#X Reader fanfic

[cryptidghostgirl]

hii i read your fic with the humanalastor! x reader where they become like partners in crime (i loved it sm)

and got an idea based off of it

what if Alastor dies first and a few years later Alastor and the reader reunite after she goes to the hotel? thought it would be kinda cute :)

A/N ngl I was thinking of doing something like this so I am very happy it is desired by the people as well. Also, we're gonna pretend that the timeline I created wouldn't make her like over a hundred years old when she died, okay? Okay.

Cover Up Pt. 2 (Alastor x Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of murder and blood, nothing graphic. Alastor being a depressed little bitch. Also a lot of dead bird metaphors for lost hope. Please let me know if I forgot anything.

Word Count: 1,971

Part One: Cover Up (Human!Alastor x Human!Reader)

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

When Alastor had died, Y/n had shattered. Their years of holding one another's bloodstained hands had finally drawn to a close. They had a good run, nearly a decade before anyone caught on. His death also came with the added downside of throwing suspicion on Y/n. To say the event changed her life would be an understatement.

When Alastor had first woken up in Hell, he had mourned his loss as if she was the one who had died and not him. The allowance of such a foolish thing was short lived. He quickly realized there was no way Y/n wouldn't end up in Hell as well eventually, with her track record. He refocused his pain, his anguish into making sure he had the perfect world to serve up to her on a platter as soon as she arrived.

As the years ticked on, the little bird fluttering away in his ribcage became more and more despondent. He tried to distract himself by continuing his work, continuing his plans for her. Always for her. It worked to a certain extent but, soon it had been sixty years and she still hadn't made her arrival. It didn't matter how many overlords he killed, how many worthless souls he tortured. There was nothing that could take his mind off that.

Alastor wondered what sort of life Y/n had made for herself after his death. He wondered if she had found love again, held out hope that she hadn't. It was a selfish wish, he knew it. Alastor had always been selfish. It wasn't that he wished for her to be unhappy, just that he knew she was the only person, living or dead, out there for him. There was no hope for Alastor that wasn't Y/n and he wanted her to feel the same way about him. He didn't want to lose, to have been an idiot, to have been the one that loved more. At the same time, he didn't want her to feel that way either. It was complicated and confusing, the twists of his own logic.

Another decade and he began wondering if somehow his beloved wife had gotten into Heaven instead. He knew it was a long shot, after everything she had done but, she had also never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. Maybe there was some exception for women who killed their pursuers, when the pursuers were coming on too intensely or had ulterior motives. He wondered if she'd remarried, if she had kids. If she was still on earth, there would have to be something that was keeping her there and that was the only thing that made sense.

Eighty years, as it turned out, had been all he could take. The bird had died and its corpse had rotted, festering into anger. Not anger at Y/n no, never anger at Y/n but anger at the world, at the system of the afterlife. He became bolder, brasher, more foolish. He got caught in a bad deal.

Coming to the hotel had been a command, yes, but it had also ended up being something of a salvation for the man. In the seven years of his disappearance from the rings of Hell, there had been little to distract him from the growing hole of Y/n's absence. It was a hungry thing, a deep seated want, a controlling desire. The hotel served to fill it. Not completely, but a little. It was better than nothing. Besides, for all her violence, Y/n had always had a way of seeing the best in others, in the world around her. He was certain she would have liked Charlie if she ever got to meet her, certain the hotel would shine in his wife's eyes.

Husk and Nifty were the only two who knew. They had both met him when Alastor's focus had been the creation of a world for Y/n, it was impossible for them not to. They had both noticed how as the years had passed, he had said her name less, how he had become crueler. Not even Charlie had in inkling of an idea that Alastor might be missing something, might be unshakable heartbroken. He hid it well.

Even now as he entered the lobby intent on finding Charlie in order to discuss some of the decor on the upper floors, he made sure his smile was firmly fixed in place. A smile was the strongest weapon a person or demon could have, the strongest disguise. He made sure he was never without one.

"So you just arrived today?" he heard Charlie saying as he began to make his way down the stairs.

He could see her by the door, talking to a demon whom her position obscured from his vision. A new guest. Internally, Alastor sighed. This was throwing a wrench into his plans for the day.

"Yeah I... it's all so confusing here. Wonderful in a way, don't get me wrong but... when I heard about your hotel, it seemed safe."

