#or really do gold/metallic shading

[sierrale8ne]

summary paige bueckers just won a national championship and was drafted number one, there’s absolutely nothing that could kill her high right now. so the only way to celebrate is to get drunk and nasty with her girl— because what else would one do? warnings pls actually read these, hella sex talk, oral, use of restraints, teasing, anal/ass play, fingering, scissoring, multiple orgasms, sex tape bc they freaky.

from lena i’m writing this is a mix of third and first person bc writing is actually kicking my ass! anyway, this is for the anon who asked ab writing anal like months ago, so pls if you don’t like it don’t fucking read it (or skip that part with the butt stuff… i’m not responsible for ur media consumption) 😭 congratulations to my wife on getting drafted, though there was never any doubt DALLAS P HERE WE COMEEEE.

I think my jaw actually falters when I sees her. Her hair even blonder than days prior, her eyes a shade of blue that makes me want to jump into her arms and attack her in kisses. Keep her here, in this hotel, all night. She looks beautiful.

Paige and Brittany had outdone themselves with Paige’s draft outfit. The black suit is bedazzled in stones. Long slacks that lead down to her boots and a jacket that flows with every movement she takes. The vest underneath has a deep V line, giving a nice look at her chest and necklace that draped down the center.

Then the thing I had my eyes set on the most; that fucking tie. (for the sake of plot just #pretend) It falls down the center of her body, stopping low near her navel. A dark dark black that makes the skin of her hands pop when she touches the fabric.

“I can’t tell if she likes it or not.” I can hear Brittany murmur to my girlfriend through my obvious haze. An answer builds on my tongue, but honestly, with the way she looks I forget about responding.

The blonde runs her hands through her hair, down and in waves as per my request. Then her hands run down her torso, playing with the sides of the suit jacket. I swear I feel my knees buckle and go weak.

“Venus?”

Paige has been riding a high all week, and though she really always has (it’s what attracted me to her at first meeting), this week has really done it.

When I landed in Tampa for the final four, she was all confidence and anticipation. Then, after the South Carolina beat down, followed by talk shows and fleeting drunk moments— it’s like that high has never faded.

Which brings us to know. My girlfriend, in a damn good suit, hours away from hearing her name called at the WNBA Draft in New York.

“Hmm?” I finally snap out of it, realizing that i was gushing over her in a room full of makeup artists, hairstylists, photographers, and of course KK Arnold and Azzi Fudd. “You said something?”

“I think that answers your question, B.” She laughs to herself, and I notice the way her own eyes rake over me.

My dress is a shiny, opulent silver. Floor length, with a slit that goes up to mid thigh. It’s backless, with straps that could probably break at a single touch. For my first real event alongside the blonde, I told Paige I should keep my outfit lowkey.

That didn’t sit well with her nor her stylist.

Brittany insisted and putting me in something memorable, something that people would talk about all week: The stunning Paige Bueckers and her gorgeous girlfriend. And honestly, the more they convinced me, the more I liked the sound of it.

“You look amazing, P. I like this color on you.” I murmur, eyes trailing up and down from her gold chain to the mixed metals on her fingers.

“Nah, I like this on you.” Paige whistles low, dragging her feet over to me and gently holding my waist. Even in my heels, her shoes give her some height that makes her tower over me, running her eyes up and down my body like we were the only ones in the room. “This too.” She comments.

Her fingers glide over the skin of my collarbone, over the fresh tattoo and the glow of my body butter, until it reaches my chain. The thin linked silver chain has a pendant hanging off the center.

5.

Paige’s number 5.

It sits nicely in the hollow of my collarbone, and obviously the blonde likes it because her fingertips keep finding their way to it.

“Watch those hands blondie, we outta here in five minutes.” Brittany mutters, dragging Azzi and KK out of the room behind her. The former teammates don’t hesitate to shoot us a look and KK makes sure to fake gag on her way out.

“And we’ll be there, don’t worry ‘bout me.” Paige shoos them off, and I’m glad because it gives me just enough time to gawk at how she looks.

“Paige.”

“Hmm?”

“This is only for the carpet right?” I questioned. My hands dart to the hem of her pants, pondering weather or not I pop the button and sink to my knees right here, or wait until later.

Paige’s head darts down, looking at my nails and how the fight to scratch at her abdomen. “Yes, baby.”

“Good.” I hum, taking yet another step into her space. “I don’t think I’d be able to control myself if you wore this all night.” My voice lowers, almost running dry from arousal.

But I couldn’t not notice the way she smirked, face flushing in either admiration or embarrassment, but knowing Paige it was probably both. “That means B did her job, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” I nod, letting her hand move up to cup my chin.

The blonde’s scent travels down to my nose, a masculine scent that I don’t think she’s worn before but now I wish she did because, fuck does it smell good. Her thumb drags down the center of my bottom lip and I jerk my head back.

“Paige! You’re gonna fuck up my lip liner.”

She smiles before leaning into me, pushing her lips to mine slowly. It’s nothing more than a peck, lasts no longer than two seconds but I swear it makes stomach flip and my legs buckle. Though, it seems like Paige could do nothing and I’d still react like that.

“Y’know,” she starts, “Imma fuck it up more when I kiss you in front of all those people after they call my name. Gotta show the world my girl.”

I smile, my nose brushing against her own. “Is that right?” Her hands travel down my body, gripping at my hip with one hand and running over my ass like a second nature with the other. “You’re gonna kiss me? Really?”

“Hell yeah. You think I wanted you here not to show you off?” Paige brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “Gonna kiss you crazy, V.”

My heart speeds up in my chest, and I just know there’s a blush on my cheeks and down my neck. I pat her chest, craning up to kiss her again when the knock on the door cuts me short.

“Get out! C’mon!”

“KK.” We groan at the same time.

Paige takes one last look over herself in the side mirror. She’s extra confident in this suit, and the way her jewelry hangs off of her body lets me know she’s really into this. It’s hot, almost too hot for me to think about anything other than taking all those clothes off.

I take her hand when we finally head for the door, interlacing my fingers with her own.

Until she gets closer, breath fanning my ear as she says, “y’think I can take you in front of that mirror later?”

My breath hitches, and all I can do is smile.

The draft goes as expected: orange carpet pictures and media moments that are either perfect for the internet or too out of pocket for the public eye. Paige is pulled off for countless interviews, leaving Venus alone to socialize.

She ran into Dijonai Carrington. Or more like Dijonai sought her out in a crowd full of people, anything to make Venus more comfortable— and it worked. They nearly got so swept up in conversation that Paige was seconds away from walking off and leaving the tattooed girl behind.

Paige changed into a different outfit, just as Paige-esque and maybe even more attractive. The Louis Vuitton suit is all black, glitter decals falling down the sides of her pants and decorating the lapels of her suit. She looks good, painted nails and silver rings adorning her fingers. The suit also meets in a deep V, except this time she wears nothing under it. It leaves too much to the mind, too much of what you want to do to her at the hotel. Even in her future apartment.

The blonde kept her word. As soon as the words left Cathy’s mouth— with the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Dallas Wings select, Paige Bueckers. University of Connecticut— Paige was standing up and trotting over to everyone at her table.

She hugged her parents, who rubbed her firm on the back in an attempt to hide the tears that were due. Geno, making sure to reiterate just how much she hated him. Azzi, much to the delight of the audience— before she found her.

She kept her cool, slyly finding her way to Venus’s hips before connecting their lips. She keeps it as PG as she can, nails dragging over the expanse of her tattooed back before pulling her into a hug. Warm and secure, like she was thanking Venus for everything she’s been there for. The moments after injury, the late night car rides, the transition into a real relationship, and now— holding her down even while being some states away.

Venus watched her clutch the jersey in hand, a moment she swore Paige had been talking her ear off about since the season started.

Then it was off to the hotel. Again. Paige had changed into yet a third outfit, more casual than the first two, but still just as jaw dropping and leg weakening.

But Venus, oh Venus.

Her dress was a deep forrest green, accentuating and hugging every possible curve of her body. Her natural hair is styled in crimps, flipped over to the side, giving a soft look at the tattoos down her neck. A gold ‘P’ necklace sits between her collarbones and a gold arm cuff sits on the center of her sleeve. It was enough for Paige to nearly forget her last name.

Which brings them to now, some after party in the middle of the city. Paige is gone out of her mind. As soon as the first phone call with Curt and Chris ended, she was reaching for a glass of champagne and sipping it diligently. She didn’t even like champagne, but the draft and the championship had seemingly put her in a celebratory mood.

After some mingling and more drinking she sits beside Venus on a couch, dark lighting keeping both of their growing headaches to a minimum. The alcohol was flowing, and with that Paige was getting bolder and bolder. The kiss already solidified everything, people have been asking about her and Venus since she got off stage. But now? She wanted nothing more to continue showing the world her girl, and that started by getting her alone.

“V, we moving in together in Dallas, yeah?” Paige babbles, resting her head on the back of the couch and looking up at the ceiling.

Venus chuckles. The conversation has been had multiple times, even before Dallas was an option. “Hell no.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause I might kill you if I have to live with you.” The woman explains, dragging her martini glass to her lips again. “And the Cowboys haven’t even called me back yet, P. I might stay in with New England.”

Paige’s body adjusts. She sits up, manspreading so much that her thigh presses against her girlfriend’s. Venus’s body nearly jolts on contact, but she hides it, instead looking up at the girl with soft eyes. Paige’s hand trails to her lower back, slightly pinching the skin through her dress.

“You’re so negative. They gon’ call you back, mama.” Paige drags, licking her lips that have gone dry from all her drunk babbling. “We’d be great roommates.”

“What are the perks? I need some insensitive, baby.” The woman responds.

Paige decides that even like this, they’re too far apart. So she adjusts again, pulling Venus’s right leg over her lap. Venus jumps to drop a hand between her legs, stopping her panties— damp and probably a bit too thin— from being put on display.

The blonde’s lips hover near her ear, warm and breathily she says, “the perk is getting fucked whenever you damn please.” Paige grumbles and when she licks her lips again, Venus can feel the wetness of her tongue just slightly run over the shell of her ear.

“Hmm.”

“Yeah… whenever you want. Wherever you want.” Paige replaces Venus’s hand with her own, not being afraid to slip a finger under her dress.

Venus assumed that she’d be a little cordial. She had joked that this was Paige’s first event at her big-girl job and that she needed to impress. She obviously assumed wrong, because first and foremost, Paige was a slut. She had to get what she wanted when she did, and Venus being Venus could only hold out for so long before she was dragging her out the venue by the buckle of her belt.

“I could come back from practice and we have sex in our shower. Our kitchen in the mornings, our living room when you get too lazy to drag me to bed.” Paige rambles, eyes closed like she can picture it all. Her hand moves deeper under her dress and thank God for dark lighting and the drunk haze everyone else also seems to be in.

Venus’s head wavers side to side, either in intoxication or arousal, but honestly they feel like one and the same. “That’s it?”

“Fuck you mean ‘that’s it’?”

“What am I gonna do when you’re on the road. You move me to Dallas and I sit all lonely at home without you?” She crosses her legs, effectively trapping Paige’s hand right where it lays.

In Venus’s mind, there’re having a real conversation. But to Paige she’s teasing like crazy, looking for that one gap to make her girl writhe on this couch and agree to go back to the hotel. She’s been wanting that since this morning when Venus had been tangled in their sheets with her.

Paige’s finger moves in a swiping motion, and finally her finger brushes Venus’s center. Her panties are more than damp, honesty they might be soaked completely through. The contact warms Paige’s finger instantly, causing a smirk to spread across her face. “Nah baby, I think you like that. That’s more than enough for you, huh?”

“You’re chatting shit.” She stutters. For the first time in a while, she makes eye contact with Paige, noticing her blown out pupils and how the whites of her eyes gleam a certain red. Her lashes are dark and long, brushing her cheeks with every languid blink she takes.

Paige shakes her head. “Whatever I’m doin’ is workin’. Got you so wet right now.”

“No, you don’t.” Venus lies in her drunk muddle.

“Why you lyin’ like I can’t feel it?” Paige pressed harder, further, and for a second Venus swore they were gonna get caught.

She gasps, digging her nails into Paige’s wrist. “It was that tie. N—need you to wear one everyday, shit.” Venus explained, a stutter here and there that makes Paige fill with more pride than going number one in the draft did.

“Y’know I was thinkin’ about tying you up with it.”

Frozen. Venus is absolutely frozen. Because while the thought did linger in her brain for a few seconds in the car a few hours back, she was shocked that Paige would dare to say it here.

With her hand centimeters away from pulling her panties to the side.

“Hands behind your back, just diggin’ you out. V, I’d do you so good, baby. Could spread you out onna balcony too—”

Venus uncrosses her legs, taking a deep breath before rising to her feet. She’s slightly wobbling, but it’s purely from arousal this time, Paige’s actions have almost certainly sobered her up.

“Let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“Paige, I got something real nice for you under this dress. Get the fuck up.”

My mouth is tangled with hers as I shove Venus down against the hotel bed. The room is littered with black, suit bags and cardboard boxes which we trip over on the way in, but I don’t care. It’s the first time all night that I get to touch her how I want, kiss her how I want, and I’m not letting it go to waste.

She tastes like lemons and a bit of sugar, sweet enough to make me want more than she can give. Her snake bites feel cool against my tongue, swirling in my mouth as if she was trying to eat me whole.

I grip her hips in an attempt to keep her grounded until i remember what she said to me. What she’s hiding from me under that dress.

“Take this off, V.” I murmur, pulling back just enough to rid my crop top off of my body. “Lemme see that li’l surprise.” I say wholeheartedly. My hands ruck up the ends of her dress, trying to get more of her undone for me.

She instead turns over, hands and knees pushed flush to the bed, her body in a natural arch that makes my breath hitch. “You do it.” She orders, and oddly enough I listen immediately.

I slide the zipper down her back, pealing the dress off until the fabric joins the rest of the mess on the floor. The set she wears is a similar green to the one of her dress, floral lace trim that accentuates the black lines of her tattoos.

I hum, backing away from her briefly. “I gotta do something first, stay jus’ like this for me.” I tell her, navigating the room for the damn tie I threw off hours ago. “Gimmie your hands.” I slur, still slightly dazed from alcohol. Venus does, reaching her arms back and lying flush against our sheets. I wrap the fabric around both her wrists, stifling a smirk at how she lays. Almost helpless.

When I’m done, my fingers dig into the band of her panties slowly dragging them down her ass and thighs before I freeze. A rush of arousal soaks my boxers, and I might even let out a hushed moan.

“V.”

“You surprised?”

Beyond surprised, I’m actually rendered speechless at the clear jewel plug that greets me. Every time I think Venus can’t get freakier, she does something like this that makes me want to have her for hours on end. I trail my eyes further down her backside, at the way her cunt clenches and unclenches around nothing.

She drips through her folds, down onto the sheets. Her scent filling up my nose. “I’m gonna fuck you up, ma. Goddamn.”

Her giggle is muffled into the sheets. I send a slap to her ass, her moan also just as muffled. “Please? Y’wanna fuck me so bad, baby. C’mon.” She teases. I watch her fumble with her hands around her tie. “Please.”

I run my fingers through her slick, deciding on leaving the plug alone until she close. I can’t even believe it, struggling to wrap my head around how my girlfriend looks right now.

“Ion think you’ve ever been this wet before. Shit’s unreal.” I groan, pushing my fingers inside slowly.

Venus, ironically, takes it like a champ, letting me enter her and find my way deep inside her cunt. Arousal sticks to my boxers as I move. Drawing my fingers in and out and in and out like I’d die if I stopped.”

“It’s you— fuckk— get me so wet, P.” She moans. I watch her tumble with her fingers around the tie, tugging the fabric almost for some relief. “Feels so good.” Venus pushes back against my wrist, and I keep dragging my fingers against her walls until my painted nails are painted with her.

“Gotta taste it, ma.” I groan, sinking below the bed and onto my knees.

The plug is the first this that greets me, and I swear I grow wetter at the sight of her hole puckering around it. This might just be the best day of my life for reasons other than getting drafted.

I slide my fingers out, letting out a low whistle at how much of her come covers them before diving in. Venus squirmed as she felt my breath on her clit, her hips bucked and her legs twitched but I only use that as motivation to push my tongue deeper.

“You like my tongue in you, baby?” I tease, sending yet another slap to her ass. I continue eating, hearing her moans of “yes” over and over like a mantra. My spit falls from my mouth, wetting Venus’s pussy even more.

She drips down my chin, into the sheets, even onto her thigh; moaning out my name as I moan at the taste of her.

Any other time she fist the sheets or my hair or even her own nipples, but that tie stops it all from happening. And I swear that alone makes me come in my pants. “P! My— mmph shit— my…”

“Your what, V?” I tease. I may be a bit drunk but I know exactly what she needs, there’s just something about her saying it that makes me feel on top of the world, like I got all this power over her. “Need me to fill you, huh?”

Her toes curl, nestling sending her off balance. “My ass, anything, P. I wanna cum, please make me cum.” Venus hiccups. It’s desperate almost like a cry. Id be a monster to not fulfill her needs.

I pull the plug out slowly, listening to her soft whines and planting even softer kisses to her thigh. “I gotchu. Always, V. Gonna make it feel good for you, baby. I promise.” I slur. I throw it haphazardly on the bed before replacing my tongue with my fingers again, splitting her open with three instead of two.

“Oh fuckkk! Paige, it’s so—so deep. Fuck, fuck!” I curl my fingers fast, tearing her apart from the inside out. And then my tongue meets her backside, running over the rimmed surface with nothing but eager.

I work my tongue faster all over Venus’s ass while thumbing her sensitive clit, fingers curling deeper. It’s a mix of actions that make my brain spin and her own turn to mush. Venus’s arms convulse against her back, moans and groans turning into something like screams, hips rolling against my face.

“Oh god, oh fuck” sobbed Venus as her hand tightened painfully around my black tie. “Yes, baby, yes”. She was already so close, all the indicators of a release put on display just for me, just bit more would throw her over the edge already.

“That’s my pretty slut, yeah? All needy for me to make you feel good.” I coo. “Cum for me real fast, make it messy, Venus.” I mumble, mouth still busy on working her to a pulp. My girlfriend���s body freezes and within a matter of seconds I can feel her coating my fingers, dripping out of her and onto the sheets again.

“Oh my God!” She drags out in a cry, legs trembling until they give out under her and she falls flat. I can’t help but grin, pulling back and hovering over her back before my hands fall down to her cunt again. “P, hold—shit, hold on.” She gasps but I cut her off with my fingers again.

“Shhh shhh, just take it ight? I got drafted tonight, lemme do what I want.” I plead, moving my fingers nice and slow inside of her already pulsing cunt. Venus doesn’t fight it, more like she can’t without her hands, but with the way she moans out for me I know she doesn’t want to. “Just listen, so fucking wet.”

“Baby.”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.” She gasps, eyes rolling while tears simultaneously slip from her eyes. She rocks against my hand with all the strength she has left, chasing what’s left of her high just for me.

I wrap an arm around her neck and shoulders as best as I can, leaning into the crook of her neck that’s completely covered in sweat.

“‘M so—proud of you.” Venus praises between moans. “And you loo—mmphhh fuck! So, so good in that suit.” She babbles, drunk off of the pleasure I give her and I’m so turned on.

“I looked good?” I egg her on.

Venus nods, squeezing her eyes shut. “Go shirtless in a suit again, I need that.” She breathes out. I’m seconds away from responding, telling her how sexy that silver dress she had in most of the night looked on her body. How every time she wears something that reveals the tattoo on her collarbone of my name, I start to feel my heart beat 100 times faster.

But then her body is convulsing again, and the sounds she makes aren’t loud, more like tired. Weak. She’s reached her peak and I just keep working her through it, curling my fingers up into that gummy spot until her come squirts out of her. Drenching our sheets and my hand and the crotch of my dress pants.

I still lean into her ear, kissing the lobe and whispering, “I love you more.”

The sun isn’t even close to being up yet. It’s four A.M in New York, just a few hours after Venus and Paige had drifted off to sleep. But just as fast as the night came, the morning did too. A flight to Dallas awaited, Paige had her first interview alongside Aziaha James and Madison Scott.

It was surreal, and even after going through the motions last night, Paige still can’t wrap her head around it. Her, a national champion and now number one draft pick, in a new city and on a new team, with players she’s watched for years.

Her legs are tangled with Venus’s, who drifts in and out of sleep on Paige’s bare chest. She scrolls through her phone, responding to congratulatory texts and tweets until the tattooed woman shifts awake.

“Mornin’.” Paige smiles. It’s all to reminiscent of the first time they really did this. A night after they confessed their feelings, their love. Paige remembers the nerves she felt and how she couldn’t even really sleep that night. Now she can’t but for a completely different reason.

She’s on top of the world and the girl of her dreams gets to be right there with her.

“You’re so country now. Good morning, baby.” Venus jokes, a finger circling over the singular hickey in the center of her chest. “What time is it?”

Paige kisses her teeth, placing her phone on her stomach. “Don’t worry about it, we got some time.” She sighs. A warm palm runs up and down her back. “Get some sleep, mama.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Venus asked, voice low and slightly gravelly from sleep. Her lips press against the swell of Paige’s breast before kissing softly across her chest. “What if I wanna do something before our flight?”

Paige suddenly has given her undivided attention to Venus, watching her trail cracked-lipped kisses down her body. Her inked hand traveling across her hip bone and over every other surface of skin she can touch. “You gotta be quick.” Paige breathes.

“I thought we “had time’?” Venus drawls.

“I lied, baby. Hurry up.”

Hurry up she does. Venus straddles Paige’s thigh, passing off the phone back to the blonde. “You wanna get this on camera? Y’know for the road trips?” Venus teases. Her thumb runs over Paige clit, surprisingly swollen and wet even off the wake-up.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, shit, hold on.” Paige fumbles for the phone suddenly struggling to get the angle right to unblock her phone and then forgetting her password. “Goddamn, V. Got me fumblin’ shit.”

“Hurry up, I’m horny.” Venus laughs, slotting her legs with her girlfriend’s. Paige finally gets her phone unlocked and the second she does Venus is pushing their cores together. Rocking back and forth slowly until she finds a rhythm. “Mmmm yes.”

Paige hold’s Venus’s hip with one hand, the other training the camera to where they connect. The silence of the morning makes arousal echo off the walls and even louder in her ears. “You feel perfect, baby. Ride me harder, harder.” Paige moans, tossing her head back just enough to give Venus the perfect angle to grip the blonde’s neck in her hand.

“More?”

“More, mama. Don’t stop, don’t—shitttt!” Paige’s hips buck instinctively as she moans focusing the phone on the abundant wetness between them.

Venus moves faster, pushing her hips down harder like Paige wanted. “You think— hah fuck— think I could cum inside you like this?” She grunts, hand tightening around Paige’s throat. “We’re so wet, Paige.”

“Fuck, try. Venus, please.” Paige nearly drops the phone her legs trembling in arousal as her climax approached. “Kiss me.” She begs, trailing a hand to the back of her neck and kissing her hard. Tongue and all. Venus sucks on Paige’s tongue hard, and a part of her feels like she can taste herself from the night before.

They keep working each other until the phone is long forgotten and tossed to the side, only moans and terms of affirmation heard on the video recording.

“You gonna nut in me? Huh, V? Want it inside me, ma.” Paige digs into her hips, nails scratching and pulling her closer. “I fucking love your ass, y’know that?”

“I know, I know. I’m gonna cum.”

“Please, fuckkk— Venus, I’m— awww shit!” The blonde’s climax hits her like a train. Loud and powerful moans entering their ears as she comes harder than she had imagined. Venus followed right after, mumbling ‘I love you’s like she needed to say them to stay alive.

“Mmmm, Paige.”

“Shit.”

Venus flops against her chest, head tucked in the crook of Paige’s neck and legs untangling. Their heavy breathing rings through their ears. It’s simple, quiet like the start of their new beginning. A beginning of just the two of them.

“We’re moving in together, I don’t care.” Paige cuts in. And Venus swears the conversation last night was only a part of Paige’s drunk endeavors. But no, it was real.

“Shut up and enjoy this.”

🔖 @thaatdigitaldiary @bueckersbitch @pboogerswbb @xxloveralways14 @d3arapril @wbbgetsmewetter @ykylalex @ohmybueckers @pb524830 @flipthepaige @janaelalfysblunt @cherryswisherz @vamptizm @mariahthealchemist

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

I loved your defiant darling for your nightwing x reader x star fire series

Can I request maybe a darling who after being kidnapped starfire maybe tries to do their makeup or their hair because they think their depressed after being kidnapped

ᴘᴀɪɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙɪʀᴅ

ɴɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x sᴛᴀʀғɪʀᴇ (ʏ)

I shall return 🙌

ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ!

The room smelled like vanilla and something floral, sweet in a way that clung to the air, thick as honey. It wasn’t yours. You didn’t own anything that smelled this soft, this saccharine. Your things smelled like detergent, like soap and the fleeting ghost of fresh air from when you could still crack open a window and decide how much of the world you wanted to let in. Here, the air was controlled. Stagnant. Even the artificial light was curated, warm enough to feel like a sunset but never dim enough to invite the comfort of darkness.

It was a prison dressed in soft linens and foreign perfumes, and Kory had the audacity to hum while she rifled through her little acrylic containers of makeup.

“You are looking most sad,” she said, eyes flicking to yours in the mirror, half-lidded and unreadable. “Dick worries.”

It wasn’t a question.

She picked up something small and glossy—a tube of pinkish-gold—before setting it down and reaching for something darker.

“I do not believe the sadness is good for you,” she continued, tone light, like she was discussing something as inconsequential as a rain forecast. “Your body is unhappy. Your shoulders are tense. Your lips are dry.” Her eyes flicked back to the mirror, assessing. “This shade would be very nice on you, I think.”

You didn’t respond. It was easier not to. Easier to stare at the mirror with the kind of dull resentment that made your bones feel old, aching under the weight of fury that had nowhere to go.

Dick had tried to talk to you earlier. He had that damn patience, the kind that stretched and stretched like old elastic, never quite snapping. He’d sat on the couch, all loose limbs and easy charm, something bright in his eyes that never matched the sharpness of his mind. He had always been too good at talking. Always been too good at getting people to listen.

“You can be angry,” he had told you, voice softer than you wanted it to be. “But you have to understand that we’re doing this for you.”

And Kory—Kory, who was strong enough to tear through metal like paper but touched you like spun glass—was here, running a warm hand over your temple, brushing a stray strand of hair away before pressing something cool against your cheek.

Foundation. Or concealer. Some liquid thing meant to even out your skin tone, to smooth over imperfections, to make you presentable.

“You will feel better when you see how beautiful you are,” she assured, her smile unwavering, her fingers too gentle, too warm. “When you look good, you feel good, yes?”

The laugh that tore from your throat was sharp and humorless.

“Kory,” you said, flat and dull, staring past her to your own reflection. “I’ve been kidnapped.”

Her expression didn’t change. Not really. A flicker of something, maybe. Something too brief to catch before it smoothed back into certainty.

“I know,” she said, voice still light, still sweet. “That is why you are sad.”

Not because your freedom had been stolen. Not because Dick had taken away your phone and Kory had melted the lock on the door and their eyes were always on you, tracking your movements, patient, unwavering, like you were something fragile.

You let out a slow breath, something cold curling in your chest. “I’m not playing along with this.”

She hummed again, pressing her thumb against your jaw, tilting your face a little more toward her. “You do not have to. I will take care of it for you.”

The thing in your chest coiled tighter.

Her grip was light, but you knew, in the same way you knew how fire burned and ice numbed, that it didn’t have to be. If you jerked away, if you tried to move, she could hold you still like it was nothing.

But she wouldn’t.

Because she thought this was love.

Because she thought she was taking care of you.

Because she thought sadness was something that could be brushed away with mascara and foundation and the careful sweep of blush over your cheekbones.

Kory was still talking, something about color palettes and how your undertones suited golds and warm shades, and you wondered if she actually believed this would help or if she just wanted to make you easier to look at.

You let your eyes drift back to the mirror, to the way her fingers moved, precise and delicate, like she was painting something that belonged to her.

The air still smelled too sweet.

And when the door creaked open and Dick stepped in, blue eyes scanning, assessing, always watching, the thing in your chest curled so tight it hurt.

