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caffeinewitchcraft · 11 months ago

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The Mayor's Daughter and the Outlaw

Summary: After ten years, you've finally got your shot at your revenge. You've found the Hero. You have him in your sights.

-----

Pull the trigger.

You’ve worked too hard not to pull the trigger. The sweat, blood and tears you’ve shed have been the least you’ve given to be here. The air is crisp and clean nearly a hundred feet up in a pine tree overlooking a remote forest. You’re probably the only person in the world capable of spotting the brown, camouflaged building spanning the length of the small river running through the valley. There’s a hologram of the river it’s covering playing over the building’s walls. Hell, there are even birds flicking occasionally across the illusion, not often enough to draw attention, but just often enough their movement sends your eyes darting to other trees, trying to find where they went.

You breathe in the scent of sun-heated sap so slowly that it takes a solid minute for your lungs to expand. Your pupils flex and adjust whenever the wind rocks your tree. The window you’ve been staring at for the past hour remains in your focus.

The Sun, hair just as fake-gold as it was ten years ago, sleeps on. He’s definitely older now that you can see him in real life instead of on magazine covers or under studio lights. The skin of his neck is loose and folded under the weight of his chin drooping towards his chest. His eyes flicker under his eyelids. The bastard still has the audacity to dream. His arms are crossed over the sun motif emblazoned across his breastplate, his dust-covered boots kicked up on his desk so you can see how worn the soles are. Judging by the way his lips tremble, he’s snoring.

Pull the trigger.

You exhale. This is when you should do it. When your shoulders drop and the wind dies so that, for a moment, the world stands still. There are no whispers across the canopy. Every bough is frozen. The reflection of the sun in the river is overcome by a well-timed cloud and the Sun’s head tilts back to expose the long line of his throat.

The trigger presses back against your finger like an eager puppy. There’s nothing special about the bullets, nothing special about this gun. It’s not the right weapon for what you’re asking it to do, but you’ve had longer and harder shots. You know that you’ll shoot true and the confidence steadies your hand even more. You smoothly pull--

If you kill a Hero, there’s no going back.

Your pupils dilate at the memory. For a moment you don’t see the Sun; you see her with her face burned as red as her prom dress. You try to dispel the image, try to remember that she didn’t die in her prom dress, but it’s too late.

I want you to live, Elian.

You’re suddenly aware of how your lungs ache and your legs burn from the way they’re wrapped around the tree and the bark is digging into your cheek and your fingers are like ice on the trigger. You’re out in the middle of nowhere. This is the Sun’s private residence. The security must be insane even if there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. What’s your exit strategy again? Your thoughts scatter as her voice rings through your head again.

More than anything, I want you to live.

-------Ten years ago----

You’re what the heroes tactfully call a nuisance. A juvenile delinquent with powers, aka a kid that the police aren’t equipped to handle and the local Hero chapter is too overqualified and too understaffed to address often.

Your moral compass has never had a true north and it only gets worse the more your powers develop. Soon you aren’t just stealing your mom’s car – you’re stealing the neighbor’s and then the neighbor’s neighbor’s and then the neighbor’s neighbor’s neighbor’s until you’re breaking into houses at the top of the hill and joyriding in a car worth more than your entire neighborhood together.

You find out pretty quickly that the heroes care a lot more when money is involved.

You spend your first night in jail after getting chased for three hours in a neon green lambo by the four heroes packed like sardines in a standard issue SUV. It’s laughably easy to out-drive them, choking around corners and careening down alleys that you scouted in the afternoon. Honestly, it would have been easy to get away, but your mom called just as the tank hit empty, asking when you were coming home. You decided to give the heroes a break before they decided to play too rough with a minor.

Mom isn’t thrilled when you tell her you won’t be home in time for school tomorrow.

You kind of expect to be sent to prison the next day when you find out just whose car you stole. The Mayor’s daughter’s car, bought new for her seventeenth birthday a month ago. There are two open secrets about the mayor. One, he’s probably one of the heroes that protect the city judging from how much he praises them every time there’s a mic nearby. Two, he loves his daughter more than anything else.

So when you’re released the next day with a slap on the wrist? Yeah, you’re surprised.

When you’re released the next day to find the golden-haired, blue-eyed Mayor’s daughter waiting outside? Having just bailed you out?

You feel fear for the first time.

“You could have at least crashed it,” she says when she notices you gaping at her from the end of the parking lot. She’s leaning against the hood of a black SUV that looks a lot like the one the heroes chased you in last night. She waves a hand in the air. “Dad says the dents you put in the side will be out by tomorrow.”

Fear, apparently, makes you snarky. “What, you wanted to spend another week getting chauffeured by a hero?”

Her brows jerk up towards her hairline. She throws a glance over her shoulder. “You seeing ghosts? Nobody’s in there. I drove myself.”

“Good for you,” you say. You think you smell. They didn’t give you access to a shower last night. You’re upwind from her and damnit why are you embarrassed if you smell or not? Your chin jerks forward in a challenge. “You gonna give me a ride back home?”

You’re joking, but she nods like it was the plan all along. “Let’s go.”

Is that an answering challenge in her words? Your teeth grind as you force yourself forward. “Very kind of you,” you chirp, swinging up into the passenger seat. The car smells like leather and justice. “Just drop me off on the other side of the train tracks. I can find my way home from there.”

She snorts. “Is that a Footloose reference? Very dated.”

You stare at her profile. “…No. I literally live on the other side of the tracks.”

She flushes. “Right. Well…I’m not dropping you off yet. I want to talk first.”

The doors are locked. You swallow as she carefully pulls out of the parking lot and then guns it into the road without looking. Luckily, no one’s there. “Talk? About what?”

“About how you’re going to steal my car again,” she says. “And this time you’re going to crash it right.”

“You hate the color that much?” you joke.

Her tone is not joking. “You have no idea.”

You don’t find out her name until dinner when your mom’s managed to entice her into a third slice of homemade pizza. She stares down at the slice while your mom waves for you not to stay up too late before going to bed early. Gamely, you’re already on your fifth helping. Criminal activity takes a lot of energy.

“Does your mom know who I am?” she asks.

“Like, in theory,” you say. You’re full and warm as you lean into the hard wooden back of your chair. Mom added olives to your side of the pizza. “She probably doesn’t know you’re the Mayor’s daughter though. Just that he has one.”

“The Mayor…right,” she says. Her jaw firms. She flicks some olives off her pizza and then eats half the slice in one bite. “I’m Gina.”

“Elian,” you say instead of No, you’re the Mayor’s Daughter. You refill her soda cup before your own, just to show her you can be fancy and have manners too. She’s so out of place in your family’s one bedroom apartment. Her shirt is crisp and white, her gold necklace so shiny, that it’s like there’s a sepia filter over the eggshell walls and oak cabinets. “Sprite. Only the finest for the lady who bailed me out.”

“I’m thinking you can take my car next weekend,” Gina says so abruptly you nearly spit out your soda. There’s a hard light in her eyes. “Dad’s out of town for…business. He won’t notice for a few days. You take it, you get out of the city, you drive it off a cliff once you’ve wrecked it doing donuts or whatever.”

“A cliff?” You know exactly where she’s talking about. There’s an abandoned quarry about an hour outside of town. You shake your head. “That’s where people dump bodies. No way am I going out there.”

“They find bodies there because it’s outside of Hero Force’s patrol,” Gina says. She waves her hands in the air so the yellow light from the inset ceiling lights catches on her golden manicure. “If you think about it, it’s the best place to dump a car. Especially when the heroes are going to be out of town.”

You stare at her. “Did you just admit your dad is part of Hero Force?”

Her eyes skitter away from yours. “No.”

“Your dad is out of town next weekend.”

“Yes.”

“And the heroes?”

“Maybe they’re traveling together.”

“I don’t think anyone is supposed to know when the heroes are going to be out of town. Isn’t that like a national secret, or something?”

“We’re not a big enough chapter for it to be a national secret,” she denies. She bites her lip. “Probably a state secret though.”

You stand and your chair chatters against the linoleum. “No. Absolutely not.” It’s time for Ms. Mayor’s Daughter to leave.

She scrambles up after you, following you into the living room. “Why not?! You already mess with the heroes. Weren’t you the one who kept breaking into the mall on a motorcycle? You hijacked one of their delivery trucks a month ago—”

“A food delivery truck,” you say. “Which was more of a commentary about the city’s investment in Hero Force luxury rather than after school programs—” You bite your tongue. You spin so that the couch stays between you. You glance at your mom’s closed door and consciously lower your voice. “How do you even know that?”

“I’ve been watching you,” she says. She laughs without humor, dragging one hand through her golden hair. “Sometimes living in this town is like being in a simulation. We have four A-class heroes for a population of 30,000 and everybody loves them. Nobody thinks it’s strange to have walking nukes in a small town. They love my dad. Did you know no one’s even run against him for the past two elections? It doesn’t matter what he does. He owns this place and these people. He has – could commit murder and it would be justified. People would think it would be justice.”

“He loves you,” you say weakly. Isn’t four heroes a pretty normal number? Sure, the ones in your town are big names, but that’s not weird.

Is it?

“He loves me so he gets to be a tyrant?” Gina scoffs. “If he’s even capable of love.”

“I’m not going to mess around with heroes’ civilian identities just because you’ve got daddy issues,” you say. When hurt flashes across her face, you wince. “Sorry. But it’s one thing to mess with heroes in masks, okay? Messing with a hero’s family—”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem when you were stealing my car the other night.”

“That was before I knew your dad was Mr. Solve or whatever—”

“The Sun,” Gina says.

“What?”

“My dad’s the Sun.”

“That,” you say, “is so much worse. Didn’t he burn some minor villain’s eyes out last week?”

“Yes,” Gina says. Her mouth twists. “The guy got off easy compared to some others.”

You stare at her, momentarily speechless. “And you wonder why I’m not going to antagonize the guy?”

“But you already do,” Gina says. Her eyes are glinting. She looks so out of place against the dim interior of your home, a radiant girl dressed all in white and gold. She rounds the couch and snatches up one of your hands between two of her own. “Everyone else loves my dad. Except you. My entire life, and you’re the only one who dares to make—make statements about Hero Force consumption by stealing their deliveries or make the heroes chase you around an abandoned mall on foot like regular people. You challenge them, Elian. All I’m asking is that you do it again.”

“That sounds like a lot more than just crashing your car,” you say. Your voice sounds very far away. You never thought of your actions as so noble. There’s a tingling in your stomach that you’ve never felt before and your hand is so warm. She sees you. You shake the fantasy out of your head. “I—look. I’m flattered, but I’m not your guy. The heroes know my face. It’s only a matter of time before I get sent to whatever detention super-powered kids get sent to. I have to graduate high school.”

Rather than discourage her, Gina presses closer. “What if I told you there’s a way to do both?”

Her closeness fogs your brain. “Both?”

“Take the heroes down a notch and maintain your identity,” she says. She releases you and whirls to get her purse off the couch. “I can help you. We can train so that the heroes never recognize the new you. You can use your powers in new ways. And you can wear this.”

She thrusts a piece of chewed leather into your hands. A mask.

“I’m thinking,” she says, “we call you Outlaw.”

------ Now ----

You can’t shoot. Night is falling by the time you admit it to yourself. You press your back against the rough bark of the tree and stare up at the first stars. You cradle your gun in your hands.

The bloodlust is still there. You aren’t a fair lily incapable of staining your petals red (as red as her). So why can’t you pull the trigger? Because of her ghost? Her last message to you?

If you kill a Hero, there’s no going back. More than anything, I want you to live, Elian.

You grind your teeth. Easy for her to say. The dying never have to feel the weight of consequence. They can just say whatever the fuck they want.

You aren’t thinking when you climb down the tree. Your powers give you a lot of things – speed and healing, an instinct for the outdoors, and excellent eyesight. You don’t need to look to find one branch and another, dropping to the forest floor in ten-foot increments. By the time your boots hit the ground, you know what the problem is.

Unlike your other kills, this one is personal. It was never going to be enough just to see him dead. You need him to know why you’ve got him in your sights.

The Sun is an old school hero. The traps you were so afraid of are predictable, turns out. You pick your way around bear traps and landmines, sharp eyes easily picking out silver trip wire when it glints in the moonlight. There are cameras, but there’s likely only one person with access. In the past ten years of following the Sun, you’ve learned two things about him.

One, he’ll kill the things he loves before he loses them.

Two, he doesn’t trust anyone but himself.

You get to the building inside of an hour. The first floor is hidden by steel shutters and there’s no light peeking out from behind them. The second floor window where he’d been sleeping for most of the day shines with the faint blue glow of a television.

The front door looks like a bank’s with how thick it is. There’s a keypad and a biometric scanner you don’t have a prayer of hacking.

That’s okay. You’ve already seen your way in.

You climb up the nearest pine tree. The Sun likes to think of himself as a competent hero, but too many mayoral kickbacks over the years made him soft. He surrounded himself with powerful heroes and never once struggled to win. Because of that, he’s missing some caution and common sense. The building’s first floor is locked up tight, but the windows on the second are regular glass.

