few possessions and her string to guide her. Her soulmate could've been anywhere in the world, but she decided to travel to her sister tribe. And, well, to end on a happy note, she found our Grandfather, married him and even though he died years ago, she is living a happy and contented life."

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"On the subject of love stories." Orora said with a playful smirk on her lips as she turned to her boyfriend. "Your Uncle once happened to mention your obsession with a certain one that involved a Dragon Emperor and how he fell in love with a mortal woman."

Zuko pursed his lips, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he looked around at his obviously shocked friends. "Zuko reads love stories!?" Toph cackled, earning a glare from the Prince. "Its not a story. Its a classic play." He reiterated, though that didn't work in his favor.

"Oh we're sorry Zuko." Suki said, holding up her hands in a placating manner. "We didn't mean to offend you by mistaking your favorite love play for a love story."

Shooting a look of annoyance at Orora, who was grinning up at him, Zuko rolled his eyes. "What do you guys want to know?" He spoke in a grouchy tone. Aang grinned. "The whole story. And don't leave out any details." He added.

Sighing Zuko shrugged. "It was just a play my mom would read to me when I was a kid. Though the fighting was what interested me the most."

"Sure." Both Katara and Sokka echoed at the same time, earning laughs from the listeners, minus Zuko.

Clearing his throat the boy began. "Its called Love Amongst the Dragons, and it starts with the Dragon Emperor. He was as powerful as an Emperor could be. But he was also full of pride and boasted of his strength to all those around him."

Despite the teasing, everyone was listening to the story with their full attention. "He liked to go around challenging anyone who was stronger then him, and for a time he won every single one of them. Until one day, when he faced the Dark Water Spirit."

The fire flickered, casting shadows all around. The sun had set a good while ago, but no one seemed to notice as they continued to listen. "The Emperor was, of course, defeated in his arrogance and pride. As punishment, the Spirit bound him to a mortal form and sent him to live in the human world. Only when he would learn of humility and let go of his shame would he regain his true form and be able to defeat the Dark Water Spirit."

Orora couldn't help but draw similarities between what the Dragon Emperor had been through, and what Zuko had been subjected to since he had been a young boy.

"The Dragon Emperor decided to take up the name Noren and began to roam the land, the shame of his defeat hanging over him." Zuko's voice lowered slightly, and he couldn't help but seek out Orora's hand, which readily wrapped around his own. A squeeze of encouragement was all he needed as he continued.

"Despite all that he felt, Noren did begin to appreciate the humbleness of the life of a mere mortal. And all that he experienced slowly culminated in him falling in love with a mortal woman."

Despite his best efforts not to, Zuko couldn't help but glance at Orora as she nestled beside him. She had turned her face up towards him while he told the story, and gave him a smile when they gazes met briefly.

Turning his attention back to the rest of the audience, Zuko went on. "The love he felt for the mortal woman, was strong enough to help him overcome the shame of his defeat, and all his past actions. He earned his true form and was able to defeat the Dark Water Spirit."

He ended with a shrug. "The play ends with the Dragon Emperor embracing his mortal lover, who turned into the Dragon Empress so that the two could be together forever."

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"Since Zuko told his favorite love story." She didn't even flinch when Zuko glared at her and whispered angrily. "It was a play."

"I'm gonna tell you guys one of my favorite stories." She stated, sitting up straight despite the sleepiness that was beginning to creep up on her. "Its the story of how the Sun loved the Moon so much, he died every night to let her breathe."

The very words had her audience sitting up, already captivated by what was to come.

"There was a time when the Sun was a god of sorts. His light was so powerful it brought herbs to life and grew food from the ground. The light from the Sun chased away the monsters that lurked in the night. And everyday, everyone, came out to worship him. They sensed the warmth of his glow. They felt alive in his daylight." A sad lilt overcame her voice as she continued. "The Moon, however, was seen as something bad. A darkness. One that brought a cold presence to the world each night. Everyone would hide in their homes when she rose, afraid of the darkness she brought with her."

"Did the Moon have her own light?" Aang asked, looking every bit as the boy he was as he asked the question. The older girl shook her head. "No, she didn't have her own light for she was born without it, unlike the Sun."

"The Moon craved to be seen." Orora found her own gaze flitting towards the sky where the moon was already shining her ethereal glow. "She wanted to be loved, just as everyone admired the Sun."

"What no one knew, was that the Sun had a secret." Orora revealed, returning her gaze to her captivated audience. "He fell in love with the Moon for the good she brought to the world despite all the hatred she received. He admired her for it. She hid parts of herself from the world that he knew the world would embrace."

"The Moon too, had fallen in love with the Sun long ago. For all the worship he received, and the admiration humans sang off, he never once grew arrogant, and only looked to make the human's life better."

Orora sighed. "But they were opposite souls, the Sun and Moon. They were lovers who rarely met and always missed one another." She smiled softly, her fingers tracing two circles in the sand to represent the Sun and the Moon. "Yet they both waited patiently for the rare days when they might coexist peacefully."

"The Sun wanted to make his true love happy. He wanted to show the world what she had to offer. The kindness and love she could not share. He thought for weeks about how to give her the breath of air she wanted, leaving the world in a cloudy haze."

"But then, at last, he knew what he had to be done."