[maddie0101]

crashing into you

— based off of THIS request. I hope you like it @helena-helly ! ❤︎

𓇼 summary: dean never planned on letting anyone close—but then he met you. what started as a friendship quickly spiraled into something deeper, something he couldn’t escape, even if he tried.

𓇼 warnings: fluff!, tension, reader isn't a hunter, friends to lovers, soft!dean, sexual tension, reader falls hard but dean falls harder, cute shit ngl.

𓇼 word count: 5.5k

The first time you met Dean Winchester, he was sitting on the hood of a beautiful Impala outside the local library, eating a gas station sandwich like it was gourmet.

He didn’t belong there. You could tell that from a mile away. His leather jacket stood out against the quiet seaside town and the way he scanned everyone walking by, was like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

You were just curious enough to say something. Just brave enough to walk up and ask, “That sandwich any good?”

He looked up at you and for a second, he seemed startled, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to speak to him.

But then his eyes met yours, and damn.

Those eyes. Bright green. Like spring after a brutal winter, like pine needles after rain, like the kind of forest you could get lost in and never want to find your way out of. They were sharp and soft at the same time, catching the light like glass but holding something deeper, something that made your breath catch.

They were the kind of eyes that made you forget what you were about to say, that made your heart stutter just a little in your chest. You really didn’t mean to stare, but you were frozen, caught in his gaze.

And then he grinned. Easy, charming, and just a little crooked, like he wasn’t even trying, but still knocked the breath right out of you. And just like that, you knew you were in trouble.

Because nobody should be allowed to look at someone like that and smile like that. Not when it made the whole damn world tilt on its axis.

“Best five-dollar mystery meat money can buy,” he said, voice full of charm and sarcasm, but there was something behind it, something tired? Like he hadn’t had a real conversation in a while.

You smiled, tilting your head as you stood in front of him, one foot tapping lightly against the cracked pavement. “Well, now I feel like I’m missing out.”

He laughed, quiet and surprised, and God, it looked good on him. Like it hadn’t had a reason to come out in a while.

“You’re not,” he said, holding up the half-eaten sandwich. “It tastes like regret and mustard.”

You grinned. “That’s oddly poetic.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You always talk to strangers outside libraries, or am I just lucky?”

“Maybe a little of both,” you said, then nodded toward the empty spot beside him on the hood. “You gonna make me stand here all day, or do I get a seat?”

Dean blinked, then scooted over without hesitation. “Be my guest.”

You hopped up, the metal warm under your legs from the sun. There was a comfortable silence for a second, broken only by the wind rustling the trees and the faint sound of some country song bleeding from the radio inside the car.

“I’m Dean,” he said eventually, glancing over at you like he wasn’t sure if he should be offering that up.

You smiled again. “Y/N.”

You didn’t know it then, but Dean Winchester would soon become one of the most important people in your life.

It started simple, quiet conversations outside the library, late-night drives when neither of you wanted to go home, sitting on the roof of some random high school eating greasy takeout while the sky turned shades of violet and gold.

You learned early on that Dean never talked much about himself, not the real stuff. But he listened. He listened like he was starving for something real. But sometimes, on rare occasions, he’d let something slip.

“My dad’s kind of intense,” he said once, picking at the label on a beer bottle as you both sat in his Impala, a blanket stretched beneath you. “Keeps us moving a lot. Job stuff.”

You didn’t push, just handed him your fries and said, “Well, when you’re in town, you’re not allowed to disappear without seeing me first. Deal?”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him the damn moon. “Deal.”

Before he left that first time, you gave him your number, written in your messy handwriting on a scrap of napkin from the diner.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he said, standing beside the Impala, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he didn’t trust himself to stay. Like if he touched you, he wouldn’t be able to go.

You smiled anyway, even though something in your chest ached. “That’s okay. Just… text me or call me. So I know you’re not dead.”

He chuckled at that, but you could tell it meant more than you were letting on. “Yeah. Okay.”

And he did text you. All the damn time. Sometimes just—random.

Dean 🩵🙄: diner pie in Iowa sucks. why is everyone lying about it?

Dean 🩵🙄: saw a cat today that looked like you when you’re pissed.

Dean 🩵🙄: hey. not dead. you?

And then sometimes it was a bit heavier..

Dean 🩵🙄: been a rough week. wish I was there.

Dean 🩵🙄: you ever think about just… running away? starting over?

You’d text back until your fingers cramped. You’d fall asleep with your phone on your chest, wake up to a reply at 3:47 a.m. because Dean was always up late. Always thinking too much. Always carrying too much.

And every now and then, he’d show back up, unannounced, like some kind of dream you didn’t want to wake from.

──────────────────────

The first time Dean came back into town, your fingers hovered over your phone longer than you’d like to admit.

You: Movie night? I’ve got popcorn, bad horror movies, and a blanket with your name on it.

You hit send before you could overthink it, then sat back on the couch, chewing your bottom lip as your stomach twisted with nerves. But the reply came faster than expected.

Dean 🩵🙄: Be there in 10. You better not start without me.

A grin broke across your face and you shook your head, already getting up to head to the kitchen.

“Of course he texted back that fast,” you muttered to yourself, pulling out the popcorn and digging through the cabinets for the snacks you knew he liked.

You were halfway through microwaving a bowl of buttery popcorn, standing barefoot in the kitchen, the familiar hum of the appliance filling the quiet, when you heard a knock at the door.

Your heart did a little skip as you wiped your hands on your pajama pants and made your way to the door, pulse quickening even though you told yourself not to read too much into it.

And there he was. Leaning against your doorframe like he’d stepped straight out of some daydream you didn’t know you’d been having. That worn leather jacket hung open over a faded Zeppelin tee, and his jeans were dusted with the kind of road grime that came from too many miles and too little sleep.

But it was his face that made you pause—that cocky, familiar smirk tugging at his lips, sure, but underneath it? Something softer. Like he was relieved to see you. Nervous, even. Hopeful in a way that made your chest ache.

“Hope you didn’t start the movie without me,” Dean said, lifting a massive crinkling plastic bag with one hand. “Figured if we’re doing this right, we need snacks. Like, all the snacks.”

Your eyes widened. The bag looked like it had its own zip code. “Dean, that’s not a snack bag. That’s a grocery haul.”

He shrugged, stepping inside like he’d never left. The scent of him hit you as he passed—leather, soap, a hint of motor oil and something else that was just him. “I couldn’t decide,” he said casually. “You like salty, but then sometimes you want sweet, and then there’s that weird trail mix with the pretzels and chocolate chips you make me eat. So… I got everything. Sue me.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you closed the door behind him. “You remembered all that?”

Dean shot you a look, playful but soft, eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing worth remembering. “Of course I did. You made me try those chocolate-covered pretzels last time and now I crave them every time I pass a gas station. That’s on you, by the way.”

A soft laugh slipped from your lips as the two of you made your way to the living room. It was easy. Natural. Like no time had passed at all.

The old horror VHS you’d picked out—some gloriously terrible ’80s slasher flick complete with fake blood and girls screaming into foggy forests—was already waiting in the player, screen paused in grainy, retro anticipation.

Dean flopped onto the couch beside you, boots off, body sinking into the cushions with a satisfied sigh. He tossed the snack bag onto the coffee table like a trophy and cracked open a root beer before passing you the remote with a lazy grin. “Let’s get scared, sweetheart.”

You laughed and pressed play, settling back beside him.

At first, there was a respectable distance between you, each of you leaning into opposite corners of the couch, legs stretched out, a shared blanket tossed loosely over both your laps. But as the movie went on, and the room filled with eerie music and over-the-top screams, something shifted. Slowly. Only naturally.

His knee brushed against yours and didn’t move. You reached forward to grab a handful of candy, and when your shoulder bumped his, neither of you leaned away. The warmth between you built in the quiet moments, in the closeness, in the way your laughter blended with his.

Then came the jump scare—a sudden scream and you flinched with a sharp gasp, instinctively grabbing the nearest thing.

Dean’s arm.

“Shit,” you breathed out, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. Your fingers were still wrapped around the firm muscle of his bicep, and you could feel the heat of him even through his shirt. You were about to pull away when you glanced up and caught him looking at you.

Really looking at you.

That stupid, crooked smile was back, but it was softer now. His green eyes glowed in the flickering light of the TV, and there was something new behind them. Something unspoken. Like you’d just cracked open a door in him he wasn’t sure how to close.

“That was adorable,” he smirked, his voice lower than before.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning as you finally let go of his arm, but you didn’t move far. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Wasn’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Just… didn’t know you still scared that easy.”

You nudged him playfully. “Didn’t know you still carried around ten pounds of candy like a damn trick-or-treater.”

Dean chuckled, and just like that, the moment passed, but the air between you had shifted. A little warmer. A little closer. Like something that had always been there was finally starting to wake up.

──────────────────────

Another time you two hung out, the Impala was parked facing the water, the windows cracked just enough to let in the salty breeze. A couple burger wrappers crinkled on the dash as you leaned back in the seat, chewing the last bite of your fries while Dean dug into his milkshake like it owed him money.

“So,” he said around a mouthful, “worst date you’ve ever been on. Go.”

You snorted. “Oh, easy. The guy who took me to a reptile house and then tried to make out with me while a snake was literally watching.”

Dean barked out a laugh,“That’s not real. That can’t be real.”

“I swear on your stupid leather jacket.”

“You are never dating without me background-checking first.”

You grinned, letting your head fall back against the seat, watching the sky turn gold outside the windshield. “Alright, your turn.”

Dean looked thoughtful for a second, then grinned. “I once took a girl out for pie and halfway through, she told me she was just using me to make her ex jealous.”

“Ouch.”

“She paid for the pie, though, so I consider that a win.”

You both laughed, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach hurt a little. These were your favorite kinds of nights—just you and Dean, greasy food, and the kind of comfort that came from years of being each other’s person, no matter what.

Then, mid-slurp of your shared milkshake, you said, “You know what I’ve never done?”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “Please don’t say drugs. I don’t have bail money on me.”

“A tattoo.”

Dean blinked. “Seriously? You?”

You shrugged. “I’ve always wanted one. Just never got around to it.”

“Well, hell,” he said, suddenly grinning like a madman, “there’s a shop ten minutes from here. Let’s do it.”

“What, now?”

“Why not?” He pointed his straw at you. “You said you wanted one. Let’s make it happen.”

Twenty minutes later, you were in the chair, laughing as Dean teased you about getting a daisy on your ankle.

“C’mon,” he said, chin in his hand, watching you from across the room. “You’re totally gonna go basic. Butterfly? Moon phases? Maybe a quote in cursive?”

You just smirked at him. “You’ll see.”

He squinted at you suspiciously.

──────────────────────

When you emerged from the back, Dean stood up, stretching. “Alright, let’s see it. Wrist? Ankle? Lemme guess—behind the ear?”

You smiled innocently. “You’ll see.” That should’ve been his first warning.

The two of you climbed back into the Impala, and Dean turned the key but didn’t pull away just yet. He gave you a look, playful but curious. “So? Don’t leave me hangin’. Where is it?”

You turned slightly in your seat, fingers reaching for the button of your jeans.

Dean blinked. “Wait—what are you—”

The zipper came down with a soft zzzt, and before he could even process what the hell was happening, you pulled the waistband down just enough.

And Dean's breath stopped.

The tattoo sat just above your pelvis, delicate black ink etched into soft skin still a little red from the needle. Right beneath it was a sliver of black lace—your underwear peeking up from your jeans, the curve of your hipbone exposed like you didn’t even realize how wrecked you were making him.

Dean stared. Actually stared. His brain short-circuited. “Jesus,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You really went for it.”

You tilted your head, all innocent curiosity. “Too much?”

Too much? It was perfect. And hot. And wrong. And so right that Dean had to drag his eyes away before he did something stupid—like reach out and touch.

His heart was pounding. His mouth dry. Every single muscle in his body tensed as he stared straight ahead, trying not to look at you, trying not to think about the lace, the skin, the goddamn tattoo that was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Because now? Now he was hard. Painfully hard. For you. His best friend. The one person he wasn’t supposed to want like this.

He shifted slightly, legs angling awkwardly as he tried to hide the growing situation in his jeans. His hands clenched the steering wheel like it was his last tether to sanity.

You zipped your jeans back up with a soft little smirk. “Dean?” you asked sweetly, turning to him like you hadn’t just blown up his whole world.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Peachy,” he said through clenched teeth, eyes fixed forward. “Totally fine.” Dean swallowed hard.

He was fucked.

──────────────────────

The two of you had always made the most of the time you had together.

It didn’t matter where or when, some diner off a highway at midnight, a motel room with flickering lights, the front seat of the Impala parked beneath a sky full of stars—being around you had a way of making everything feel just a little bit lighter. A little less heavy. You made the sharp edges of the world dull down enough to breathe.

Dean had never been great at the whole feelings thing. Hell, he avoided them like the plague. But from the moment he met you, something shifted.

At first, it was subtle, barely a nudge in his chest. A flash of amusement when you made some smartass comment. A second glance when you laughed with your whole body, like you hadn’t been burned by the world yet. He chalked it up to admiration. Friendship. Nothing more.

But over time, that small spark inside him turned into something else. Something slower, deeper. And damn if it didn’t terrify him.

It happened in the little moments—when you’d throw your legs across his lap without asking, like you belonged there.

When you’d sing along to classic rock in the car, off-key and dramatic, just to get him to laugh.

When you’d fall asleep next to him on drives around town, your head resting on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean didn’t know when exactly it changed—when liking you turned into loving you. Maybe it was the night you patched him up after a hunt, your fingers gentle but firm, your voice soft and steady. You had no idea what Dean really did for a living but when he stood at your door, bloody and bruised you couldn't turn him away.

Or maybe the time you defended him in front of a stranger like your life depended on it. Or maybe it was just a million little things building up over the years until one day, he looked at you and realized he was done for.

Because he was in love with you.

Stupid, aching, gut-punching kind of love. The kind that settled in his bones and wouldn’t let go. The kind he couldn’t run from no matter how hard he tried.

And God, he tried.

He told himself it was fine. That being your friend was enough. That he could live with the ache as long as you were still in his life. He convinced himself he was okay with the casual touches, the shared laughter, the midnight calls when you couldn’t sleep. He told himself he could deal with the way your smile made something stir in his chest, the way your voice calmed every storm in his head.

But it was getting harder.

Because you were always there, burned into his thoughts in the quiet moments. When he couldn’t sleep, he thought about the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. When he was on the road alone, he found himself reaching for his phone just to hear your voice. When something good or bad happened, you were the first person he wanted to tell.

You weren’t just some girl he had a crush on.

You were it. The one.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because Dean didn’t get the good things. He didn’t get forever. And you? You were a forever kind of person.

So, he sat with it. With the weight of everything he couldn’t say. With every almost-confession he’d swallowed down at the last second. With every glance he held too long, every touch that lingered, every night he dreamed about what it would feel like to finally kiss you.

He was grateful, truly, deeply grateful to have you in his life. You were his best friend. His anchor. His light in the dark. But none of that changed the fact that he was in love with you.

And it was getting harder to pretend he wasn’t.

──────────────────────

The knock at your window came just past midnight. You stirred beneath your blanket, squinting at the clock before stumbling over to the window, your bare feet cold against the floor.

Tugging the curtain aside with a yawn, your eyes landed on the one person who could make crawling out of bed at this hour feel like an invitation to something bigger than sleep.

Dean stood there beneath the glow of your porch light, grinning like a damn kid on Christmas. His leather jacket was unzipped, the duffel bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing, and in his hands, two steaming gas station coffees, lids fogged from the chill in the air.

His smile widened the second he saw you, hair mussed from sleep, wearing that ancient band tee you swore you’d throw out and never did. The sight of you like that, soft and half-asleep, made something in his chest pull tight.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he said, voice low and teasing. He lifted one of the cups like an offering. “Wanna come stargaze? Or are you gonna be responsible and sleep like a normal person?”

You blinked at him, lips twitching with a sleepy smile. “Dean, it’s a Monday.”

“So?” He tilted his head. “Stars don’t give a damn what day it is.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest gave you away.

He knew what he was doing—he always did. With that look in his eyes like you were the only person worth waking up for. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. And God help you, you never could say no to him.

You rolled your eyes, but you were already reaching for your hoodie. “Ten minutes. You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know you like me,” he called, cocky and smug in that familiar Dean kind of way, but his voice was a little softer than usual, almost hesitant for some reason.

──────────────────────

The beach was only five minutes from your place, but it felt like another world.

Quiet. Still. The kind of silence that only existed this late at night, when the rest of the town had shut down and gone to sleep, too small and tucked away to care what the stars were doing. The sky was a deep, endless black, cut open by the moon and those scattered constellations you only ever saw in small towns forgotten by time and light pollution.

Dean kicked off his boots and laid a worn blanket down in the cool sand like he hadn’t just driven two states to get here. Like this was just another stop, another night.

But it wasn’t, not to him. Not when it was you.

You flopped down beside him, the sand damp and cool beneath the blanket, the air crisp enough to bite. Without thinking, because it never was something you had to think about—you let your head fall against his shoulder. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like gravity just decided for you.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t tense. Just let you settle in like he was built for it. And hell, maybe he was.

His body was warm beside yours, steady and solid in the way only he could be. You felt the rise and fall of his chest, slow and even, like this quiet moment had pressed pause on whatever chaos had been chasing him before.

Neither of you said a damn word for a long while.

The waves came and went like they had forever to do so, crashing soft and steady in the distance. The only sound in the whole world.

And Dean just stared up at the sky, at the stars that didn’t offer answers, just more questions. But he looked anyway. Maybe because it was easier than looking at you.

Because fuck, you were close.

Close enough for him to catch that familiar smell of your shampoo—the same one that clung to your clothes, your pillows, the passenger seat of his car.

The one that hit him hardest when he was far away, in some dingy motel with blood drying on his hands and pain blooming under his ribs.

That scent reminded him of better things. Of safety. Of softness. Of you. Of home.

God, he was so screwed.

He’d known it from the beginning. The first time you smiled at him outside that library, the first time you teased him about his sandwich, the first time you saw through all his walls like they weren’t even there.

He’d thought it was just attraction. A passing thing. He’d had that before—quick, easy flings that didn’t ask anything of him. But with you, it was never quick. And it sure as hell wasn’t easy.

You’d become the first person who really knew him. Not the hunter. Not John’s soldier. Not the screwup older brother trying to keep it together. Just… Dean.

And he couldn’t fucking lose that.

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched as he looked over at you. Your eyes were closed now, peaceful and unguarded, like being beside him was the safest place in the world.

And maybe that was the problem. You trusted him. You needed him. And for once in his life, Dean had something good—something real. He didn’t want to fuck it up by saying the wrong thing. By turning this into something messy.

But God, he wanted to touch your face. He wanted to kiss you like he meant it—slow, desperate, worship you.

He wanted to tell you how much it killed him when he was gone. How every hunt, every town, every monster meant nothing compared to one night on a beach with you. So instead, he laid there in silence. Let the waves keep talking for him.

And you? You couldn’t stop looking at him.

The way the moonlight kissed his face, tracing over the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the freckles littering his nose and cheeks you always loved. He looked like something out of a dream, too perfect to be real—like if you reached out, your fingers would go straight through him.

But he was real. So damn real. And warm beside you, breathing in sync with the ocean.

Dean Winchester, your best friend. The guy who texted you more than anyone else, who remembered how you liked your coffee, who showed up at your door with pie and that stupid crooked smile that made your stomach twist every time.

You were so in love with him it hurt.

And it didn’t help that he looked like that—hair messy from the breeze, eyes on the stars like they held some kind of answer, lip caught between his teeth like he was trying not to say something out loud.

God, what was he thinking?

Your chest ached with it, the want. The need to just reach out, to slide your fingers against his jaw and kiss him like you’d imagined a hundred times.

But the fear stopped you. The voice that whispered, What if you ruin it? What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if you lose him?

Still… you couldn’t look away.

And maybe that was what did it because Dean felt your gaze and he turned his head, slow, eyes meeting yours in the dark. And the second your eyes locked, the world around you dropped away.

The crashing waves. The night breeze. The stars above. None of it mattered.

Only him.

And the way you were looking at each other like it was the first and last time. Like the feelings you’d both been swallowing down were finally bleeding out into the open. You didn’t blink, and neither did he.

Your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could hear it. But he didn’t look away.

He couldn’t look away.

You were staring at him like he was the only thing in the world that made sense. Like you knew him. All of him. And wanted him anyway. And that was what killed him.

Dean’s breath hitched, shaky, uneven, like it hurt to hold it in anymore. His eyes didn’t leave yours, wide with something unspoken and raw, something that had been clawing at the edges of him for far too long. And he was still fighting it—fighting the way his heart pounded like it wanted out of his chest, fighting everything in him that screamed to just take the damn risk.

To stop pretending this was just friendship. To stop acting like you weren’t the most real thing he’d ever had in his life. His jaw clenched. Don’t do it, some part of him whispered. You’ll ruin everything.

But the louder voice—the one that sounded like hope and need and pure fucking longing was done being quiet.

“Fuck it,” Dean murmured, the words barely audible.

His hands were on your cheeks in an instant, calloused and warm, fingers cradling your skin like you were something fragile. Like you were already his, and he didn’t know how to live without you anymore. And when his mouth finally found yours—Jesus. It was everything.

Every unspoken word. Every almost. Every lingering look and late-night laugh and sleepless motel night where he laid awake thinking about you.

It was soft, almost tentative at first. Like he was still afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You leaned in, kissed him back with every bit of feeling you’d been holding inside, your fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket like you never wanted to let go.

The ocean kept crashing behind you but all you could feel was him. Dean. Kissing you like it had been building forever. Because maybe it had. And now… it was finally real.

Dean kissed you like he’d been dying to. Like he’d been holding his breath for years and this—this—was the first time he could finally breathe.

And you kissed him like you never wanted to stop.

His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb brushing gently against your skin, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face. Like this was something fragile and precious and he didn’t want to rush it. The kiss deepened slowly, naturally, like you were both learning each other all over again—except this time, it was with mouths and sighs and the way your body curved into his.

When you finally pulled back, you didn’t go far. Your forehead rested against his, breaths mingling, both of you a little dazed, like you were afraid to break whatever the hell just happened between you.

Dean huffed a soft laugh, the kind that came from his chest. “Well… guess I’m not sleeping tonight.”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “Yeah, me neither.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, and damn if that smile of his didn’t ruin you. It was soft, shy even, but so full, like all the walls he’d built up just crumbled around you and he didn’t care who saw anymore.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, heart thudding in your chest. “Try me.”

His cheeks flushed slightly, and it was so damn human, so un-Dean-like, that it made you fall for him all over again. “That night we watched a scary movie,” he said, “when we cuddled for the first time and your hair was a mess… I almost kissed you then.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Dean, that was years ago.”

“I know.” He laughed again, but it was breathless, like even he couldn’t believe he waited this long. “I kept telling myself not to screw it up. That I finally had someone who gave a damn about me for me, and if I crossed that line…”

You reached up and gently cupped his face, running your thumb along his jaw. “You didn’t screw anything up. You just made it better.”

Dean leaned into your touch like it grounded him, eyes fluttering closed for a second before opening again. “You sure? ‘Cause if I kiss you again, I’m not gonna stop at just one.”

Your stomach flipped, heart full. “Good. Because I’m not done kissing you either.”

And God, that grin.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Sweeter. Like he was trying to show you everything he hadn’t said in years of friendship—every text, every call, every visit, every longing glance that lingered too long. His hand slipped into your hair while your fingers found the space beneath his jacket, curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

You shifted closer, practically in his lap now, the blanket bunching beneath you as the sand gave way beneath your knees. He didn’t seem to mind—just held you tighter, as if anchoring himself to this moment.

“Can’t believe I finally get to do this,” he whispered between kisses, brushing his nose against yours.

You smiled against his mouth. “Well, now that the floodgates are open…”

Dean chuckled, and it was the happiest sound you’d ever heard. “Yeah, you’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you murmured. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The waves kept crashing behind you. The stars burned quietly above. And wrapped up in Dean’s arms, his lips on yours, his heart finally open and right there for the taking. You knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

author’s note:

sooo I love the beach vibes with this one! figured I’d switch something up because it’s always so gloomy? don’t get me wrong I love it & spn, but sometimes we need a cute little getaway?

I’ve honestly had this one sitting in my drafts for a bit, but I finally came around and finished it! lol and as y’all can see I’m back on my bullshit :) feels great to be back!

@helena-helly I’m so sorry this one took forever to come out! I hope you like it and it’s up to your expectations? ❤︎

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

tags:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade @xo-zeze @kamisobsessed @megara0224 @cupidzbunny @imsiriuslyreal @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @julsvdamxn @tinas111 (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be removed from this taglist)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

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[thevanillerose]

COWORKER | YANDERE!CALEB x READER | LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators. CONTENT WARNING: Yandere / Death / Violence A/N: I downloaded this game just for this man and he was even hotter than expected. I'm cooked.

You never expected to see him again. Not in this lifetime.

The last memory you had of Caleb was burned into your mind like a scar—flames licking the late afternoon sky, the acrid scent of smoke, the sound of the explosion that shattered your world. You had screamed his name until your throat bled. 

He was gone. Nothing but a necklace.

So when the docking bay doors of the Farspace Fleet hissed open and the Colonel stepped onto the deck, tall and cloaked in shadows, the air in your lungs simply stopped.

He wore a black uniform pressed to perfection, with gold trimming that caught the sterile lighting. His coat billowed slightly behind him, heavy boots echoing against the metal floor. His cap obscured part of his face, but not his eyes. 

Those violet eyes. Your world narrowed into that singular color—the same shade you used to see when he smiled and promised to come home.

“Don’t miss me too much, pipsqueak.”

He didn't speak at first. He only looked at you.

Your voice wavered. "Caleb...?"

He stopped, then removed his cap.

It was him. Though, his face had changed. Leaner, older. His smile was faint and unreadable, and his eyes seemed a little more flat, colder than you recalled. Darker. Everything was darker about him. 

Nonetheless, it was still Caleb. In a way.

"You remembered me," he murmured.  You took a step forward, then froze, unsure if you were dreaming. "You're…alive."

He gave a curt little nod, and then finally smiled. Just a little.  "I'm back."

And that was all it took to break the dam. 

You ran to him, crashing into his chest with a sob, clutching the front of his coat like you might vanish if you let go. He didn't return the embrace. Not right away. But after a long, lingering moment, his arms wrapped around you. 

His grip was tight. 

Too tight.

…

Three Months Later…

Your hands hovered over the interface, eyes flicking between data streams and transmissions from the outer quadrant. Working in Intel for the Farspace Fleet wasn’t what you’d imagined for yourself, but Caleb insisted. You had wanted to join Recon like you used to dream about together as kids—running missions, piloting ships—but the Colonel said it was too dangerous.

Around here, if the Colonel said something, then that was that. Better to put up and shut up, rather than face wrath.

You were lucky to be granted a post here at all, he said. With your record, you owed it to yourself to stay safe. And more than that, he owed it to Gran, to keep you that way. 

So now you sat behind a desk, surrounded by rows of monitors, analysts, and support crew. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered. And, truthfully, you were just happy to be close to him again. Even if he was colder now. More distant.

Sometimes you wondered if it was really still the same guy you grew up with. The Caleb you knew always had such a warmth to him, a puppy dog innocence that you found endearing. Sure…he could be clingy. And a bit of a worrier. Too much of a worrier, when it came to you. 

But he was just protective. It made sense, right? You two had known each other for so long…

You looked up as a voice interrupted your thoughts.

"Need a second pair of eyes on this?"  The question came from Milo, a quiet, observant man from your division. He was a bit tall and clumsy, nerdy in a stereotypical way, but not unattractive. In fact, from the rumors you’d heard, he had a couple of female fans in the office. Maybe more than a couple.

He smiled gently as he handed you a datapad. "Colonel’s patrol log from last week. There’s some anomaly in the movement pattern. Thought you might spot something I didn’t."

You smiled back, accepting it. "Thanks. I’ll take a look."

He nodded and returned to his desk, but not before giving you a soft, almost sheepish glance. It wasn’t the first time. And you were starting to notice. He lingered too long sometimes. He remembered every detail about how you liked your reports formatted. He made excuses to talk to you.