And he hasn’t trimmed the tree line back far enough.

You fire your first shot of the night into his empty desk chair, exactly where his chest had been hours earlier. Immediately a siren sounds, and the TV glow coming through the office’s open door is consumed by bright light. You run two steps and then leap, neatly flipping through the empty window frame. Your boots slide for a moment on the broken glass and you catch yourself on the edge of his desk. There are medical papers scattered across it, prescriptions and diagrams of the face and eyes and heart.

You chew your cheek at the sight of a pill bottle. There had been rumors that the Sun is sick with his own radiation poisoning. It’s good you’re here before nature runs its course.

The siren wails for another beat before dying. The silence rings. Your heartbeat picks up as your ears strain to hear if anyone’s coming to meet you. Strange. The Sun had to have been the one who shut off the alarm.

So where is he?

You hold your gun out in front of you and check your mask. The Sun knows who you are by now, but you want him to see the mask she gave you. The handsewn leather, patched more times than you can count, is recycled from one of his old leather jackets. It feels oddly poetic to be dressed in the first iteration of your costume, cowboy hat tipped back and a biker vest embroidered with the name she gave you.

Is the Sun hiding? You creep out of the office, eyes darting from the quaint landscapes hanging on the wall to the tasteful wooden floors. The Sun’s safe house feels more cabin-y than you expected. The property deed has been in his name for the past fifteen years. Did Gina ever visit? Her ghost runs ahead of you, golden nails dragging along the peach wallpaper to the first open door on the left. She looks over her shoulder and smiles.

There are times when you’re glad for the afterimages your brain conjures. This is not one of those times. You don’t think she’d be happy to see what you’re about to do.

You swing around the doorway gun first, a snarl on your lips. “You old bastard, drop what—”

The smell of antiseptic hits your nose first, dashing away the red haze filling your vision in an instant. A TV murmurs against the wall, some rerun of an old western, but it’s not what holds your attention.

There’s a bed in the center of the room. The Sun sits at bedside, his attention wholly invested on the hand he’s holding up. Carefully, he applies gold paint to the nails without once looking up at you.

The woman in the bed is obscured with white gauze and beige compression bandages. Her breathing is soft and even. The one eye you can see is closed and still. No dreaming, no awareness.

“Outlaw,” the Sun says. He gently sets Gina’s left hand down on her stomach and picks up her right. He squints at her pinky nail. “Close the office door, would you? I don’t want the heat to escape.”

“What,” you breathe, “the fuck.”

-----Ten years ago ----

It’s a good year with Gina. You never realized how friend-starved you were until she was there, over at your house every day after school. She always makes it sound like she’s coming over to talk about the Outlaw thing, but there’s other stuff too. Movies and cooking and tutoring.

“Life is about balance,” Gina says sagely during one such tutoring session. “Besides, even heroes don’t go on more than two missions a month. We’re doing just fine.”

There’s always a pressing need to do more though. Whenever you pull off a particularly daring heist, she smiles this secret and pleased smile that makes your stomach flip. Sometimes, when the two of you watch news coverage of your getaways, she murmurs how impressed she is, how smart you are, how cool your powers are.

It makes you want to do anything for Gina.

You’re watching the news one day, waiting for a recap of how you stole the Sun’s favorite shield from the armory, when a rare story comes on. A Hero is dead, some guy named Ibis from Atlanta. There aren’t any leads to the culprit except for eyewitness accounts of a mysterious, winged super-powered individual flying low over the city, hiding in storm clouds.

“I’d kill a Hero,” you blurt out.

Gina jerks so hard that the popcorn bowl goes flying out of her hands. She doesn’t seem to notice. “What?”

“N-not your dad or anything,” you say quickly although yes, if you had to kill anyone, you’d start with the man who makes Gina cry like that. “Just��in general. The news anchor said Ibis was connected to a civilian’s death, right? I could kill a Hero like that.”

“No,” Gina says. She drops off the couch to kneel by you. “No, Elian.”

You flush like you’ve done something wrong. You sink into your hoodie. “I’m not going to, I’m just saying—”

“If you kill a Hero, there’s no going back,” Gina says. She’s too close, so close that you can see the flecks of gold hidden in her eyes. “Your life—it’s not like what we’ve been doing. Dad’s got rules when it comes to stealing. But if you kill a hero?” She shudders. “I want you to live, Elian.”

“I got it—”

“Please,” she blurts out. The plea in her voice makes you really look at her despite the pounding of your heart. Her eyes are wild and her mouth is pressed into a thin line. “No matter what. Promise me.”

“I—” No matter what? You slowly shake your head, trying to get away from the instinctive desire to agree with her. “I-if someone is really bad, I’d—”

“Elian—”

The tension makes you truthful.

“If your dad hurt you, I’d kill him,” you say. When she rears back, this time you follow. You brace your arm against the couch so you can lean into her space. With your other hand, you trace the fading burn on her cheek that could pass for an old sunburn if you didn’t know the truth. “I know you don’t think he will, but he’s been erratic lately. And I know about his temper. If he hurts you, I’d kill him.”

The air thickens between you. It’s rare that you don’t back down, but you’re not backing down now, staring into her eyes. Competing wills. For a moment you let everything you feel come to the surface. Your frustration when she visits with that fucking shadow in her smile, the helplessness when there’s another burn on her arm, the adoration when she’s just there.

Gina shudders and looks away first. She licks her lips. “I—I…appreciate what you’re saying, but I’m fine. You agreed I got to make the rules for Outlaw. I’m telling you one. Don’t kill heroes.”

She’s pulling away. You do too, falling to her side and sitting next to her rather than hovering over her. You try for a careless shrug but fall short. How can she make you feel so powerful one second and so powerless the next? You avert your eyes. “I won’t kill heroes,” you promise.

You hear her suck in a breath. “Good. Because I need you alive.”

“I do like being alive,” you say and don’t finish the sentence with with you.

“We’re done studying,” she decides. She darts up towards the kitchen. “I’m getting another bowl of popcorn before we start the movie. You want some?”

You stare at your reflection in the dark TV. Your jaw works. Finally, you say, “Nah. I’m good. I’ll just eat it off the floor.”

“Don’t be gross, Elian!”

------Now.----

“I will regret that day for the rest of my life,” the Sun says. He hasn’t looked at you once. His eyes are glued to the steady rise and fall of Gina’s chest. He times his breathing to hers and then sighs. “What a fool I was. Drunk on power.”

You’re standing on the opposite side of the bed. Your gaze flicks from Gina to him and back again. “Is she ever conscious?”

“It’s a medically-induced coma,” the Sun says. “The doctors say she should wake up any day now that most of her injuries have healed. Her last surgery was the final one. Now it’s up to her.”

This might be the first time in ten years that you’ve breathed. You suck in air greedily and imagine you can taste her scent under the layers of sickness and medicine. “They told me she died.”

“I told Hero Force you did it,” the Sun says. There’s no remorse in his voice. “They always tell villains they were successful, so they don’t try again.”

A decade of rage slides around your ribs. “You fucking bastard.”

“I did think it was your fault ten years ago.” He carefully picks up Gina’s left hand again to apply a second coat. It takes all your willpower not to slap him away from her. “If you hadn’t stolen Hero Force data, I wouldn’t have had to come after you with my full power. She would never have been in the line of fire.”

You’re fists shake at your sides. “I didn’t steal Hero Force data, I stole your fucking car. Don’t rewrite history.”

“There was Hero Force data in that car.”

“It was your Porsche, your civilian Porsche!”

“My fault to have left sensitive data out,” the Sun says. His confession surprises you into silence. “But I had to get it back no matter what. Then I blamed you by thinking how if you’d only asked me to take my daughter to Prom, I would’ve known she was in the car.”

“She’s not your property and it’s not the 1800s, of course I didn’t ask if I could take your daughter to—”

“I’m telling you what I thought,” the Sun interrupts. He finally looks at you. He looks worse than he did earlier, the years cutting deep lines into his face. There are black bags of exhaustion under his watering eyes. He breathes out shakily. “I had to tell myself it was your fault. It was the only way I could survive, Elian.”

Your real name shocks you. You stumble back. “How do you know that name?”

“She calls for you sometimes,” the Sun says. He drags a hand over his face before grimly returning to his daughter’s nails. “She’s never been really conscious for long. The d-damage took a long time to heal. But when she’s awake, she calls for you and she calls for Outlaw. Wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.”

Your chest throbs. “I should have been here. You should have—I could have—”

“Blaming you let me keep her by my side,” the Sun says. “I don’t expect you to forgive me or even understand me. But I…I regret more than anything what I’ve done to my daughter.”

“You’re going to regret it even more,” you say. The rage you feel is like a tidal wave. Ten years. Ten years. You could have held her hand through her recovery. You could have been there for her. And this selfish asshole who never even loved her like a father should took that away from you. You remember your gun. “You never deserved to be her father.”

“I didn’t, did I?” the Sun asks. He sets her hand down and swallows hard. He looks down the barrel of your gun without flinching. “She says one other thing, you know. When she asks for you.”

The curiosity stills your trigger finger. “What?”

“She says, Don’t kill heroes.”

Your face contorts. There’s the memory of popcorn in your mouth and the heat of her eyes on you. “Yeah, she said that to me before too. Back when I offered to kill you the first time.”

The Sun hangs his head. If he’s surprised to hear that, he doesn’t show it. “I wasn’t a good father.”

“No. But she didn’t want you dead.”

Understanding dawns. “Don’t kill heroes.”

“Exactly.” You tilt your head. “Do you feel like a hero?”

His lips tremble. His gaze drifts back to his daughter. Her eyes are flickering under eyelids. “I—I—”

The trigger presses back against your finger, eager and ready. “Do you?”

He licks his lips. “N-no,” he whispers. He closes his eyes. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

This time, it’s easy to take aim. Steady your breath. And—

Fuck.

“Leave,” you say. You drop your gun back to your side and scowl when the Sun’s eyes fly open in surprise. “If you do what I say, you’ll live long enough for Gina to decide what to do with you. Leave and don’t tell anyone about this.”

The Sun shakes his head. “No, no I can’t leave her—”

“Then die here,” you snap. You bare your teeth at him. “Leave. We’ll be gone in a week. Maybe she wakes up and calls you. Maybe she—” You take a deep breath. “Well. Maybe she doesn’t. Either way, your part is done here.”

“I need to be there when she wakes up. Please, I’m her dad—”

“You’re her murderer,” you say. More than anything, you want to pick Gina up and run out of here before the Sun can stop you. You eye the monitors and know three people you need to call for advice before you even attempt to move her. A week should be just enough time to disappear. “You think you deserve to stay by her side?”

The Sun opens his mouth twice before he finds words. “I just—let me stay until she wakes up. That way I’ll know.”

“I spent ten years thinking she was dead,” you say. “You can last a month in limbo. If I have to ask you again, we’ll finally see who’s stronger now that I’m all grown up.”

The Sun picks himself up slowly. You think he cries. You’re not sure. He may even plead with you again. You’re deaf to it. Your brain has given up on splitting your attention and every atom of your being is homed in on Gina.

She’s alive. She’s alive.

You kneel at her bedside and wait for her to wake up.

----

Thanks for reading! If you want to read more of work or get access to stories like this a week (or more!) early, please consider checking out my Patreon (X)! This week's short story for my Triple Shot and above tiers is about a world where being loved adds years to your lifespan!

Based off this prompt (X): Love determines how long you live, some people are in their hundreds, but some don’t even live to be 20.

#my writing #short story #superheroes and villains #my superpowers

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novaursa · 9 months ago

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Where Banners Fall

- Summary: After your fall at Rook’s Rest, Gwayne takes you to safety and some hidden things come to light.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaenyra's sister and bonded with Silverwing. This part continues just after The Flames We Carry. For all parts done in chronological order visit my blog, the list is pinned to the top.

-Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 3 320

- A/N: Yeah, this one was not ment to come out today either, but you all liked the last part very much, so, here is the continuation of it. Enjoy! ❤️

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The moon casts its pale light through the dense trees, illuminating the night in a silvery glow. The wind is cold, biting through layers of bloodied cloth, as Gwayne Hightower clutches the reins with one hand and his side with the other. His breath comes ragged, each inhalation a struggle as the gash Cole delivered sends jolts of fire down his side. But none of it matters, not when your life is in his hands.

You lie slumped against his chest, your skin far too pale, and your breaths shallow, rattling with a sound that tears at his heart. Blood streaks your face, staining your lips, a crimson trail leaking from your nose. The fall from Silverwing... gods, he can still hear the roar of dragons and the sickening crunch of bones as you hit the ground. He couldn't—wouldn’t—leave you there, even if it meant betraying everything he'd ever known.

He halts the horse in the shadow of a large oak tree and dismounts with a groan, one arm wrapped protectively around his wounded side. The pain lances through him, nearly buckling his legs, but he grits his teeth and turns to you, his gaze softening despite the turmoil raging within.

