Firecracker's been burning the midnight oil. Deprived a wink of sleep in exchange for each passing hour her hand fleets down low. It'd chafe hastily, a pace roused by the filthy images autoplaying in her head. Breathlessly sigh your name, then, at her spire of eye-rolling bliss. Whew, good God, don't you know?

She's outrageously down bad for you. And only you.

It's a unique breed of loyalty, really. It never outgrew from her pageantry era, only strengthened. In a way, she's grateful (a tad bit) Starlight, that conniving sonuvabitch, wrecked her reputation at the age of thirteen. When the world was ill and dark, light surfaced and came you. Powerful, inspirational, the people's hero, her hero. Has she mentioned perfect and tempting, too?

Anyway, you saved her—it's only fair for her to return the favor. If—a huge if—you'd let her, that is.

"Well, that meetin' was one hell of a shitshow, huh?" spoken confidently like her struts to your flank, head tilting for a glimpse beyond just your hair. "Practically felt the sparks flyin’—and not the good kind." She jerks her head side-to-side, feigning disappointment, and silence is your reply. Again. Fuck.

Why the hell won't your stone-face budge? Do none of those compiled sentences appeal to your ire? The Seven's crumbling—a buncha useless garbage knowledgeable in twiddling their thumbs, and nothing else. Don't get her started on the traitor, either.

Sure, she's a recruited newbie, but can't you see she'll endure the bowels of hell for you?

"All that power in there, and not a single one of 'em's got the guts to really light things up. But you?" She foots closer, angling her cleavage better—last ditch to pierce something in your stoicism. "You’re different. You don’t just lead—you burn through anything your way.

Must get downright tirin', though," a smile grows before dropping her voice, "Need a hand?" Honey and low.

She cannot spare another eve horse-riding a pillow, entertaining her delusions. No. This time, it has to be real.

Has to be.