You weren’t so naïve to think it was a coincidence. You also weren’t sure how you felt about it. You were still trying to process everything with Caleb.

Colonel Caleb.

He had changed so much, and yet...when it was just the two of you, sometimes you caught glimpses of the boy you once knew. He'd cook for you on late nights, sliding a plate across the counter without meeting your eyes. He'd tease you lightly in the elevator or call you by the old nickname only he ever used. When it was just the two of you, it felt much more familiar.

But there were moments, too, when he would freeze, staring just a little too long. His mechanical right hand would flex beside his hip, a tension in his jaw you couldn’t decipher. You'd ask him if something was wrong, and he'd always smile that empty, too-calm smile.

"Everything’s fine," he would say. "As long as you're safe."

That evening, the lights in your quarters flickered as you entered. You barely had time to set your bag down when the console chimed.

"Incoming call from: COL. CALEB."

You accepted it, brushing your hair behind your ear. "Hey."

His image appeared on screen, still in uniform. He was alone in his office, the lights low.

"Busy day?" he asked. At first, he had that boyish look on your face, the one you remembered fondly. The one which made you feel a little more at ease. His violet eyes were soft and downturned like a cute little dog. 

You smiled faintly, feeling comfortable. "Yeah. Some signal interference in the west quadrant. Milo and I were reviewing your logs. He caught something strange."

There was a pause. Just a breath. But it felt heavy.

"Milo," he repeated, his voice unreadable. "He’s been helping you a lot lately." You hesitated, sensing a shift. "He’s just a coworker." Another pause. Caleb’s jaw flexed.  "Of course."

You opened your mouth to change the subject, but he spoke again. In an instant, a switch had flipped. 

"I want to see you. Come to my office. Now." You blinked, bewildered. "Is…is something wrong?" He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Not at all silly. I just miss you."

…

The halls of the flagship were quiet at this hour, lit by the pale glow of emergency strips. You passed the occasional officer, but no one met your gaze. When you reached Caleb’s door, it slid open before you could knock.

He was waiting, standing beside his desk, arms folded.

"Sit," he said gently, gesturing to the couch. You obeyed, nerves prickling. The room felt too still. The warmth you thought you had sensed earlier seemed to have all but vanished. 

"Do you trust me?" he suddenly asked, walking over. You looked up, surprised, all innocent eyes. "Of course I do, Caleb."

He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to touch.  "Then don’t lie to me.”

Staring at him, you cowered back against the couch cushions. Lie to you?

“I saw the way he looked at you. How he’s been looking at you.” Your heart skipped. That confirmed it then, that’s what this was about. 

"Milo? Caleb, he’s just—"

His hand reached for your face, interrupting you, gloved fingers tracing your cheek with surprising gentleness. Still, you flinched.  "I know every part of you. I remember the way you used to cry when the thunder scared you. The way you always held my hand under the blankets. I know the scent of your skin when you’re nervous. I know when you’re lying."

You tried to speak, but he leaned closer, eyes locked on yours.

“You know you can trust me, right, [Y/N]? I just want you to be careful…”

Your breath caught. "Caleb—"

“-Because in this world, you can’t easily trust anyone, okay? You don’t know what people might really be like behind the masks they wear…”

While his words weren’t wrong, your brow furrowed. It was really hard for you to picture Milo that way, he seemed hapless.  “Caleb, I don’t think–” you reached up to pull his hand away, but he shifted his thumb so it hooked against your jaw, and held a little tighter. Your fingers hovered, but didn’t touch him. You shuddered.

“...Promise me, [Y/N]. Promise me you’ll stay away from other guys like that. At least…” Caleb hesitated, before his expression steeled again, “At least not until we both know we can trust them. Yeah?”

His hand finally moved, and drifted down your torso softly, against your chest before he seemed to realize and he pulled it back sharply. He breathed, a shuddering, weary breath.  “...You’re not like anyone else, [Y/N]. You’re special. That’s why I need your word, okay?”

He looked at you straight, waiting for your promise. Your throat felt tight, but you swallowed, and nodded. “...O…okay, Caleb. Okay…”

…

That night, alone in your quarters, you thought about Caleb. About Milo. About how the tension had been building ever since your reunion.

It had come to a head today, and you didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way he held you, stared you in the eyes with none of the softness you were once used to. You didn’t like the…implication…of what might happen if you didn’t do as he said. 

You remembered the way Caleb used to act when you were kids—always showing up, always hovering when you talked to other boys. He never said anything outright, but you could feel it. The possessiveness. The suspicion. He made it a point to insert himself, anywhere and everywhere, to keep them away. 

Nobody messed with him either. Not even the neighborhood bullies, who he’d done a sufficient job of ‘teaching a lesson’ after they’d tried to target you one time. He had been bigger. Stronger. Scarier.

And these days? Even more so. 

Back then, you thought it was sweet. Like you had a guardian constantly looking out for you. A gravity-gifted guardian. 

Now...it felt heavier.

…

The next day, you bumped into Milo outside the commissary. Literally.

"Oh, sorry—!" you began, but Milo caught your arm to steady you, and you froze up. You’d been about to skirt around him, hurry along, but- "You okay? You look pale."

God, he’s so nice. Why does he have to be so nice?

You forced a smile, shrugging his hand away despite feeling it was rude, "Yeah. Just—didn’t sleep much."

He hesitated, pulling his arm back like he feared he’d overstepped. In Caleb’s eyes, he would have. Yet he still tried to extend his kindness. "If you ever want to talk about it...you know…I’m around."

In front of you, you saw him collapse into a sheepish, red-faced reaction, shifting foot to foot. It stung a little to have to be so curt with him, but you needed this conversation to end, and sharp. Before he saw.

You nodded, gave a quick thanks, and abruptly took your leave. Milo lingered behind, bewildered. 

You might have felt relieved.  You didn’t realize Caleb had been watching.

…

That afternoon, the atmosphere in the Intel room shifted. You felt it before you saw him. 

Silence fell like a curtain as Caleb entered, his presence a wall of cold authority. His boots struck the floor, weighty, deliberate. 

He walked straight to your desk, past staring eyes and quiet workers, all of them too on edge to even dare speak. Heaven forbid they did. 

When he reached the back of your chair, his tall, broad shadow fell deeply over you. It cloaked you in a chill, but you tried to remain calm and composed, looking ahead at the screen. You stared hard at the numbers and letters flickering in front of you. They were starting to clump together, meaninglessly.

"I need to see you in my office," he said, and the way he spoke was so neutral and detached, it was as if he wasn’t speaking to you at all. Just some stranger, someone of zero consequence. 

Kind of shocked by his tone, you slowly looked around and up at him. You expected him to lean down maybe, drop the act and make his request softly. 

He didn’t. He stared down at you, cold and hard, gaze narrowed. 

You swallowed and stood, following him out without a word. Eyes followed you the whole way.

When the doors slid open to his private office, you stepped inside—and froze.

Milo was there. Restrained on his knees by invisible force, in a column of compressed gravity. His eyes were wide with fear, teeth grit to endure the pressure and the pain.

You stared for a moment, meeting his terrified eyes, before stumbling backwards, hands hovering before your mouth. 

"C-Caleb—what the hell is this?!"

The Colonel removed his gloves, placing them calmly on his desk. "I warned you." "What are you talking about?!" "Milo," Caleb said with icy precision, "was never just a friendly coworker. He was planted here. Embedded in Intel to get close to you. Because of the Aether Core."

Immediately, Milo tried to cry out something, eyes bulging, head quivering, but all he could manage was a grunt of agony as the weight dragged him crushingly deeper towards the ground, compressing every organ.

You flinched. "That’s classified—" "Exactly. And he knew. He tried to earn your trust, waited for the perfect opportunity. Probably had some backdoor installed in our systems already."

You looked back at Milo. "That can’t be true."

"You don’t believe me? You would trust him over me?"  "I—Caleb, please, let’s investigate—"

He tilted his head, blankly. “I did. I’ve already seen the evidence. It’s conclusive. So…"

Caleb raised one hand. The air around Milo twisted.

"NO! Caleb, STOP—" "You need to understand," Caleb said softly, eyes never leaving yours. "Anyone who tries to hurt you…will pay the price."

Gravity compressed with a sickening crack. Milo didn’t even have time to scream. You covered your mouth in horror, stumbling back. It didn’t matter how many Wanderer attacks you’d witnessed, you’d never seen anything this horrifying before.

And it was Caleb who was responsible. Caleb, of all people.

Caleb stepped forward, catching you by the shoulders before you could teeter off your feet. His hands were warm. Comforting. As he pulled you close you simply couldn’t fathom how these same hands had just done what they had done. 

"Shhh," he whispered. "It’s over now. You’re safe. As long as you’re with me, you’ll always be safe. I can promise you that, pipsqueak.”

You stared at him, tears streaming down your face, jaw agape, pupils small with shock. How he could use your charming little nickname now, after that…was sickening. "...You killed him."

"He was going to hurt you. I protected you."

You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. But something froze you numbly to the spot, and Caleb only pulled you close, arms wrapping tightly around you, firm enough it was like a warning. His next words confirmed as much. 

"You’re mine," he whispered. "No one else's. Just mine."

Something horrifying dawned on you then. It wouldn’t have mattered if Milo was innocent or not. It wouldn’t have mattered if Caleb made up that story to frame him or if it were the truth after all. Because he was another man, another person, who had dared to try and get close to you. And that was enough.

That was enough to turn him into a villain. A ruthless, cruel villain. 

In his mind though, he must have been a hero. A hero who would keep you ‘safe’.

Even if it meant destroying the world around you. Even if it meant destroying anyone else in it.

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS! BONUS SPRING SALE! 25% OFF! UNTIL 11/04!

A/N: Milo from Atlantis got stuck in my head for some reason recently (or maybe it was the one time Cole Sprouse cosplayed him on here, either way...). So...he's here? I guess?

[melioraskz]

Birthday girl (what they got you for your birthday!)

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

A/N : so a couple of days ago (on the same day as a certain maknae in fact) was my birthday and I wanted to write this silly thing in celebration, however !!! God has better plans for me because I for the flu and was dead in bed for literally the entire weekend and half of this week which lead to me essentially having to postpone writing this until now !!! Funsiessss

Warnings : mentions of pet names, mentions of sex, fluffy skz

Pairings : ot8 x (fem) reader

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Chan :

Chan is a simple guy, keeping it classic, a pretty necklace with a heart on, if it was silver, gold or any other metal is simply decided depending on what you usually prefer, which he of course knows what you wear, he knows you like the inside of his glove ! Even if he knew you’d love the necklace he was probably sweating his balls off in nervousness giving it to you, his ears a pink shade whilst a big goofy smile on his mouth the entire time.

“Happy birthday, babygirl”

“Thank you, Chris”

Lee Know :

Now our guy Minho would probably give you an experience, most likely a trip to a cabin somewhere near a mountain where you two could be alone, far away from the stress of your ordinary life and a place where he can take a deep breath whilst having all his senses focused on you. You’d spend your birthday fishing, having a dinner in front of a bonfire and finishing the evening with sex in front of said bonfire, all his focus on you and only you.

“Happy birthday, y/n”

“Thank you, you really made it special, Minho”

Changbin :

Changbin is loud and doesn’t do anything halfway, he would not only host a party with all your friends and mutual friends with a giant cake for you to blow out all the one hundred candles off, but he would probably buy up a whole store for you, you’d get everything from soaps to dresses and even seven different flower bouquets! He’d be so proud too and wanting to show off how proud he is of you all night, you’re truly the star of the show.

“Changbin, honey… you already gave me flowers an hour ago?”

“So what!? I can only spoil my girl once a year like this! Happy birthday, baby”

Hyunjin :

Hyunjin would probably gift you a painting he has made himself, I mean he is an artist after all. It would be a portrait of you two, he’d use a couple photos he had on his phone for reference so the portrait is a completely unique piece which would have taken him at least a couple of months to put together into perfection! When you unwrap the painting your eyes would tear up, he really saw you this beautiful? It was perfect and would definitely be hung up in your home for all family and friends to witness how talented your amazing boyfriends is.

“It’s beautiful, thank you so much, baby”

“I’m so glad you like it, happy birthday, my love”

Jisung :

Jisung wrote you a song. It wasn’t planned to happen, he was at the studio one day, trying to compose another work for the team when his phone lit up, a message from you asking if he wanted to get dinner after your shift ended, after answering a happy yes to your suggestion he caught himself looking at his wallpaper a bit longer than usual, a photo of you two, smiling. You’re taking a selfie on his phone with a silly filter, kissing his cheek… oh he is smiling to himself and that’s when the idea hits him, of course? He had been stuck with what to get you for weeks now and he had it right in front of him! When it’s the big day and he press play you start to fully cry half way through which makes the poor boy panicking, pausing as he tries in panic to calm you down.

“I’M SO SORRY I JUST WANTED TO GIVE YOU A GOOD BIRTHDAY GIFT I’M SO SORRY I-“

“Han Jisung shut the fuck up and continue with the song before I have a mental breakdown, it’s so beautiful, thank you, I love you so much”

Felix :

Not only is Felix the only member that would actually bake you his own cake in your favourite flavour, but also would make you dinner (or takeout if he fails with the dinner as baking seems to be his strongest weapon in the kitchen). He would probably sneak into your home when you’re at work to set everything in motion, bringing bags of all the ingredients along with a huge bouquet of red roses that he would arrange in a vase of yours prettily on the dining table for you. When you come home from your work, you honestly forgot all about the special day in question he is already waiting in your kitchen, dimmed lit with candles and a romantic dinner setting whilst singing happy birthday to you.

“Happy birthday, my dear”

“Thank you… I can’t believe you made all of this!”

Seungmin :

He is a classic guy I feel, he’d also get you a piece of jewellery like chan, I feel more graduated towards earrings if you’ve got your ears pierced, something simple and pretty like pearl earrings. He would act so casually when he gift you them, like it’s nothing special but in reality he would be having a panic attack in the inside, wanting you do desperately to love his gift. After all he truly wanted this day to be perfect for you.

“They’re beautiful, seungmin! Thank you so much”

“Oh it’s nothing, I’m glad you liked them”

I.N

Now this guy would be panicking weeks ahead of your birthday, asking his members what the hell you give a girlfriend on their birthday! After everyone’s input he would eventually settle for a huge teddy bear, some of your favourite snacks along with a perfume, a scent he specifically picked out for you because he thought it would suit you. He would have forced one of his members to tag along to the mall and be his advisor for that day, both of their noses numb from all the smelling until they found the perfect one.

“Thank you so much, jeongin. I love it!”

“You love it? Really? Happy birthday!”

[ineed-to-sleep]

Don't wanna be a bother but I bumped into ur touchstarved oc stuff and do you have any pointers for drawing in the touchstarved style? I can't really nail it down 100% but you do so... pretty please?

Hii yeah ofc, it's no bother at all no worries! You sent me this at the right time actually jsdhksd I'm in the middle of redesigning Emma right now and I've been taking a close look at the art style again, so it's all fresh in my mind!

Assuming you already have your design ready and have found a pose or composition you like, replicating the art style will probably come down to getting the lineart and shading to look similar.

About the lineart:

Probably goes without saying, but you'll need a pen with the opacity turned off to get the clean, ink-like lines. If you use CSP I recommend the default textured pen, which I think has a similar look, but honestly any pen will do.

The thing you have to look out for the most when doing the lines is the darkest shadows. It's a bit tricky to explain, and I think a lot of it comes with practice, but you have to look for the places where the darkest shadows would be, or where the light could barely reach. Once you spot them, instead of shading them you create a sharp shape and paint them black, like so:

I also recommend varying the thickness of your lines, but not at random. Instead, try to keep lighting in mind while you draw them. You could draw one continuous thin line for something, and then only thicken it where it falls away from the light, or where it'd create an occlusion, or wherever you want a shape to stand out from another. A thick line will essentially either "push back" or separate things in space, while a thin line will pull it forward or make things look like they're closer together.

You can also exaggerate the shadows in order to create more contrast. Like in the case of Kuras' sleeves and coat, for example- you could argue that some bounce light could still get in there, but with the shadows exaggerated it creates a really nice, clean shape. You can also separate these shapes from other lines by leaving a small space between them and the lines.

The metal might look a bit different, but it follows the same logic as everything else- your darkest shadows will be pure black. It might look like it has more shadows but that's just because it's more reflective, so the light is usually concentrated on highlight and bounce light areas, so the tones around those areas will be darker.

About the shading:

From what I've noticed, it's all about keeping it subtle and simple. If you color pick the characters, you can see the variation between light and shadow is subtle and not all that contrasting. Most of the contrast is done with colors, not values.

The light source is usually from the top right, characters are pretty well lit, and there's a little bit of a blue backlight from the left that helps them stand out against the backgrounds.

The shading is mostly sharp, cel shading, rarely blended. Wherever there's blending, it's usually subtle or a gradient

They also use gradations to indicate color shifts, like the colors in Leander's coat. You can do this with the gradient tool or an airbrush.

I recommend picking 1 color for light, 1 color for shadow, and maybe 1 inbetween midtone to use sparingly in places where you want a very subtle shadow. You can go more fancy if you're trying to create something that looks more like the game's CGs, but if you're going for the same look as the sprites, it's better to keep it simple.

You can shade manually each part of the character, or you can try using a multiply layer. For multiply, I like shifting the color towards a warm or pinkish tone and keeping it light and desaturated to get a similar look as the sprites.

Highlights are used very sparingly, only on a few places like the nose, mouth, eyes, and a few on the hair. Maybe occasionally somewhere else, but only if necessary, like in the case of very reflective materials like metal, gold, glass and leather.

The characters also usually have subtle textures on their clothes, and you can quickly create something similar by using a textured brush and an overlay or multiply mode. Like so:

It's subtle, but makes a difference in my opinion! You can try this with a lot of different textured brushes to get the exact look you're going for.

That's all I could think of right now! If you have any questions or wanna know anything specific I didn't mention here, let me know!

[hazymoonlinh]

Could you pls make a Part 2 of your recent Mydei fic pls?

- 🌹 Anon

“A scientific method of falling in love.” — Part 2

Save me…I have to go to school again soon…

(Mydei x Researcher!Reader | Soulmate AU — Continuation)

Amphoreus was chaos incarnate.

At least, that’s what she thought the moment Mydei dragged—no, retrieved—her from the sterile halls of Herta’s Space Station to this blazing, unpredictable world. Gone were the cool, metallic walls and quiet hums of data processors. Here, the very ground pulsed with heat, ancient structures carved from white stone rising like the spines of some slumbering beast. The air was thick, charged with an energy that felt both sacred and volatile.

And standing at the center of it all, with that insufferably smug grin, was Mydei.

“Welcome to Amphoreus,” he announced, arms outstretched as if unveiling a masterpiece. “Not actually my domain. But, a world carved by strife, where the strong thrive and the weak learn their place.”

She blinked, unimpressed. “…It’s hot.”

Mydei’s grin faltered for a split second before he leaned in, his sharp, lion-like eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re hot.”

She didn’t even flinch. “That’s a biological response to the temperature.”

He exhaled through his nose, both irritated and intrigued. How was she this unaffected? Soulmates were supposed to feel something—some undeniable pull, some sense of belonging. But here she was, treating him like an experiment under a microscope.

“Well,” he said, straightening up, “you’ll warm up to me eventually.”

“…Because of the heat?”

Mydei groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “No. Because I’m irresistible.”

She merely adjusted her data pad, tapping away as if he weren’t even there.

Day 1 — The “Trial Run” Begins

Mydei’s version of a “trial run” consisted of throwing her into the most ridiculous situations.

“You need to observe me in my natural environment,” he insisted, dragging her to an fighting pit filled with roaring crowds and warriors twice her size.

She stood there, arms crossed, as Mydei leapt into the arena, his fists wrapped in crimson crystal, radiating power with every blow. The crowd chanted his name, his movements fluid and precise—a deadly dance of strength and skill.

After effortlessly defeating his opponent, he turned to her, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his skin, and grinned. “Impressed yet?”

She glanced down at her data pad. “Your footwork could be optimized by shifting your center of gravity two degrees to the left. Otherwise, predictable.”

Mydei’s eye twitched. “Predictable?”

She nodded. “I could simulate the same outcome with 87% accuracy.”

He jumped out of the ring, storming toward her. “Oh yeah? How about I simulate carrying you again?”

She stepped back, unfazed. “Physical threats aren’t persuasive.”

Mydei leaned in, his grin sharp. “Not a threat. A promise.”

Day 3 — The Cracks Appear

Despite his frustration, Mydei couldn’t help but notice the small changes.

She’d stopped calling their bond “irrelevant.” She still analyzed everything, sure—but there were moments when she’d pause, her gaze lingering on him just a little too long. Like when he laughed—really laughed—after she unintentionally made a joke without realizing it.

Or the time he shielded her from an unexpected explosion during a mission, his arm wrapping around her instinctively. She didn’t push him away. She just… stared.

“Why did you do that?” she asked quietly afterward.

��Because you’re mine,” he replied without hesitation.

She didn’t argue.

Day 5 — The Breaking Point

They stood atop one of Amphoreus’s highest cliffs, the horizon bathed in shades of crimson and gold as the twin suns dipped below the jagged landscape. The wind was fierce, whipping through Mydei’s wild hair and tugging at her pristine uniform.

She was silent, staring out at the view. Mydei watched her, his heart—yes, heart—thundering in his chest.

“Do you still think fate is irrelevant?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t answer.

He stepped closer, his voice softer this time. “Tell me the truth.”

Finally, she turned to him, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t the cold, dismissive response he expected. It was… honest. Vulnerable.

Mydei reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, warm against her cool skin. “You don’t have to know.” His voice was low, rough around the edges. “You just have to feel it.”

She stared at him, and for once, there was no data pad between them. No calculations. No logic. Just… them.

And then, in the quiet space between words, she whispered, “I think I do.”

Mydei didn’t grin this time. He just closed the distance, his forehead resting against hers, a rare softness in his fierce gaze.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “No more running.”

This time, she didn’t argue.

(This idea is really nice)

[swanscript]

in which you're aegon's legally-wedded and never-bedded wife - who cares so little for him that even he's noticed.

It is the hour of the bat, deep into the velvety night, and you'd had it all planned out. Your sheets are fresh. You've bathed in lavender scented water, and spent half the day drying your hair carefully by the fireside so it won't become ruffled. You've just slipped on a rose-coloured robe of the finest Dornish silk, and wriggled delightedly into bed when it happens.

The door to your bedchambers explodes open, and Aegon staggers in, roaring a drunken sea shanty.

Oh, how you hate men.

"So hey, the bonny sailors go

To Sothoryos with a rising 'ho'!"

"Aegon," you start, pushing yourself up on your pillows with the air of someone explaining something to a very stupid child. "It's late. I'm tired."

Aegon stops dead when he sees you, sitting prettily in his bed with your arms folded in bemusement. You don't think he expected to see you here. You often sleep in a different room, and when sharing his bedchambers you make it a point to keep him firmly on the other side of the mattress.

Aegon and you both know the castle staff whispers rumours of your strange and sex-less relationship. You don't care.

Aegon might, but you've decided not to care about him either. He's aware of your cold indifference - which is why he's so surprised to see you here.

"....well," he says, swaying where he stands. "If it isn't...my frigid lady-wife. Here to ice me out again?"

You don't rise to the bait. "I'm here to sleep. You're welcome to do the same."

"Oh, I'm welcome, am I? Welcome in my own bed?" Aegon hiccoughs, slowly undoing the clasps on his velvet jerkin. He lets it thud to the floor (you can bet a hundred gold dragons he'll trip over it first thing tomorrow) and begins to traipse your way. "Am I permitted to finally lay a finger on my lawful wife, or will she only let me hold her hand for appearance's sake at banquets?"

Hackles rising, you bite back at once. "Am I permitted to have a husband who doesn't fuck a different whore every night? Who doesn't reek of of alcohol? Am I permitted to not be abandoned each day for taverns and brothels? Am I permitted to sleep or must I take your leave for that too, lord-husband?"

If Aegon were sober, he might have a scalding remark in response. But the ale has filled his mind with mush, and all he can do is scowl and sulk. It doesn't please you to see him so miserable. Your heart isn't in the fight either.

Your husband thuds onto the bed with a heavy sigh, narrowly missing squashing you.

"...help me with the clasp then, if nothing else," he mutters, pointing at his bejeweled belt buckle.

Sighing, you concede, reaching forward and undoing the cool metal. It clicks apart under your deft hand, and you steal a glance up at your supposed husband.

Months of marriage, and the times when you've ever really looked at him are few and far in between. After a disasterous bedding ceremony and so many days of neglect, the two of you have learnt to not acknowledge each other's presence. As a result, Aegon's face never fails to stand out as unique to you.

Soft cloud of wispy silver hair. Eyes of pale amethyst. The classic Targaryen look - striking colour palette, ghostly shades of old Valayria. The hint of feminine features from his mother softens him. He looks lost now, his pouty mouth softly sagging with defeat. A little verbal joust with you has leeched all the revelry out of him. Right, now, soundly beaten as he is, Aegon is difficult to despise.

You tug the belt out of its loops and he mutters his slurred gratitudes.

"Can you do the rest on your own?"

He grunts in affirmative. You retreat back to your side. Both of you feel the invisible wall being drawn up between once more.

You know, when you really think about it, you suppose Aegon is a handsome man. When he's not drunk. Or bothering you just before you sleep with sappy, obnoxious questions.

"Do you love me?"

You stop in the middle of adjusting your coverlet. "What?"

Aegon is looking at you with not a hint of a joke in his eyes. He repeats the impossible possibility. "Do you love me?"

In daylight, you would have sneered at his question and swept off in a swirl of silk skirts to resume your royal day. Now, with moonshine softening the need for sharp exteriors, you decide to humour his question. No one is around to use your words against you, at least. You feel your guard lift an inch.

"Love you?" you ponder, leaning back against your richly embroidered pillows. "...I think I would be...distressed, if you died. But love you- I don't even like you." You glance his way, contemplating. "Yet."

Aegon looks at you with doubtful lilac eyes. "So there's hope?"

"Don't be too optimistic."

His face, already miserable with the weight of alcohol and fractured familial relationships, turns slightly more sour. You're not foolish. Aegon's agonies don't have much to do with you. His mother, hell-bent on making him king, and his brother, hell-bent on undermining and embarrassing him at every opportunity are his chief worries. You've never seeked to hurt him politically. But you've always remained distant, watching him carefully like a narrow-eyed cat and hissing if he gets too close. There's only so much your pride can allow after being man-handled into a strategic marriage so roughly.

But right now, weak and addled as he is, you can afford some kindness.

"Don't look so down, Aegon," you say softly. "Perhaps I'm Dorne. Eternally un-won by Targaryens."

The gentleness works - Aegon unticks like a clam and lets words come pouring out.

"I keep thinking... really feeling as though you would prefer my brother Aemond over me. Or that he would like you, at the very least. And that grasping bastard, Jacaerys." A flash of anger splits Aegon's face. "I see how he moons over you across the dinner table. Like he'd like you lay you out on his dinner plate and take bites out your skin. Take what's mine. My wife, by law if not by her own will. Mine. My skin. My soft, soft skin. I should kill him. Cunt."

Weak, you think, watching his messy torrent of emotions. Your father would have flayed you living for such risky honesty in a world so tightly controlled by reputation. Always say less than necessary. Never trust anyone, ever.

As it is, you carefully file this new information away in your head. Aemond desiring you in a marriage seems in line with his ambitious nature - your family's legendary wealth would serve him well. You doubt he cares for you as a person.

And Jacaerys.... you've seen him ogling at you a couple of times when you're really dressed to the nines, but you doubt it's anything worth thinking about. Men have always watched you in that hungry way. You have genetics to thank for that, nothing more. It doesn't aid you, ultimately.

Aegon is still muttering away darkly. "I should kill him. Cut off his riding chains so he goes screaming into the sea the next time he mounts his dragon. I think that'll fix him-"

"Don't think," you interrupt, rolling your eyes. "You're not particularly excellent at it, from what I've heard. I heard you thought Sir Arryk was a particularly buxom woman from behind."

Aegon sniffs. "An engraved band in his hair. What was he prettying up for, the flagstones in the corridors? I don't fancy a preening peacock guarding me."