"Y/N," he whispers, barely able to speak your name without his voice cracking. Carefully, he lifts you from the saddle, feeling your weight crumple against him, your head lolling against his shoulder. His fingers tremble as he lays you down gently on the mossy ground. You are so still, too still.

He kneels beside you, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. "Open your eyes. Just... look at me, Y/N." His voice is hoarse, almost pleading. His hands, stained with blood—your blood, his blood—ghost over your cheeks, checking for any signs of life.

Your eyelids flutter, and a soft moan escapes your lips, causing his heart to lurch with both relief and anguish. "Gwayne?" you murmur, your voice barely more than a whisper. Each word seems to sap what little strength you have left.

"I'm here. I won’t leave you, I promise," he assures you, his voice steady though it takes everything in him to keep it that way. He cups your face in his hand, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "You're safe now."

Tears prick his eyes as he sees the pain etched across your features. It’s a stark reminder that you’re not just his princess, the sister of Rhaenyra, daughter of Viserys—you’re the woman who’s owned his heart for years, even if it was a tragic love and often denied.

"You shouldn’t have come back for me," you rasp, your breath hitching in pain. "They’ll kill you…"

"Let them," Gwayne says with a fierce intensity, voice raw with emotion. "If it meant keeping you alive, I’d suffer any fate they decide." He swallows, lowering his head so his forehead rests against yours. "But I couldn’t let you die back there. Not you."

Your eyes fill with tears, but your smile is faint and tinged with regret. "Foolish knight. Always so stubborn."

He chuckles softly, though the sound is strained. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ve finally done something right, if it means keeping you with me just a little longer."

You cough weakly, and the sound sends a fresh surge of panic through him. Blood dribbles from the corner of your mouth, and his heart twists at the sight. Desperation claws at him, urging him to do something, anything to ease your suffering, but he knows there’s little he can do out here in the wilderness with no healer, no herbs, nothing but his own two hands.

"I need to make camp," he says gently, brushing his thumb across your cheek one last time before he stands. "We’ll rest here. I’ll tend to you as best I can."

You try to protest, your voice faint. "You’re injured too… I can see the blood. You’ll bleed out if you—"

"Shh." His tone is soft but firm, silencing your concern. "You’re more important to me than any wound I bear."

He gathers what little strength he has left and begins preparing a makeshift camp, struggling to keep his movements swift despite the burning pain in his side. He lights a small fire, the flickering flames casting shadows over your pale features. Every time he glances at you, his chest tightens with fear that he’ll lose you before the dawn.

Finally, when he’s done, he returns to your side, wrapping his cloak around your trembling form. He cradles you gently in his lap, pressing you close to share what warmth he can offer.

You turn your head weakly to look at him, tears brimming in your eyes. "Gwayne… if I don’t—"

"No," he interrupts, his voice sharp, as if the very idea of you leaving him is unbearable. "You’ll live, Y/N. We’ve both been through too much for it to end here."

There’s a long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of night creatures. You rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the layers of armor and cloth. Despite everything, the world seems a little less terrifying with him holding you like this.

"Thank you," you murmur softly, your fingers curling weakly against his tunic. "For saving me… for staying."

"Always," he whispers, tightening his hold on you, as if afraid you’ll slip away. "For you, I would defy the world."

His words are heavy with truth. He betrayed Cole, risked everything—his loyalty, his honor, his House—because nothing mattered more than you. As he watches your eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion, he swears to himself that he’ll see you through this, no matter the cost.

The night wears on, and as the fire crackles and the stars glimmer overhead, he keeps vigil, his thoughts solely on you. In the stillness of the night, there is only the two of you, bound by fate, by the shared loss and love that lingers unspoken between every touch, every look.

And as sleep finally claims you, Gwayne brushes a tender kiss to your brow, whispering the words he’s held back for far too long.

"I love you, Y/N."

The admission hangs in the air, soft and fragile like a promise yet to be fulfilled. But as the night deepens, with you in his arms and the world beyond fading into the distance, it is a vow he clings to with all his heart.

The first rays of dawn filter through the dense canopy of trees, casting dappled patterns of golden light over your face. The chill of the night still lingers in the air, but warmth gradually spreads as the sun climbs higher. Gwayne Hightower stirs awake, the dull ache in his side reminding him of the wound that still bleeds sluggishly beneath layers of makeshift bandages. But the pain is forgotten the moment he notices your chest rise and fall in steady rhythm. You’re alive. You’re breathing.

For a fleeting moment, all his worries and fears dissolve as he watches you. Your skin is still too pale, your breathing shallow, but your lips are no longer tinged with the blue pallor of death. When your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused at first, he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Gwayne?” Your voice is soft, laced with confusion and pain, but it’s enough to make his heart soar.

“I’m here.” He shifts closer, gently brushing his hand over your forehead, smoothing away a few stray strands of hair. His touch is tender, reassuring, but there’s an edge of desperation to it, as if touching you is the only way he can convince himself you’re still with him. “You’re safe.”

You close your eyes briefly, a tear slipping down your cheek as you whisper, “Silverwing… she’s gone, isn’t she?”

Gwayne’s throat tightens, and he struggles to find the words. He knows how deep the bond is between a rider and their dragon, knows how it must feel like losing a piece of your soul. “She saved you, Y/N. She fought until the very end to protect you.”

A sob escapes your lips, but it’s weak, more of a trembling breath than anything. You turn your face into his chest, seeking solace in his embrace. “She was everything to me. I felt her… I felt her fear when they descended on us. She tried, Gwayne… she tried so hard.”

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close as you grieve. “I know,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “She was brave, just like you.”

For a long moment, he just holds you, letting the silence settle between you, broken only by the faint sounds of the waking forest. His thoughts, however, race. He knows they can’t stay here. His nephews’ banners surround them from every side, and it’s only a matter of time before scouts or patrols find them. He can’t risk it, not with you in this condition.

“We need to get you to Dragonstone,” he finally says, his voice low but determined. “To Rhaenyra. She’ll know how to keep you safe.”

You nod faintly against his chest, but your eyes are distant, as if lost in some faraway memory. “Dragonstone… where our son is.”

The words come so softly that at first, Gwayne thinks he’s misheard. His heart stutters, the blood draining from his face as he pulls back slightly to look at you. “What did you say?”

You blink slowly, your eyes glazed with exhaustion and pain, but there’s a haunted look in them now. “Our son… I can’t… I can’t lose him too.”

The world tilts beneath Gwayne’s feet. He stares at you, trying to make sense of what you’ve just said. “Y/N… what do you mean, our son?”

You swallow, the effort seeming to drain you. “He’s ours, Gwayne. He… he was born after… after everything. After Daemon took me.”

His chest tightens, shock mingling with something deeper, more painful. He had always known you were taken by Daemon, given to him as part of the political machinations he could never fully understand years ago. It was a decision that had shattered him at the time, but hearing this now—knowing you bore his child in secret—rips at old wounds, laying them bare.

“A son…” The words are a whisper, disbelief and awe warring in his voice. “You kept him hidden from me?”

Tears brim in your eyes again, your voice breaking. “I had no choice. Daemon… he knew the child wasn’t his. He claimed him, raised him as his own, but he’s ours, Gwayne. He’s our flesh and blood.”

Gwayne’s heart pounds in his chest, a maelstrom of emotions swirling within him—anger, sorrow, guilt, and an overwhelming sense of loss. “All this time… I never knew.”

“I wanted to tell you, but it was too dangerous,” you confess, your voice trembling. “I thought… I thought it was better if you didn’t know. To keep you safe from Daemon’s wrath.”

Gwayne’s world narrows to this moment, to the truth of a child he never knew he had, one who’s been raised by a man who has always been his rival in more ways than one. The thought of Daemon laying claim to something so precious to him—it ignites a rage deep in his chest, but it’s tempered by the sheer anguish on your face.

He tightens his grip on you, pulling you into him as if holding you closer will somehow mend the broken pieces of the life you might have had together. “We’ll get him back,” he vows, voice low and fierce. “You and I—we’ll go to Dragonstone. To your sister. To our son. I won’t let Daemon keep what’s ours.”

The thought makes his blood run cold, but for you, he’d face even that man.

You look up at him, your gaze searching his, and for a moment, you’re not the princess caught in the bloody web of war and dragons—you’re just a woman looking at the man you love, hoping against hope that he can keep the promise he’s just made. “I’ve missed him so much,” you whisper. “And I’ve missed you.”

Gwayne’s breath hitches, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, he allows himself to hold you as if you’re the only thing that matters. “I’m here now,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there. “And I’m not going anywhere without you. We’ll get through this.”

The resolve in his words steadies the both of you. There’s a long road ahead, fraught with dangers and uncertainties, but he knows with unwavering certainty that he won’t let anything tear you away from him again—not the war, not his family’s betrayal, and not even Daemon’s machinations.

You’ve lost so much—your dragon, your freedom, your soul—but in this moment, you find a glimmer of hope in the man who’s risked everything for you. And as the morning sun rises, casting light on the uncertain path ahead, you cling to that hope, knowing that Gwayne will do whatever it takes to bring you home—to your sister, to your son, and to the life you both deserve.

Together, you’ll reclaim what’s been taken. And together, you’ll face whatever comes next.

The rhythmic pounding of hooves on uneven ground fills the tense silence between you and Gwayne as he guides the horse deeper into the wilderness. Morning light filters through the trees in shifting patterns, but it does little to ease the weight pressing on Gwayne’s chest. His mind churns, cycling through the revelation you just laid bare—a son. His son. Every heartbeat seems to echo with the implications, each thump a reminder of the child who was taken from him, raised by a man Gwayne both loathes and fears.

He clenches the reins tighter, trying to steady his thoughts as they race uncontrollably. A son. His thoughts circle back to it, gnawing at him like an itch he can’t scratch. What is the boy like? What does he look like? The questions burn in his throat, but the uncertainty of what comes next gnaws at him even more. Daemon, he thinks bitterly, the name sour on his tongue. The prince’s shadow looms over everything now, twisting this newfound truth into something almost unbearable.

But he can’t afford to let his emotions take control. Not now. You’re still weak, clinging to consciousness by a thread. The ride is perilous, the terrain rough, and every jolt of the horse draws a faint whimper from your lips. Each sound slices through him like a blade, a reminder that you’re slipping further away with every mile. His instinct is to press forward, to ride hard and fast to the nearest settlement that might offer help, but every harsh movement risks worsening your condition.

He takes a deep breath and glances down at you, leaning back against his chest, your eyes half-lidded in a haze of pain. "Y/N," he calls gently, hoping to draw you back to him, even if only for a few moments. "Stay with me. I need you to stay with me."

You stir slightly, your eyelids fluttering as you try to focus. Your breaths are labored, each one a struggle, but the sound of his voice seems to anchor you in the present.

"I’m here," you whisper, though your voice is faint and distant, almost as if you’re speaking from another world. "Just… so tired."

Gwayne swallows the lump in his throat, trying to push through the fear gnawing at him. He needs answers, needs to understand what you’ve been through, what he’s been through, if he’s going to piece together a plan that might save you both. "You spoke of our son… before," he says carefully, his voice low, as if afraid to disturb the fragile balance of reality. "Tell me about him, Y/N. I need to know."

Your gaze drifts upward, unfocused, as if you’re looking at something beyond his reach. A faint smile tugs at your lips, though it’s tinged with sadness. "He’s beautiful," you murmur, voice trembling with emotion. "He has your eyes… that same spark. But he’s stubborn, too. So stubborn, just like his father."

Gwayne’s heart clenches at the thought. He can almost see it—an image of a child with your grace and his determination, laughing with that carefree joy only children possess. But there’s a shadow over the image, a darkness that steals the warmth from it.

"He doesn’t know who I am, does he?" Gwayne asks, though he already suspects the answer.

You shake your head weakly, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "He thinks… he thinks Daemon is his father. That’s all he’s known." Your voice wavers, cracking under the weight of the truth. "It was the only way to keep him safe. The only way to protect him while the world tore itself apart."

Gwayne’s jaw tightens, a surge of anger rushing through him, not at you but at the situation, at the cruelty of a world that forced such a choice upon you. "Daemon," he says bitterly, the name dripping with resentment. "He took everything from me. He even took him—our son—and you."

You turn your head slightly, struggling to focus on him, your expression full of regret. "He did it to protect him, Gwayne. As much as I hate it, I can’t deny that. In a world like this, with war tearing us all apart, who else could raise him? Who else could keep him alive?"

Gwayne’s throat tightens, the fury and sorrow tangling together in a knot that’s hard to unravel. He wants to argue, to curse Daemon’s name, but deep down, a small part of him knows you’re right. That’s what stings the most. Daemon was the one with power, the one who could shield the child from the dangers that lurked on all sides, even if it meant poisoning the boy’s mind against the truth of who he really is.

But he’s not ready to accept it. Not yet. Not when there’s still a chance to change things, to reclaim what’s his.

"I’ll find a way," he vows, more to himself than to you. "I’ll get him back, Y/N. I’ll make sure he knows who his true father is."

You smile weakly, though your eyes are growing heavier, the strain of staying conscious taking its toll. "You always were driven, my love," you murmur, voice fading. "Just… don’t lose yourself in anger. Our son deserves better than that."