The unknown demon's voice was soft, it pulled at his heart strings. The corpse of the bird was a puppet at its familiarity. It was a sickening feeling, the dead body of his hope being pulled up and twitched around for another's unknowing amusement. Alastor nearly faltered, hesitating on the last step.

"So are you actually interested in redemption?" Charlie asked, sounding downcast.

"Well, I'm not really sure yet. Is that okay? I mean, I just got here today and... either way, I love the idea of your hotel and I want to help. I could work as a maid? Or I'm a pretty good cook? My husband always said so anyways. I'm sort of trying to find someone too so... What I'm trying to say is that I could work until I've figured it out, if that is alright with you?"

Charlie hummed in thought as Alastor began to cross the room, heading straight for the pair.

"It's a bit unorthodox but, I suppose. We could always use another helping hand."

"Really!?" the stranger exclaimed, "Oh thank you!"

Alastor was over Charlie's shoulder practically now. She shifted on her feet, allowing Alastor to at last see the person she was talking to.

"So, what's your name?"

The demon opened her mouth to speak but, before a word could leave her lips, she was interrupted by a static filled voice. It brought back memories, hurt her heart to hear.

"Y/n."

There was no doubt about it. Even in her new demon form, Alastor knew. It was the curl of her hair, it was the brightness of her eyes, the way she held herself. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

"When did you get here?" Charlie asked in confusion as she turned to the side, turning the pair into a group of three all facing one another, "Also, you know her? Oh my gosh, wait. Are you okay? I don't think I've ever seen you not smiling before."

Neither payed the princess any mind, each absorbed in one another's eyes. Y/n took a sutering half step forwards, her mouth slightly open.

"Alastor?"

It was barley more than a whisper. She took another step towards him, then yet another. Lifting her hand, she gently cupped it around his cheek. Instinctively, the Radio Demon leaned into the touch.

"It really is you... isn't it."

Alastor pulled Y/n into his arms, wrapping her in his frame and resting his chin on the top of her head. Y/n was frozen in shock for a moment before she returned the gesture, balling her fists in to the back of his coat.

"Wow. You guys really know each other." Charlie mumbled to herself, eyes wide.

The pair pulled apart, Alastor still holding Y/n's waist as Y/n held his coat. She looked up at him, disbelief etched into her features, her sentiments reflected back to her in Alastor's own face.

"I thought..." he mumbled, raising a hand and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "I thought I'd never see you again."

Y/n laughed tearfully.

"Me too."

"Where have you been? What happened? What... what took you so long?"

"If I had known I was coming to you, I would have died way sooner. I lived, Al. That's what happened. I only just got here today."

"I know, I heard, but what... what kept you?"

Y/n heard the tremor in his voice, the fear. She looked up at him, eyes narrowed.

"Are you jealous?"

Alastor's eyes flicked to the side momentarily. One of his ears twitched. It might have been nearly ninety years since they had last seen one another, they might've looked completely different and had whole lives the other wasn't in, but it felt like they had just seen one another yesterday.

"Oh, you so are!" Y/n teased brightly.

"Y/n."

"Yeah, yeah. It's just dumb is all, especially now I know you've been here all along."

"So tell me."

Y/n had always loved his insistence. It was what kept Alastor to his code, kept him to her, kept him him. She smiled once again.

"Soooo..." Charlie stepped in, her hands behind her back, "Either of you want to explain?"

Both Alastor and Y/n at last turned to look at her. He was smiling again, Charlie noticed. Not the normal ear to ear grin, teeth bared, she was used to. Something smaller, something softer. They released one another, only for Alastor to immediately drape an arm over Y/n's shoulders. It almost seemed like each feared the other would vanish into thin air if they weren't physically touching. She reached a hand up, gently holding his hand where it hung off her shoulder, keeping him to her.

"Charlie, this is my darling, lovely wife."

Y/n shoved him playfully and he smiled down at her.

"You're married!?"

"Yes." Y/n nodded, "We are. Have been for what, like one hundred years now?"

"So what kept you?" Alastor asked again and Y/n sighed.

"You really aren't going to let this go, are you?"

He shook his head. Y/n slipped out from under Alastor's arm, taking both his hands in hers. Her fingers traced his knuckles, the lines of his bones beneath the surface of his skin. Her eyes watched their hands, she sighed.

"After... well, Al, you died burying a body. It was hard for people not to know. I..."