"See, Aegon, you're lying again. And it's unneeded and strange. You were only drunk and made a wine-swayed misjudgement," you say wearily. "And you don't think he's a peacock. You think you're a peacock. You've been matching your socks with your shoes since the day I knew you."

Aegon laughs, soft and bitter.

"If you know me so well, why do you pretend your dislike is only from distance? ...you hate me because you know me. You've always...always hated me."

In sulking speech, Aegon has slowly tipped in your direction, his head inches from yours. He's too drunk and too non-commital to rearrange himself. You allow his hair to touch your silk sleeve. Pink fabric, his ash white hair fanning across it.

Then, without even really thinking or caring, you sigh and pull him onto your chest to hold him there like a babe.

"I've already said, I don't hate you."

Aegon is too drunk to jab or pull back. He lays there. You run fingers through his hair, smoothening the scattered strands into place, sorting his thoughts into neat furrows. Sleepy tears spread a wet spot onto your robe. You allow it, even through fuzzled bafflement at such weakness. What does he want, to suck on your teat? He's older than you, yet you're centuries harder. Aegon - too soft a boy for his over-reaching mother - falls asleep in barely sated turmoil, on your chest like a barely grown child.

You allow it.

[cypressmoons]

wriothesley is observant.

some may attribute his attentiveness to the nature of his job, having to keep an eye on the antics of the prisoners to maintain the fortress’ order.

but if you ask him, he’ll only dismiss it as a habit, a necessity, something he barely thinks about but always finds himself doing anyway. whether it’s remembering the name of a prisoner’s daughter, or avoiding that one squeaky floorboard in the hallway outside the infirmary, he pays no mind to the how behind his knowledge, but rather the consequences of them.

perhaps it really is a habit from his job. but what he doesn’t acknowledge is that he only pays attention when he cares. he had personally escorted the prisoner in question to the fortress, his daughter too young to understand why her father is going away for a long time. despite the complete lack of sympathy towards the prisoner - he did that to himself, really, wriothesley feels a duty to ensure the small child still holds a fond image of her father, being escorted away by two nicely dressed men rather than by a horde of mechanical gardes. he cares for the child, her name a reminder to uphold the law and justice he swore his life to.

he remembers the creaky floorboard not to avoid the unpleasant sound, but rather because sigewinne once mentioned that the high pitched squeal of metal scratching against metal was especially harsh on her ears. he can’t say to the other people entering and leaving the infirmary, but for as long as the maintenance request paper remains buried under the mountain of other things needing fixing, he will make sure to avoid stepping on it, even if he is only one of a hundred people passing the infirmary that day.

and to you, oh how he cares for you.

he remembers the exact shade of your eyes when you met him by the fountain of luciene, specks of gold highlighting your pupils in the bright sunlight. he remembers the scent of your hair when he pulls you into an embrace for the first time, not quite flowery but so sweet that he can smell it in his dreams. he remembers the ring you wore on your left index finger when he held your hand, a thin silver band with a small moon-shaped crystal, gleaming under the sunlight that once illuminated every colour in your eyes.

you prefer the petits pains au chocolat over the mille feuilles because you love the slight bitterness of the dark chocolate on your tongue. your favourite beverage from café lucèrne is a latte with extra foam, and more than once he has kissed away the bubbles that cling to your lips after that first delightful sip. you dislike foods of different flavours touching each other in your plate, absolutely despise touching door handles and elevator buttons, and are especially fond of the colour sarcoline.

he savours the taste of your lips, between his own and tasting like honey; the feel of your hair sliding through his fingertips, silky and soft like the clearest spring water. he memorizes the shape of your skin against his palms, every little breath and hum, the contour of your body fitting so perfectly with his own.

he pays no extra attention to the whys, but somehow always ends up knowing exactly what you want without ever having to ask you. when he finally returns to the surface after days spent underwater, he always makes sure to grab some freshly baked pains au chocolat from the bakery, the butter seeping through and leaving oil blots on the brown paper bags. the new ribbon he buys for your hair is a soft ivory yellow, almost colour matched from the walls of your home and the fabric of your favourite dress.

and when he sees your smile that can brighten the entire underwater fortress and chase away the storm clouds, he knows he would spend a thousand lifetimes by your side until he memorizes each and every part of you.

© cypressmoons 2023, do not copy, steal, repost, or translate.

masterlist | inbox

[transflame]

I really love your color scheme! (And literally everything else) How did decide on those colors?

It took me a while to do this. . . I hope this gave some insight~ Ended up yapping a lot. . . If you cant read my handwriting. . uhh I guess I'll type it here for you: Thank you!! TF is usually a very instinctive drawer, but I'll try to explain. . Although you'll probably realize the simplicity~ The hair was REDDER back then, but all the glow end up making it look pinkish (pink is just light red). . . Still, I really like to push the hue differences and thats the result~ There's no glow right now though. . . I also like to make harmonious color scheme and I love brown. . It's essentially dark muted RED And I have to add gold. . . I LOVE GOLD TRIMS The rest was easy as I now have a reference: The collar had to be light and muted because its in the middle of all things saturated and dark I needed a cooler element on an otherwise very warm design. So the dark, muted, purple or blue metal helps balance things out. (Choker top tier) I just like to shade whites in a flashy, saturated kinda way~ (lol) I don't need to explain my eyelashes right? (I just like red eyeliners but this way felt more fitting) Legs are just cracking lava. . The feet flame IS more purple cause I wanted things to be darker below. . I hope this is satisfactory. I dont actually use a palette, I just eyeball all my colors, so it's not always exact, but they're close enough.

[verbenaa]

to eden | chapter ten

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: Astarion/F! Tav 𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔: E 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 7.1k 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: minor violence

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: Astarion throws the knife aside, uncaring where it scatters itself as it clangs against stone with a sharp sound, before he cups her paling face within his palms. 

“Rin!” It will do no good yelling in her face when she’s very much not conscious as she lays still on the ground; but he can’t seem to help it, running his thumb over her cheek as something inside him snaps with a painful twist.

It’s a very strange feeling, the one bubbling up in his chest and throat to pierce his unbeating heart through, only carnage left in its wake. 

A part of him, one long forgotten about and buried deep into the forsaken corners of his mind, recognizes it for what it is. 

Fear.

𝒶/𝓃: hello again! apologies it's taken me so long to get this out. I ended up having to split this chapter into 2 due to the length, so here is the first part! hopefully the other half (which will now be ch 11) won't take nearly as long since it's about 75% done. love you all sm and let me know what you think in the comments! kisses xoxoxo

read on ao3 | masterlist

With blurring vision, Rin can see Karlach fell the last of them from her position on the ground as blood leaks out of her at a rate that she feels should probably be alarming, though she can’t quite find the energy to be all that concerned about it at the moment.

In hindsight, it was perhaps not the brightest idea she’s ever had to send herself leaping off a rock and into a horde of enemies in an attempt to distract them from the large, whirling portal that Halsin had disappeared into.

It was probably a very stupid idea.

It worked rather well in the end, though, so Rin will consider it a success in the long run; provided she doesn’t bleed to death on the cold, hard ground before they can celebrate their victory.

But fuck, if the consequences of her actions didn’t hurt.

This was far from Rin’s first time to be stabbed—that honor went to when she was a gawky and awkward teenager, hair chopped short and dressed in overlarge clothing; and had found herself cornered in an alleyway following a foiled escape attempt after snatching several gold pieces off a tavern tabletop. 

She had earned herself a small, pocket-sized knife to the side, slid neatly between two of her ribs. The blade had been barely longer than her fingers, the metal of it brittle and cheap; and so while it had certainly hurt she can’t say it really compared to the one she’s presently dealing with.

It was a good thing, in Rin’s opinion, that she couldn’t move. 

Because if she were able to look down and see the size of the dagger sticking out of her chest, she fears it might make the pain even worse. Some things were simply better not to know, and she’s convinced this has to be one of them.

She had been able to feel it as the blade had spiked through her leather armor before piercing into her skin; pain erupting in her chest and spreading through every inch of her body, so agonizing she could barely take a breath as she had staggered back.

She managed one last spell, a shockingly well-executed thunderwave towards a group of shades off to her side—she’ll need to be thanking Gale for helping her perfect her technique on that one, she reminds herself off-handedly—before she had sank to her knees and eventually down onto the bloody dirt. 

She doubts anyone even noticed her defeat in the chaos of it all, but surely they’ll notice soon. They have to, don’t they? Wasn’t she their leader, or whatever it was they liked to call her?

In the near distance, she recognizes the booming of Halsin’s voice as it resonates through the air and though she can’t focus on his words she can make out the vague sentiment that it was done and that he had succeeded in his mission. 

Rin manages a sigh of relief, the motion inordinately painful in this position. If she had more strength she would roll herself over or perhaps even call out for help, but that seemed like an awful lot of effort at a time like this.

Where was Shadowheart, anyway? She desperately needed the cleric and her healing touch, in the event she’s even closer to death than previously assumed, a fact that was looking more and more likely by the minute.

And what a truly awful place to die this would be, so dark and with nary a beam of sunlight to be found. Perhaps her companions would give her a nice burial somewhere, at least, were she to perish in the next few minutes. 

At the pretend funeral Rin oversees in her mind, she imagines a lovely hillside with wildflowers of all colors blowing on a gentle breeze—but there aren’t any of those nearby thanks to the curse.

Utterly depressing. 

She sighs again, sending another concerning stab of pain through her form, hands gripping on nothing but air as she suffers through it with a quiet, pained whimper.

Karlach, at least, would probably cry at her funeral; she was wonderfully soft-hearted like that. Gale, too, seemed like the sobbing type; the ones who always go all teary-eyed at weddings and funerals and baby celebrations. 

Astarion would—well, actually, she doesn’t want to think about what he would do at her pretend funeral. She hopes he would mourn her in some way, but in the end he’s already lost plenty and she’s just another person and someone he hasn’t even know that long on top of that and— 

An errant thought hits her, and oh, poor Astarion. Who else would he drink from were she to perish here? She’s certain none of their current companions would willingly offer up their necks (or any other parts, for that matter) to him.

There’s a quick pattering against the earth that reverberates against her head where it lays on the trampled and singed pine needles—footsteps, she realizes a bit too slowly for her liking—and it’s as if she’d summoned him with her thoughts as a familiar set of gloved hands turn her over with less finesse than she would expect from the rogue. 

Rin bites back a sob at the motion as she finds herself settling in Astarion’s hold, her head tucked into the curve of his arm and the elf’s features carefully blank, though there’s something that looks curiously like panic sparking across his claret gaze as his eyes meet her own.

“Hardly the place to be on your back, darling,” He manages as his eyes hone in on her newest accessory, unfortunately still attached to her. Or inside her, more accurately. 

Astarion’s voice is surprisingly smooth and soothing despite the increasingly frantic look in his eyes as they dart back and forth between her face and the dagger currently embedded deep in between the leather scales of her armor.

Rin likes the sound of it, she decides. He should speak to her in such a way more often, the dulcet tone of his words nothing short of lovely.

He could probably lull her to sleep if he were to keep talking, and she vaguely considers the idea. Astarion seemed to be decidedly opposed to the idea of them resting together in any other way, but maybe he’d allow it while she’s on her potential deathbed.

A pity that it had to be that way, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, could they?  

“Apologies,” Rin winces as she speaks, another wave of pain cascading through her. “I shall try to die closer to your bedroll next time around.”

Astarion tsks, the sound of it wonderfully familiar and a hazy smile settles on her lips as she lets her lashes slowly drift shut, only for a moment.

“Oh, I think there’s life in you yet. You’re far too pretty to die, dearest.”

She’d blush if her blood weren’t busy elsewhere, namely flowing out from her chest.

Distantly, Rin notices that his words aren’t quite so soothing this time around, something that sounds an awful lot like concern tightening around the edges of them; but it’s good enough for her and will do just fine as the darkness behind her eyes begins to beckon with a siren song that she’s unsure she can resist for much longer.

She’s bleeding all over Astarion, and not in the way she knows he would prefer; the bright ruby of her blood falling in a steady stream from where the knife is buried deep in the skin below her collar, hilted into the soft flesh of her breast and mere inches from her blessedly still-beating heart.

Gods, she must look like a mess.

Rin settles further into the darkness as she finds the strength to turn her head towards Astarion’s chest, nose bumping the darkly spun armor he wears (and fits him rather beautifully, she thinks) as she takes a shuddering breath, the sound wet and heavy.

Strange, she didn’t think breathing was supposed to make that noise.

“No, no. No sleeping,” Astarion says sharply despite what she thinks must be his thumb running up and down her armor where he holds her, his touch calming even through all the layers between them. “You can rest later, but now’s not the time.”  

But it was so tempting, what does he expect her to do? There’s a knife in her chest, her head feels funny, and he’s holding her so delicately in his arms. Going to sleep was the only logical solution at a time like this.

There’s more pounding of what Rin assumes must be footsteps and she somehow manages to catch pieces of Shadowheart and Halsin’s conversation from afar, their voices sounding far more distressed than they should be following success. 

Not a great sign, all things considered.

“Hey Soldier, you doing alright?” Karlach bends down from several paces away, trying to get a good look at her as heat still steams off of her from the battle, sweat and blood beaded upon her fiery skin in equal measure before directing her words towards Astarion. “She’s not kicked the bucket yet, has she?”

“Still here. Sorry to disappoint.” She manages a weak smile Karlach’s way as she forces her heavy, tired eyes to open. “However, I think I could do with some healing.”

Karlach smiles at her and Rin is suddenly dizzy despite not being in motion, inky black clinging to the edges of her vision as she blinks slowly in an attempt to clear the troublesome vignette encroaching upon her, its presence yet another decidedly bad sign of the state of her health.

Rin isn’t exactly sure whether its minutes or seconds that pass as she lays in Astarion’s arms, something strange in his gaze as he looks at her, but finally she feels the vibration of a final set of feet making their way towards her. 

She hears Shadowheart before she ever sees the cleric, her clear voice ringing out from beside Rin as she appears within her field of vision while she still lays tucked into Astarion’s chest. “Stay still so I can get a look at you.”

“How lucky for you that I can barely move,” Rin muses. 

The cleric only responds to her with a familiar, wry look laced with a touch of warmth before turning her attention to meet Astarion’s hard gaze, his thumb still brushing in sweeps across her arm.

“We’ve got to get the blade out before we can heal her.” Rin isn’t quite sure why Shadowheart is addressing Astarion and not her, the injured person, but she’s not in the mood to entertain the reason. “And fast. She’s losing a lot of blood.”

“Oh, you don’t say?” Astarion scoffs with a baleful roll of his eyes, tugging her infinitesimally closer to him and Rin doesn’t even mind the lance of pain because she realizes she can still smell him over the scent of battle—rosemary and brandy and earthy citrus far preferable to the fire and acrid brimstone of battle. “Did Shar herself teach you such sagely medical advice?”

“At least I have medical advice to give. Vampires aren’t known for their healing prowess last time I checked.” Shadowheart cuts an imperious look Astarion’s way, chin raised.

“Can someone please just do me the honor of removing it, then?” Rin interrupts with a heaving sigh, the effort required peculiarly difficult.

There’s a beat of silence that has her contemplating the merits of falling asleep again, and she’s fairly certain she’s willing to risk the ire of her companions for a cozy little nap at this point.

“Astarion, your hands are likely the steadiest. Can you remove it without doing extra damage?” Shadowheart queries, her tone far more serious now.

“Of course I can,” He snaps in reply before he redirects his glance back to Rin’s face, expression softening. “I’ll be gentle. Or as much as I can be.”

She would hope he would be.

Carefully, Astarion shifts her back onto the ground and Rin mourns the loss of his arms, and it’s a very unfair exchange in her opinion—she’d much rather die in the comfort of his hold than on the impersonal chill of the ground.

She whimpers when his fingers meet the handle protruding from her chest, the slight motion managing to jostle it, sending another cascade of agony through her.

“Ready, darling?” His grip on the dagger is sure as he swallows, unease swirling in his eyes as they meet her own. A terrific sign of her fate, on all accounts. “On the count of five.”

Rin manages a nod as she stares up at him with clouded, hazy eyes that she doesn’t realize only serve to alarm him even more before speaking softly, tasting blood on the syllables as they weakly leave her lips. “I trust you.”

He looks as though she’s gutted him with her words as his brow creases and eyes widen as if stricken, which is rather ironic considering she’s the one with a knife inside her and he is practically free of any sort of wounds aside from a bloodied lip and a darkened eye as far as she can tell, still just as handsome as ever.

“One, two, three–” Astarion takes a deep breath and pulls, and the last thing Rin remembers before darkness overtakes her is the look of genuine apology on Astarion’s face as a searing pain erupts in her chest, her very last thought that he’s a downright liar for not waiting until he reached the number five.

✧· · ─── ·✧· ─── · ·✧

The first thing Astarion feels when Rin loses consciousness, the handle of the dagger that had just been buried in her chest now enclosed within his palm, is sheer, illogical panic.

It rings in his ears and sets his chest aflame, and if it weren’t for his terror that she was now dead and that he was the one who had accidentally killed her in his attempt to save her life instead, he would be concerned that something was awfully and horribly wrong with him instead.

Astarion himself was no stranger to pain or injury, having bled enough over the centuries to probably fill several fountains worth of his blood; and while her injury was undoubtedly quite pressing in the nature of its severity, the blade had thankfully avoided the important bits when it had imbedded itself into her skin.

If it hadn’t, she would have already been dead by the time he had reached her. 

But the sight of it, the blood pouring from the wound in rather copious amounts, the look of agony etched across her features, and then her eyes falling shut and body going lax—it was all very dramatic of her. 

A bard, indeed, if that performance was anything to go by.

Astarion throws the knife aside, uncaring where it scatters itself as it clangs against stone with a sharp sound, before he cups her paling face within his palms. 

“Rin!” It will do no good yelling in her face when she’s very much not conscious as she lays still on the ground; but he can’t seem to help it, running his thumb over her cheek as something inside him snaps with a painful twist.

It’s a very strange feeling, the one bubbling up in his chest and throat to pierce his unbeating heart through, only carnage left in its wake. 

A part of him, one long forgotten about and buried deep into the forsaken corners of his mind, recognizes it for what it is. 

Fear. 

Astarion has known fear, of course. 

He’s spent so many years afraid, alone, and hurting—he still vividly remembers the potent fear of death as it had loomed over him and then struck all those decades ago, only for him to awaken six feet underground with a hunger he’d never known the likes of before in the pit of his stomach as he had clawed his way to what he thought was to be his freedom.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

He remembers each and every moment of fear instilled in him by Cazador with an unfortunate, visceral clarity; every trembling ounce of it as he had waited for a punishment to be handed down, for the door to slam in his face to lock him away for Gods knew how long, for whatever other horror had been divined up for him—all of them perfectly designed to break body and soul and spirit.

But he’s not quite sure he’s ever felt fear like this for someone else before.

Astarion immediately hates the feeling with every fiber of his being.

“What’s happened to her?!” He demands at Shadowheart and there’s something frantic that shakes in his voice, the sound of which he’s wholly unfamiliar with as his eyes fixate on Rin’s face, looking as though she had simply fallen into a deep sleep, though the pained furrow of her brow tells a different story.

He hates that he hates the sight of it as his thumb continues to brush foolishly across her now pale cheeks, the freckles dotting her skin in familiar clusters standing out against the pallor of her face, as if the motion would coax her back awake and ease the pain causing it somehow.

“She just fainted, Astarion.” The cleric sends him a look that he does not appreciate, and he scowls back at her in response. “She’ll be fine so long as you let me focus.”

Karlach takes a step closer behind him, the heat emanating off of her hitting him like a wave. “Aw, did she pass out? Poor Rin.” 

Normally, he wouldn’t mind the warmth from the infernal engine that churns inside her chest, but now all it does is make the cold sweat that’s beading on his skin that much more noticeable, sending an unshakable chill through him instead.

“Her pain tolerance leaves much to be desired, it seems,” Shadowheart drawls before she sighs, raising her hands in front of her and hovering them over Rin’s increasingly still body.

Too still for his liking, her chest moving up and down with only the slowest of motions. Much longer, and it would simply stop moving altogether. 

Astarion ignores the way his throat tightens at the thought, unable to swallow down the rampant terror surging through his chest.

“Can you just heal her already? Insult her to her face when she’s awake.” 

“I’m getting to it.” Shadowheart cuts a glare towards Astarion, though it doesn’t have half the bite the Sharran thinks it does. 

“Te Curo.”

Slowly, waves of glowing blue begin to emanate from Shadowheart’s palms, enveloping Rin in a familiar, soft effervescence and Astarion can imagine the feeling of it—a cooling sensation followed by the telltale itch of skin reknitting itself, the feeling vaguely uncomfortable and slightly sickening.

He’s been healed enough times to know that Shadowheart’s spell should be enough to close the wound, but the strange panic slicing at his insides seems intent to not let up despite the spell’s conclusion, that icy cerulean haze slowly evaporating from the air like the clearing of mist.

“We need to get her out of this armor, I want to make sure the wound healed fully. Karlach, since we’re so close, can you carry her back to camp?” Shadowheart queries with a glance up.

For once, Astarion agrees with the cleric though he’s not about to admit it, and only gives out a murmured affirmation in response as he counts the breaths moving Rin’s chest.

The tiefling walks up behind him and he begrudgingly stands to move out of the way for her to take his place, and he once again hates the feeling that resonates through him at having to leave her side. 

How tiring this all was beginning to be.

“Up ya go,” Karlach gathers her up as carefully as she can, and Rin looks pitifully small and slight in Karlach’s hold. “Ooh, light as a feather, isn’t she?”

“It’s because her head is mostly empty,” Astarion edges out. “It’s a wonder the worm even has anywhere to hide itself in that brain of hers.”

If she had a brain, she certainly hadn’t used it today. Her logic—provided there even was any at work—was infuriating, and anger threatens to intercede over the slowly lessening grip of fear that had taken ahold of him. 

He considers allowing it. 

Anger was a much more palatable emotion, after all. One that he understands. 

Being angry was comfortable, easy; something that he knows all too well how to wear like an armor that he can summon up at will. He doesn’t like the way this newfound fear has settled over him, clawing up his throat to choke him and paralyze his heart even though it no longer beats.

Anger would be much preferred, in the end. 

But the anger doesn’t yet come, not really—or at least not in the way he would expect.

He can feel it burning there, a slow simmer in the depths of his chest at the sheer stupidity, the idiocy of her forgetting that she was very much mortal and therefore quite liable to injury; but a foreign sort of relief intercedes over it, taking control of and transforming his anger into something else that he doesn’t quite understand or yet have a name for as he keeps his gaze trained upon where Rin rests near motionless in Karlach’s arms. 

She might not be conscious, but she was very much alive.

And he’s damned to the hells and back for caring about that fact.

Part of him—the irritating part that seemed to be upset, of all things—wishes he were the one holding her instead.

But at the very least, out of everyone to get to carry her, Karlach was the next best option so Astarion shall allow it as he walks on beside them, his eyes on the lookout for any trouble heading their way despite the fact that they’d already walked back into the shimmering dome of Selûne’s light.

They’re bustling into Rin’s tent within minutes, Karlach settling her onto a still-unmade bedroll, the threadbare blanket kicked into a messy heap at the foot of it, yet to be pulled back up for the day.

“Right then,” Shadowheart says in a no-nonsense tone as she steps inside, briefly glancing around the tent before kneeling beside Rin’s still sleeping form. “Armor off.” 

They set to work and no one mentions Astarion’s ease at undoing her armor or the way his now-ungloved fingers know exactly where the next buckle or tie is before discarding it to the side with practiced finesse. 

Her shirt’s a bloody mess when they finally peel the scaled leathers and ruined gambeson off her form, now stained the deep, dark crimson of her own blood down the front in a ghastly splash, tainting the simple embroidery along the hem.

“Off with it.” Shadowheart gestures with a nod of her chin towards Astarion. “The shirt, I mean.” 

“You want me to take off her shirt?” He narrows his eyes at her before lowering his gaze back down to the garment in question.

“Well, you certainly have the most practice at getting her out of her clothes, do you not?” 

Astarion scoffs and rolls his eyes, but can’t exactly refute the fact. 

Nor would he want to. 

“Why, is that jealousy I detect in your voice, Shadowheart?”

It’s not escaped his knowledge that some of their companions had made their own invitations to her once upon a time—she herself had said so before she had chosen him, after all—and he can’t help the slight hint of gloating in his voice as he jeers at the cleric. 

He’d never questioned Rin as to who had, exactly, professed their interest; but he knows how they all look at her. The sight of it has certainly annoyed him enough the past few weeks.

“You’re hearing things,” Shadowheart responds sharply as she glares his way. “Now, are you doing it or am I?”

“Oh, I’ll do it,” He grumbles in defeat, though he’s not certain there was ever any sort of actual debate on his answer. 

As if he’d let anyone else undress her under his watch. Even if it was only for very valid medical reasons. 

The tunic was undeniably wet with blood, sticking to her skin as it begins to dry. His eyes flit up to Rin’s face, brow blissfully uncreased as she still sleeps on, wholly unaware of his apparent inner turmoil. 

The sight of it and the knowledge that she’s perhaps no longer in much pain sends a wave of relief through him that he didn’t realize he needed, and it’s yet another strange feeling that he’s not used to.

It’s been a long, long time since he’s even bothered to consider someone else’s well-being, and he’s unsure what to make of it. 

Caring in such a manner is crossing a line he’s had drawn for centuries, and he fears once it’s been stepped across, there will be no turning back.

“Can’t you just…rip it off her? Like they do in the books?” Karlach queries from beside him, arms crossed in front of her chest as she sways from foot to foot, her non-broken horn mere inches from snagging on the canopy.

“I would have thought that was in your particular skill set, Astarion.” Shadowheart agrees, quite unhelpfully in Astarion’s opinion, from beside him.

He was very capable of tearing off clothes when inclined to do so, thank you very much.

“Even if it is—” Astarion cuts a sharp look towards Shadowheart before continuing. “She’d burn me alive if I ripped her shirt. Without her permission, at least.” 

He knows he doesn’t need to add on the last part, but it felt necessary in order to preserve his image as a rakish, no good sort of man. Which he most definitely is, of course.

Astarion remembers the last time she threatened to burn down his tent (and him with it), and he has no intention of inciting another threatened ignis from her; or at least not for this,of all things. If he must be threatened in such a manner again, he’d rather it be for a much more enticing and scandalous reason, not because he was trying to do something as tedious as saving her damned life.

“Can you not just peek underneath it? Why must it be taken all the way off?” He demands, unable to pinpoint why, exactly, he’s so bothered by this.

It was just a shirt. And she was just another person, in the end.  

He’s lost count of how many times he’s undressed others and undressed her—the contours of her form an image he could envision in his mind and conjure the feeling of against his fingers without a second thought.

He could do it easily. In seconds, probably, even with all the blood sticking to her skin.

It would be rather uncomfortable for her to stay in her tunic like that. He can imagine the stiffness of it, knows the feeling all too well firsthand, and he shifts uncomfortably with a frown as he stares at her.

“Fine,” He relents with a groan while Karlach just watches on amused, though he doesn’t understand what she seems to find so humorous about this entire debacle. 

Astarion suddenly wishes the others weren’t here, that he wasn’t here and being forced to face the fact that she had practically died and that he seems to feel rather strongly about that fact, but he pushes the unhelpful and unnecessary chatter in his mind aside as he works her tunic off of her sleeping form instead.

It takes all of his dexterity to keep his motions soft and smooth, jostling her as little as possible until he’s finally pulled it up and over her head before bringing the fabric up to his face to examine the slash.

A clean cut through the weave and it’s really a wonder she managed to live through the battle at all. He’d have to mend it for her, later on. It wouldn’t take too long and with any luck he could return it before she’d even noticed it was gone in the first place.

The shirt may have been utterly drab and boring to the point of offense, but if he’s not careful, she’ll pick something worse next time around—Gods know the rags they’ve found so far on this journey have been downright awful.

Shadowheart leans in as he stashes the ruined tunic beside him and out of sight from the others, and she lets out a pleased hum as she checks the wound, poking at the reknitted skin with a gentle touch.