Before he can respond, your eyes close again, and your body goes limp against him. Panic seizes him for a moment, but he quickly checks your pulse, relieved to feel the faint but steady beat beneath your skin. You’re slipping back into delirium, but you’re still alive. That’s all that matters now.

He looks ahead, squinting at the road as he spots the faint outlines of a small village in the distance—a neutral settlement, one of the few places where banners don’t fly for either side. It’s a place to rest, to gather supplies, and perhaps even to find someone who can tend to your wounds. But it’s not without risk. Enemies could be lurking anywhere, and he knows he can’t let his guard down.

As he rides toward the village, Gwayne’s thoughts swirl with plans and possibilities. He needs to get you to Dragonstone, needs to confront the truths that have been hidden for so long. But more than that, he needs to find a way to reunite with the son he never knew, the son who now lies in Daemon’s grasp.

And as the horse plods steadily forward, the determination in his heart hardens into something unbreakable. He will see this through, no matter what it costs. Because even in the face of betrayal, war, and loss, there’s something worth fighting for—a future that’s still within reach.

And he won’t let anyone—not even Daemon—take that from him.

#house of the dragon #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targeryan #hotd gwayne #hotd x reader #hotd #gwayne x you #gwayne x reader #gwayne hightower #ser gwayne #gwayne x y/n #silverwing

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qwimblenorrisstan · 7 months ago

Text

Bubbles | König x Reader

Day 7: Hoodie Weather w/ König

Summary: When Task Force 141 joins together with KorTac for a mission, he doesn’t expect the bubbly member of the 141 to give his entire base a Christmas surprise.

Word Count: ~1k

Warnings: None!

A/N: the könig brainrot is deadly. it is infecting me at an unprecedented speed. on a positive note, we’re one week through with October! hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

You were known to him as the bubbly one.

König had caught his men referring to you as Blasen—bubbles, rather than your actual name, something he kept forgetting how to pronounce anyway.

How you, a small little thing compared to him, could be deadly on the field was a mystery to him, but your teammates in the little group you had, called Task Force 141, seemed to trust you. Especially the one with the mohawk. He often heard you and him laughing together down the halls, because of a mission where KorTac, for God knows why, required the additional help of the 141 due to border disputes with the enemy they were hunting down.

It was stupid. He knew that.

But you’d brought out a surprising little bit of happiness and cheer to the base.

Christmas was nearing, and you seemed to have settled into their base by now, despite not speaking a lick of German other than the very basics that you even butchered at that. You mostly just used basic gestures or made the tall man, with the strange mask, translate for you.

König woke up early in the morning, earlier than anyone else, pulling his clothes and uniform on, walking out of the bunks, only to find tinsel with little ornaments hanging from it, no lights—they would be a fire hazard, in the hallways.

If it weren’t for his mask, anyone could’ve seen the plain surprise and confusion on his face. His men surely hadn’t done it, he knew they were busy training, or keeping themselves occupied until the next mission. And the only other person with enough time on their hands, and the balls to pull it off, would naturally be…

“Ah.”

He muttered to himself when he found you, standing on top of two barrels stacked on top of each other, adding a small fake star to the very top of the tree that had somehow been moved inside the center of the rec room.

You must’ve noticed him despite his quiet steps, throwing your head back to give a bright grin, jumping off from the barrels, and landing on your feet to lean back and look at the decorated tree from afar as you backed up until you were right next to him, hands on your hips.

“What are we thinkin’, Kön?”

He despised the nickname. Or at least he tried to, despite the way your audacity alone made him want to let the laughs bubbling up in him go, and not hold them down.

“It is…a tree.”

He stated, swallowing, not sure what to say, wondering how you’d even gotten a tree in here, knowing it was real based on the sap he could smell coming from it.

“That, my friend, is a lovely observation.”

You said, grinning, clapping him on the back as he stared, utterly gobsmacked when you sauntered over and plugged something in, and lights began glimmering from the tree.

He blinked, blue eyes filled with confusion as he tried working out the math in his head, only to fail every time. He watched as you walked back over, looking proud as a peacock, despite the little shiver in your small frame.

“How.”

He asked, accent thick as you sniffled, nose running slightly, before answering.

“Well, I went and got a tree, brought it back here, then dug up some old shit from your storage room. Simple as that.”

König hadn’t even known they kept anything in that storage room. Let alone Christmas lights, or anything to decorate, really. And to gather an entire tree, it must’ve taken all night, and with the storm blowing through—

You must’ve been freezing.

No wonder you were shivering, small body not large enough to keep warm as long as his, or any of the other men on base.

He reached out, pressing the area where his glove and sleeve failed to overlap against your exposed neck, frowning with worry at the temperature he felt. You probably hadn’t known. How could you, when you were probably used to the temperatures at your old base? There was a reason they wore thicker clothing here.

Humming to himself in thought, he pulled the hoodie he wore over his normal uniform off, and promptly placed it on top of your head, watching as your expression transitioned from confusion to understanding, then amusement as you pulled it over your head, putting the arms in, savoring in the warmth the thick material brought you.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know. I would’ve been fine.”

You pointed out. He’d been expecting it. Women were undermined already in the military, so it was no surprise they usually made up for their size with their attitude and wits.

“You needed it, Blasen.”

He spoke simply, watching the confusion overtake your face again as you tried to figure out what he’d just said in German. It was a little funny. That was, until, he heard the signs of the other men in base waking up, with confused and excited German and English being exchanged through the base, with a familiar,

“Steamin’ Jesus!”

Being heard through the hallways your grin somehow spread wider. König heard Horangi and Nikto conversing, wondering what the hell was going on, only to stop dead in their tracks when they saw the Christmas tree in the rec room.

The masked man cocked his head at König, who only jerked his head towards you with a shrug, Horangi just taking everything in with a furrowed brow.

The 141 weren’t too soon after to file in after more soldiers on base, Soap first to greet you with a laugh and some gibberish in an accent so thick not even König could understand it. He ruffled your hair, eyes taking notice of the hoodie you wore, raising a brow at the large German man standing awkwardly nearby, watching, but commenting nothing.

Then another man he’d forgotten the name of came by, a dazzling white flash of teeth, then he was trailing off to find Soap and keep him out of trouble. The Ghost took one glance at the room, shook his head in what König assumed to be exasperation, and went to sit with Price, the man who seemed to be in charge and had been up early, taking all of the decorations into account already.

As everyone settled into the new surroundings, you and König exchanged a long glance, before you swallowed, almost nervously, giving a small smile.

“Well, uh—thanks for the hoodie. I’ll see you around?”

He took your words into account for a moment, before nodding.

“Ja. See you…around.”

And you sauntered off to the table where Price and the strange Ghost man were seated, only for Price to raise a brow at the hoodie you were wearing, muttering something König couldn’t hear from his distance before he walked to join his men.

He was greeted with a,

“Permission to speak freely?”

Carefully eying Horangi, he responded.

“…Granted.”

“Am I invited to the wedding?”

Tags:

@hawke1917

@flufftober

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writtenbythemoonandstars · 1 month ago

Text

Camping

Part 4 of the First Date series

Possible content warnings without spoiling too much include: descriptions of injuries and medical procedures and discussion of past sexual events.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

1.8k words

---

Robby has always loved camping. The smell of pine trees and sap, of fire and smoke. The serene sounds of birds, crackling fires. When he was a kid he'd camp by the ocean and the waves crashing were always enough to put him to sleep at night.

The taste of bug spray bitter on his tongue as he accidentally breathes it in. "Honey, I think you've scared off enough bugs. Put it down." His voice soft amused. When he'd heard she hadn’t ever been camping before Robby quickly booked them a site the first weekend they were both free.

"I'm allergic to mosquitoes you know." She sighs, spraying her arm one last time before setting it down. "Not like… deathly but I don’t want to break out in hives."

"I don't think anyone within a hundred mile radius will come in contact with any bugs thanks to you." He teases, laughing. Raising his hands in surrender when he gets a look.

"Maybe I forgot to mention that just because I haven't ever been camping before doesn't mean I felt like I was missing out on anything. It's great that you're Bear Grylls or whatever but I'm meant to sleep in an actual bed. Not like… a sleeping bag on the dirt." He just continues to chuckle at her. Not taking any offence.

"You'll have fun I promise."

There are a lot of things you don't say in the ER or as a doctor in general. Things like, "Seems quiet" or "calm" or make promises which you have no control over.

Which is probably why two hours later it starts to pour rain. Making it difficult for Robby to start a fire. Seeing his… girlfriend? Is that what he calls her now? They haven't really talked about it but he's not seeing anyone else and she's been coming over at least three times a week for the past four months.

Anyway, she's drowning in the jacket he fortunately packed. Causing him to be the one that's soaking wet. "Is this how I looked when I showed up for our first date?" She asks. Amused as she observes him work.

"Better." Robby replies, winking when he catches her rolling her eyes.

He ties a tarp high enough it wouldn't catch fire but also cover the pit from the rain.

"That’s really hot." She says. Resting her head in her hands, watching him. "It's so…" She shrugs, not thinking of the right word, "manly?"

"Yeah?" Robby stands. Moving closer, his hands sliding around her hips. "You like it?"

"Mhm." Nodding, eyes closing as he kisses up her neck.

"You taste like bug spray." He comments after pulling back.

"I used an entire bottle before I got out of my car. You can imagine what that smells like." Robby laughs. He moves to sit down on the log next to her.

"I may hate it out here but I can see the appeal. The rain, the fire, it's all very calming." She nods.

"We'd camp every year, sometimes more than once, when I was a kid." Robby tells her. He feels her nod and lay her head on his shoulder. "Grandma was a really big fan of Survivor." He adds, "recreational camping is obviously a lot different than the tropical survival they do on the show but sometimes she'd make my brother and I do puzzles or eat rice and fish out here."

"Oh yeah?" She snorts, "Grandma has taste." Robby feels her nod. "Watching Survivor was probably one of the only times my family and I got along growing up. Probably because we were all sitting watching tv instead of talking to each other."

"Are you my girlfriend?" He can't help but blurt. The thought on his mind for a while now.

"What do you mean?" Her head tilts up, "w1hat else would I be?"

"I don't know… I- I just… we hadn't ever talked about it. Officially. I didn't know if you wanted to put a label on it." Robby says honestly.

"Michael." Looking at him in the eyes. "You were the first man to eat me out. That's not nothing." He rolls her eyes as she laughs. "I'm serious though. I'm not seeing anyone else."

"I'm not either."

"Good. Then we can label it." She nods. "Boyfriend."

"Girlfriend." Then he leans in to kiss her. The fire burns on it's own while Robby pulls her into the tent…

The next morning Robby wakes her up early. As if they hadn’t stayed up late the night before. She groans. "Isn't camping supposed to be relaxing? Waking up at-" Checking her phone, "5? Jesus, Michael."

"This is the whole reason I brought you out here. Come on." He throws her a jacket and crawls out of the tent to wait for her. It's the excitement in his tone movements that has her moving, though mumbling complaints about it.

"It's only a mile baby." Seeing her frown and the protest on the tip of her tongue. "I'll carry you if it's too much."

She rolls her eyes. "With that back?" He just waves her off.

Her mood improves though when she sees why they got up before daylight. Seeing the sunrise from the top of this hill after a mile- an uphill mile she wants to add that Robby conveniently "left out".

If only Robby remembered that due to the rain last night the dirt trail would be incredibly muddy. On the walk down both of them shared stories about work. Robby thought about her question, "Have you ever had any patients where they stayed totally calm in a situation where they should not be?"

"I had this guy come in with a nail in his hand. Like, straight through the palm. Kept joking that now he could finally get out of helping his brother move this weekend. Meanwhile I’m trying to keep a straight face while removing an actual hardware-store nail from a human hand. It missed all the major nerves and tendons by millimeters. I stitched him up, wrapped it, and told him to avoid power tools for at least a week. And definitely not to pick up any couches-" He turns when he finally realized there were no sounds of footsteps behind him anymore.

Where did she go? One minute she was right behind him, grabbing the water from his backpack, and now…

"Michael?" Her voice broken, he nearly didn't hear it.

She'd fallen down off the side of the hill, laying at the bottom. Slipped in the mud and just tumbled all the way down.

"Fuck. Hold on. I'm coming." He has to be careful getting to the bottom where she is.

"Did you hit your head?" Robby reaches her quickly. Swiftly checking over her condition. He doesn't hear an answer right away and snaps his head to her face. "Baby? Did you hit your head?" Robby pulls a pen light from the first aid kit in his backpack.

"No, but your water bottle hit me." She picks it up. Her eyes are normal and reactive to light. Despite the metal bottle to the head he rules out concussion for now.

There's no blood, which is honestly a miracle, except for a small scratch on her chin. Doesn't even need stitches.

"Michael?" Her voice strained. Nervous. He looks up from where he's securing a small bandage to her chin. But she's not looking at him. Following her eyes… his heart drops.

"My ankle isn't supposed to look like that right?" She quickly grabs on to the pocket of his jacket.