"You got caught? You went to jail?" Alastor interrupted, his smile having fallen once again.

Y/n laughed slightly under her breath.

"No, heart. I stopped my own work but, the whole world knew of yours. I thought that... it was so dumb! I thought that... if I was alive, then so was the real version of you in some way. Not the true crime, vandalized version, but the person I knew."

Alastor lifted her face to his, his hand lingering under her chin.

"You were always secretly quite the romantic, weren't you."

"Oh hush you."

"Make me."

Y/n cheeks suddenly flushed bright red.

"Okay!" Charlie interrupted, laughing nervously, "Okay, well, I'm happy for... this, um, Alastor! Why don't you show Y/n around?"

"With pleasure."

Alastor leaned down, kissing Y/n gently. Her hand was half raised to burry itself in his hair when he pulled away, smirking in response to Y/n's irritated glare. Linking arms with her, he began leading Y/n to the staircase.

"I must say, I rather like this new look of yours." he hummed placidly.

"You're not half bad yourself deer boy, if a little cocky."

"I was always cocky. That's what you liked about me."

"Wrong. It's only one of the things I love about you."

----

Next Part -> Cover Up pt. 3

[argisthebulwark]

Do I Have Your Attention?

summary: calling your partner by their real name instead of a pet name. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used feat: Vilkas, Farkas, Brynjolf, Miraak, Erandur, Cicero, Teldryn warnings: joke abt murder in Miraak's lol. masterlist

Vilkas knows you're trying to get under his skin and hates how effective it is. Despite all his grumbling he's grown to enjoy the sweet little names only you're allowed to call him. There's nothing wrong with his name, of course - but it doesn't summon that fuzzy feeling all your terms of endearment do. "Vilkas?" You call again, clearly trying to get his attention. He grits his teeth and pointedly ignores you. Tidying his desk has suddenly become very interesting. "Sweetheart?" "Hm?" He finally grunts, feigning nonchalance despite the color in his cheeks. "Oh, now you can hear me." He ignores how smug you sound, continuing to shuffle through paperwork. "How interesting."

Farkas doesn't like that. "What? No baby? No honey? Did I do something wrong?" He drops the rag, half polished armor entirely forgotten as he turns toward you. "No, I'm not upset with you." You clarify, quelling his nerves. "Why so formal?" Farkas adores the sweet things you say to him - calling him your honey, your dearest, any reminder that he is yours. "Sorry, my love." You crack a smile when he reaches for you, grabbing your hand. "Didn't mean to worry you." "I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me." He sighs, doing a terrible job at hiding how much he enjoys all of your attention.

Brynjolf knows you're trying to bother him. He's seen that mischievous look in your eye before and weighs his options - what will be more fun? He could play into your little game and pretend to be upset by the lack of affection, or he could turn it around. The way he says your name is aloof, almost cold. He watches your eye twitch and your grin falter. It's terribly hard to stifle a laugh when you clear your throat and struggle to continue the conversation. Oh, he knows he's gotten under your skin. Brynjolf listens to your request for proper recruit assignments and agrees, biding his time before taking it one step further. When your annoyance begins to wane he begins calling you by your last name, thrilled at the color your face turns. "Bryn, what are you doing?" "Not so funny now, is it? Guild Master?"

Miraak swears that he will kill you both if you don't knock it off. He threatens to burn your entire village to the ground if you don't cease whatever prank you've decided to play on him. In front of others, he will stomach your cold detachment - calling him by his name or title in front of those damned Greybeards. He knows a thing or two about manners, after all. But in the privacy of your bedroom, he is your love. He is the one who relishes in all those silly terms of endearment only you are permitted to use. He stews over your laughter, refusing to give in even when your lips press to his skin. "You are not funny." He grumbles, though he does lean closer for more of your touch. "Perhaps this is what was prophesized - you will be the death of me after all."

Erandur worries that he's done something wrong. He thinks over your day, struggling to pinpoint what social blunder he could have made. He knows that he isn't completely up to date on modern social courtesies but you do not physically appear upset. "I'm sorry, my beloved." He offers, praying that you will educate him. "For what?" "For whatever I've done to upset you. Please tell me so that it can be made right." When you explain that it's a prank, a joke intended to gauge his reaction, Erandur smiles sheepishly and tucks away that information for later. He kisses your forehead, grateful that you are not upset with him.