There’s a swish of fabric that has Astarion’s head swiveling towards the entrance of the tent, reflexes at the ready and hand reaching for one of the daggers at his side when none other than Gale, of all people, sticks his head inside.

“Is everything alright in here?” The wizard asks in a manner he likely thinks is helpful, when in reality it’s actually just plain irritating, at least in Astarion’s opinion. “Is anyone in need of my expertise?”

The wizard’s gaze peruses the interior of the tent, wandering from object to object as he takes in the space for what Astarion assumes must be the first time. His eyes stop, though, on the form lying in the middle of it all.

Gale of all people would not be seeing Rin’s nearly naked body if he has anything to do with it—and thankfully, he does!—so Astarion shoots a cold glare the wizard’s way as he maneuvers himself in front of her form, shielding her from the pair of wandering eyes.

“Out of here, mate. No one invited you,” Karlach sighs out at the same time as Shadowheart says cooly, “No, Gale. I seem to have things perfectly under control without your help.”

“Well, I didn’t realize this was an invite-only sort of thing. I simply wanted to check in on our fearless leader’s well-being and offer up some of my rather extensive knowledge, if needed. That’s all, nothing more.” He holds up his hands in mock-surrender, the gesture infinitely grating.

“Her well-being is very much already being taken care of,” Astarion snaps, words as cold as ice. “So go find something else to use all of your ‘expertise’ on.”

“And with that—” The wizard sends him a pointed look which Astarion merely glares back in response to. “—I shall go busy myself elsewhere. Good luck and goodbye!” 

The wizard backs out of the tent as quickly as he had peeked his head in, gone in a flash of garish purple to go do whatever the hells it was that he did when not annoying someone else. 

Good riddance.

Shadowheart releases an audible sigh as she moves to stand to her full height post unwanted interruption. “Well, she shall live another day. Once she wakes up, she’ll probably be back to her normal self and serenading us all drunk at the campfire by dinner. My work here is done.”

He looks at Rin’s sleeping face once more—still so dreamy, sweet, and unaware. 

Defenseless as a fawn. Terribly mortal. The definition of an easy target.

“I can—” Astarion starts, back stiff. “I will watch over her.”

The two women turn to him, their expressions both far too intrigued by his words for his tastes.

“Well, then, Astarion.” Shadowheart says, brow raised in skepticism. “We’ll leave her in your…capable hands.”

Karlach affords him a genuine smile as she ambles towards the exit and he swears she lets out a noise that sounds an awful lot like an ‘aw’ to Shadowheart as she ducks between the flaps, though he will not be acknowledging that at this present moment. 

The two of them share a final look—highly unnecessary, in his opinion—as they leave together, and the tent is rather abruptly very empty and very silent, the soft sound of Rin’s breathing the only noise.

He stands frozen, staring at her sleeping form—she looks so much more human in her sleep, so mortal and delicate without her sharp words to act as armor—as a barrage of thoughts hit him all at the same time, warring together against him.

He’s not even sure why he’s still here, why he even volunteered for such a thing, considering she was fine now. 

More than fine, honestly.

She was alive, which is what matters. She doesn’t really need someone to just watch her sleep, for Gods sake.

But he’s compelled to stay by some unknown force that he relents to despite the blaring in his head telling him to leave and get out while he still could. Nothing good could come from being this near to her sleeping form, for who knows what that ever-present traitorous voice will tell him to do. 

Likely something sweet—a sickening thought, as always.

Astarion shifts from foot to foot, unsure of what quite to do with himself. He’s never really been much of a caretaker, so to speak. 

The opposite of one, really. 

But Rin, for all her lack of consciousness, seems settled enough; her lovely face clear of any discomfort despite the speckles of drying blood scattered across her cheek and neck as her chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm. 

With unsure hands, he reaches out and tugs the blanket at her feet, pulling it up until it rests underneath her chin, covering her nakedness and guarding her from the ever-present chill of the curse that hovers around them. 

His bare hand brushes against her neck by accident, her skin soft but still just a touch too chilled and he’s quick to yank it back, flexing his fingers before balling them up into a fist as his stare becomes harder the longer he fixates on her sleeping face.

Astarion, unfortunately, remembers watching her go down in unnervingly stark detail. 

He hadn’t seen her jump off that rock and into the chaos, otherwise he would have done more, done something at the very least, to cover her. 

But he did see it when that dagger hit her, a warning immediately going off in his head as he had noted exactly where the blade had been directed. It was a kill shot, certainly, and frankly he’s surprised that the cultist who threw it had managed such precise aim. 

In his mind, he could still hear the startled gasp that left her lips as the knife had hit and she had fallen to her knees, sending off a final spell before collapsing into the dirt.

It was the least he could do, in the end, to show the cultist what precise aim actually looked like.

An arrow to the throat, perfectly placed to cut through the windpipe, was all it took to down his new number one target and though he unfortunately did not get the opportunity to watch them suffocate—he had more important things to deal with—he knows that at the very least it was an appropriately miserable way to die.

He had feared the worst when he had finally reached her; fully expecting to turn her over and see those vibrant green eyes he liked so much staring blankly ahead, devoid of life, and her chest frozen on her final breath. 

Discovering her still alive, though hurt, was a much better outcome. 

Rin even still possessed the wherewithal to respond to him with some semblance of her usual irreverence and it had taken all of his self-control to not do something rash like profess his relief at the sound of her voice and the life still held within it.

Still, she managed to have the last laugh in the end, those damned words of hers clanging around in his head regardless whether he wishes them to or not.

‘I trust you.’ 

Gods. She may as well have staked him in the heart with that little sentence, for he doesn’t deserve her trust. 

Not after the way he’s been playing her like a fool for weeks and months now—he forgets which it is sometimes, the days and nights of their exploring and killing blending into one another; the only moments that stand out to him those that feature her in the center of them recently, the number of which seem to be increasing by the day and if he’s not careful she will be the only thing on his mind, her name and face a constantly repeating banner in his thoughts.

Although at this point, he’s not so certain he isn’t actually playing himself as well.

He must be set on his own demise, clearly, to harbor such…feelings toward her, even if he doesn’t—and won’t—admit the existence of them to himself most of the time.

What is he supposed to do with such useless things, anyway? He indulges in her enough as it is, any more will only put him at a level of risk he can’t afford.

With a sigh, he steps away from her figure, blanket securely pulled up around her to preserve her warmth and preferred modesty, a quirk about her he finds to be so very entertaining with how quickly and with such great enthusiasm she seems to shed her clothing for him. 

As it were, she wasn’t keen to show terribly much of her pretty skin—a loss for humanity at large, in his opinion, as she looks very lovely wearing very little; but a win for him, as he gets to enjoy the sight all on his own with no one else the wiser of the beauty she keeps hidden beneath those drab tunics of hers. 

Comfortable, she calls them. He scoffs at the idea.

No wonder she never made much money as a bard. Perhaps if she indulged in some of the more risqué fashions he’d seen others don over the years, she would have been more successful at her art.

With little else to do he resigns himself to waiting, though he isn’t quite sure what for. For her to awaken from her slumber, perhaps? It would invite a rather awful amount of questions, though, were he to be present at such a moment. 

Questions he is unwilling to answer.

So, Astarion doesn’t count the time as it passes and simply busies himself with a variety of other things instead. Time, he has found, can be quite strange when one finds themselves immortal and so he has gotten rather good, if he may say so himself, at filling the minutes and hours as they leisurely pass around him.

He pays half-attention to the errant thoughts that swirl in his head as he cleans the sharp edges of his many blades—though he avoids the ones that center too intensely around Rin, for now.

He looks at her makeshift vanity and at the only makeup she apparently possessed in an attempt to decipher why, precisely, he always seems to find her lips to be so enchanting— he finds a pretty rose colored balm that he knows can be used on both lips and cheeks, however the discovery does little to solve his mystery.

He uncorks the almost empty bottle of perfumed oil she uses to sniff at it for himself, another foray into his prior investigation—it smells so much better on her than it does in the bottle, but he isn’t quite sure why or how that is, and again leaves him with more questions than answers.

He stares at the single stalk of purple foxglove she had somehow procured and placed into a small decanter to act as the singular decoration in her tent and he counts every bell-shaped flower—he’s impressed she managed to find a living plant in a place so cursed, even if it is still poisonous in the end, but it adds a certain warmth to her tent that feels so very her he can barely stand it.

He’s flipping through one of the books she has stacked in a corner—The Druid Who Daredaccording to the worn and broken spine, the decidedly indecent contents on several dog-eared pages of which he will definitely not be forgetting about—when he comes across something hidden in between two thin pages.

It’s nothing unusual, especially in her tent, just an innocuous piece of parchment folded thrice. 

The same way she happens to fold all of her letters.

Astarion’s brow quirks as he takes a glance back at Rin, still snuggled peacefully in her blanket and none the wiser.

He shouldn’t. He knows better. 

Most people don’t read other people’s personal letters, especially when said person is something like a lover, even if their situation is somewhat complicated.

But Astarion considers himself to be infinitely worse than most people and can’t help the curiosity that fills him when he sees what looks an awful lot like his name written many times over in dark ink bleeding through the thin vellum.

He’s seconds from reaching into the book, intent on grabbing the slip of parchment to open and read it, careful and covert, when he hears the soft rustling of movement behind him. 

Astarion slams the book shut as if it had grown teeth and threatened to eat him, setting it back onto the stack where he had found it lightning-quick as he turns back around, expecting to be heavily berated to when he inevitably meets what he assumes will be a very angry bard.

When he does turn, however, he’s greeted instead by the sight of Rin not yet fully awake, only just stirring with soft groan and her back arching in a stretch, head tossing to the side.

Luck, it appeared, is on his side today. 

In more ways than one.

Despite his apparent good luck, however, he’s now faced with the issue of leaving. Because he certainly can’t be found in her tent standing over her like some guardian angel.

How could he possibly explain to her that he’s been watching over her like some nurse, caring for her like he has any right to—even if only by watching her from afar.

He doesn’t have the words to explain himself and so he will not. 

But he doesn’t plan on being too far away tonight, either way. Someone needs to keep an eye on her in the event something happens. He doesn’t know what that something might be, but his point still stands. It may as well be him to take on the job.

And so, Astarion grabs his gloves along with her ripped, bloodied blouse and flees with every ounce of stealth at his disposal, sneaking out of her tent just as Rin’s eyes begin to flutter open.

[datapacks]

Hey! I really adore the way you draw textures, as they usually fit with the vanilla art style flawlessly, and wanted to ask for advice. I want to make addons/mods, and maybe a full texture pack someday, but my textures always end up looking kind of flat, lack depth, and look weird when next to vanilla stuff.

Thank you so much :3 as far as advice, I'm afraid I've been doing pixel art for ~15 years now so unfortunately a lot of it is just experience... I do have some tips though! but I am in no place to do a full tutorial at the moment.

Prerequisite: Use paint dot net. It's super beginner friendly, since it's based off of Paint, and it's what has been used for Minecraft textures since the very beginning.

First off, you want to have a block-out palette! For me, it's these 5 colours here:

From here, you'll want to go darkest to lightest; use the darkest tone to outline, then fill in with the 4th tone. Eventually, you'll want to make it so that there are 2-3 outline tones, from darkest to lightest, in accordance to however you're shading. Anything overlapping with the main shape should not use the darkest two tones!

Then you'll want to hit the bright spots not with your mid-tone or your highlight, but with your second lightest tone! This way, you leave room to highlight And shade your highlights. You've effectively made 5 different palettes to use to shade different parts (1-2, 1-2-3, 2-3-4, 3-4-5, 4-5). Whenever you feel like you're ready, switch out this palette for something more in line with what you're doing- depending on what material you're going for, this can happen super early on or way late. Whenever I do something Metallic, I like to switch to a gold palette as soon as possible.

Another thing to keep in mind is minecraft's palette limitations! Generally speaking, try to keep textures to 5-9 colours, filling in between as needed. If you use more base colours, feel free to expand, but do not go over 15 if you can help it. A good rule of thumb for adding additional colours is that you should try to limit them to 3 tones.

When choosing a palette, there's no problem with going with any pre-existing item's colours! In fact, this can be super helpful even when you want to use your own colours, just as a reference.

When you do want to make your own palette, my advice is to choose a strong colour, any hue, saturation in the 60-80 range, value in the 70-90 range. To get strong shading in your palette, drop the value by ~5, increase the saturation by ~5, and shift the hue towards blue by ~5. Do this each time from your base colour. Go in the opposite direction to Increase the perceived brightness. Here, I started with the 5th tone.

Obviously, you can tweak these to your liking; your outline colours should end up a lot darker than this generally speaking, and you might want to ramp all the way up to white for your highlights. You'll also generally want your outline colour to end up with like, max 30 Value & at Full Saturation, with your highlight colour at 100 Value & ~50 saturation if you aren't going for Full White. Lets see what that might look like after changing the most extreme values & then blending accordingly.

At the end of the day, my biggest tips are 1) to look at references constantly in both minecraft's existing sprites and other people's sprites! Take what you like, improve on it where you think it could use improvements. & 2) always zoom out! Even if a texture is perfect, if you've been staring at it too long so up close, it's going to feel weird. Minecraft's most common GUI scale is 2x, so scale the image on your screen somewhere where each pixel is exactly 2x2 and you'll get a good feel for how it'll actually look in-game.

One last tip on a more advanced level: if you're using multiple different base colours, always shift to grayscale very often. Your tones should look indistinguishable in grayscale so that you know that the shapes themselves are strong enough to warrant the multiple colours. This is also very good for accessibility!

[distant--shadow]

The witch and the widow chapters 1-4 author’s notes

Ok, so first off I feel I gotta preface this by saying I am absolutely not a history buff. Kinda the opposite of one really. I was one of less than 10% of the kids in my year of 300 or so that didn’t take history at GCSEs, mostly caus a subject taught and based around names and dates etc is the definition of something not suited for my type of brain, also I hugely lost interest in it caus we moved past the fun trebuchet eras and all that real fast and it became of slog of me falling asleep in lessons caus I had a teacher whose method was putting on movies and shutting the blinds (I’d always fall asleep and he was later jailed for being a p*edophile, so that’s a thing.) Anyway, all that to say I’m not good at this shit, but as ive gotten older I have taken a bigger interest in queer history in particular, and that often if not always links into other areas such as fashion, women’s rights, religion,the arts, class, and race etc. (I’m still not good at names and dates though!)

They are outfitted and arsenalled - the stones of the wall - in a manner to rival any army; tapestries of red and gold perhaps once brandished on battlefield as banners promenading around death now retired and indoor-still-air-still as taxidermy giving colour between all of the shades of metal, burnished and polished and in some cases rusting, some still purposefully left blood-stained, swords and pikes and maces arranged in wallpaper patterns as though flowers or fans, sword-sheath beams spreading from chest-plate armour suns.

Let’s start with something easy and recent. The Baron’s armoury was inspired by a few castles I’ve visited, these rooms are always so bizarre to me. I don’t know if this is at all of the time/how they were decorated or a more recent thing, but either way it’s pretty wild but I do love the visual and metaphor of it. In this one castle I found out from talking about the carpentry to an attendant that the decorative ceiling work around the chandelier above the dining room table actually hid a trapdoor - and there was other hidden doorways for passages and to secret rooms in this castle, that’s not that unusual - but this particular trapdoor was to allow for the chandeliers to be switched out. Why? Caus they had them in multiple colours of glass, and the lady of the castle liked the chandelier to co-ordinate with her dress if they were having guests round. Aint that such a flex? Definitely some food for future thought.

Aight. Clothing. So anyone that chats fic/au to me or is in my server has probably heard me yell to go watch Kaz Rowe’s videos many times. As I’ve said this fic aint meant to be historically accurate but it does kinda straddle histories, one of which being our own; so women wearing trousers and the like at this time would still be a crime, and draw a lot of attention . Imogen in men’s clothing genuinely isn’t meant to be much of a gender thing but a thing of practicality, and she has mostly lived in the countryside or in the outskirts, so she does not get into the trouble she would should she go into the towns and cities (another reason to keep away past the potential noise, but this Imogen will happily don a dress or skirts if she needs to, she’s just usually working – and maybe it’s a bonus that dressing as a man acts as a sort of flagging for any women who might be interested lol.)

I guess here I should mention how I think this version of Imogen's powers and how they’ve manifested (along with everyone else being unaware of them) will have somewhat changed her disposition and personality, it is a lot more aligned with later campaign Imogen who has more confidence and empowerment, she hasn’t been ostracised for her abilities or particularly bombarded by them, think more like when she has her circlet on, she chooses to listen in (mostly), although of course she has still heard many terrible things (and her life has still been pretty brutal but that’s to be written still).

(it’ll be really fun in this regard getting to explore and explain this version of Laudna, but early days for giving much away on that yet!)

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

A little note as to say that Laudna’s appearance is heavily influenced by Victorian mourning wear, with some of the clothes cuts altered to be a little bit more regency and earlier in places. (her  attire is a little outdated, further suggesting her distancing from society and fashion)

A couple of days ago Imogen happened upon a bird with an injured wing, crying helplessly and rolling in circles, feathers taking flight away from the bird that could not, settling around it as it panicked itself bald-

The bird could not live without the use of its wing, and it didn’t, whether that was by Prosciutto or a fox, only its feathers were left in a pile.

Imogen had gathered them into an empty burlap sack; taken them to one of the maids downstairs to clean, repurpose them for filling pillows.

Here’s a silly little easter egg for my p(r)oof reader. Last time he visited we was enjoying a cinnamon roll from the local bakery by the city river (as you do) and a cyclist hit a seagull. It was real distressing, the seagull was distressed too. A handfull of middle aged women stood around it not wanting or knowing how to intervene as its wing was twisted at a crazy angle and it flapped about in a pile of its own feathers, there’s still bird flu about so it is wise to not touch wild birds, and as bleak as it is I was saying to freshy that a wild bird who’s wings broken like that is gonna die, and probably slowly and painfully. Some man came along and lifted up the bird to take the bird off the path and laid it to rest behind an old bridge building, I think he must have mercy killed it too as the bird was already dead when we walked past 10 or so minutes later after finishing our cinnamon roll and giving a cautious glance. So there’s a nice happy memory thrown in there for him.

what appears to be driftwood breaches the surface, then another point, then another

the water belches

Ceviche scares, whinnying as he rears onto his back legs, the Lady leaning forward and clinging to his harness. Imogen stands in her stirrups, leaning across the gap over to the black stallion, grasping his reins and cooing

“All good, boy, all good-”

What had appeared to be driftwood lands on the surface with a slap, looking like the carcass of an old boat left to rot in the muddy bed of a dock, timber ribcaged and leathered skin cladding.

A femur surfaces, followed by a jaw.

Second easter egg for the p(r)oof is a quick one (I’m such a considerate writer, I know.) On a train ride to a loch we went to for a day out there is a stop that is on another lake/body of water, and right by the train tracks (which are at water height) there are 4 or 5 old ships stuck in the mud, most of them just the frames/structures of the old boats, mostly wood and some bits of metal, but they’re pretty big boats! It really looks like whale carcasses. I’ve always wanted to get of there and check it out, and we were gonna stop by on the way back but my health being what it is was giving me some grief that day so we missed 2 trains and then soon the daylight, so hopefully next time buddy.

There’s alotta meat and gore talk and Imogen being a vegetarian without the label for such is just another way of me playing round with all of her complex feelings about what the Lady might be doing, her feelings towards Angharad butchering and nourishing the women with these communal stews and all of that. I’ve been vegetarian myself for 20 years now, and it was all triggered by an existential crisis in my mid teens (still a huge fan of leather and blood though) – Imogen greatly cares about animals, struggles with the thought of anything being slaughtered, she is in some ways more empathetic than most because she knows those she does on so much more of a personal level, really feels how someone is reacting to a situation they are in, but also because of this she knows humans are often corrupt and vile and she is spared such thoughts from animals, only knows their instincts and the love and comfort and service they bring – and yet she will obsess over the Lady’s (potential) tooling on that saddlework leather that’s really fucking brutal if she thinks about it one way and beautiful if she thinks about it another hmmm what if everything’s not black and white.

Oh, and the stew is a homage to @picturesofthegoneworlds’ pre-campaign fic Intertwined which I am lucky enough to co-parent and her writing is hugely influential on mine.

There’s a few things being bread crumb trailed here that I can’t explain in the author notes yet, but I’m looking forward to when I can. One small detail I will give away is just a silly thing about the chapter headings. They are something of significance from within the chapter, given in its ‘proper’ name – maybe someone gets access to some books to do research at some point?

anyways, thanks @astoriacolumnstaircase for enabling me. will do another post like this for future chapters if folks find it interesting.

[suzukiblu]

More Kara and Kal "two-for-one special" kids for the Kents, this time for @qwertynerd97 and @kamkong.

Ma and Pa help Kara pick out clothes for herself and Kal, and a strange child-sized seat with straps and fasteners on it, and something she thinks is a crib, and more little toys that she has to not cry over, and then a pretty bracelet made of colored glass beads all in all the shades of a prism. Kara isn't sure what it's for–she still hasn't figured out where the aliens wear their house signifiers–but Ma puts it on her, so she chocks up another point towards jewelry having more signifiers than clothing on this planet. 

It's pretty, so even though she doesn't know what it means, she doesn't mind wearing it. And–she thinks she can trust Ma and Pa. Or hopes she can, anyway. So letting them pick signifiers for her is something she thinks she can do. 

They don't pick out any jewelry for Kal, but she supposes he is a little young to wear it. And maybe the aliens don't bother with house signifiers for children anyway. She's seen a few more people with various styles of rings and necklaces and bracelets in the settlement so far, but mostly just adults and teenagers; not too many children. 

She does glimpse a girl(?) on the sidewalk with shiny pink and gold beads in her hair, but no one else seems to be wearing that particular style. Maybe she's not from around here either, Kara thinks. That might be what beads mean in general. 

The girl's are pretty too, either way. 

Ma pays the shop clerk with what Kara thinks might actually be paper money, of all things, and gets a small handful of metal tokens back. Pa straps the little chair into the back of his and Ma's transport, and Kara realizes it must be a safety seat of some kind for Kal, and her heart hurts as Ma shows her how to buckle him into it. 

They really don't need to be this kind, but she doesn't know how to tell them that.

Ma and Pa take them to another, bigger store, and Ma takes a metal cart from a stall, directs Kara to put Kal inside it, and then leads them to an aisle with a section of packages covered in pictures of alien infants. It takes Kara a moment to figure it out, but it looks like boxes of diapers and very small containers of baby food and cans of . . . some kind of nutritional powders, maybe? Kal is uninterested and only cares about his soft little dog, but Kara is relieved. She needs to be able to care for him, so she needs these things. If Ma and Pa are willing to help her get them . . . 

Well, she really doesn't know how she'll be able to pay that back, but she'll do her best to. 

Ma fills the metal cart with several different packages, and Pa walks off again. Kara tries not to worry about it and pays very close attention to the packages Ma is carefully picking out. She seems to know what she's doing, and if nothing else seems to be able to read the labels, which Kara herself definitely can't and Kal definitely can't–he can't even read Kryptonian yet. 

He'll maybe never be able to read Kryptonian, she realizes distantly. 

He'll . . . 

Ma picks up a sturdy-looking little drinking cup made of an odd, clear material that looks a bit like glass but definitely isn't. There's a lid with a small spout on it, and a handle on either side. It has funny little shapes stamped on it in bright colors. Ma makes sure Kal can hold the handles, then puts the cup and a couple more like it in the cart with him. 

Kal chirps in bright approval and pats at the cups, then returns his attention to petting and cuddling the soft dog in his arms, purring happily to himself. Kara croons back to him in acknowledgment. Ma looks briefly puzzled, for some reason, but goes back to carefully picking out packages of little cloths. 

Pa comes back with a cart of his own stocked with cans and jars and packages of food, and Ma says something approving-sounding to him and then points towards the other side of the store. He says something back with a nod, then heads off again. It still makes Kara nervous when he leaves, but it's . . . it's fine, she tells herself. Pa keeps coming back. So it's fine. 

She still isn't sure when Kal is going to start missing Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor. He's an independent baby, and usually confident in new situations, but he's still a baby. And they're still his parents. And . . . and . . . 

She wants hers so badly, but she's the one who knows they'll never be seeing their family again. 

Kal . . . doesn't know that yet. 

It might be a long, long time before Kal knows that. 

She can't decide what's worse; the idea of him crying and crying for them, or the idea of him finally deciding that they've abandoned him and then not crying for them ever again. 

Kal’s still just a baby, after all. He won't understand why Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor won't come when he cries for them. Won't understand why they'd leave him. Won't understand . . . 

He won't even remember them. Or her parents, or Krypto, or even Krypton itself. He won't remember a single thing about any of it or any of them or . . . or . . . 

Kara swallows. Steels herself. 

Doesn't cry. 

Ma puts a few more packages in the cart. Kal baps his dog against them, then hugs it again. 

"Is that Krypto's puppy, Kal?" Kara asks him as lightly as she can, trying to sound anything less than brokenhearted, and Ma glances over at her. She looks concerned, but maybe Kara's reading her wrong. The people of this planet all seem to be unusually expressive, but that doesn't mean their expressions mean the same things that Kryptonian ones do. 

Kal squeals happily and hugs his dog again, burying his face against its soft synthetic fur for a moment before beaming up at Kara. She shouldn't have mentioned Krypto to him, maybe–shouldn't have reminded him of him–but . . . 

Well. She's going to make worse mistakes than that, she knows. She has to take care of him now. Has to make sure he's safe above all else, and then as healthy and happy as she can make him. Has to do right by him, and not let down their family. 

She's here to take care of him. Here to protect him. Here to make sure he grows up and lives a good life and–and just lives. 

No matter what. 

Kal trills for attention, and Ma looks down at him curiously. She says something. The aliens' voices have an odd flatness to them, compared to the rich resonance of Kryptonian voices, but Ma and Pa both still just sound so kind. 

Kara doesn't understand why they're being so kind. 

They really don't have to be so kind. 

Pa comes back again, a few more little boxes and bottles in his cart. Kara doesn't know what any of them are, though they don't look like food this time. The decorations on the boxes are mostly abstract and aren't proving helpful. 

Ma says something to her and pats her arm. Kara tries to smile at her. She and Pa are being very kind, so Kara should smile at her. 

It's just . . . getting harder and harder to smile. 

If she weren't making herself do it now, though, she'd never do it again. 

Maybe she wouldn't ever do it again, if she were a better daughter. A better Kryptonian. But Kal should see her smiling, if nothing else, so–so. 

So she's smiling. 

They're refugees from an apocalypse, from a world-ending tragedy, from a kind of grief that only the tiniest, tiniest fraction of people could ever feel, and Kal won't even remember what they've lost. 

So yes. He should see her smiling. 

Ma and Pa pay with paper money again, and the shop clerk talks to them. They respond with pleasant smiles to–her? Kara thinks the clerk is a woman. So was the clerk at the first store, come to think, so she wonders if that's a coincidence or just the cultural standard on this planet. Or if she's just still confused about this species' sexual characteristics, maybe. 

For all she knows their species has dozens of sexes and genders and she's just oblivious to whatever way they display or communicate them, of course. Krypton is–was–very insular and isolated, and its people almost never traveled or traded or even communicated between planets, so she doesn't know much about aliens. 

More of Krypton probably would've survived, if they'd ever done that. 

The clerk says something to her. She attempts to smile again. Ma and Pa redirect the woman and Kara is very, very grateful to not have to try and figure out how to communicate with her right now.

[obamas-eyebrow]

Eclipse

Sejanus plinth x Tribute! Reader(f)

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Warnings; No reader body/race descriptions (if any pls lmk) A little ooc. NO USE OF Y/N. English is not my first language. Anything that applies to thg, mentions of kys. Flashbacks in italics. Not proofread.

A/N: dk. Bro just re-wrote the 10th hg as a reader insert lol.

Wc: I was bored, 18.6K

Summary; childhood best friends/tribute au 

He was silent, unmoving, watching your poker face on the screen, while he was frozen with helplessness. You didn’t look that different, still the same kind eyes despite your best effort to look intimidating. You were still the girl who came up to him that night in the shelter, taking his mind off of the sound of bombs. The scarf on your head was the same one he recalled your mother would wear, for good luck, not that it helped today. A voice called out to you from the crowd, your sister, he presumed. You didn’t even spare her a glance lest it be your breaking point. The scar by your brow was now only a faint white line he wouldn’t have caught had he not been there when it was fresh and red, a testament to how much you’ve changed since you last saw each other. 