"What did he do?" Toph asked, eager to know what the Sun came up with.

Orora smiled. "From that moment on, every night, he sacrificed his light so that it would instead shine on the Moon so the humans could see her in all her beauty. He gave up something he was admired for every night, so that she would have her moment to shine."

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Suki was up next after Orora's story.

And though the girl tried her best to remain awake, she only caught snatches of the tragic love that was shared by Oma and Shu during a time of war.

Sokka, Aang and Katara had heard the story before, but since Toph and Zuko hadn't, it was an interesting new tale for them. However, halfway through, Zuko felt Orora slump against him completely. He glanced down at her to see she had fallen asleep with her head resting against his shoulder.

The boy smiled, tilting his head so that it rested atop hers in a tender embrace.

He began to doze off as well, and was only gently shaken awake by Katara who stood over him with a smile. "Sokka and Suki went for a walk." She spoke softly so as to not wake Orora. "The rest of us are heading back to the house to sleep." Zuko responded with a nod as he leaned back against a.......rock?

There hadn't been one behind him before.

Catching sight of Toph, the girl gave him a grin and a thumbs up. He said his thanks, knowing she would hear him.

The night was beginning to get cold, but with the fire in front of him, and the fact that he could regulate his own body temperature, meant that he wasn't cold, and he could make sure Orora wasn't either.

It was funny how just a few months ago, he'd been here in front of another fire with different people, raging about how angry he was at himself. Not to mention the Orora with him back then had been a projection of his mind. One he could not touch or feel, but could only hear and see.

And now, here he was. More at peace then ever before, with an arm wrapped around his girlfriend as she slept, a look of utter peace and tranquility on her gentle features. Turning his head, he dropped a soft kiss to her hair, opting to wait for her to wake up so they could return to the house.

Though the kiss seemed to have done the trick. Groaning softly as her eyes blinked open, Orora gazed around blearily, trying her best to clear the fog that had settled in her brain while she slept. "Where's everyone?" She said softly, reaching up to rub the heal of her palm against her eye. "Back to the house." Zuko revealed, reaching out with the shirt he had discarded that morning and wrapping it around her shoulders as she pulled away from him. "We should head back too, so that you can get to sleep."

The fire was put out with a brief wave of his hand, before he turned his attention to Orora and helped her up. She was still tired, but was more awake then she had been before. "Come on." She whispered, reaching for his hand and intertwining their fingers. Smiling Zuko began to lead the way back up towards the Summer House.

"Today was fun." Orora commented, smiling to herself. "I can't remember the last time any of us had fun." She mused to herself. Zuko shrugged. "Well when we win this war, hopefully we'll have more days like today."

Catching on to what he had said, Orora turned her head to look at him. "When, not If?" She asked, referring to the statement he had just made. "Of course it's when." He responded with a conviction that surprised her. "We're a strong team, and all of us have something to fight for." He fixed her with a determined look before adding. "So yeah, I know we won't loose."

They'd reached the stairs of the Summer House by now. Pulling slightly at Zuko's hand, Orora brought him to a halt before she pushed herself up to catch his cheek in a loving, lingering kiss.

With her hand cradling his other cheek, Orora smiled at the sight of him staring at her, his eyes wide and wanting.

The last bit of realization had her blushing as she slowly pulled away.

"I'm glad you found your reason Zuko." She whispered softly, referring to the conversation they had had so long ago by the lake they had first battled in. A time when both of them had been practically strangers and yet the connection they had was so profound that neither had realized just how much it would come to mean to them as time went on.

She began to walk up the stairs, leaving Zuko to stare after her.

And the moment she turned back to look at him, the wind catching her hair, his shirt around her shoulders, and the familiar, yet forever breathtaking, smile on her lips, an image surfaced in his mind.

A image of her standing just where she was, with that very same smile.

In his dream.

When he had been sick.

In Ba Sing Se.

Even then his heart and soul had known what had taken his head so long to catch up on.

She was the balm he had always needed, would always need.

And now that he had her, he never wanted to let her go.

"Will you go on a date with me?"

The words rushed out of his mouth before he even realized his tongue was forming them.

The girl blinked, startled. "What?"

Clearing his throat, Zuko steeled himself before repeating what he had said. "I was wandering Orora," As he spoke he began to ascend the stairs, drawing closer to her with every step. "If you would do me the honor of going on a date with me?"

He was standing in front of her now, though still a step down. Not that it made any difference, since the position only allowed them to be face to face, rather then her tilting her head to look up at him.

She still hadn't responded, her hands clasping the front of his shirt tightly in front of her.

Remembering what he had slipped in the pocket that morning, he reached out to pull out the moon peach he had bought for her.

He held it up between them, watching as her eyes widened in surprise. "Please?"

Her hand lifted to take the piece of fruit from between his fingers. "I would love to." She finally replied. Leaning forward she sealed the deal with yet another kiss to his cheek. Though this one was pressed against his scar.

"Tomorrow at six in the evening?" She suggested, to which he simply nodded, his smile just as tender as his gaze. The wind was soft as it played with their hair, bringing with it the sound of the waves still crashing on the beach below.

Orora began to walk backwards, never once breaking the eye contact the two of them shared.

"I'll be waiting."

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