"No it is not." Robby can tell it's fractured.

"Fuck…" She replies slowly. "Do you have to like- uhm- like set it? Or Whatever?" Both of them still looking at her foot.

"Yes I am." He already pulling out his phone, despite not having any service he should still be able to contact emergency services.

"Wait-" Her eyes wide, holding the jacket he shucked off, "this is going to hurt?" Well, he didn't shove it in her mouth for no reason.

"Yeah honey." Robby nods, the expression on his face telling her it physically pains him to have to do this. "But only for a second. I promise." A kiss is pressed to her forehead.

He can see the apprehension on her eyes. "I'll get you the biggest margarita or ice cream sundae or honestly whatever the fuck you want baby." Hating the situation they're in. "You're so brave… and strong-"

"Holy- Fuck. Okay." She nods. "Giant fucking margarita… Count to three?"

He nods except he doesn't want her to tense when he gets to three. So, he says, "One. Two-"

The crack and pop is sharp in the otherwise quiet morning in the woods.

The jacket sleeve falls from her mouth as she gasps for air. Choking which turning into gagging and spitting up some of her granola bar from an hour ago. Robby rubs circles across her back.

"I thought we said three." She snaps though not necessarily mad at him. Just in pain.

He moves his hands up to her shoulder. Letting her grip his wrist tightly. Leaning in to his lap. "I didn't want you to tense up." Kissing the back of her hand.

"Paramedics will be here in twenty minutes. But I have to get you out of here." He splints and ties up her ankle before helping on to his back.

"What about-" He shakes his head. "I'll be fine." Waving her off.

It's about halfway when he feels himself seizing up. "T-tell me a story-" going back to what they had been doing on the walk down the hill.

She rubs his shoulders the best she can, knowing this isn't easy for him to be carrying her like this. "I had a client a few months ago who I hadn't talked to in a while. I saw her email name had changed and I asked if she had recently gotten married-" She stops talking when he stops walking, needing a break. The tension tight in his back. "Keep going." He nods to her.

"She told me she'd been recently divorced." He starts to walk again so she continues. "It got so much worse after that and it was already awkward… I don't even remember what sparked her to tell me but she said she caught her husband cheating on her with her best friend.."

"What did you do?" They're nearly back to camp.

"I told her I was sorry and after we finished the meeting for the day I pawned her off on a coworker and never spoke to her again." The embarrassment of what happened and the guilt of cutting her off after their awkward encounter creeps in from time to time but she forces herself to push it down.

The paramedics arrive soon after Robby sets her down carefully then stretches his back. He watches her sleep on the ambulance ride to the nearest hospital after she was given some pain medicine.

A boot for 6 weeks and some physical therapy.

"You know…" She looks over at Robby slowly. A little loopy. "I had a lot of fun camping."

That makes him laugh. "Did you?"

"Mhm. We should do it again." Nodding.

"I'll ask you again when you're not on drugs." He softens his laugh to a light chuckle. Pressing a kiss in her hair.

"Okay…" She whispers before falling asleep again.

---

Let me know what you think!

Also, btw, I know there hasn't been any mention of Robby having a brother but I added him in just for the sake of the story he was telling idk

Unedited...

#dr robby #dr. robby x reader #micheal robinavitch #micheal robinavitch x reader #the pitt max

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cabotwife · 1 month ago

Note

Can you do a Johanna mason x fem!ADHD!reader?? I love how you write Johanna.

All I've Ever Known

Johanna Mason x Fem!ADHD!Reader

warnings: poorly written, ooc Johanna(?), not proofread,

word count: 1230

a/n: i don't really like how this came out but i was just so happy to get a Johanna req again💔

𔓘

you’ve always had a noisy brain.

not noisy in the way that you or others can actually hear it. not noisy in a way you could ever really explain. just.. always on. jumping, flipping, running laps, tripping over itself. when you were younger, your mother said you think like wind; rushing past one thing to get to the next, never settling. your teacher called it “scattered.” your uncle, more bluntly, said you didn’t know how to shut up and sit still.

but out here in the forest, it’s easier. the trees don’t ask questions. the birds don’t mind that you forget what you’re doing halfway through doing it. the wind doesn’t care if your thoughts don’t line up right. out here, you can breathe.

you’re out there now, way past the bounds of what’s considered safe, when you see her. you weren’t trying to find her. you didn’t even know she was back.

she's stripping bark off a felled tree like it insulted her personally, one arm slick with sap, jaw clenched tight. you don’t mean to watch, but you do. it takes a second too long before she notices.

"what?" she snaps, without looking up.

you flinch, like she smacked you, but you don’t run. you never do, not even when you should.

"nothing," you say. not true. "just walking." kinda true.

the brunette straightens and finally looks at you. her eyes are darker than they looked on the broadcast, more tired, less shiny. realer.

"you’re from seven?" she asks bluntly.

you nod. "born here. i know who you are."

"then you should know better than to sneak up on people holding an axe."

she tosses it into the ground, not hard, but hard enough. you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. just shift your weight, try not to look as jumpy as you feel.

"you always twitch like that?" she asks after a beat.

heat crawls up your neck. "only when i forget i’m being watched, i guess."

that gets a half-smile out of her. it's not soft by any means, but it’s something.

"i’m done here," she says. "walk me back, if you're not too busy wandering."

you follow without thinking.

𔓘

you see her again the next day.

you’d say it’s a coincidence, but you don’t believe in those. not anymore. not since the games started shaping every part of this country like a boot pressing into mud.

she’s sitting behind the supply shed near the old lumber plant, chewing on a splinter and staring at nothing.

"you always hang out behind buildings?" you ask before your brain catches up.

she glances sideways. "you always ask questions you don’t have rights to?"

you blink. "i didn’t mean to. i just… blurt things."

"no kidding."

you consider leaving, but something in her tone isn’t as sharp as her words. so you sit down beside her. y’know, like a sane person.

the silence is weird at first. heavy. you’ve never been good at it. but johanna’s not fidgeting, not talking. just existing. so you try that too.

eventually she says, "you talk too fast, you know that?"

"yeah."

"you think too fast, too." is she in my head now? can she hear it?

"…yeah."

another silence. it doesn’t feel quite so weird now.

"you always been like that?"

you nod. "people don’t like it much. i get on nerves."

she huffs a laugh through her nose. "welcome to the club."

you don’t talk much after that. just sit. and that’s fine.

𔓘

you start seeing her more. not on purpose.

okay, maybe a little on purpose.

she's not hard to find, but she’s hard to read.

sometimes she talks. sometimes she doesn’t. you get used to both.

sometimes your mind races so fast you forget what you were saying halfway through a sentence, and she waits for you to catch up. doesn’t laugh. doesn’t pity you. just waits.

sometimes she tells you things you don’t expect her to; about how she hates the way people look at her now. like she’s broken. dangerous. crazy.

you don’t say anything to that. you just nudge her knee with yours. she lets it stay there.

𔓘

one night you’re both out in the woods. it’s cold. your hands are shaking and she notices. of course she does.

"you okay?" she asks.

"yeah," you lie, too quickly.

she doesn’t press. just shrugs off her jacket and tosses it at you. you catch it just barely.

"thanks," you say. "you’re nicer than you pretend."

she snorts. "don’t tell anyone. ruins the brand."

you sit down beside her on a flat rock that smells like moss and smoke. the moon is big tonight. your head feels quieter out here. still not silent, but closer.

"ever feel like you don’t fit in your own skin?" you ask, quietly.

johanna turns toward you, and there’s something sharp in her face, but not cruel. not aimed at you.

"every damn day."

you look at her. she’s not pretty in the usual way. not soft. not delicate. her beauty’s carved from bone and scars, from fire and splinters. but when she looks at you like that, like she sees every splintered corner of you and doesn’t flinch, you think maybe it’s the only kind of pretty that matters.

you lean your head on her shoulder before you can overthink it. she goes still for a second, then rests her cheek lightly on top of your head.

you sit like that until your thoughts stop chasing themselves in circles.

𔓘

she kisses you the first time without warning.

you’re mid-sentence, rambling about something, probably tree frogs or fungus or a dream you had last night where all the victors were made of wax and melting— and she just leans in and shuts you up with her mouth.

it’s not soft. it’s not neat. it’s like everything else about her — fierce, impatient, real.

when she pulls back, your brain short-circuits.

"sorry," she mutters, looking away. "you were spiraling."

you blink. "so you decided to kiss me?"

"you want me to take it back?"

you shake your head fast enough to make her laugh.

"didn’t think so."

𔓘

you don’t talk about it after that. not really. you don’t have to. something shifts between you, subtle, but there.

you still talk too fast. still get distracted mid-conversation. still twitchy, still messy, still too much. but she never tells you to stop. never makes you feel like a problem to fix.

she listens.

she stays.

one night you’re lying in the grass near the edge of the district, looking up at the stars. you’ve been ranting about something stupid, how birds shouldn’t be able to sleep while standing, how unfair that is, and johanna just murmurs, "you know, i like the way your brain works."

you go quiet.

"you do?" you ask, unsure if she means it. if she’s making fun of you.

she rolls onto her side, presses her hand to your chest like she’s grounding you.

"it’s a little like mine. loud. a mess. but honest. sharp. alive."

you don’t say anything. your throat’s tight.

she kisses your collarbone, then your jaw, then your mouth.

and you think, maybe this world never gave you a place, not really. but maybe johanna’s the one person who sees your broken edges and doesn’t try to sand them down.

#the hunger games #thg johanna #johanna mason x reader #johanna mason x you #johanna mason fluff #johanna mason #★彡 𝓬𝓪𝓫𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓴𝓼 彡★#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #katniss everdeen x reader #katniss everdeen #katniss everdeen x peeta mellark #wlw #catching fire

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baddiewiththebook · 5 months ago

Text

Over the Years | e.m x reader [18+] | p. 9

-> The origin story of Eddie Munson, and how he fell in love with the worst person he possibly could - his best friend.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language, suggestive themes, smut [18+]

-> <-

July 1983

There is a crackle and a pop that comes from the fire that dances before you. Fiery like an angry monster erupting from his hibernation, ready to feed. The wood sizzles, as the last bit of sap cooks from the bark. Moisture drains as the wood turns to ash.

Your eyes train to the open night sky. Trees touch the air reaching out to the heavens above. Pine has become one of your favorite scents since coming out to camp here nights ago. This is one of the final nights all together.

That being said, you’re a bit melancholic about going home tomorrow. At home, you won’t have the dramatic retelling of woodland monsters by Eddie who ghosts over the flames, and nearly commands them to bend and to turn. You won’t have Gareth’s half decent cooking that sits just right in your belly, and not making you bloat out until you’re about to burst. Freak quietly eats the leftovers from dinner time. Hot dogs. Potato chips. It’s all quite typical of a camping trip. And, Jeff, who plays you songs on his harmonica that he says his grandfather taught him ages ago. You’re immersed in the experience, truly.

Jeff puts down the harmonica a moment, and Eddie files his stories back between his ears. The conversation is light. Although, there is a line crossed eventually. Gareth storms off down a darkened path to a lake of water to get some air. You tell the group that you’re going to the bathroom quickly after this happens.

You sneak around the campers, and take a flashlight with you. The pathway is a straightforward slope. Even if you somehow veered off the path and onto the thick wood, you would hear the water and still push forward until you hit the lake.

The large moon overhead mirrors into the water, along with its friends - the stars. Ripples in the tide gently caress the sand leaving soggy wet trails. You can find Gareth making purchase against a fallen log not too far from the path.

“May I join you?” You clear your throat, adjusting the flashlight to the beach floor when Gareth squints at you.

Gareth doesn’t have much to say to you. It’s not you that has him irritated after all. He drops the tension built at the base of his jaw, and his shoulders follow.

You take this as an invite, and you scoot not-so-close next to him. The sea speaks to you. She says so many words without saying anything at all. The freedom to travel the world, and to touch so many people. She’s home to many creatures. And, abused by so many humans. They take advantage of her generosity, and thus is the meaning of womanhood. You could shred your English teacher apart for giving you a scalding hot ‘D’ on your essay about femininity. For him, the world bended on hand and knee.

At least you wouldn’t have to take a class with him this upcoming year.

“Moon’s big,” you bite your tongue for such a silly little thing to say.

Gareth kicks the sand and the pebbles at his feet, “I know they’re just teasing me because they’re older.”

Their conversation grew childish, as Eddie had picked on Gareth for his lack of experience with women. It nicked a hole in his pride, or perhaps invited the shy little boy to rise to the surface after all of these years. Truthfully, the sting of Eddie’s comment isn’t what bothers him. The other guys laughs. It’s all a joke to them. But, internally Gareth has been struggling. All by his age, the boys had at least one date under their belt.

You inhale deeply, which grabs Gareth’s attention. With the moonlight caressing your skin like a tender hand holding up your chin to bless you even more beautifully than you already are, Gareth knows how screwed he is. Jeff has told him to back off. He insists that you’re Eddie’s girl. You’re fueled by a secret passion that burns only for Eddie.