Cicero is not a fan of that. His brows furrow, trying to figure you out. You only use his name when you call him your silly Cicero, your pretty Cicero... never just his name. His head tilts when he notes the pink in your cheeks and the attentive way you're watching him. "Listener." He ventures, eyes narrowing. "Are you pranking your Keeper?" "I am." "Oh!" Cicero's hands clap when he revels in your laugh. "Silly Listener, you are quite funny." "Not as funny as you, my love." He grins at the kiss you press to his cheek, absolutely giddy at your approval.

Teldryn is a bit taken aback - you've called him Tel for years. And now you're dropping his full name out of the blue? You've never been one for overly sweet terms of endearment but he likes the shortened version of his name you use. He removes his helmet and peers over, trying to figure you out. "What did I do to deserve this treatment?" "What treatment?" "The full government name." He's relieved when a laugh bursts out of you, pausing your trek to slap a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Tel. You're too funny." He wants to chastise you, but the little pet name and the way you draw near to him is fairly distracting. "It was just a little prank." "A prank?" He snorts, indulging in a short kiss to your forehead. "You have too much time on your hands."

[effwon]

'cause i don't think that they'd understand || ln4 x reader (Part 1)

Summary: Lando just wants to walk down to the garage before the Miami race with you by his side. George and Carmen walked in together, Alex and Lily walked in together, so why can't you, as well? Despite your self-consciousness, you agree to walk hand-in-hand with him down to the garage right before the big race, but it's a much harder ask for you than anyone could ever realize.

Plus-size (she/her) Reader x Lando Norris

Warnings: Brief mentions of nausea/being sick, panic, reader is plus-sized and very down on herself about it, weight mentions, ect.

Characters: Lando Norris (your boyfriend) and feat Oscar Piastri as a last minute saving grace for you.

Rating: G, for now.

“I want you to walk down to the garage with me.”

You blink in surprise, Lando’s words are so sudden and so firm that it makes goosebumps raise on your skin. Walk to the garage with him? But that would mean…

“What? Why?” you ask, folding down the page in the book you’re reading, before placing it down softly on the table beside you. A slugging, churning feeling arises in your gut as you realize exactly what it is he’s asking of you. 

“What do you mean ‘why’? You’re my girlfriend, I want you to walk with me into the garage.” He says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And, perhaps, for any other woman in this world it might just be.

But it isn’t for you. This is quite possibly one of the most difficult things he could ever ask you to do, and that alone makes you feel horrible. Lando deserves a normal girlfriend, who can react normally to very normal situations. Not someone who makes his life even more difficult than it already is.

You sigh heavily, knowing if you refuse you will just upset him. “I - are you sure you want to be seen with me? People will talk and they won’t be nice…” “Babe, we’ve had this conversation before. Just one walk down to the garage with me, that’s all I’m asking.”

You frown again, daring to look up and meet his gaze. He doesn’t seem angry, but there’s a desperation in his eyes, something that tugs at your heartstrings. What Lando doesn’t realize is that the backlash won’t fall too heavily on him - but on you…?

Oh, the fans and the media will eat you up. Lando is dating a fat girl? That will decorate the tabloid headlines for days, perhaps even weeks or months. The thought alone makes you sick. But how can you say no to him when he’s so earnest, when he wants to show you off, regardless if you deserve it or not?

“Yeah, okay.” You finally reply, looking away from Lando and down to the floor. He notices this, however, and kneels down in front of you, grabbing one of your hands in both of his own. His hands are so warm and so immediately comforting, working to ease the rapid beat of your heart in your chest.

“It’ll be okay. I promise. And just think, you’ll finally be able to come see the garage and paddock!” His voice is so cheerful, so genuinely happy and excited for you to be there with him. It’s touching, to say the least, but you are loath to admit that your excitement level is not nearly on par with his. Not even slightly.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve wanted to see them for so long.” The lack of enthusiasm in your voice does dull the excitement in his eyes, but he holds steady. Admirable, really. A trait you wish you could share with him.

“It’s almost time. Why don’t you go ahead and get ready, and we can walk down in about an hour?”

An hour? Well - here’s hoping you can actually make yourself look even somewhat presentable in such a short amount of time.

“You’ll help me pick out my dress, right?” you ask.

The light immediately comes back to his eyes, and he beams at you with the very same smile that won your heart the night you met him.