To be assigned one of the district 2 tributes was one thing, to have to mentor the only person he felt was ever his friend was another. Sejanus would’ve liked to crawl into some small hole somewhere to rot in this very moment, rather than even think about the task to come. Oftentimes, he finds himself thinking about the war, how relieved he would’ve been had he been killed by a bomb rather than live in shame of his family name. 

Marcus, the male tribute. 

Fate couldn’t have planned it any better. 

At the call of his name, you let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a scream, bringing your hands to your head, rubbing your temple as if ridding yourself of a headache. Marcus all but marched up onto the podium, a woman’s wails serving as his soundtrack. You two stood side by side, intertwining your hands gently with his as you observed his face, but he only had his eyes fixed on the distance horizon. 

And then the broadcast cut to the next set of tributes. 

He didn’t know whether to scream or cry, what good would either do, anyway? 

He wondered if either of you would even recognise him, unsure of how much he’d changed here in the Capitol. He wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to face you. 

…

The ride to the Capitol was unfitting for how glorious you’d thought the place would be, unable to even spare a proper train for the condemned. Your head hurt, and you were so so tired. Marcus hadn’t bothered to speak a single word to you the whole way here and you didn’t push it. He’d helped you down from the stinky train cart onto the station floor, nodding over to a boy- no older than you- in a ridiculous red uniform. He was chatting with one of the female tributes from the other cart, a rose in his hand. You couldn’t even begin to attempt to guess what the hell he was here for. 

You found out soon enough, though, as you were herded like cattle into a small car made for zoo animals. Mentors, whatever that meant. You were not really interested in the coup against the schoolboy, nor his explanations of what the games will be like, too focused on observing the place you’d heard so much about growing up. 

Disappointing, to say the least. 

You’d expected streets lined with gold and diamond encrusted statues all around, not this sea of greys and blacks. You hadn’t really thought about how the war must’ve affected the Capitol, clearly, they’ve taken quite the hit as well. The cool metal of the car’s bars served only as a temporary relief to the scorching summer sun, heat you were not used to, having lived in the mountain shade your whole life. The Capitolites that you’d spotted on the way to your destination looked sickly, malnourished, much like the boy in the car with you. You bit back a smile, they ain’t as high and mighty as they would like the districts to believe. 

They’re just as hungry as you are. 

Good. 

By the time they’d finally dumped you at your destination, your muscles were sore and achy, having been used to some form of a soft mattress for bed. A luxury most couldn’t afford. Your throat was dry, stomach grumbling as you sat back by Marcus, watching the district 12 girl and her mentor. She was a natural born star, you’ll give her that. Your eyelids felt droopy at the feeling of soft hay on your back, it’ll do. Marcus was still sat rigid as a soldier, eyes fixed on the zoo’s entrance. There were a few watchers around the cage, along with a camera crew that was fixated on any tribute willing to talk. 

“You remember when the tributes usually go into the arena?” 

“Ain’t it the next morning?” 

You felt sick. Of course it was. You’d forgotten, having spent years blocking out the noise from these things. Your death was sooner than you’d anticipated, though it makes no difference. 

“I’m going to sleep.”

Marcus nodded as you settled down by him, the buzz of the zoo goers serving as less than ideal white noise, but you’ve slept through worse. 

Your own body woke you up, stomach aching for a morsel of food, anything to quieten the groaning. You didn’t bother getting up, your eyes finding that it had gotten a lot busier than it was earlier. It was late, do these people have nothing better to do than gawk at you like some spectacle? Do they not have jobs? 

You rolled your eyes, surveying how the other tributes were adjusting, when you realised that they all now had some food in their hands. Marcus, who had remained in the position you left him in, sat empty handed. 

“Where’s our share?” You sat up, worry filling you that you might have missed an important event or something. Marcus only shrugged. 

“What the hell Marcus? When did they give food out?”

He sighed, finally turning his head to look at you. He nodded his head slightly to a figure standing by the bars as close as he could get to the two of you. The boy had his head rested between two bars with his eyes shut in desperation. Marcus had waited for recognition to dawn on you, but it was clearly taking a while. You furrowed your brows in confusion, shaking your head at him. 

“How many capitolites do you know, genius?”

For a second, you attempted to jog your memory as to who he could be referring to, biting your lip in concentration. When it hit you, your eyes widened in surprise.

“Plinth?” You half exclaimed, half giggled, so giddy at the familiar face. 

“In. The. Flesh.” Marcus crossed his arms against his chest, tongue hitting the side of his teeth to control his anger. 

“So, you didn’t get us any food, cause Sejanus was the one giving it out?”

He nodded and you hit his arm, earning an exaggerated ‘ow!’ from him, “I’m starving, Marcus!”

“Doesn’t matter, don’t think he’s got any more, so don’t bother.”

“You’d seriously rather starve than swallow your pride?”

“Look at him! He looks ridiculous!”

“Bein’ angry at him won’t change your fate. Ain’t like it’s his fault!”

“You were always sweet on him,” He rolled his eyes. “By your logic, we should forgive every single Capitolite but some, since all of em are so ‘blameless’.”

You ignored his words, dusting yourself off and getting up to approach a still distressed Sejanus, lost in thought with his head down, on hand rested on the bar. It was a dizzying sight, knowing that, had it been a different roll of dice, he might have been in the cage with you, rather than on the opposite side. As you approached his position, you took a moment to compare his features to those of the boy you last saw him as. 

“Plinth?” 

His ma’s head jerked up at the call of her name, previously having been lost in worry. Your ma stood firm, but apologetic. His father had not made it to this shelter, but they’d received news that he was at another one close by. It was quiet in there, save for some whispered prayers. His ma’s hands were trembling, fearsome that she’d be left alone if his father didn’t survive. She was trying to slow her breathing down, keep it together for her boy, who was bundled under her arm, face red with tears. He hated loud sounds, hated the bombs. The shelter was so stuffy, despite being one of the nicer ones, making it difficult to take a proper breath in. 

The alarms, his ma’s panic, it all got to him. He must’ve been sobbing for close to an hour now, his ma too nervous to even attempt to comfort him. She took a spot in the corner, walking with her head held down, hoping her boy won’t hear the sly comments or see the side eyes they get. They gave out food and water, but she was too frozen with fear to get up to collect their share, and no one would extend a helping hand to the Plinths. After all, they’re well fed and heavy rested, so why should they? 

It was cold that night, people huddling for as much warmth as their shared bodies could put together. He began to shiver, despite being so tucked into her warmth, but the cold wall on his back had stripped him of most of his body heat, with his nervous system so dysregulated, it was only inevitable. His ma looked at her boy, biting her lip in an attempt to keep her own tears at bay. Surely, someone here has got a spare blanket, but who would offer it up to them? She’d pulled him in ever closer, rubbing his back for some heat, when your ma took initiative and approached her. 

His ma looked at her warily, unsure of whether there was an ulterior motive to this kindness she was showing her, hand extended out with a blanket and some food, the other supporting a tightly wrapped bundle to her shoulder, a warm smile on her face. As soon as his ma accepted her generosity, she lowered herself slowly to sit by her, which was a difficult feat to do for a woman who’d just recently had a baby. Sejanus watched the woman from behind his ma’s clothes, observing as she repositioned the small gray roll onto her lap. Not a roll, a newborn. The whole gesture was as if they had been friends forever. 

“They told me your sister is fine, Marjorie. Don’t fret.” Your ma put a comforting hand on her knee. Of course, your ma had worked with his aunt.

His ma let out a sigh of relief, “Thank you,”

Tears sprung up into her eyes, overwhelmed with your ma’s kindness. Though it wasn’t grand, it was rare. Sensing his ma’s emotion, his own lips began to tremble once more. She undid the blanket, bringing it over him, as your ma leaned a bit so that she could see him. 

“Your boy?” Your ma smiled, “Think my girl goes to the same school, Sejanus, right?” 

He nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh you are just as sweet as your aunt says,” She reached her hand across to squish his chubby cheek, chuckling a little. The action allowed his ma a moment of grace to collect herself. 

“And where is your girl?” 

Your ma opened her mouth to reply, but, seemingly on cue, a loud ‘roar!’ echoed across the room. Not that of a bomb, but that of a rowdy child. She then pressed her lips into a thin line, dropping her head down with laughter as she held his ma’s gaze. 

The sound of your giggles from around the corner became louder, causing some people to tsk and grumble. When you finally came into view, you’d jumped up above a person’s leg, parkouring and dodging across the sea of bodies. Only a few paces behind you was one of the peacekeepers, bringing his hands together multiple times in an attempt to catch you. But alas, you were too quick. You sprinted the final distance to half hide yourself behind your ma’s body, just as the officer had caught up to you. 

“This your kid?” He said angrily. 

“I have never met this child in my life.” Your ma said with so much seriousness that, had he not just spoken to her earlier, he would’ve believed her. 

You slapped her shoulder playfully, your voice still laced with giggles, “Ma!”

She suddenly grabbed your shoulders and pulled you infront of her. 

“I don’t know you! Officer, please take her away!” She shook you, only earning more laughs from you. 

“Ma’am, we are trying to get our job done, please keep her under control.”

You turned around to face the tall guard, and with a mean furrow of your brow and a quick salute, you gave him a “Yes sir, officer, sir!” Mocking the way they spoke. The peacekeeper marched away as you turned back to your ma. He took a chance to observe you from his hiding spot, finding that, despite it being well below freezing, you had sweat beaded on your forehead and were panting like a wild dog. You leaned down, giving your baby sister a soft kiss so as to not awaken her. Your ma grabbed the end of her top, her other hand holding your head in place as you struggled against her wiping your face clean. 

“I was playin’ with Mr. Crow's cat, and then it led me to where the peacekeepers stayed! I snuck into the room, they had soooooo much stuff in there, but then the cat slipped out of my hand and and I chased after it, then the officer saw me, then he chased me, then Mr. Crow yelled at me cause I lost his cat then I came here so I can hide.” About two words into your little ramble, your ma had turned slowly to face his ma with a ‘this is my girl, yeah.’ expression on her face, which caused her to laugh a little. 

“Anyway, I have to go now! I have to find whispers!”

“Whiskers, sweatpea.”

“Yes, whiskers. Bye, ma!”

“Ah ah ah,” She tsked, causing you to straighten up immediately, “Say hello to Ms. Plinth, first.”

You sprung into action immediately, grabbing his ma’s hand and shaking it with heavy force for a small frame. “Hello, Ms.Plinth! Bye, Ms. Plinth!”

His ma chuckled, “Please, call me Marjorie.”

“Okay, bye Marjorie-” “No-”

But you had turned on your heel to embark on your next adventure. As you were turning, however, your eyes met his for a split second, which is what caused you to turn back around. You looked at him with excitement, seemingly recognising him from class. To you, it just meant someone to play with. At the sight of your wild eyes, Sejanus hid himself further behind his ma. You stepped closer, cocking your head with exaggeration, so he pushed his face into her clothes. His ma’s shoulders dropped, recalling her husbands words of,

“You made the boy too soft!”

That’s how he winded up learning how to handle a gun so young, but anyway. She turned to look at your ma, who gave her a knowing look. 

“Why are you hiding?” You dropped to your knees in front of him. 

“I’m scared.” He didn’t bother moving. 

“Of what?”

Of what? Of what? What do you think?

“Of the bombs.”

“Where are they?” You looked around, not mockingly, but reassuringly. 

His ma pulled him away from herself, forcing him to face you. His face was probably pathetic, but you didn’t comment, much to the relief of his ma. He pouted, crossing his arms angrily over his chest. You made it sound like he was just being ridiculous. 

“We’re safe here, sweetheart.” His ma soothed. 

You had a sickeningly beaming smile on your face, “Plus, if a bomb comes, I doubt your ma’s body could give you much protection..” Your ma glared at you, “..I mean..Wanna help me find whispers?”

“Whiskers, sweatpea.”

“Whiskers, yes.” You got up, extending a hand down to him, which he eventually took you up on. 

You kept your tight grip on him as you pulled him through the crowds to where you’d last seen the cat. 

“Just so I’m sure, could you remind me of your name? I mean, I know it, I just want to be sure.” You tried to sound convincing. 

His nerves were a lot more at ease now, allowing him to giggle at your ramble. 

“It’s-”

“Sejanus?” 

You placed your hand gently on his, pulling him out of his spiral. His head snapped up, having been previously oblivious to your approach. “Hey, stranger.”

He smiled, and it was one of the things that had stayed the same, though his eyes seemed to have gotten more sad. He had changed quite a bit from that teary eyed chubby kid you last saw, growing into his features. He looked a lot more like a man now, standing a palpable height above you. But that’s what happens when you have the money to get enough nutrients. 

“Hi,”

“Almost didn’t recognise ya,”

He tried to find something to say, unable to come up with words to express how happy he was to see you again, even with the given circumstances. But it was easy for him to say, being the one not on deathrow. He couldn’t tell you how refreshing it is to hear his own accent spoken back to him, though he’s sure it has been diluted by now.

“Are you goin’ to say somethin’ or are you gonna js stare at me like that?”

He let out a small laugh. To you, he must’ve been stuck with a giddy face as he studied your features, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Sorry- I just-” He leaned his cheek against the cool bar, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Sej.” You poked his side playfully. 

You two stood there for a moment, watching eachother with stupid smiles on your faces. 

“You hungry?” He straightened up at his own words, crouching down to rummage through his backpack. “My ma made these, fresh this mornin” He grabbed two carefully wrapped sandwiches and a matching pair of plums, holding them out to you. 

You were starving, but now, faced with this choice, you hesitated. Sejanus saw this uncertainty, recalling how stubborn your mother was back in 2, taking offence when his ma would offer her help in terms of money. 

“We ain’t a charity case, Plinth, put your money away.”

It was the only time he’d ever seen you cry, trembling lips and arms across your own frame for comfort. The room smelled sterile, a variety of medical equipment neatly labeled across the room. The bed was too high up, making you swing your legs out of habit. In terms of lighting, it was one of the only spots in 2 that had the luxury of strong bulbs that didn’t depend on a generator, so that it can function continuously, but the bright white light was giving both of you a headache. No kid likes the clinic, doesn’t take a genius to make a statement like that, the fact that the professional on sight was your ma didn’t help it either. A retired war medic, she was. Not exactly the most gentle hands, but they did the job right. 

You two had been playing together when you tripped, hitting your head on the edge of a stray brick out by his house. It lodged itself in, forming a ragged cut that extended a centimetre above the mid part of your brow. You checked your reflection in the window, turning to him in fear. 

“I think I’m gonna need stitches.” 

He scurried in to inform his ma, who rushed you both to the little clinic where your ma worked. She looked tired, already upset about some other altercation that happened earlier. When she saw your injury, she only sighed and motioned for you to hop up onto the table. 

“Are you going to keep still, or should I call her in?”

You were still trembling, having not even processed the question. Your ma wasn’t mean, she just had limited resources, that's all, so she couldn’t waste them. 

“Sweetpea,” She tapped your knee, pulling your attention to her as she leaned down to meet you eye to eye. “Want me to call her in?”

“No…I’ll keep still mama.”

Your ma turned to the supply closet, pulling out the stuff she needs. Sejanus couldn’t tear his eyes off your frame, so small and defeated, unlike he’d ever seen you before. He didn’t understand anything, only that, the bravest person he knew, was terrified. 

“You..ain’t gonna use painkillers?” His ma whispered, causing your ma’s hands to still with the supplies. 

“Not all of us have that luxury, Marjorie.” 

“Haven't you got any to spare?” 

“No, only for the important cases.” 

“This is your girl-”

Your ma turned to her abruptly, tears brimming in her eyes. They looked at each other, the only sounds in the room being your quiet sobs. 

“If this is about money, I could-” his ma reached into her purse to offer it up. 

“We ain’t a charity case, Plinth, put your money away.”

“It’s ain’t like that!” His ma pleaded. “Don’t let your pride hurt your girl, please-”

“If you’re going to be a bother, I suggest you step out. Especially if you don’t want to scare your boy.” Your ma deadpanned, causing his ma to wince. Ultimately, it was you or her son, and the choice was obvious. She tugged on his arm, motioning for him to step away with her out of the room. Your eyes were fixed on the floor, fingers softly rubbing your arms. You couldn’t even look at him as he walked out, eyebrows furrowed with concern as the room door shut softly, isolating you. He was none the wiser as to what the whole situation was as he headed for the clinic doors with his ma, but you’d been here before, owing to your clumsiness. He was almost at the exit when he heard it, a sound so unfamiliar that it sent chills down his spine. 

Your scream. 

It was short and faint, given how far away he was from the room, but he recognised your voice, forcing him to turn around to the source. He froze there, grip on his ma’s hand weakening as he stepped back. She pulled on him gently, but another sharp yell gave him the push he needed to let go of his ma’s hand, rushing back to your room. He all but burst the door open with as much might as a 7 year old could have. He kept up the pace until he was by your side. You were sat up with your eyes shut as your ma worked the first suture closed. He climbed up next to you, putting his hand on top of your which had a tight grip on the white sheet. His ma made it into the room shortly after, but he paid her no mind. 

You hadn’t really noticed before how much his presence would comfort you. And he stayed there, warm hand on your trembling one as your ma worked 3 more stitches by your brow. Tears were streaming freely down your cheeks, and you felt so embarrassed to have been crying like this in front of him. His warmth kept your screams at bay at least. 

With the final tug, your ma let out a sigh, placing the needle down by her side. You have her no chance to dress nor clean the stray blood before you bolted out of the place, Sejanus springing to his feet a few seconds behind you. He heard his ma start something with yours, but he was too determined to find you to stop and listen. You manoeuvred through maintenance doors and dull corridors from memory, having spent summers here assisting your ma, making it up a flight of stairs then into a small storage closet that hadn’t been used in ages. Even back then, when the sounds of sickness got too much, you’d hide up there for hours. He almost missed your little detour, ready to continue out into the sickrooms had he not heard the soft click of the door. 

Without much thought, he opened the door following you in. 

It was stuffy in there, dim, and no place for a child, let alone two. You had your back to the wall with your head on your knees, crying quietly. He inched towards you carefully, plopping down and sprawling his legs out by your side. Whenever he was in pain, or sad, his ma would always find the right thing to say to make it all better. But it seems like that was not a trait he inherited. Instead, he pulled you in, rubbing your back softly. Who knows how long you two stayed like that, until all your tears were dried up. 

When you lifted your head to look at him, he noticed a bit of dried blood on your lid below the wound. He pushed himself off of the floor, quickly popping out to grab some wipes from a nearby cart, before making his way back in. He held your face softly, tongue sticking out a little as he focused on keeping the swab away from the open tissue. You sighed, pulling him into a tight hug. There were not many words exchanged between the two of you that night, but something had changed.

It would be the last time he saw you cry, because it would be a few short months before he left for the capitol. 

And here you were, faced with a decision of whether to swallow your pride or hold onto it. You bit your lip as you ultimately took the food from his hands, your head hung low in shame. You tried to pace yourself as you carefully unwrapped one of the sandwiches, bringing the delicacy to your lips. Meat was a luxury, even back in 2, even when you weren’t doin so bad for yourself. It wasn’t something you could just buy according to your desire. Had it been up to you, you'd’ve cut it out of your diet ages ago, saving money, but you needed the iron. And here he was, giving it out for free. You tried to savor the bite you took, evening your breaths out so as to not let resentment towards Sejanus bubble through. 

It ain’t his fault. 

“Marcus…wouldn’t take it from me.”

You looked over to where your friend sat, unmoving from the position you’d left him in. “He’s…goin through alot. Needed someone to blame, you fit the right criteria. Nothin’ personal.”

Sejanus nodded, eyes still watching you attempt to consume the food slowly. He often

wondered how different his life would’ve been, had he had the option to stay back in 2. 

He wondered what you two could’ve been. 

“The zoo will be closing in 10 minutes.”

A big voice boomed over the speakers, rattling the bars. Sejanus placed a hand on your shoulder. 

“I’ve got to go, I’ll see you tomorrow, though.” He nodded. 

“Tomorrow? Won’t we begin the games tomorrow?” You furrowed your brows. 

“No- they changed it. Trying to get more people interested. I’m, uhm. Your mentor, I’m your mentor.”

You looked past him into the distance, seemingly trying to figure out what he meant, before meeting his eyes once more, “Don’t know what that is.”

“I’m supposed to-” 

What is the nicest way to tell someone that you’re tasked with marketing them to a group of stuck up, wanna-be rich folks so that they can bet on them with money he could use to deliver you sustenance to delay your death in the upcoming battle royale. All for a number on a paper for his final school project. 

Asking for a friend. 

“I’m supposed to help you win, one way or another.”

“Sounds important.”

“It is.”

“You have to wear those hideous colours for it?”

Your quip caught him off guard, having been previously wallowing in self pity. It’s great to see that the days have not stripped you of your sense of humour. 

“No, this is a fashion choice actually.”

“What? Skirts for men?”

“It ain’t a skirt!”

“Sure looks like it.”

He licked his lips, biting them to prevent a laugh from slipping out of him, which would give you the satisfaction. “You’re still such a bully.”

“Sir, the zoo is closing, you need to leave.”

He sighed, swinging the limp backpack over his shoulder. 

“I’ll miss you,” You cocked your head, smiling shyly.

Sejanus mirrored your expression, “I’ll miss you too.”

With that, he was escorted out by a peacekeeper, having been one of the last people at the zoo. You watched as he walked in step with that repulsive boy from earlier. Rain, or whatever his name was. You almost laughed out loud at the height difference between them as you walked back to Marcus. 

“I bring a feast, one sandwich and one plum. Can’t get any fancier!”

Marcus made no move to take the food from you as he watched Sejanus’ retreating figure.

“He ain’t around, Marcus, you can eat it, he won’t know. It won’t make a difference anyway.”

Still, nothing. 

“You have 3 seconds to take it or I’m rubbing my spit all over it- one…, tw-”

“Fine! Fine!” He grabbed his share from your palm as you settled by him once more. “What were you talkin’ bout?”

“Just…catching up,” 

“You seemed very…dotty with him.”

“Dotty?”

“Yes,”

“Don’t you got a wife? Why’re you worried about me?”

“Don’t like what you’re implying there. But I just mean- don’t you think we’ve got bigger problems on our hands?”

“Than what?”

“Than your little crush,”

“Oh it ain’t little,”

“Gross.”

You laughed, “Why does it bother you? We’re both dead anyway, let me have some fun!”

“Oh, I plan on makin’ it out. Just don’t like seein you with a capitol boy.”

“And I’m makin’ sure you will, Marcus, but please take one good look at him and tell me which part of him looks capitol.”

“He’s been here a decade, you don’t think it got to him? Even a little? All that food, warmth. Things that not even the richest man in 2 could afford; freedom?”

You sighed, unsure what you could say to that. 

“You could keep grumbling on about Sejanus all you want, but I’m going to bed.”

“Again?”

“Do you have something against me enjoying my final nights alive?”

“By sleeping?”

“I don’t get much of it back home, plus, why do you care- you know what? If you don’t die in that arena, Marcus, I’m killin’ you myself.”

“You won’t be able to.”

“Okay I’ll reincarnate as your son and make your life hell.”

“He’s already been born, I’m pretty sure that his soul is already determined.”

“Fine, I’ll just haunt you the old fashioned way then.”

“How terrifying.”

“Goodnight.”

…

They herded you off the following morning, and for a second, you thought Sejanus might have made some mistake. But instead of an arena, you were brought into a large hall with neatly arranged tables. 

You watched him march in with the rest of his peers, sticking out like a sore thumb. He had a bag on him that you could only guess was likely more food. Some of the other students had bright smiles and a skip in their step, not him though, he looked like he’d been reaped with you. 

He plopped down in the seat opposite to you and you straightened your posture, ready for your close up. He then placed a neatly wrapped sandwich in front of you as he readied the papers.

“Ready to start?”

“Well, good morning to you too.”

“Sorry,” He bit his lip. “Nervous.”

“Why? S’ just me.”

Yeah, alright.

“Okay, I’m just gonna fill out everything I already know then-” He scribbled on the blank lines before bringing the sheet up to his face to inspect.

“How’s your family?” He looked up at you from behind the paper. 

You chuckled softly, leaning back and crossing your arms across your abdomen. Or at least attempted to, the chains hindering your movement. He lifted his head back up to look at you, finding you staring at him with a warm smile on your lips. 

“They’re as fine as they could be,” you tore your gaze away from his face, hoping that your expressions don’t give too much away. Life is tough in the district, and you bore first hand witness to what it could do to people, but you opted to not pour your heart out to him in the short time you’re spending together. “My ma says hi.”

He knew she didn’t really, it was a saying they used when they meant someone missed another. Thoughts of your ma came rushing back to him, the sweet, determined woman she was and her quick healing hands. As far as his memory serves, she was wonderful. A woman that saw his ma; a frazzled young mother who’s district shut her and her son out like a witch on trial for her husband’s actions, and opted to give her a shoulder to cry on instead. She kept by her side, blocked both of their ears to the nasty words people threw at them and shooed hecklers away for years. She stayed despite the nonstop news of his father’s company and their work, only turning her back once word of their impending move to the capitol got out. 

He doesn’t really know why he remembers that particular night so well, the way your face dropped when he told you he was moving, the chill in the air as you two attempted to eavesdrop from behind the thin door. Your ma’s face, red and hurt, as she ordered you to bid your last goodbye. Even in her final moments, she allowed him the grace of innocence and spared him from any blame. He remembers watching his ma watch you two walk away, no slammed doors or shattered glass, just a quiet exit. He could still feel the wetness of his sweater as her tears stained his shoulder, inconsolable, beaten to her very weakest. 

He swore he’d grow up then, for her. 

He shut his eyes, trying to regain his bearings, the smile still present on your face. “I’ll tell ma she did.”

You nodded slightly, eyes going quickly down to the paper on the desk then back to him. 

Right, the interview, or whatever this was. 

“Do you work?”

“Yes!” That seemed to get you excited, “I work at the clinic. Of course- no degree so not a Physician per se, but close enough. I’m still train’ though.” 

You were beaming with pride, Sejanus couldn’t help but mirror your wide smile. 

“And how is it?” 

“S’ fine, nothin’ fancy but it’s honest work. Marcus said it must be awful, for me to be the last thing a person sees.” At the mention of Marcus, you turned your face to look at where he was being interviewed. Or refusing to. “Your friend ain’t having much luck with him.” 

Your face held a pained expression towards Marcus, knowing exactly what the kind of things going through his head at the moment. 

“You two together?” 

You raised an amused eyebrow at the question, watching Sejanus’ eyes look anywhere but your face. “Js’ askin about marital status, s’all..”

“No, can’t stand him.” You chuckled, sensing the relief in Sejanus’ shoulders as he looked at you once more.

“Really? Last I saw you, you were practically head over heels ready to have his children.”

“We were 6 and he was the fastest boy on the playground, I think we all had a crush on Marcus.”

“And now?” 

You weren’t ever going to deny that Marcus was good looking. Strong, tall for someone so under-fed, too. It was no secret that most of the women back in 2 would give their finest possessions for a chance with him. But it wasn’t even that his eyes were solely for another that killed your crush on him, it was because he will always be the Marcus that chased you around with a beetle when you were kids, scaring you to tears. 

Sure, he was a gentleman and any girl would be lucky to have him, but to you, he was still that kid snacking on his boogers, but even he doesn’t know you’ve seen him do that. Plus, you were quite fond of his wife. 

As if this point made a difference in anything, anyway.  As if Marcus was the last barrier standing between the two of you, and not the impending games of certain death. You shook your head.

“He…uh. He leaves behind a wife an’ kid. Newborn. Don’ think they even named ‘em yet. He begged me to be the one to deliver it, most folks can’t afford a professional at the birth. Hell- I can’t even afford my own services. He told me he’d pay me back eventually. I told him that all I request is for the baby to be named after me, even if it’s a boy. He told me he’d rather die.” You laughed to yourself, “Look at us now.”  

Sejanus looked over to Marcus, who was deep in thought. 

“I don’t know how she’ll get by without him.” You sighed, realising exactly what Marcus had lost out on, his family. 