That might be true by the way you laugh undeniably hard whenever you are left together. Oh, your laugh is a fresh breeze on a hot day. Warm sun punches his body. The leaves on the trees begin to shake. Finally, the wind kisses his ears coolly in a most needed sort of way.

In a way, he needs you to laugh at him like that.

“Don’t let them get to you,” you shrug your shoulders up and down. The flashlight has fallen into the sand, while still on. Shadows of their toes hit the beach sand making silly little puppets. “You don’t have to go around sleeping with every girl you see. I’ve never . . .”

Your confidence fails you right then. Simply, you didn’t want to seem suggestive towards Gareth. Well, in case a situation like that might happen. That’s not to say that it would. But, you know - you have a long life ahead of you and Gareth isn’t the worst looking guy you’ve seen. Or, calling him not-the-worst sounds wrong. That’s not what you meant.

Gareth bursts your train of thought, “I’ve never even kissed a girl. Shouldn’t I have at least done that?”

Was he really asking you for advice? Sure, your first kiss was soggy and far too wet for your liking. You could have sucked face with a frog, and he would have been kinder than- oh, it doesn’t matter. First kisses are always less amazing than what you expect. That’s why you practice.

“There isn’t a timeline on this sort of stuff,” you explain to him. “It just sort of happens. Some people don’t get kissed until they’re forty.”

Gareth’s half glare shuts your mouth, before you could make him feel any worse. So, you’re not good at this? Who knew?

“I cannot wait for my first kiss to be when I’m forty,” he snorts lightly. “Eddie’s already-,”

You jerk your head, but the end of the sentence never falls out of his mouth. Gareth’s quite red in the face, and he doesn’t dare turn his head back to you.

“Eddie can do whatever - whoever he wants,” you pretend like the bomb Gareth dropped doesn’t bother you, but he watches your shoulders bend slightly.

According to Jeff, you’re Eddie’s girl. They’ve spoken a lot. Jeff’s advice is to back off, before Gareth gets bitten. Knowing Eddie, he’s a shark that could take you down whole if he wanted too. That’s not to criticize his close friend. It’s just that keeping you so close, but to not make a move on you is beyond childish to think of. He has to understand that one day someone will come along and ask you on a date. That they’ll sweep you off your feet. You deserve to be loved, and to be held. Not kept under Eddie’s shadow.

Oh, God. Can Gareth risk loosing Eddie as not only a friend, but as a major part of a band they created. This band means everything to all of its members. The sound is so unique, and so new. They could really be going somewhere with this.

Gareth decides in that moment that he would rather chance making the band a success, and to keep everyone and everything the same as it has always been. One day he can wake up without humming to the tune of you. That the scent of your perfume doesn’t send him into a trance-like-state of utter silliness.

The burn in his belly aches. Gareth stares into the sea, as though he’s thrown his greatest secret, and his greatest worry into the ocean. She swallows the message whole. Yeah, if only that works. He hangs his head.

Your fingertips grace the top of his left shoulder blade. Even though his jacket, Gareth can imagine the softness that the pads of your fingers provide. Soft and smooth ridges pepper alonghis hidden skin like a well-rehearsed song and dance.

“Gareth,” the sound of your voice melts him. “Are you okay?”

Gareth cocks his head in your direction. You watch in waiting as his eyes fall to your lips. Hopefully, he doesn’t see you tremble too.

There is a moment that the both of you share in complete silence. The waves quiet themselves. The trees no longer move, but rather watch the scene unfold in front of them. It’s perfectly romantic.

Hot breath hits your face. Gareth has become closer to you, or maybe you moved to him. You swallow thickly. He licks his lips.

Pause.

There is a thrust of wind that hit the both of you, but doesn’t cause either of you to break away. It only moves you closer. Hand in hand.

“Fuck it,” Gareth mutters to himself, and closes the gap.

Slotting his lips against yours, Gareth could swear he hears the heavens calling from beyond. You tangle your fingers into his hair, holding on for dear life. While Gareth’s lips aren’t classically trained, you hold out for practice. The message is clearly written. His nose bumps against yours, and you hum through locked lips. Gareth sneaks his grip on you around your waist, below your jacket. The skin there is cool. Shivers wrestle up your spine. you around the waist below your jacket in a bold move. You gasp.

As the kiss ends, you both find pulling away to come too soon. Sneaking in one or two more small kisses, your eyes do finally meet. Your lips are swollen and damp, and so are Gareth’s lips. Somehow you’ve tangled yourself into him. Threatening to swing your legs back over his lap, Gareth grasps the back of your knee with his hand.

“Stay,” he stammers out of breath. “Please.”

You nod - completely winded yourself.

“Maybe you could use a bit more practice?” You pinch your fingers together with a suggestive smirk playing against your lips.

Gareth cackles into the sky, then lets his head fall back to you. “Seriously?”

You nibble your bottom lip.

Gareth brings his lips to yours once again bringing your two bodies into one shared unit. You wait to slip into something deeper that he isn’t quite ready for yet. Instead, the two of you spend far too long enjoying the moment.

There is a group of campers not far away wondering where you have gone off too. Robin rides into the darkness with the assistance of a flashlight to use the bathroom. Hopefully, you haven’t died in there yet.

Robin does catch up with you two in the sharp fork that’s along the pathways. If you head upwards, you’ll begin to smell the bathrooms not too far away. Down the hill is the short walk to the lakeside where you’ve just come from.

“I went to the bathroom, and then I went to find Gareth,” you explain rapidly to Robin.

While she knows that could be a lie, Robin has had far too much pop and she does really have to go to the bathroom. She leaves you there, and she will forget about finding you two suspiciously in the woods together.

Upon returning to the camp site, you hadn’t talked about if either Gareth or you wanted to tell the others about what has just happened. It doesn’t seem as though you’ll get a chance because Gareth is whisked off in a drunken apology from Eddie. Gareth tells Eddie not to sweat it, then accepts a marshmallow peace offering.

You too return to the fire opposite side to Gareth. A poker is offered to you, so that you might stick marshmallows on the ends to cook them. That is one of your favorite parts to a camping trip - it used to be your favorite.

Perhaps, something has changed your mind. Something sweeter has come along. It's like the scent of a new book. Sweet and woodsy. You’re just unfolding the pages to this novel.

Gareth’s gaze softens as he catches you looking right at him, and you blush while tucking your lips into each other.

You can’t wait to read this book.

-> <-

[August 1983]

tags -> @leelei1980 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @jesuisbuginette @starrywhitenight @meetmeatyourworst @munsonburn3r @5tud10-54r4h @pvdulmol @loveryanax @am0iur

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson preference #stranger things fic #stranger things #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic

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colouredbyd · 20 days ago

Text

The Nightingale VI: The Capitol Has Teeth

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

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

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

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

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

previous part next part series masterlist main masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Regulus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I do. I always do.

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

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

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

But gods, I want to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when I saw him.

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

For a breathless second, I thought he was dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

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

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

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

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

“When?” Regulus pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not sure we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I used to draw stars on you.” I say.

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

But he hears. Of course he does.

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

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

Another pause. Longer, softer.

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

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

“You always scolded me when it smudged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And like he needed them anyway.

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

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

My chest pulls tight. I don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

The ache between us spreads like ink in water.

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

“I always started with Altair.” I whisper.

His breath catches. “You did.”

“Three dots. A line.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My breath stutters.

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

Instead, I just look at him.

“You always smudged them,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regulus is on his feet in an instant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, we saw them.

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

Caradoc Dearborn and Charity Burbage, both from District 10.

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

But then, they stepped too close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The forest was trying to eat us.

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

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

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

The nickname made me want to cry.

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

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

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

My breath hitched again. Regulus faltered, feeling it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are watching us, always.

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

The Capitol has teeth.

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

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black angst #regulust black fluff #regulus black x reader angst #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader fluff #hunger games au #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders fluff #marauders angst #marauders x reader angst #marauders x reader fluff #regulus arcturus black #the hunger games #marauders hunger games #colouredbyd

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n0vazsq · 4 months ago

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Love, a wonderful thing | Marc Bernal x Reader

pairing . . . marc bernal x gf!reader

summary . . . Marc surprises you with a necklace with his initials and tells you that he loves you for the first time

request . . . yes!! based on this request!

word count . . . 1.3k+

warnings . . . none!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . more christmas fics coming soon and ik im so late but dw guys ill grind to get them out asap

. . . The snow outside painted the world in a soft, shimmering white, and the glow of the fairy lights on the Christmas tree cast a golden hue across the room.

You were sitting on the couch, humming along to the faint Christmas music playing in the background as you adjusted one of the stockings hanging by the fireplace.

The faint scent of vanilla from the candles you’d lit earlier filled the room, creating an atmosphere so cozy it felt like a scene from a holiday movie.

When you glanced over your shoulder, you caught Marc staring at you, his head propped up on one hand as he leaned against the armrest of the couch.

There was a softness in his gaze, his dark eyes tracing your features with an expression so tender it made your heart skip a beat.

"What?" you asked with a shy laugh, raising an eyebrow at him.

Marc didn’t look away. If anything, his smile grew, and the corners of his lips curled into that familiar, lopsided grin that made your stomach flutter every time.

"Nothing," he said, his voice low and warm, almost like a secret he wanted to keep between the two of you. "I’m just wondering how I got so lucky."

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks as you sat back down beside him. "Marc," you said, playfully nudging his shoulder, though the warmth in his voice lingered in your chest. "You’re such a sap."

"Can you blame me?" he teased, his eyes sparkling as he leaned in closer. "You’re literally glowing right now. You look… beautiful."

His words weren’t dramatic or over the top, but the way he said them, like they were the most natural thing in the world, made your breath catch.

"Marc," you murmured, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek for just a moment. "I mean it," he said softly, his gaze never leaving yours. "You’re perfect."

You were about to tease him again, anything to keep yourself from melting under his affection, when he suddenly straightened up, his expression shifting slightly.

"I, uh…" He cleared his throat and reached for something on the coffee table. "I actually got you something."

You tilted your head, blinking in surprise. "Marc, I thought we agreed-"

"I know," he interrupted quickly, holding up the small, neatly wrapped box.

His cheeks were slightly flushed now, his earlier confidence replaced with a hint of nervousness. "But I couldn’t help myself. Just… open it, okay? I know what you said. I couldn’t help it. You deserve something special."

Your heart warmed at his words, and you felt your cheeks heat up. "Okay," you said softly, taking the box from his hands.

His fingers lingered for a moment as they brushed yours, and you could see the nervous anticipation in his expression. He was chewing on his bottom lip ever so slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the small gift.

You carefully peeled back the wrapping paper, your fingers trembling slightly, more from the tenderness of the moment than the chill in the room. Inside the paper was a sleek jewelry box. When you opened it, your breath caught.

Resting on a bed of velvet was a delicate gold chain. At the center of the necklace hung a tiny, understated pendant in the shape of the letter 'M.'

The gold was polished to perfection, and the way it reflected the warm glow of the Christmas lights made it seem almost magical.

For a moment, you were speechless. The simplicity of the necklace was breathtaking, but it was the meaning behind it that made your chest ache in the best way.

"Marc…" you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I know it’s small," he said quickly, his words tumbling out as though he was afraid of your reaction.

"But I wanted to give you something that, you know, would remind you of me. Something you could wear all the time." He paused, his cheeks flushing deeper. "I just thought it would look beautiful on you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming wave of affection you felt in that moment.

"It’s perfect," you whispered, running your fingers gently over the pendant.

"Here, let me help you put it on," Marc said, his voice soft and a little unsure.

You turned slightly, pulling your hair aside to give him access. His fingers trembled as he fastened the clasp, the cool metal brushing against your skin.

His touch was feather light, but it left a warmth behind that lingered long after he’d finished.

When you turned back to face him, his gaze immediately fell to the necklace, his lips curving into a soft smile.

"It looks…" He trailed off, his eyes meeting yours. "It looks beautiful on you."

You reached up, your fingers grazing the pendant as you admired his handiwork. "Thank you, Marc. This means so much to me."

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other, the air between you thick with unspoken emotions. There was something different about his expression tonight, a vulnerability you didn’t often see.

"I-" He hesitated, his gaze dropping to where your hands rested on your lap. He took a deep breath and reached for your hand, his touch warm and grounding. "There’s something else I need to say."

You tilted your head slightly, your heart speeding up as you waited for him to continue.

"I’ve been thinking about this for a while," he began, his thumb gently brushing against the back of your hand. "And I didn’t want to rush it or say it before I was ready. But tonight… I can’t keep it to myself anymore."

Your pulse quickened as he looked up at you, his dark eyes full of emotion.

"I love you," he said, the words tumbling out with a mix of certainty and vulnerability. "I’ve loved you for a long time, and I just… I needed you to know. You mean everything to me."

The weight of his confession hung in the air, and for a moment, you could do nothing but stare at him, your heart swelling with emotions too big to contain.

"I…" You paused, your throat tightening. "I love you too, Marc."

His eyes widened slightly, and then his face broke into the most beautiful, genuine smile you’d ever seen. He looked almost relieved, as though a weight he’d been carrying had suddenly lifted.