“Of course! Fashion show time!”

~~

Lando ends up picking the teal colored sundress, something that suits your taste and simultaneously compliments some of your key features. It fits well, with no need for you to suck in your stomach to make it look nicer or more appealing, and hides some of your less than desirable attributes (the rolls, god, the rolls) with ease. 

You feel comfortable enough, with only a light amount of makeup on your face, and your feet are settled into white flats instead of the heels you had originally picked out. Lando liked them as well, but urged you to go for something more comfortable and carefree.

You genuinely do feel okay, but the bitter taste of anxiety still stirs the acid of your stomach as you think about the amount of eyes that will be on you and Lando in a few moments.

“Hey beautiful,” Lando says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. On instinct, you suck in your stomach to try and lessen the circumference of your belly. Lando tenses, but he doesn’t push the issue, keeping you nestled safely in his arms as he presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You just about ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” you reply softly, leaning only a portion of your weight back against him. He doesn’t let go for a few moments, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against the shell of your ear. 

“I’m proud of you. I know you’re scared, and I know you’re only doing this for me, but I hope you can manage to enjoy it as well. You may not want the world to know you’re mine, but I do.” Lando explains, nipping at your ear with gentle teeth. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you cannot help but smile at his antics.

“Well, we’ll see what all the news sources are saying in the morning. You know for a fact my issue isn’t being seen with you, it’s you being seen with me.”

“Who cares what they say? How I feel about you is what matters, not what the public thinks about a relationship they know nothing about.” Lando’s voice is firm and leaves no room for argument - likely because this IS an argument the two of you have had time and time again. 

You open your mouth to respond, but Lando’s PR Agent gestures a bit frantically at you both and all of a sudden, Lando is no longer behind you but at your side, lacing your fingers together. 

“Deep breath, babe. It’s go time.”

Oh.

You take a deep breath and hold it in your lungs, fearful that if you breathe at all, you might mess this up entirely. Lando’s hand is warm and firm in your own, steady while your mentality feels anything but. There’s no time to prepare yourself for the walk - Lando is moving and on instinct, you move fluidly alongside him. Your heart is racing impossibly hard in your chest and somehow only gets faster as you step out onto the grass and the sun shines down upon you and Lando like a blinding spotlight.

You hear the clicking of cameras before you see the media snapping shots of you and Lando as you walk hand-in-hand towards the McLaren garage. You can already hear the shouts of fans at home, screaming about how Lando could possibly be dating someone so fat and unattractive when he’s literally a celebrity and could have anyone he wanted. You can see the offensive articles, wondering what’s gone wrong in Lando’s head to be dating someone so average and so unathletic when all of the other drivers are dating what could be (and in some cases ARE) models. 

So many eyes are on you both, and you still haven’t been able to take a breath just yet. You feel Lando’s hand squeeze yours, but you are unable to squeeze back. You just want to be at the garage and tucked back away from the eyes of the media so you can regain your bearings.

And then finally, after what feels like a marathon of a walk, you feel the grass turn to solid ground beneath your feet and the smells of the garage hit your senses like a brick wall. Everything slowly comes back into focus and you realize you’ve finally made it to the other side. Your gut is churning, but you let out the breath you have been holding since you took your first step out and it eases some of the bubbling tension in your chest.

Lando’s hand leaves yours fairly suddenly, but he immediately pops up in your line of sight, beaming at you like you’ve just handed him the sun, the moon, and all the stars. You swallow thickly, hoping to keep down the nausea that threatens you, and offer up a tight smile of your own.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He asks, pulling you in by your waist and pressing a kiss to your forehead. You are still within sight of the media cameras and you hear a few clicking somewhere off to your right, which does little to help quell the nausea. 

“It was fine, yeah.” You say, and it’s incredible just how weak your own voice sounds. “Can we, uh - can we go someplace in the back for a minute? Away from the cameras?”

“Of course,” Lando says, and concern begins to blossom on his features. His eyebrows furrow, gaze focused solely on you as you still try your best to smile at him. “I have to get changed into my kit anyway.”

Lando’s hand is back in yours instantly, and he gently guides you through crew members and winding hallways until you’re far enough away from all of the commotion that you can barely hear it anymore. Your breath is shaky as you inhale, but the relief is almost immediate now that you are out of the public eye.