“I’ll…see if there’s anything I can help with.” He swallowed thickly, hoping he wasn’t promising on something he couldn’t deliver. “Right. Any talents?” 

“Talent?” 

“I don’t know, anythin’ you could do? Anythin’ that could help you in the arena? Anythin’ to make the Capitol love ya’?”

“Sorry, I ain’t much a performer.” You shrugged, eyes falling on the district 12 girl.

“S’alright, I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

“What’s the point, m’ dead anyway.” 

The light atmosphere from earlier had suddenly shifted, weight and discomfort raining down on either of you. Sejanus tried to come up with anything of comfort, anything at all, but turned up empty handed. 

“It gets ya’ sponsors, so I can send ya food and water in there.”

“That’s only delaying the inevitable, why bother?”

“Don’t lose faith so easily,”

“Sej, the truth ain’t pretty,.” 

“You’ve got Marcus, that’s somethin’. A lot of em are afraid of him.” 

“It’s because of Marcus that I’m not making it out.”

“What?”

You sighed, “All I want in there is to make sure he makes it home. Simple enough, two minds protecting him instead of half of one. Anyway, it’s easier for me this way, keeps my head straight, keeps me from going crazy.”

He paused for a moment, taken aback by your complete willingness to lay down and die. 

“What about your family?” What about me?

“You’re only twistin’ the knife-”

“You need to understand that it ain’t your fault he got reaped, so this pacifist route you’re goin for won’t get you nowhere. Inside, it’s different.”

“I’m not a killer Sejanus, with or without Marcus, I’m dead. Might as well reunite a family in the process. Die a hero.”

He shut his eyes, shaking his head dismissively at your words. You leaned forward, and he looked at you with sorrowful eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He curled in on himself, as if trying to appear smaller, which proved difficult, giving his build. Suddenly, the air between you two felt heavy, something so bittersweet about reuniting with your childhood friend in your final days alive. And not only that, he was also basically to see your execution. If you were in his shoes, especially knowing how sensitive he is, you would’ve lost your mind. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he hadn't really found his people here. 

“How are you liking it here?” You asked with genuine curiosity. There was nothing else to talk about for the interview, so why not catch up?

“What do you think? They hate me here just as much as they hated me back home.”

Poor Sejanus, always alone.

You spent the rest of your allocated time exchanging stories of your adolescence, with him telling you of what the capitolites were like and you telling him about how much 2 has changed since he left. It all flowed so naturally, like you two were just conversing over dinner. 

“I just want to go back.”

“You probably could, with all that money of yours.”

“But there would be nothing left for me, no one waiting for me to come home.”

You knew what he was implying, so you looked away to keep your sadness from showing. 

He placed a gentle hand onto yours “Please- just think about it, you could make it if you try. I want to go home, and I can only do that if you’re there.”

These were pretty big confessions, even for him, but it was nothing either of you didn’t already know. “I’m begging you- for once, think about your own self-”

“Sej-”

“Times up!”

Within less than  a few seconds, the peacekeepers that had been lining the room sprung to action, undoing the chain that kept you in place and beginning to line you up to go back to the zoo. 

… 

It was later in the evening when the visitor count rose again, most bearing some form of food for the tributes, though they were often too afraid to step closer to give it to them. The 12 girl and her mentor seemed to be doing great work with the crowd, reeling them in. It did everyone a favour, allowing the others to juggle and flip for their share. 

It made you sick. 

You hung back by Marcus, watching as a tribute pulled off some impressive moves for an apple from a watcher, earning a round of applause with it. You kept a permanent face of disgust as you watched how the Capitol was treating you. Animals. Circus animals, you were. Your jaw was clenched so tightly that you thought it might pop out of the joint socket, stomach rumbling but too proud to sing and dance for your food. 

“Hey! Psst!” 

Your position by the back gave you some protection from the observers, barriers making it impossible to get too close to you, though some did try. You two were likely the oldest tributes inside, along with some sporadic ones from other districts. You looked over to the source of the sound, a boy, no older than 14, standing with his face squished into the cage as his friends hung back a step behind him. He was waving some sweet around, it looked fancy, pricey, begging for you to take it. Something about the mischievous smile on his face had you thinking there were some ulterior motives, so you ignored him to look at Marcus. 

“I keep thinking- this whole thing is filmed, no? I keep thinking, what would he think when he grows up, sees his pa so pathetic like this.” 

“Don’t-”

Your words were cut off by a sticky substance hitting your leg, the stupid kid had thrown a chunk of the desert at you to get your attention. You grimaced, fighting the urge to scream, opting only to shoot a pointed look at him, but it only caused him and his friends to dub over in laughter.

The other tributes’ attention was suddenly grabbed by a new attendee, Sejanus, who, as usual, came bearing bags full of food, no performance needed. He caught sight of you hanging back, not attempting to get up to talk to him again, and tried not to let his disappointment show. You were still a little weary from your previous conversation, not wanting to get another lecture on survival. He hoped you’d come around eventually. You turned back to Marcus. 

“Don’t think they show em this part, only the games.”

He sighed, nodding a little. 

“Have you picked a name-”

This time, the sweet hit you straight in the face, a little bit sneaking into your eye. You could see Marcus seething, but not more than you were. With everyone's attention on Sejanus, you stood up abruptly, wiping your face as you stomped over to the boy, who was too deep in his laughter to notice your approach. You stuck your hand out, grabbing him by the collar. He was shorter than you, which made this a lot more intimidating. 

“What? Ain’t laughing now?” You spat at him, though his eyes were frantic and fearful. He tugged on your grip, but you were no stranger to holding down stubborn patients. 

“They ain’t teach you manners here, boy? Want me to teach em’ to you?” 

You sounded more threatening than you intended, reveling in the feeling of having him so under your mercy. You hadn’t noticed that the zoo went quiet, or that everyone was watching your every move. Or sejanus rushing to where you were to attempt to preserve your image. Or the peacekeeper who was matching towards you. Or Marcus, who was trying to make it there first to keep you from getting hurt. 

Not until the gun was pushed into your side. 

“Put the boy down.” 

Time stood still, you looked at the soldier from the corner of your eye that still had some frosting on it, then at Sejanus whose jaw was clenched in worry. He gave you a sympathetic look, hoping you’d let go of the boy. 

And so you did, your hands unclenched from around his shirt and he dropped the short distance to the floor and you remained in position, moving backwards slowly so as to not startle anyone. Marcus’ hand was around your arm, guiding you away. 

But teenage boys never know when to quit it, do they?

As one final act of defiance, the boy spat at you, landing hot saliva to be mixed in with the cream. And that was it for you. 

All it took for you to lunge forward, landing a quick punch on him through the cage. 

But no good deed goes unpunished. 

Before Marcus could pull you away, the peacekeeper slammed the end of his gun into your face, drawing blood from your lip. He would’ve landed a second one had it not been for Marcus’ quick, strong hands pulling you away behind him. 

“Step. Away.”

Didn’t look like it was going to end well for you, but you didn’t want him to get caught up in your mess. 

“Was just a misunderstanding, she won’t do it again.” He bargained. 

Like hell you won’t. You’d do it a thousand times over just to wipe that smile off his face. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sejanus rushing over to some higher up, whispering something to them. Trying to diffuse the situation. 

The soldier in front of you received some orders through their earpiece, circling around you before making his way back to his post by the side of the cage. You hate to admit it, but if it weren’t for him, you’d probably be dead. The girl from 12 began singing, then, re-drawing the attention back to her. It gave you the grace of finally being out of the limelight. You puffed, pushing Marcus’ hand off you to head for the small water faucet to clean yourself, earning angry looks from the other tributes on the way. Likely for killing their chance at more food, at least for the night. 

Your face burned, half from frustration the other from the impact of the gun. You were sure there were angry red scrapes all over your jaw. Having an open wound, no matter how small, isn’t an advantage in this situation. You preferred to keep things sterile. 

You saw his shoes first, polished and new. Some of you were in here barefoot. You didn’t bother looking up, deciding whether you wanted to hear whatever speech he had planned out for your little stunt or just make your way back. 

“You looked like your ma just then, for a second.” 

You coughed out a laugh, having not expected him to say anything like that at all. 

“Scary woman, she was. I remember when she used to keep me still, for the vaccines. She had that same look in her eyes.” 

Your hand came up to cover your mouth to attempt to stifle the laugh, he sounded so serious. You cleared your throat, trying to remain neutral. You looked up to where he was, finding a small first aid kit in his hand. He nodded over to where you two could be more at eye level so that he could clean the mess you made. 

“You’re much better at this than I am.” 

He held your chin softly with one hand, angling your face away as he tried to soldier on through your hisses and twitches as he disinfected your skin.  

“You’re doin’ fine…you won’t tell me off?”

“I’m not your father, so probably not. But you ought to be careful, trust that they’ll kill you if they want to.” 

He pulled your face back to him, grabbing a fresh wipe to dab away at your lip. He was crouched down, leaned in with trust way too close to the cage. Had you been anyone else, they would’ve probably torn him apart. 

“You won’t tell me I ruined my image for sponsors, or whatever?” 

“If anything, people think you’re tougher than you look now, so they’re more willing to take a chance on you.” He sighed, aware that you won’t like how your rebellion was taken. “You were always the brave one, anyway. So I wasn’t really surprised. He had it coming.”

He put the swabs away, digging into his bag to grab a special container out. Inside, a small slice of his ma’s peach pie. 

“She saw you on tv. Said you looked like a woman now, reminded her of home. She made this specially for you.” 

Fruit was a delicacy back in 2, especially the nicer ones, like peach. The first time you’d tried it at his house, you loved it so much you ended up eating almost the whole tray with no regard for anyone’s feelings. Shortly after, your mouth began swelling up and your body became itchy. That’s when you found out you were allergic to peaches, but only mildly. The symptoms were just annoying, not grave, and they were definitely not going to keep your grimy hands away from the fruit whenever it was offered to you. 

The fear that had overtaken the place was now long gone, other mentors showing up to chat with their tributes. One particular one having a picnic in front of the cameras with hers. It gave you a moment of privacy within the open air to observe Sejanus freely. 

“Your ma said anything else?” You took a small bite, making sure to keep the fruit away from your open lip so that the inevitable allergy doesn’t drive you insane. 

“Yeah,” he laughed a little. “She said if I keep looking for Capitol girls that are like you she won’t end up with any grandkids.” 

“Like me?”

“You’re tough competition to beat, unfortunately. Beauty, brains and brawns. Triple threat.” 

You giggled at his shameless flirt. “I’d kiss you, but then you’d get peaches all over my skin and I don’t want to itch.”

He tried not to show his fluster at your words, the comment about the kiss playing in his mind, the way you slipped it in so casually, like you two had ever kissed before. He bit his lip at the thought, smiling like an idiot as he watched you eat. 

He was about to say something else, when his thoughts were cut off by loud shrieks from the crowd, his classmate fell over with blood pouring out of her neck.

It all happened so fast, the screams, the bullets, Coriolanus’ run and your spring to action. 

You made your way across the cage, ignoring the protests from both Sejanus and Marcus, asking you to keep away from the trouble, but it was muscle memory. The blond had his classmate clutched in his arms dramatically, like some hero, your calls out to him fruitless as you stepped beside the girl from 10. Nothing you could do for her now. 

“Lean her forward! Lean her forward!” 

If he’d listened, it may have given the girl some time whilst the medics arrived, but he didn’t respond to you, too stunned to actually take any action but making himself a martyr. But you could tell it was already too late. 

The peacekeepers yanked you away from the bars, lining you up with the rest of the tributes in the back. You were shacked, faced to the wall with your knees kicked in so that you were on the floor. You heard them over by the other side pulling the mentors out of the zoo, which meant Sejanus was likely now gone, and, despite everything, his absence made you feel vulnerable. 

…

You watched as the hook dug into her flesh, watched as they hoisted her up high for everyone to see. You couldn’t take your eyes off of her as you were shackled tightly once and ushered into yet another uncomfortable position. Her blood dripped slowly onto the ground below as the car moved at a snail’s pace. 

If you were in her position, you aren’t sure if you wouldn’t have done the same thing, put that girl back in her place. It was people like her that kept the divide between you so drastic, people who were adamant on displaying their superiority based on where they’re from. Had things been any different, you would have been hanging up there. In death, she looked very peaceful, just a child. Just a hungry, angry child. You all were, in one way or another. She had a family back home, dreams, aspirations, no matter how small. She didn’t even get to try. 

It was subconscious, the way the tears began flowing down your cheeks as you watched her body sway with the movement. So weightless, her presence extinguished within seconds. Sure, the Capitol girl died as well, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Oftentimes, in the medical field, you find yourself absolving yourself of any biases when treating a patient, no matter how often they throw insults at you. At the end of the day, they were scared and in pain, and you were their lifeline.

You feel guilty for not caring about this girl, your morals having been so cemented in for so long. But the way she gets a parade in her honour whilst the other girl’s body gets disrespected like that…maybe she deserved it. 

Sejanus caught sight of your face on the screen, bruised and tired with tear stained cheeks. It was an awful sight, all of it. He stood a bit further back in the crowd, having not been that close to -nor liked by- Arachne, as he cast his eyes to the tribute at the top. That could’ve been you, with your sudden movements and fistfights. Maybe he should tell you off. 

…

You spent the next few days in the same routine of seeing each other through the bars, with him desperately trying to convince you to keep hope and you pretending his words don’t cut straight through you. At least they fed you, but you wished they just got things over with already, the anticipation of your death was almost enough to kill you. 

Almost. 

But on the whateverth day, they once again herded you away, with the plan of giving a tour of the arena…?

What good does that do? Intimidate you, definitely. When you arrived, they had already been waiting on you in the scorching sun. Sejanus wore the same strained expression that he had on since he greeted you first, sweat beaded on his forehead. He wasn’t as talkative as he usually was, walking in step with you through the rubble of the arena in uncomfortable silence. You were each in your own world, but you were reeling from the feeling of being inside, in person. It was much, much more intimidating than the clips you saw in passing. Something about not being able to see everything from a wide-shot view, made your fate much more real. All you could think about, is with how small the place was, you were going to tear eachother apart within minutes. You hoped that you would just find a peaceful passing. Sejanus looked equally distressed, and it was always nicer to focus on others' discomfort, which often made you forget your own momentarily.

“You okay?”

It was ironic, touring the place you were going to die in a few days time and asking him if he was okay.

“Yeah” He sighed. “I’m sorry, this is all awful.” He was uneasy, looking around for any out or hiding spot you could wiggle your way into.  He stuffed some food into your pocket, ignoring your protests as you tried to form a plan for the games. It had all gotten too real, too suddenly.

Though your hands were shackled, you managed to grab his arm, exchanging solemn looks before your moment was cut off by a loud explosion. 

You were far enough away to not be seriously injured by the initial impact, but the rubble that scattered afterwards managed to knock you off your feet. A large rock landed on top of your foot, it was heavy enough that you weren’t able to move it due to your recent weakness, but not disabling enough to cause you any permanent damage. Sejanus rushed over to you, helping you up to your limping feet. Your ears were ringing as you held onto his upper arm for support, he was shaking you, trying to get your attention with words that you could not hear. He was pointing over to where Marcus had made his way out of the arena into the arms of freedom. You were coughing, watching his figure speed away from the peacekeepers attempting to catch him. You smiled, fastest boy on the playground. 

Sejanus grabbed your face once more, speaking with urgency that you could not place. Run, he wanted you to run. 

You looked back over to where Marcus and a few other tributes had managed to reach a fence, before two of them were shot down with way too many bullets for a single body. Your feet were frozen in place, whatever bravery you held before was now long gone.

But just as fast as you’d gotten to your feet, you were knocked back down, dirt and dust making its way into your eyes. The peacekeepers dragged a protesting Sejanus away from you as they cuffed your hands behind you.

Once you were back at the zoo, the pounding in your head didn’t stop, made worse by the hits you received from the peacemakers for resisting. They dumped you all back in the cage with no regard for those who were injured or even dead. Your ankle hurt, but it was only just a sprain to go with the miscellaneous bruises and cuts all over, others weren’t so lucky. 

You tried not to think of the fact that Marcus was gone, that you were now completely on your own. You’d hate to admit it, but Sejanus was right. Even if you didn’t expect Marcus to lay his life down for you, just his presence kept you shielded from any stray thoughts the tributes may have. You were the only woman here alone. You just hoped that, when you died, you’d have a dignified death in some way. You weren’t mad at him for not looking back, you just wished you would’ve gathered your thoughts a little faster, maybe having a chance to actually make it. Now, in a day or two, you will be entering the games all on your own. 

And it was only then you realised that you were terrified. 

Marcus’ presence was quietly comforting, it meant you had someone to watch your back, someone to rely on, someone to ask how you were doing, but his absence opened the possibility of making it out alive without guilt. 

You had a chance to live, and that thought filled you with even more fear, because now, death wasn’t as inevitable as it was before. Now, survival was an option, and it seemed more difficult than to just lay down and die.

…

The zoo must’ve been closed off to the general public for these 2 days, since Sejanus didn’t come to visit you, and you only saw him again at one of those stupid mentor-tribute meetings.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Sejanus placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, knowing that it was unlikely that anyone else had asked you that question yet. 

“Fine. Just a sprained ankle, I’ve been through worse.” You huffed. “Have you heard anything about Marcus?”

He sighed, “No. They can’t find him, which is good. But I doubt they’d tell me anything.”

He watched as your eyes went off him, going out of focus as you began to think of Marcus again, or at least his absence. 

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence.

“Why didn’t you run?” He clenched his jaw, and you could feel your composure slipping away. 

“I don’t know.” 

“What do you mean you don’t know, why didn’t you run?!”

“Sejanus, please.”

“The opening was right there, you could have made it!” 

“Stop.”

“What are you going to do now that he’s gone, huh? You got what you wanted. Now what?”

“I don’t know!” You yelled, not a care in the world for anyone who might hear.  “I was frozen, I couldn’t move, I don’t know why.”

“Okay,” his voice was calm, an attempt to bring you back down to his level. “What do you plan on doing in there because- being alone ain’t an advantage. I’m sure their might be others but-”

His insistence on repeating your most awful thoughts back to you over and over again got to you, bringing your hands up to cover your face as your body was overcome with sobs.

For a second, you looked like you were that girl in the storage closet again, breaths out of control as you thought about your coming fate. 

“Hey, hey- I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to upset you.” He moved to crouch at your side.

He stayed there, like he did the first time, unable to grant you any comfort but his hand on your back. He spent a minute or so trying to coax you to look at him, knowing that you two only had a limited time slot at the moment, and who knows if they’ll re-open the zoo.

Eventually, after who knows how long, you lifted your head up, looking over to him with teary eyes.

“Sejanus?” Your voice was hoarse. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.” The tears began flowing again. “I’m so, so scared. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how the hell I'm supposed to even try to survive in there. I’m scared I’ll die, or worse-”

You cleared your throat, “I’ll be torn apart. I’d ask you to put a bullet in my skull right now, had I not been more scared of death in general.” 

He would have asked you what happened to the original plan, had he not put it together himself. 

“Hide.” He spoke with much more seriousness and authority than you’d ever seen him muster up. “Hide, don’t let them see you, don’t try to fight. Run and hide. If you need something, find a camera, I’ll know.”

“That doesn’t sound like advice that would last very long.”

“Trust me.”

You sniffed, wiping your face with shaky hands, “I wanna see my sister again, Sej. I miss her so much. I miss my ma.” You began sobbing again, head in your hands as you struggled to pull yourself together.

He could hear your muttering between sobs, I want my ma, over and over again, and he was struggling to keep his own tears at bay. 

“You will, I promise you, you will. You won’t be alone in there-okay? I’ll be watching your every move and I’ll be doing everything I can to keep you safe. I promise.” He knew his words likely meant nothing to you, remorse making its way onto his face. He wished he could do more. 

You looked at him, his brown teary eyes meeting yours. He looked so guilty, so unsure of his own words while he begged you to trust him.

“And if that doesn’t work? And if I get cornered?”

“You’ll figure it out, you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for. More clever. Pretty quick on your feet, too. Just keep that in mind. Trust me.”

You chuckled at his seriousness. “You remember what happened last time I trusted you?”

A small smile broke through both of your features.

“I can’t believe you’re still holding that over me.” He shook his head.

“I really liked that necklace!”

“I replaced it though, didn’t I?”

“That’s not what trust is about.” You sniffed, looking over to where some of the other tributes were-namely reaper, who had such a threatening presence in context.

“Do you…still have the one I got you?”

He tried not to let the smile grow, remembering how upset he was when he ran to his ma, distressed that he’d lost your property. He only borrowed it from you so that he could see it for a second, but it dropped from his hands into the rushing drain water, gone forever.  She turned it into a little outing for him, taking him to the finest jeweler that remained open in 2. He spent hours picking out something that both replaced the one he lost and reimbursed you for your troubles, eventually settling on one with a small precious stone in the front, with both your initials engraved in neat handwriting in the back. 

“What? Of course I kept it! It’s not everyday your crush gets his name permanently engraved next to yours.”

“Your… crush?”

“I think the whole town knew.”

“Wasn’t it Marcus?”

“Again with- Sej. I only very briefly had a crush on Marcus when we were 6, otherwise it was you.”

This was all news to him, “I had a crush on you too!”

“I knew,” You snorted. 

“Hey! Why didn’t you say anything then?”

“We were 7, what did you want me to do? Ask you out?”

“Fair.”

What were you two even talking about in the first place?

“It’s in a small box, under my bed, along with other scraps I collected from our time together.” You didn't know why these confessions were coming out now, but it all felt so natural. Like you two were just two friends catching up. “I used to-” You giggled, “I used to bring it out on your birthday, after you left. Wear it the whole day and pretend we were celebratin’. Till I got old enough to get reaped, then I had bigger things to worry about….” 

You trailed off, unsure where these confessions were coming from. He looked at you, an unreadable look on his face, but it mirrored yours, neither of you sure of what it meant.

In another life, that’s what it meant.

He got back into his seat.

“The interviews they wanted to do are now on a voluntary basis, would you..?”

“No.”

He sighed, having already anticipated that answer. 

“Well, with the zoo closed indefinitely, I won’t be able to see you again until just before your games. If you agree to the interview, we’ll see each other basically daily for the week.”

That was a tempting offer, but you couldn’t picture yourself at the end of that week, standing in front of a live audience while your opponents sing and flex for them. You also didn’t have anything to show, and it’s doubtful that any of the viewers would care about your job or desire to live if you couldn’t put on a show. 

On the other hand, the very real fact of only seeing him one more time didn’t sound pleasant. Even if he couldn’t really do anything for you, your short chats brought you comfort. When he was around you could close your eyes for ten minutes and pretend that there was a possibility of seeing him again on the other side.

But if you were going to die, you wanted to do it with dignity, not after begging people to take a chance on you, however indirect.

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it.”

He nodded softly, shoulders dropping in defeat as he came to terms with the fact that he’ll only see you one more time. 

The week went by quicker than he hoped, with no new mentor tasks and the lack of other significant assignments, he spent the better part of those days rotting in his room, high on sleep meds and antidepressants prescribed to him by the therapist his ma insists he sees. It was futile, talking to someone who couldn’t grasp why you were the way that you are, but he soldiered through the sessions for her own peace of mind. The pills helped, more than he would openly admit. They kept all thoughts -good or bad- far, far away. He didn’t want to think about the countdown to your likely demise. Truth was, he didn’t have much faith in your survival, the competition far too nasty, but he had to keep up appearances for you. He spent all those years away from home fantasizing about the moment he came back, about how you’d react to seeing him again, but that seemed so impossible now. And no matter how much he pleaded, begged, or even bribed the zoo security they wouldn’t let him in. You mentioned that they had been feeding you, which kept that part of him at ease. Family dinners had become strained, and his appetite had basically nonexistent, he couldn’t stomach a single bite of food, no matter how much ma insisted. It was a miracle his father hadn’t found a reason to lecture him yet, maybe he felt bad. But all his anger was bound to bubble through the surface at some point. 

On the rare occasion where they huddled around the tv as a family, they watched the tribute interviews from the comfort of the couch. Some gave a convincing performance, others struggled through basic information that definitely didn’t interest the audience. His peers gave some performances as well, putting on confident voices for even the meekest of contestants. Snow’s girl, Lucy Gray, was obviously the night’s winner, with her heartfelt melody and honey laced voice, no wonder he had been parading her around.  

The only reason he got any form of sleep was those pills, the same ones he was cursing at for making him doze off the morning of your final meeting. He was only a few minutes late, but every second counted when he wasn’t sure if he’ll see you again. 

He caught a glimpse of you as they authorized his entry, clearly hurt by his apparent abandonment. 

You were curled in on yourself, heart heavy as you tried not to let the idea of Sejanus being unable to face you one last time get to you. All the other mentors were present, but your hope was dwindling with every tick of the clock. But then, the call of your name, frantic and guilty, made your head shoot up. 

He rushed to his seat, a string of sincere apologies and excuses spilling from his lips. 

“It’s okay, I’m glad you’re here.”

He tried to catch his breath, wiping a hand over his face to regain composure. 

“How are you feeling?” Great, now he’s starting to sound like his therapist. 

You couldn't spare him even a fake chuckle, mind too preoccupied with the feeling of fear.

“What’s our task for today?” You peeped, trying to steer the conversation away from your thoughts. 

“Nothing, just final advice, I guess.”

“Okay. Anything for me then?”

“You’ll be okay.”

Now that made you chuckle, but you knew there wasn’t anything he could add to be of use. If he was worried for you, if he had no faith in your survival, he definitely kept it hidden, remaining as stoic as he could be. The silence was uncomfortable, and there really was nothing to say at this point, other than tearful goodbyes.

“Did they show you the interviews? If you manage to find a good spot, you could outlast most of the others. You know like-”

“Sejanus?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a necklace on, could you take it off me?”

“Right now?”

“Yes please.”

He didn’t question it much, getting up to fulfill your request. His hands were gentle on the back of your neck as he undid the worn clasp, pulling the piece off and placing it in front of you before he returned to his seat. 

“Will you give it to my ma?”

Now he understood what this was. 

“You’ll give it to her yourself.” He sighed.

“Don’t be cheesy, Sej. Please, could you see to it?”

His eyes traveled down to the pendant, a locket. Curiosity got the better of him, his hands softly wrapping around it to pop it open. He took a second first to wipe his thumb over the engraving on the front which read dearest in fine cursive. Inside, a picture of your family, small and the details were beginning to get lost to time, but it was endearing. He felt his calm start to fade, the realisation that this was the last time he’ll see you pushing to the front of his brain. 

“I can’t promise you that, you have to come back. Make sure I did it.” He placed a comforting hand onto your trembling, cuffed ones. “Hungry?” He always had snacks for you, just in case, but you shook your head. 

“Hey-” He urged you to look at him. “You’ll be okay, and this will be some story you tell people, I promise okay? Eyes on the prize.”

You nodded wordlessly, eyes drifting up to him. His eyes gave him away, gave his worry away, but you two had no other option but to pretend. The minutes were up before either of you would’ve hoped, and he pulled you in for a tight hug as the peacekeepers urged him to let you go. His shoulder felt like a safe space, a bubble no one could hurt you in. But it was all over as quickly as it began. 

He watched your retreating form, all other tributes also walking with their heads hung low. His classmates were whispering about some goodbye; a kiss Coriolanus had exchanged with Lucy Gray, and all he could think about was the possibility of not having a chance of doing that, too. 

…

Lucky tried to get some final comments from the mentors, which made him grateful to arrive so last-minute, intentionally of course. He couldn’t keep anything down that morning, and the only reason he slept the night before was those wretched meds.  They were asked to be there early to kick off the 10th games with as much mentor-tribute coverage they could milk out of them. He decided he’d hang back a little, only arriving at the last moments so he wouldn’t see the excitement in the hall. Starting today, it’s mostly up to how the dice roll, and the odds weren’t often in his favour. They took their seats, and the discomfort among the mentors was palpable. Whether it be in competition or fear, he wasn’t sure. The lights dimmed and the broadcast started, opening with a wide shot of the arena, before the camera zoomed in on tribute after tribute. You were in frame last, and by that time he had gathered that something wasn’t right. Some of the other tributes were distressed, more than the expected amount. 