Before you could say anything else, he leaned forward and cupped your face in his hands, his touch as gentle as ever. The kiss that followed was soft, tentative at first, as though he was testing to see if you would pull away.

But when you kissed him back, all hesitation melted away.

The world seemed to fade as his lips moved against yours, tender and full of unspoken promises.

His thumb brushed your cheek, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest, like your heart was wrapping itself around his.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel his breath fanning against your skin.

"You have no idea how happy you just made me," he murmured, his voice laced with awe.

You smiled, your hand reaching up to touch the pendant again. "This necklace… I’ll never take it off. It’ll remind me every day of how much you mean to me."

Marc laughed softly, his fingers lacing with yours. "Good. That’s exactly what I wanted."

The two of you sat there for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms as the fire crackled and the lights twinkled around you. It felt like time had stopped, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble of happiness.

And as the snow began to fall softly outside, you couldn’t help but think that this was the best Christmas gift you’d ever received; not just the necklace, but Marc’s love, his honesty, and the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

For the first time in a long time, everything felt perfect.

Love, what a wonderful thing.

taglist . . . @barcapix ,, @f1lover55 ,, @ilovebarcaaa ,, @notm4d1 ,, @httpsdana ,, @paucubarsisimp ,, @bernalswifeyy ,, @nngkay (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

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fen-luciel · 10 months ago

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The mistakes of a Acolyte

Chapters

Summary: You are pregnant with Qimir's child and the universe is not big enough to hide you from him

The initial idea was to despair, cry, and pack my bags to flee, but none of this made sense. It was like being immobilized in time and space; maybe I had imagined everything, fallen asleep on the couch as I often did, the nightmares that accompanied me had become more fanciful and seemed real, but time was passing, and it was getting dark outside, it was obvious that even nightmares didn't last that long.

I moved in search of something to do, and the desire to eat became strong, so I opted to cook something while I thought about myself, the Jedi, and Qimir... it had been foolish of me to think I could escape. That no one would find me. And this pregnancy was sapping all my strength, if before I had been confident in my survival skills, now I doubted them. It was already a miracle that I could walk five meters without feeling exhausted, fighting was impossible. I had already admitted some of my activities to the Jedi, but it was obvious that as long as the target was Qimir, I would seem almost innocent in their eyes.

Yet... he was still looking for me. I was sure of it. Maybe the fact that the photo was still in the same condition was a sign... negative or positive, I couldn't say.

I finished preparing something for dinner and turned on the holonet, even though I didn't pay much attention to it.

I had to decide what to do, carefully plan all my next moves, the lies, the escape.

I tried to swallow another bite, but a sob stopped me. It had taken me a month to decide what to do with my life, how to escape and live peacefully after everything we had done in these years, and now I had less than twelve hours to come up with anything to do. I couldn't let the Jedi take me away, someone in the Order could recognize me, or recognize my voice, they would feel my signature in the Force, anything could betray me, or worse, they could take my child away once born and throw me in prison, the mere idea terrified me.

Tears fell into the plate as I tried to stifle another sob. At this point, maybe it was better to return to Qimir and ask for his forgiveness, maybe he would refrain from killing me at least while I was pregnant with his child, even though nothing would stop him from killing me afterward. I had betrayed him. I had led him to this, to what he was now, and then I had abandoned him. I had been a fool, I had seen all the signs that the situation was slipping out of my hands and now that I no longer had control, from perpetrator I had become the victim.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my pajamas before forcing myself to finish the plate, walking around the house like a ghost, someone who had already been condemned to death and had accepted it.

In the bathroom, I changed into something softer and looked at myself in the mirror, I was ashamed of myself, my completely tattooed arms were witnesses of my victories and a black map on the skin that I had decided to form over time to describe my path, yet now they seemed like the whims of a rebellious child. They clashed on the body I had, sure the muscles were still there, it had been too little time to lose them, but my big belly was a huge beacon in the middle. I no longer recognized myself in my skin, I was a symbol of death, but in the mirror, I looked like just a failed mother. The bags under my eyes, the tired look, the condition of my hair, everything, it was terrible. I would never be able to escape from anyone, and at that moment I realized it more than ever.

Reaching the bedroom, I immediately lay down under the covers, the mattress was divine for my back, and despite the anxiety, I fell asleep early anyway.

Opening my eyes, the first thing I saw was a sea of green. I was in a forest in the middle of the night, maybe... a jungle or worse, I had never seen such trees. I jumped up, feeling a piercing cold in my bones, immediately recognizing the presence hiding inside. "Qimir?" I called out with a trembling voice. If I could feel him, he could feel me, it was useless to hide.

"Darling" his voice behind me made me turn quickly, and finally, I saw him. The man I had run away from five months earlier and hoped never to see again, injured, tired, and dirty... our minds had reconnected after I had severed the bond, this shouldn't have been possible.

"My love, you are as beautiful as ever" he addressed me with that gentle smile I had learned to love, even at that moment despite the fear, that look warmed my heart. "Am I perhaps going mad dreaming of you pregnant?"

He approached me, but I didn't have the courage to move, he hadn't noticed that our bond had reformed? Did he think it was a dream? Maybe hiding my presence made me intangible even in the connection, making him believe he was dreaming.

I pressed my lips together before taking a step forward and pushing myself into his arms, I couldn't smell or feel his warmth, but I could imagine it from the vivid memories I still carried. "Qimir..." the words got stuck in my throat, I wanted to say so much, to vent even just the last few hours, but I risked making him understand too much, that something was wrong and if he found out it was really me... and I was pregnant... "I miss you so much, darling. I was so furious when you disappeared, I'm looking for you everywhere. And when I find you..." he squeezed my arms tightly before pulling me away a few centimeters, our faces brushing as his eyes scrutinized me deeply, and I could perceive the anger behind them. "I will punish you for leaving me, my love. And when we have solved this problem, we will continue our plan, you will be proud of me, when you discover how much I have done in these months" my heart pounded in my chest, here was that side of him that terrified me, I tried to free myself, but he squeezed my arms even tighter. "But look at you, trying to run away from me even in my dreams" the smile he gave me was terrifying, the kind of grin he used when facing an enemy, the one he had started to use on me when... "Qimir you're hurting me-" I gasped, feeling trapped, this was too much, if he realized I was more tangible than usual... I had to wake up.

He instead pulled me back against his chest before kissing me forcefully, the touch of his lips on mine was familiar, I couldn't help but let out a moan at the gesture, despite my reluctance, my body desired him more than my mind. "When I find you, maybe I should really make you pregnant, we would be a nice family, the sweet mother of my children" he whispered on my lips, I squirmed even more and luckily as soon as I freed myself from his grip, I woke up.

Outside, the first lights of dawn were peeking into the room, my heart was racing, getting up quickly, a pain in my arms made me hiss. Despite the numerous black tattoos covering my arms, bruises could be seen on the skin, the marks of Qimir's fingers that had managed to mark me even galaxies away, almost proving he was becoming stronger in the Force.

I stood up and took a quick shower, by then I was too scared to fall asleep again, I put on comfortable clothes and went to make myself something for breakfast.

It was only after eating that I felt the need to check my things. In the bedroom, hidden in a hole I had created in the closet, a box held the few personal items I had brought with me. Opening it, everything was as I had left it, my rolled-up clothes, my photo of me and Qimir along with others from my childhood, and my lightsaber. I looked at everything for a few minutes, the idea was to also put the photo of Qimir among these, but I didn't want the Jedi to request it and find me with my hands on it. Yet the idea of letting go of this memory to them burned my stomach even more than the fear of getting caught.

I put everything back, walking around with a lightsaber wasn't a smart move now, I had to convince the Jedi to leave me alone quickly, despite not liking the idea, if they were after Qimir, he was too busy fighting them to look for me, and maybe I had more time to find an even more distant place to hide.

It was around eight that someone knocked at my door, I took a deep breath before opening it, expecting to see the two Jedi, but in front of me was Yord. Alone. "Hey... did you come to continue the conversation from yesterday? Where's Sol?" I said, quickly looking down the hallway. "Hey good morning, no I... wanted to see how you were doing. Yesterday we stressed you out a lot, and I wanted to make sure you were okay" *or that you hadn't run away*, but I kept the thought to myself.

"I'm fine, I went to bed a bit late, but I've had worse hours" I tried to joke, showing him a smile, but it was obvious he wasn't convinced by my act. "Yeah, well if it makes you feel better, we're making sure no one suspicious followed us," I moved aside to let him in and realized he had a bag with him.

He sat at the counter before pulling out several paper bags, the smell of sugar was unmistakable. "I brought some things to apologize for my presence at this hour, you need to rest, and I was afraid you were still sleeping" Approaching the counter, I could see the various sweets he had chosen, among the different creams and pastries. "I don't know what you like, so I practically took every kind of sweet, and... and maybe you like salty food" he said as if struck by lightning. "Sorry, I didn't think of that—" but he stopped when he heard my laugh. "It's all okay, Yord. I like sweets" I said, reaching him and sitting on the chair opposite his. "You really didn't have to—" "But I wanted to" he interrupted immediately before giving me a small smile.

For a moment, it seemed like I was seeing Qimir again, yet despite the same mischief in his eyes, it was evident that Yord didn't have the same dark side; his smile was genuinely playful.

He took the cutlery and juice as if he was already accustomed to the kitchen, which made me giggle again. "You move around my kitchen better than I do" he replied with a smile before sitting down, the sweets in front of us ready to be eaten. "Well, I struggled yesterday to figure out where to put some things, so I actually opened the cupboards a million times." I laughed again while taking the first bite of cake. I had just had breakfast, but whether it was the pregnancy or the nerves, I was more than ready to eat everything he had brought.

"So..." he began, glancing at me nervously, "if you have something to ask, do it. I already said I would cooperate." I gave him an encouraging smile even though the irritation burned at the back of my throat. "No, actually, I wanted to ask you something more... personal." He waited a few seconds, expecting a negative response, but I was more curious than I wanted to admit and nodded for him to continue. "You and him... Qimir. You know, I met him a couple of times and... he managed to deceive me the first time. We met again a few days ago on a sparsely populated planet. We unmasked him and found him standing in front of us..." I listened in silence, taking in all the information I could passively. Some questions would have been too suspicious and not in line with the story of the love-blind girl I had built around myself. "It's a really bothersome question, but I couldn't stop thinking about it all night. You told us you knew he was a Sith. Even if you didn't know exactly what it meant, being so close to him, you must have seen that... something much worse was hiding beneath the surface, right?" The grimace he gave me was sad, almost pained, and I took a deep breath before answering him.

"As I already told you, I'm not a completely innocent girl. I'm used to meeting more dangerous people even though I've always kept my distance." He responded with a tight smile, "Yes, but you were a thief. Or at most, you smuggled stuff. He... he slaughtered half of our team without blink an eye. He's not just a man with an illegal job. He's a murderer. That's what he does best."

Of course, the truth was complex. I remembered well the first time I met him. Liars recognize each other, and we both knew from the first moment that the other was hiding more than just stolen items.

"At first, I didn't suspect anything. He always told me he did dangerous business, so I took it for granted that he knew how to handle unpleasant situations." I cleared my throat, looking intently at the plate in front of me.

I could feel Yord's eyes on me, and the sensation made me move uncomfortably in my chair. "When he opened up more and more, he confided in me that he had been trained by someone, that he had done much more difficult jobs than he had told me in the past, and that... he had hurt many people." I forced a smile before finally managing to look him in the eyes. "I know it sounds stupid, but words aren't enough to help you imagine actions like these. He had warned me, but I didn't really understand how dangerous he was." I took a sip of juice.

"He made me feel safe. He protected me... I trusted him" I continued, perhaps voicing one of the most sincere statements about what I had experienced and felt for Qimir.

Yord remained silent as he finished one of the slices of cake he had brought, wiped his mouth, and cleared his throat. "I’m probably speaking out of turn, as a Jedi, I’ve never been able to form a bond beyond the Order or even think about falling in love" he gave me a forced and slightly embarrassed smile, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

"And if you could? If you found the woman of your life, wouldn’t you leave everything to live a happy life?"

The silence that followed was perhaps the best of the last twenty-four hours. Yord was clearly uncomfortable with the question, but from the lost look he gave me, I understood he was seriously thinking about it. "I... I’ve sacrificed a lot to be a Jedi Knight. I was never a good student and... I took the trials several times before passing them" he cleared his throat for a moment, "it would be crazy to leave now that I’ve made it, I have a Padawan and... and..." he glanced at me quickly, his gaze settled on my belly and then returned to his plate. "I don’t know. If someone like Qimir can fall in love and make a woman happy, then maybe it’s worth it."

He gave me a gentle smile, but I couldn’t return it.

Gentle? No, Qimir was many things but not gentle by nature, definitely manipulative. Looking back, perhaps he managed to hurt me more with the kind gestures... which I allowed like a fool.

"He treated you well... right?" Yord’s voice woke me from my thoughts, I realized how he was looking at me, I had taken too long to respond and now there was doubt in his eyes.

Great job, idiot.

"Yes, yes, as I said, he made me feel good. It’s just that he wasn’t ready for a family, let’s say," his gaze became more intense, and the thought that he didn’t believe me lingered in the air.

"Yesterday you told us you were afraid of his reaction. Were you afraid he would react violently?" I hurried to shake my head, "No, no, it’s just that I thought he wouldn’t stop being a smuggler, not even for a child. He just wasn’t ready—" "But you preferred to run away without telling him anything. What were you afraid of then?"

The forced smile I had maintained disappeared completely. I put myself in a corner, again.

"I..." I took a deep breath to buy time, but I was only making things worse, "Sabrina, if there’s anything else you can tell me, do it, if something is bothering you, we’re here for you too."

My heart was pounding in my chest, I felt like a fool, I had managed to survive with worse lies than these, years of anonymity right under everyone’s nose, and now when I was asked something more personal, my brain was turning to mush.

I realized how this story had only reopened a wound that had never healed and perhaps had been bleeding for years.

It was easy to play when you were the predator, and it was fun as the prey, but like this? Caught between two fires you didn’t want to be part of but couldn’t choose between?

There was only one answer.

A half-truth. A half-lie.

#qimir #the acolyte #qimir x reader #star wars #qimir x oc #yord fandar

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serpentface · 5 months ago

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WARDI TERMS OF ENDEARMENT

emense [ɛmɛnse] (eh-mehn-say)

Has meaning close to 'beloved' or 'darling'. "Ya emense" (meaning 'my beloved'/'my darling') is often contracted "y'mense".

bubuch [bubuk] (boo-bookh)

Somewhat of a nonsense word, basically ‘big-big’. Tends to either be used for small children or flirtatiously between adults (kind in between 'baby' and 'big boy' in functionality, though without gendered implications of the latter). Sometimes instead used as a form of intense condescension.

ya mache mes [ja mɑke mes] (yah mah-kay mace)

Functionally means "my other face", using the figurative word for face describing a concept of fundamental nature rather than anatomy. Very intense term of endearment, expresses the recipient as a core part of one's identity. Kind of equivalent to 'my other half' but not exclusively romantic.

ya tsitsima [ja ͡tsi͡tsimə] (yah tsee-tsee-muh)

Means "my blood". This term is used more broadly to denote familial relations, and is more of a term of endearment when used outside of actual biological relationship (calling your sister 'my blood' is just an intense way of saying 'my [relative]', calling a non-relative 'my blood' is VERY pointedly affectionate).

ya ungande [ja ungɑnde] (yah oon-gahn-day)

Often contracted to y'ungande, dead literally means "my liver" as in the organ. Ungande alone is also used as a food-based term of endearment, similar to 'honey' except instead with delicious organ meat.

anuje [ɑnudʒe] (ah-noo-jay)

Food based term of endearment, referring to a tree sap that is the most commonly used form of sweetener. Functionally identical to 'honey' in usage.

anu tlansekoma [ɑnu tlɑnsekoʊmə] (ah-noo tlahn-say-koh-muh)

This one actually means 'honey' (dead literally 'bee sweet'). Less common than 'anuje' as a term of endearment due to general cultural preference for anuje as a sweetener and the relative rarity of beekeeping.

inyagit [injəgit] (een-yah-geet)

Diminutive form of 'sun'. 'Ya inya' (my sun) occurs as well, but is less common.

y'mit agai [j'mit ɑgaɪ] (yuh-meet ah-gai)

Contraction of 'ya amit agai', 'my blue moon'. This specification is more common than a general 'my moon(s)' and is fairly loaded, given this particular moon is the site of the afterlife for the most honored dead. The phrase both suggests a sort of celestial beauty and a sense of being honored and finding rest in the recipient. This is a VERY intense and almost exclusively romantic term of endearment.

coutomara [koʊtoʊmɑrə] (koh-to-mahr-uh)

Means 'handsome' or 'beautiful', implies masculine attractiveness. (Dead literally closer to 'strong face'/'strong featured').

jaimara [dʒaɪmɑrə] (jaim-mahr-uh)

Means 'pretty' or 'beautiful', implies feminine attractiveness (dead literally close to 'beautiful face'/'beautifully featured').

katsuy [kɑtsui] [kaht-soo'ee]

Sexually charged description of physical attractiveness, basically calling someone 'sexy'.

ya katsuymen [ja kɑtsuimɛn] (yah koht-soo'ee-mehn)

Related and also sexually charged, close in meaning to 'my desire'.

at akmatse yachouy [ɑt ɑkmɑtse jɑtʃɔɪ] (aht ahk-mat-say yah-choi )

Sexually explicit term of endearment. The dead literal translation is "one who makes me flower". The word "flower" here is not as euphemistic in context and is rather the nicest sounding possible way to say "makes me cum (HARD)". Not considered vulgar, rather cloyingly romantic if anything.

gan(ne) ama [gɑn(e) ɑmə] (gah(-nay) ahm-uh)

Means 'bull'. When used affectionately, implies masculine strength. Usually used in conjunction with an adjective (ie 'handsome bull') or more teasingly gannit ama (little/baby bull))

jaimeti [dʒaɪmɛti] (jai-meh-tee)

Means 'gazelle' (the name for the animal itself is close in meaning to 'beautiful horn'), heavily associated with grace and beauty. Also tends to be used with adjectives ('lovely gazelle' 'handsome gazelle' etc) or with a diminutive.

ansiba [ɑnsibɑ] (ahn-see-bah) or ansibit [ɑnsibit] (ahn-see-beet)

Means 'duck' and 'duckling' respectively, specifically refers to the animal and implies cuteness. Ansibit is a very common term of endearment for children.

"Wannaukoma such datse anmo" [wɑnaʊkoʊmə suk dɑtse ɑnmoʊ] (wahn-now-koh-muh sookh daht-say ahn-moh)

Means 'an ant could swallow you', implies cuteness (ie the recipient is so small and tiny an Ant could devour them whole). Usually used on children, occasionally used on adult women (in a way that feels intensely patronizing to many). 'Datse' (you) may be replaced by the recipients surname or honorific in the rare case that someone would dare calling someone this without being on first name basis with them.

wannaukomit [wɑnaʊkoʊmit] (wahn-now-koh-meet)

Means 'little ant', a term of endearment that borders on insulting even to babies.

OTHER:

-it [it] (eet)

This is a diminutive modifier, which can be added to a name or other word/term of endearment to denote affection (can also be condescending). It lacks internal meaning in everyday use and is closer to the English -y or -ie (billy johnny rosie susie puppy kitty ducky etc).

hippe [hipɛ] (heep-peh) (some dialects drop the h sound entirely)

Means 'small' or 'little', can be spoken with other words/names as an affectionate diminutive.

Other epithets-

Various epithets used in the language are not exclusively used as terms of endearment, but can be contextually. Most commonly, this will be the -machen epithet of the recipients zodiac birthsign (particularly those considered auspicious). Someone with the lion birthsign could be respectfully and/or affectionately called 'odomachen', or VERY affectionately called 'ya odo' ('my lion'). There's also a good variety of poetic epithets that have worked their way into common language as affectionate compliments/descriptors- ie ganatoche (dead literally 'cow-eye', more prettily 'ox-eyed') is a complimentary descriptor for brown eyes, anaemaitsa (dead literally 'river-haired', more prettily 'flowing-haired') compliments wavy hair.

Given name basis-

In Wardi culture, full names are spoken with the family name preceding the given name. When respectfully speaking to a stranger, peer, or authority figure, you refer to them by their family name, title, and/or an honorific. Being on an accepted given name basis with someone is generally indicative of closeness and affection.

datse [dɑtse] (dah-tsay)

This is the word for "you". Similarly to the use of a given name, actually referring to someone as 'you' (rather than a surname, title, or honorific in place of the pronoun) expresses familiarity and intimacy.

#FUCK I LEFT A HUGE ERROR IN THERE OVERNIGHT . Okay #Even longer Wardi insult/vulgarity post coming someday #I can't actually put a lot of the linguistic Nuance in the writing because it doesn't 'translate' well in english. Especially the avoidance #of 'you' pronouns between unfamiliar company. Translating it ranges from mildly clunky to borderline unreadable #(Ie if you're asking a stranger's name in Wardi you'd use an honorific that is roughly equivalent to sir/ma'am if you're being #deferential or 'mister/miss' if not. 'What is mister's name?' sounds weird as fuck in english)#I could just include the in-universe honorifics instead which would avoid that but I'm really trying to avoid loading the text with #constructed language where it's not really necessary. I mean I'm not writing this to be a mega-approachable mass appeal story but #having to memorize a bunch of constructed terms can be a pain in the ass as a reader #(like there's still a lot in there but it's mostly 'untranslatable' words or very specific concepts)#And ultimately just saying 'you' and dropping the nuance of how 'you' is insulting when not used in close company is more efficient #I do have the last name/first name basis distinction in there textually though. A lot of the characters refer to each other #exclusively by surname

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breelandwalker · 5 months ago

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Cold Moon - December 14-15 2024

Bundle up, witches! It’s time for the Cold Moon!

Cold Moon

The Cold Moon is the name given to the full moon which occurs in the month of December. This will be another month when the moon appears full for two nights in a row, so we’ll have a nice bright full moon in the sky for the 14th and the 15th, with peak illumination on Dec 15th at 4:02am EST.

Like most full moon names, the Cold Moon takes its’ moniker from an English translation of a traditional name used by one or more North American indigenous groups. There are a number of indigenous names that reference the wintry conditions when this moon occurs, including Snow Moon (Haida, Cherokee), Winter Moon (Tunica-Biloxi), Hoar Frost Moon (Cree), and Long Night Moon (Mohican). More evocative names include Frost Exploding Trees Moon (Cree) and Moon of the Popping Trees (Oglala), both of which refer to a phenomenon which occurs during extreme cold, when the sap inside a tree freezes and the expanding pressure causes portions of the bark or even entire limbs to “pop” with loud cracking sounds that can be heard for miles.

Other names for the December moon include Yule Moon (Norse origins), Oak Moon (Celtic origins), and Bitter Moon (Chinese origins).

What Does It Mean For Witches?

The year is winding down. It’s time to wrap up our projects and put aside what we haven’t finished or no longer need. Rather than berating ourselves for the things we didn’t finish or didn’t accomplish, this is a time to give ourselves some grace and celebrate our successes and triumphs and the things we DID accomplish.

With only one page left on the calendar, many of us are already looking ahead to the new year, making plans and setting goals. This is a good time to brainstorm and engage in a bit of broad-view planning. Sketch out the things you’d like to see or do or try in the new year. Give voice to your dreams and start thinking of ways to make them happen.

The Cold Moon also falls shortly before the winter solstice this year (Dec 21), which could be a boon for anyone looking to time their seasonal rituals in optimal fashion. A working could be begun on the full moon and built up to culminate on the solstice, or whichever post-moon December date has special meaning to you and your practice.

What Witchy Things Can We Do?

Have a small supper gathering with friends or family (holiday themed or not, it’s up to you) to share joys and fellowship and enjoy good food and drink. Make wishes together for the new year. (Wish jars can be done individually or as an informal group ritual. Sharing wishes anonymously can be a fun party game.) A “White Elephant” gift exchange or swap meet with inexpensive or homemade witchy goods for your circle could be fun too!

Make a wish jar for the new year and put it out to charge under the Cold Moon. Cleanse any of your tools or crystals or accoutrements that you use moonlight for one more time this year.

This is the perfect time for divinations and goalsetting for the coming year. Pull out your favorite divination tools and your new planner and sketch out the coming year. You can also try candle wax divination with holiday candles, if that’s something that interests you.

Also, save those seasonal bayberry candles for future use! They’re great for debt repayment and money-drawing spells.

If you need some ideas for a fun family activity, you can feed the birds for good luck, either with scattered birdseed or pinecone birdfeeders. String dried fruit slices, cinnamon sticks, pinecones, holly leaves and berries, and other seasonal faves to make garlands. Stick apples or oranges or clementines full of cloves in pretty patterns to make pomanders.

Use those fibre arts skills to create a special piece to keep your home warm and safe and well-supplied until spring. It doesn’t have to be anything big - a simple weaving or single square will do. Crochet or cut out snowflakes for your home decor. If you want to get fancy, pick up a ball of cotton warp thread and look for old doily patterns - they look great as hoop weavings hung on the wall (or make a witch web in winter colors).

Make one more batch of moonwater to carry you through to the new year. If it happens to snow or freeze where you live, you can save clean snow or icicles for special (non-drinkable) elemental water, which can be a fun base for moonwater as well.

And speaking of elements, make sure to remember in all your seasonal decorating that fire safety is paramount. Be careful with your candles, warmers, light strings, plugs, extension cords, and cables. DO NOT “daisy chain” your extension cords or power strips. Never leave candles or wax warmers or simmer pots unattended, and turn off your holiday lights before bedtime. Safety first, witches!

Thanks for joining me for this exploration of full moon magic. See you next year!

Happy Cold Moon, witches! 🌕🧊