And then, there you were. 

Hunched over yourself, clutching your stomach with your face contorted in pain. Tears. You were crying, but he still wasn’t able to figure out what was paining you this much. The countdown ended, and most tributes, including you, managed to scurry away into the tunnels.

He wasn’t left to wonder for long. 

With no tributes in the visible arena, the camera panned out to the gruesome scene, and audible gasps washed over the hall. 

Marcus was caught. But not just that, it looked like they took all their fear out on him, his body battered and bruised and clearly barely functioning, if at all. Had it not been for the slight movement of his lips, Sejanus would have thought him long gone.

He was struggling to keep it together, and by the time the camera found its way back to the weapon cornucopia, you were back in the daylight, surveying the leftover bounty quickly.

He watched you, rage still coursing through his veins as you picked up a small knife and some other weapon he couldn’t make out. Then you jogged over to the beam where Marcus was still being tortured as an example. 

You don’t know whether it was sheer determination or the strength you’d built up from moving heavy patients around, but you made your way to the very top, leaning over to talk to Marcus.

He couldn’t hear you, but your lip movements were obvious enough.

Marcus! 

He moved his lips, but Sejanus couldn’t figure out what he was saying. 

I’m getting you down…I’ll- figure something-No! Please Marcus- don’t…

Overwhelm had taken you once more, the cameras fixed on the scene with nothing better to show. You began sobbing, then screaming, both falling on deaf ears. 

I can’t, I Can’t!

Then, more things were said that he could not figure out.

I’m Sorry, 

I’m Sorry, 

I’m Sorry, 

I’m Sorry, 

You repeated, bringing the knife to end Marcus’ torment in one swift motion. Your hands were stained, his blood, made worse by your muscle memory bringing them over your face. Your choked on your breath, beating yourself up for not doing more, trying harder to save him. Eventually, you leaned over his suspended body, ugly crying at the death of your long term friend. You wanted to leave this arena clean, should you leave it. But now, dead or alive, his blood was caked beneath your fingernails. 

The scene was filled with emotion, just what the capitol craved. The screen cut over to Flickerman, celebrating the first kill of the games. It left a sour taste on his tongue. He wanted  to yell again, to fight with everyone entertained by your weakness, but he didn’t want to risk causing more trouble lest he get kicked out of the program, then he’d be leaving you to fate, and he would hate that. Lucky commented on the obvious connection you and Marcus had, reducing you to a pair of unfortunate lovers. Sejanus knew they’d cut to him the minute they got done with his classmate’s comment on Marcus’ death. He looked over to his communicuff, finding a grand total of 0 gifts you’d received. 

The first kill, no matter how passive, was still something. He could play it up, pimp you out to sponsors so that he could send you water to wash your hands clean, or some food-who knows when you ate last. Maybe even some bread to sprinkle on Marcus, something you’d likely be very upset you couldn’t do at the moment. 

It would be in ill faith- no doubt.

 In fact, if you knew he did that, you’d hate him forever, but you'd starve if he wasn’t able to scrape something up. Then again, he watched you, still on that screen, your body shaking with guilt for blood that wasn’t-isn’t on your hands, not that you’d ever swallow that, and he knew you would prefer he tell them exactly who you two were. Neither of you had interacted with the general public, this was his moment to let them see you.

“Mr. Plinth- any comments on this surge of emotion we have flowing? Seems our two lovebirds were-”

As he expected, the feed cut to his poignant face. 

“They were not together.”

The silence in the hall meant everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.

“They were friends, back in 2. My friends. Marcus leaves behind a son, whom she delivered as a favour. She’s a physician, she left so much back home, but she was ready to give it all up if it meant Marcus made it back to his newborn. He and his wife had not even named him yet. Tell me Lucky, what was his crime? Hoping he sees his wife and child once more? Trying not to end up a distant memory in his son’s life? Is that worthy of crucifixion?”

His own words had brought his anger back up, 

“Marcus had not taken a life, had not terrorised a citizen, all he wanted was to go home.”

His voice was getting louder for every word he punctuated. 

“Monsters!”

He rose suddenly, grabbing a chair and tossing it and the screen.

“You’re all monsters here!”

He marched out of the hall, gasps and whispers all around him at his blatant display of disrespect, live for all the viewers at home. No doubt, word would get to his father, and there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be less than at home. At home in his luxury apartment with enough food to feed a district and more indulgences than you would ever get to see. He felt like he was choking on the fresh air around him, marching angrily with no destination in mind. 

Not only was Marcus’ death unjustified and exaggerated, but it will most definitely throw you off your game, cloud your vision, at least for the night. But you had no support in there, you were going to have to wobble back upright all on your own. And here he was, outside in the arms of safety, unable to come up with a single angle to help you in there. Out here, with all the freedom to run anywhere, his hands were tied. 

Or were they?

…

Your hands tightened around the knife, trembling in fear. Whoever it was hadn’t spotted you yet, but your spot had no other exits, which made you cornered. Just as you’d feared. 

Your eyes were swollen from the amount of crying you’d done. You had no doubt that your weakest moment had been at the centre stage for the capitol, the thought making you want to end it all with a show for the cameras, give em something to remember. The stranger kneeled down by Marcus, attempting to cross his arms for a more peaceful rest, but rigor mortis had already set in. The actions brought a furrow to your brow, not recalling any friends that Marcus had made in your time here. Then, he pulled out a small satchel, sprinkling what looked like-breadcrumbs!

You let out a reflex gasp which caused the figure to turn to look at you. Unmistakable, even in this darkness. A faint ray of a distant bulb illuminated the face that you’d been searching for in every crowd since you were 6. 

“Sejanus!” You whisper-yelled, crawling out from behind the debris before crashing into him as his arms came around you to steady you. The arena was colder than the capitol, and his warmth brought a much needed reprieve from that. This would be the first time since you were kids that you’d managed to embrace so freely, no restraints, no peacekeepers. 

And then the tears came again.

“Sejanus, Marcus! He…he wanted me to, I…” You could barely get any words out, sobs too strong for you to fight against them. 

“I know, I know.” He comforted, rubbing your back softly as you cried into his chest. 

When you finally calmed down a little, you pulled back, realising the oddness of the situation. He reached into his bag, pulling out some wipes that he began using on your bloody hands. 

“What are you doing here?” you sniffed.

“What I promised you.” To keep you safe. 

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Not even your ma?”

“...No.”

You smacked him with your freshly cleaned hand. “What the hell, Sejanus! You need to get out!”

He ignored your protest, hands continuing their work on your other palm. 

“What good am I out there?”

“Alive! You can’t have me worry about you in here!”

“You don’t have to worry about me, m’ just making sure you get home.”

“Sej…please…”

His hands stilled as he shut his eyes softly, your pleading tearing away at his defences. But outside, where he is safe, he’d been utterly useless, unable to deliver you neither food nor comfort. 

“You’ve got…zero sponsors.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know you don’t, I do. Because I wanted to send you a water bottle to wash your hands clean, or breadcrumbs to sprinkle, both of which I couldn’t do! And- and then I kept thinking, how the hell is she going to sleep with no one keeping watch?”

That caught you off guard, it had been weighing on you since Marcus’ disappearance. The thought of being so entirely vulnerable like that didn’t sound great, and it didn’t help that your head was pounding from dehydration, and here he was, with all the solutions. Water, food, safety.

You cupped his face gently as he leaned into your touch.

“You have to be out there Sej, its where changes happen. In here, theres only one outcome but you’ve got money, influence, wether people stomach it or not. In here, you’re killing everyone’s chance of finally having someone on the inside.”

He smiled “You want me to lead the rebellion?”

“No. I just want you to live long enough to inspire someone to.”

He sighed, taking in the weight of your words. You were right, as usual, but the dark circles under your eyes made this decision harder. 

“Fine I’ll leave, but not until you rest a little.”

“Sej-”

“I’m not debating. The sooner you sleep the sooner I leave.”

You wanted to protest, but your muscles were so weary, and sleeping in his comfort didn’t sound so bad. 

“Fine. But not for long, and wake me up if anything happens, please.”

You shuffled to a nearby wall where you were able to keep your faces towards any entryway for danger. It didn’t take long for you to doze off, his shoulder making a surprisingly comfortable pillow as he sat silently listening to your breaths. 

You weren’t sure how long you’d been out, but it definitely did some replenishing on your energy. You were woken up by a quiet conversation between Sejanus and the other mentor you’d seen around. 

How many capitol kids are they letting in here?

You shot up in confusion, their conversation pausing as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. Your gaze fell on Sejanus first. 

“Okay. Your turn.”

He sighed, shoulders slouching in defeat. He wobbled up from his stiff position on the ground then helped you do the same. 

“Okay. But I want to take Marcus out of here.”

His friend did not hesitate to support him, his fear showing through the full suit of armor he had on. Before they went on their way, he pulled you in for a tight bear hug. 

“Take care, please.” 

If you shut your eyes hard enough, you could imagine a different scenario in place of where you were now, a different life. You could even allow his words to bring you comfort, peace, as if nothing in the world could reach you here. You hugged him back, squeezing as tight as your body would allow. Who knows when you’d see each other again? Who knows if.

They grabbed the corpse carefully, one at the foot and another at the shoulders, the stiffness in the muscles making it a difficult task. They had just about gotten to the end of the tunnel, just about to leave your line of sight when Sejanus mumbled something to his friend, placing the body softly down before running back to you. 

He all but crashed into you, cupping your cheek to bring you in for one hell of a goodbye kiss. Here, away from all the watchful eyes and the fake tears. You were both out of breath, and you hadn’t even noticed that he’d started to cry. Some pair of unfortunate lovers you two were. He kept his hold when he pulled back a little, both of you unable to find the words to say. You only stared into his eyes, mesmerised by the emotion he always seemed to bottle up in them. He gave you one more quick peck to the forehead before letting go. 

No words were exchanged, there were no more to be said anyway. 

He marched over back to where his buddy was very clearly irritated up to his knees.. 

And that's when you saw them. 

The tribute pack that had formed unexpectedly, closing in on your position. They had seen you, seen them, too. You all looked like easy prey. You didn’t give much thought as you bolted to where they were still carrying Marcus, yelling.

“Run!”

But the pack was a lot faster than you’d expected, with impeccable aim. One of them had managed to throw an axe that sliced Sejanus’ calf, causing him to lose his balance, dropping the body. Another was able to slice the blonde’s shoulder, making them both liabilities in this moment.

“Come on!”

You pulled Sejanus up first, habits. Then moved to his friend quickly as you all got to your feet, scurrying through the dim tunnels as you mindlessly followed the blonde, who seemed to know the way to the exit. One of the pack had managed to find a different way through, lunging on top of Snow while he attempted to kill him. Instead, the blond flipped the table around, grabbing a nearby brick and smashing the young tribute’s face to irrecognizability. You watched in horror from over Sejanus’ shoulder as he brought the brick down, time and time again. All you kept thinking of, was that that could be you, with any other tribute around. Your hands shook as his eye popped out of its socket before Sejanus was able to pull his friend off the kid. They both stumbled towards the final stretch, but you were frozen by the body. You then realized, if you made it all the way to the exit with them, there would be no escape for you. You’d be backed up against a wall, but there was no time to discuss this with them.  

Without a final goodbye, you wordlessly bolted into a different tunnel. 

They made it out safely, well, as safe as they could have been anyway, and laid there for who knows how long. He watched the pack bang and bite at the barbed wire, your absence only now registering. You must’ve parted ways with them in the rush of it all, which would’ve comforted him, had the tributes not pointed in the only direction you could have went in, sprinting to catch up with you. 

The blood drained from his face, they were going after you, and it was all his fault. They wouldn’t have found you if he wasn’t in there, you would’ve been able to hide it out. Instead, he brought you to death’s door. Who knows if you’d be able to outrun them? Oh, he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, you were all he’d be thinking of. 

They wheeled him into the ambulance. 

She could be dead.

Then they stitched up his calf.

She could be dead.

He rode home in silence. 

She could be dead. My fault.

He didn’t know which was worse, the thought of your final moments being of his own doing or the fact that he may not know whether you were alive or not for a very long time. Would the game makers know if your last breath was taken in complete darkness? Oh, he was so stupid. Emotional. Some hero he is, showing up to-what? Clean your hands and give you food? He had not even thought to bring you anything of use, a better weapon, a warm jacket, anything that will last. No, he went in there, selfishly wanting to see you once more, mourn with you. And now he may have led them right to you. 

He opened the house door hesitantly, unsure if he was quite ready to face his parents. The living room was dark, save for his ma rocking herself softly by the phone in front of the television. His father sat by her, not comforting her but with his head in his hands in shame. 

Shame, that’s all he ever brought home. 

She heard the door shut softly behind him, which caused her to jump up, rushing towards him. She pulled him into a wobbly hug, and he tried to keep himself together as she rambled into his shirt. 

“I was so worried! What were you thinking?! You could have gotten hurt!” She pulled back, grabbing his face into her hands.

“I’m sorry, ma.” He really was, for causing her so much distress. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Just my leg.”

“Oh my. Oh! I can not believe you, Sejanus, what has gotten into you-”

“M’ tired ma. I’m sorry. M’ goin to bed.” He cut her off, too tired to hear her attempt at disciplining him at the moment. 

She stuttered, watching as he limped away towards his room. His father didn’t look at him, didn’t spare him a glance as he walked past him. No lecture, no screaming match, nothing. Just disappointment. 

He won’t hear the end of it, he was sure. He would need to come up with something to reimburse the capitol for their troubles of seeing him lash out that morning, and buy the academy’s silence about his little adventure, no doubt. 

Money, money, money. That’s all his father talked about. Money and status and image and pretending they were something they were not. He sees the way they look at his father, roll their eyes, clutch their pearls at his very presence, and if his father doesn’t mind, then he does. What could he have possibly done in his life to deserve treatment like this, and what could possibly convince him to long to fit in with people like that. 

Doesn’t matter, this is an argument they’ve had more times than he would care to count. And they will have it again, definitely before he leaves for the mentorship in the morning. But his father’s lack of anger could only mean one thing. 

He was scared, even relieved at Sejanus’ return, even if he would rather die than embrace his boy. 

He made his way into his room, shutting the door behind him before collapsing face-first on the plush bedding. Sleep would not be finding him anytime soon, despite how tired he was. Silent tears stained the pristine sheets beneath him, his head more pounding than ever. 

This was not the life he’d pictured for himself, not at 8 years old and definitely not now. Which is why he walked into that arena with no intention of making it out, ready to end it all there and then, make a statement. You convinced him to try again, to walk back out. You'd never know it, how you’d saved him tonight, in more ways than one. He felt as though he’d owe you forever.

He told himself, no matter the games’ outcome, that he would not be in the capitol by the end of the month. Whether it be in 2 or 6 feet under, that depends on what happens to you, but all he knew is that he was done with trying to make it here.

It was a little before dawn before he was finally able to muster up the energy to shower, warm water washing away all evidence of the night’s activities along with the soreness of his muscles. He stayed beneath the stream for some time, allowing the pressure to keep his thoughts quiet for once. 

He inspected his face in the foggy mirror, a few bruises here and there with a cut on his nose, nothing major, but it was eye catching. He wouldn’t attempt to cover it, let them know. Who cares anyway. He got dressed in a clean uniform before making his way to his parents’ room. The door was opened only a little, allowing him to watch his ma’s sleeping figure. Even in rest she looked worried about him. His father was nowhere to be seen, so he tiptoed in to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, a token of his appreciation for her, which would never be enough.

The fridges were always stocked full with food, both home cooked and easy meals. His father would sometimes scrutinize his ma’s cooking. Not the taste but it’s frequency, and the lack of necessity, considering they had avoxes to prepare meals on her behalf. He was usual joking, in his own weird way, but Sejanus never liked these jokes. If cooking is what keeps his ma’s thoughts at bay, then so be it. He’ll eat all she makes even if his waistbands keep getting tighter and his pants shrinking. He served himself some pastries for breakfast, settling down in front of the T.V. to watch the games while he ate, in case you made an appearance. 

He didn’t dare tear his eyes off the screen, not all morning, not back at the academy either. The only casualty announcement that day morning was bobbin, who was killed at the hands of Coryo. Not much else happened for most of that day aside from Reaper patrolling the stands from time to time. He thought that would surely be it, that you’re dead somewhere in there, cold and alone. 

It wasn’t until late in the evening, when the sun had begun to set and the student body was gradually thinning out, that you made your appearance. He let out a shaky breath of relief, attempting to be as quiet as he could in his thankfulness. You were moving stealthily, having spotted a snoozing Reaper up in the stands. He then noticed the blood on your clothes that definitely wasn’t there when he last saw you. Whatever happened during the night, in those tunnels, he was just glad you were able to wiggle yourself out. Lucky made the passing connection between the blood and the mysterious kill, wondering if it could be pinned on you. He quietened again, the screen zooming in on your exhausted face as you selected a new weapon from the centre, having seemingly lost the ones you had already. Once you had a steady grip on a bat, you rose slowly, glancing over to where Reaper was. For a second, he thought you might go for that kill, resentment towards the sleeping tribute for his mind games back in the cage bubbling through. 

“So- Mr. Plinth, could your tribute really have been the mysterious killer all along?”

He stared off into the distance beyond the camera, weighing his options carefully. Last he checked, his cuff still indicated no gifts, and he needed to get you something, anything. There was no one willing to take a chance on someone who’d opened up her games with such raw vulnerability. 

“That’s the only feasible story, isn’t it?”

So what’s a little white lie?

“Riveting! Did you know she could do something like that?”

“What?...Kill?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“I doubt….that that was her first time, so…yes.”

Kill…fail to resuscitate…all synonyms, no?

“Woah, the field is on fire! What could you possibly be implying here?”

“Oh, no. I mustn't incriminate her now.” He shrugged with a laugh, sauntering off back to his seat before the interview could go on any further. Coryo watched him as he settled into his seat,  side-eying him for that insane play he just made, taking credit for something like that. But he could only laugh at his audacity. 

Just as he’d hoped, his cuff pinged with a few sponsors, which he wasted no time in putting to good use. Some bread and a nice bottle of water to keep you company. You almost missed their arrival, having satisfied whatever goal you had of stepping out into the fresh air momentarily. And when you received them graciously, you stood for a minute with a huge smile on your face, waving to the drones as they disappeared from view. 

You were waving to him. 

 He adjusted in his seat, contempt with the gifts he delivered you and comforted by the fact that you were still alive. 

These were the longest games to date, and the game of grim musical chairs wasn’t helping. Every morning, with the announcements of any deaths and the absence of your name, he would let out an unsure sigh of relief. The numbers dwindled down, leaving only him and Clemensia, who did not look well herself. But it meant that the final match was you against Reaper. 

Dawn of the final day. 

The lack of action in the tunnels was likely what drew you out of your hiding spot. You looked paler, your skin having missed the warm sunlight. Reaper was asleep up in the stands, giving you the ability to survey the area freely. You inched towards his makeshift graveyard, counting the tributes carefully to come to the same conclusion that Sejanus already knew. 

You took in a deep breath, looking back to the one thing standing between you and freedom. All in all, he was not a bad person, just as frightened as you were. All in all, you were not a killer, so you had no idea where to go from here. But you had to make a decision fast, since your opponent was now waking up. 

“Just us, doc?” Reaper’s voice was faint due to his distance from the mic, which only picked up his words because he yelled them to you. 

“Looks like it.” Your voice was a lot more clear, but also more shaky. “You don’t have to do this, you know?”

“What other choice do I have?”

You didn’t have an answer to that as he inched closer to you, and Sejanus had to hold himself back from screaming at you to run. 

“I don’t want to die here.”

“Did any of them?” Reaper shrugged solemnly and you could tell that he was a good man back home. “I promise, I’ll make it quick.”

You shook your head, not good enough. ANd before any other conversation was made, you bolted back into the tunnels with him hot on your tail. 

The final battle will be taking place away from the cameras, and the whole hall was silent. The cameras were now fixed on his and Clemensia’s faces, him more tense than she was. He tried to keep two things at the forefront of his mind. 

You knew the tunnels better, since Reaper resided outside most of the games. 

You were better fed, Reaper was essentially surviving on the fat on his body this whole time.

But it didn’t really ease his nerves. A whole minute had passed. Then three. Now five. Nothing, not a peep, not a victor nor loser. He doubted it would last that long, which caused the gamemakers to send in peacekeepers to extract the winner. 

Heavy boots emerged first from the tunnels, shortly after, the body of the tall tribute was deposited for the cameras, and you wobbled out of the shadows, victorious. 

The capitol celebrated with him that day, your unexpected win. 

He didn’t even bother going home, rushing straight to the medwing where they kept you. But they wouldn’t let him see you, however much he begged. He could hear your cries and protests as they tried to manage your injuries, and he all but broke the doors down to reach you, before he was escorted away and banished to his house. 

…

One of the many things people hated about this job was how packed the clinics were on most days. You did too, at some point, but you were now a changed woman and the steady, heavy flow of patients kept your mind off of the previous events. Your family gave you a tearful welcome back, of course, even celebrating with some fresh meat for dinner. But all you wanted to do was curl up into a ball and bask in the sun for the next 5 years or so. You didn’t talk it out with anyone, but the threat of the hunger games had now become way too close to home. Oftentimes, the unlucky families think that the chances of it being them is slim to none. You know, because you were one of them, and all you could think about now were the odds of your sister following in your footsteps. 

Every night you closed your eyes to find yourself back in the endless maze of damp tunnels, air so humid you could barely take in a full breath. And every night, without fail, you woke up hourly to your own screams. The more you stayed home, the worse it became, so the clinic had basically become your reprieve from that cycle. 

“..and there’s a new peacekeeper, need you to do his eval, okay?” Your ma handed you the papers without giving you a second to process 

“What?”

“Peacekeeper eval, bed 3, any questions?”

“Yes! This is lackey work, why am I assigned to this?”

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Because I said so,”

“But-”

“Didn’t you want more cases?”

“Yes, real cases, not paperwork!”

“Well it’s already been assigned to you, see to it. And since you’re so on edge today you have the rest of the day off.”

This was very odd behaviour, especially for your ma, who promptly rounded the corner without giving you a chance to protest any further. 

You were practically stomping through the halls, huffing and puffing as the familiar sterile smell made its way into your angry lungs. You whizzed past trains of blurry faces in white coats, hoping to get this out of the way so that you could fill your time with something more useful. The clinic’s bottom floor was always busy, always wreaked of sickness and asepsis, but it was the most convenient for quick cases. You rummaged carefuly through the stacks of different forms to find the peacekeeper eval, pushing it into place on your clipboard as you made your way to the bed. It was rare to not have at least an 80 percent occupancy rate for the triage beds, which kept most of the staff busy with quick assessments. 

You pulled the curtain open slightly to allow entry, pulling it closed right behind you. The man shifted from his comfortable lay on the bed to swing his legs over the side, but you still had your eyes on the empty paper infront of you, trying to recall the procedure you hadn’t done for years. 

“I will be your evaluator for this evening, first and last name?”

“Sejanus Plinth.”

The voice sounded like him, but you still didn’t believe it. 

“Real funny, I’ll ask again, f-” You lifted your head up to your patient, the words getting caught in your throat.

Sure enough, there he was, buzzed hair and a fresh set of uniform. There was a surprisingly large grin on his face, one that most peacekeepers don’t ever seem to posses. 

“Sejanus!” 

You dropped the stupid clipboard, abandoning all codes of conduct as you basically threw yourself onto him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. Strong arms wrapped back around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. You squeezed him so tight, afraid that when you let go he’d be gone. 

Again. 

“You’re back!” You were getting tearful, head still snug in his shoulder. “You’re back! What happened?”

“A long list of things actually. But, to sum it up, I am officially a capitol traitor.”

Both of you were pressed up against the room door, trying to decipher the argument outside. 

The last night he saw you. 

When it proved futile, you perched onto the little window ledge, watching the rain pour down the glass. 

“When are you going to be back?”

“Probably never.”

Your shoulders dropped in defeat. Back then, you really didn’t quite believe it, the idea  of never seeing him again, it never clicked. 

“Do you think they’ll like me there?” He picked at his nails. 

“Why wouldn’t they?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go?”

“No.”

“Why are you going then?”

“Ma says that things will get worse here now that the war is over. Because of them, because of the capitol.”

You sighed, recalling your parents’ endless rants as they listened in on the radio news reports.“I hate the capitol,” It was taking away your closest friend, and crush. “Sejanus, you have to promise me you won’t be like them, okay?”

He shook his head in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“You have to promise you won’t be stuck up like them, you know, like we hear on the transmissions, the threats they make.”

He didn’t know at all, actually. His parents did a very efficient job of sheltering him from the world around him, and the war was just bombs dropped by ‘bad guys’ as far as he was told. Your words meant nothing to him, not in that moment, but your time together was cut off by your maforcing the door open and ordering your last goodbye. 

So you hugged him, pulled him tight because it would be the last time, whispering “Promise me,” in his ear. So he promised, unsure of what exactly tht entailed, and bid you farewell as your ma ushered you away. That night ended with his mother’s head on his shoulder, begging him for forgiveness, repeating apologies he did not know the reason for yet. 

She always had a feeling. 

You pulled your head away from him, “How long are you staying here for?”

You knew the answer, you just wanted to hear it.

“For good, I hope. Wanted to give this back,” He fished into his pocket to return the locket around your neck, clasping it too quickly for you to react. You stepped away, clutching the pendant in overwhelm. “Are you okay? I watched everything, every moment you were in there I could barely function, you have no ide-”

You cut him off by grabbing fisfuls of his collar harshly, pulling him in for a kiss. It caught him by surprise, but he matched your desperation quickly. 

“Wait-” You pulled apart slightly, looking at his eyes. “Did you put my ma up to this?”

“Yes” He chuckled.

[agbpaints]

How to Paint: Canopy Glass (pt. 2)

Welcome to the middle segment of our glass-travaganza! While flat painting highlights is fun and relatively easy for me, it can be time consuming and the technique struggles on models with curved cockpits. Today we're going to be looking at a fast and simple way to to cockpit glass that gives you a dynamic result where the 'shading' is provided by ambient light and viewing angle using Contrast/speed paints and a metallic base coat.

Paints I used:

Citadel Leadbelcher (metallic gunmetal)

Citadel Iron Hands Steel (metallic silver)

Citadel Runfang Steel (bright metallic silver)

Citadel Iyanden Yellow Contrast (yellow speed paint)

Method

Begin by painting your glass areas in their entirety with your base gunmetal color. Make sure to be neat with this step and have some of the color you used for the canopy frame on hand afterwards to correct mistakes. I largely do not use metallics when painting at 6mm scale and misplaced silvery brushstrokes are very visible. You also want to have seperate rinse water for metallic and non-metallic paints for these steps- the mica chips metallic paints use to get their shiny appearance will contaminate your brush and water and can end up cross contaminating your non-metallic paints if you aren't careful.

Next, we'll apply some highlights to the canopy with our silvers. While contrast paint does work over a neutral flat base tone, preshading the model can get a lot of extra pop out of the paints. You might've heard of 'slapchop' speed painting or 'underpainting' where you build up a gradient of tones on a piece before using a transparent paint to tint that gradient as you want- we'll be doing a quick version of that process here, just with metallics. Apply your silver across the top of the cockpit curvature, leaving some of the darker gunmetal color visible on the sides. Once that's dry, apply an even smaller high down the middle of of the silver area with bright silver.

Finally, we'll apply our contrast paint over top of the metallic areas. You don't need to thin this paint, but make sure not to overload the brush. After one layer has dried you can apply additional layers for a darker, more intense color. With Iyanden Yellow I found 2-3 coats gave me rich, bright gold color that I liked but other colors I've used this method with have required fewer coats.

And with that our metallic contrast cockpit is finished. If you want, you can add some extra highlights over top of the metallics once the contrast paint has dried, as I've done with the Katapult, but for more complex geometries like the Caesar I find that leaving it here is best. This method works well on very curved cockpits like a Battlemaster where more conventional techniques struggle. The relative speed of contrast also means that if you need to quickly add acceptable detail to a number of models this is a great way to do it- you can even do away with the preshading I did and just paint over flat silver and get something pretty decent as seen on the Banshee. In our next installment, we'll look at what you can do if you really, really want to put the extra effort in with your canopy glass