“Are you okay?” Lando asks after a few seconds of studying your face. “I’m sorry, that was too much, wasn’t it?”

“No, no, no.” you interrupt him, taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly. “It’s just a lot. I’m not used to these kinds of things, not like you are. And there were so many cameras…”

“You learn to ignore the cameras.” He says, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Try not to worry about them, they’re just an annoyance anyway. You’re here to watch me race, and I promise you the McLaren crew will take great care of you while you do.”

Your smile feels a bit more genuine now as the nerves begin to drift off. You know you’ll have cameras in your face likely the entire time Lando is racing, but knowing that you have the support of McLaren while you’re here helps a bit. Lando has been with these people for years now, you can only imagine they’ve grown quite close in that time. 

“I’m sure they will. I - uh - is there a bathroom back here somewhere?” You look around a bit frantically, overcome by the sudden intense nausea that hits you now that the worst of the nerves have tapered off. Sweat builds on your forehead and you begin to feel a bit clammy and lightheaded, but Lando either doesn’t notice, or you’ve managed to keep yourself steady enough as to not rouse suspicion. 

“Oh, yeah, I’ll take you there,” he says, looking around to gain his bearings. He circles his fingers around your wrist and leads you back towards the heart of the garage, but stops before you get to the more heavily trafficked areas. It’s a small, unassuming restroom meant for one person at a time, but it will do. “Here you are. I actually need to change, so I’ll come back for you once I’m set up, okay?”

“Sounds good.” You confirm, leaning in to kiss him when you see him do the same. He offers you a comforting smile and then takes off into the clamor of the garage to get himself ready for the race. You watch him weave through crowds of crew and media personnel, and once he’s no longer within your sight, you turn around and rush into the bathroom without a moment to spare.

The nausea is almost overpowering, and you can’t even make it to the toilet before you feel your stomach rolling. You grasp desperately at the vanity, emptying your nerves into the sink with a violent heave and a shudder. Panic is starting to claw its way up your throat now that you’ve been sick, and you grip the sides of the vanity so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The nausea, thankfully, goes away now that you’ve emptied your stomach into the sink, but a much worse feeling creeps up to take its place.

You reach forward with trembling hands and turn on the sink, cleaning out the mess you’ve just made. Thankfully, a few splashes of water around the sink (and a few swishes in your mouth) manage to clean out everything so there’s no evidence left of your struggle.

You back yourself against the wall now, feeling your heart beating faster all over again, and the sweat begins to feel cold on your forehead. Panic is no new sensation, but you can’t help but curse the timing of this attack. It makes sense - given the overstimulation and the nervousness you just fought your way through, but you had hoped deep in your heart that you would be able to handle this without a breakdown.

You could not have been more wrong.

You begin to take deep, shuddering breaths at far too rapid a pace. You know you have to get your breathing under control, or this will spiral until you’re pathetically hyperventilating alone in a McLaren bathroom. You rush forward to turn the water back on, hoping that splashing some on your face might help snap you out of it, when you hear the handle of the restroom door jiggle.

Your stomach lurches again when you realize in your haste, you forgot to lock the door.

“Yeah, mate. I’ll be back in a few.” You hear a familiar voice say, muffled slightly by the noise buzzing around the garage.

As soon as the person steps inside the restroom and your eyes meet, you feel like you could be sick again. It’s none other than Oscar Piastri, Lando’s teammate and friend at McLaren, and he’s staring at you with wide, concerned eyes.

“Hey,” he greets, and it’s so incredibly soft - as if he might be speaking to a cornered, wounded animal. “Hey, are you alright?”

You can’t reply to him just yet - your breathing is out of control and nausea is hitting you again from the depths of absolute hell. As if this day couldn’t have possibly gotten any worse, you WOULD have a mental breakdown in front of Lando’s teammate.

You simply stare back at him in shock, like he’s the most terrifying thing you could possibly see, and you finally manage to choke out a weak and pitiful, “No.”

You watch as Oscar gently locks the door behind you both - a blessing, really, to keep anyone else from walking in on you in such an embarrassing state. He keeps his expression neutral, only taking one step into the bathroom with his hands palm-up to show he means no harm.

“You need to breathe, okay? Think you can breathe with me?” Oscar asks, his voice echoing in the small space. He swallows thickly, another sound that’s easy to pick up in the confined space, but he patiently waits for you to respond.

“I don’t - I don’t know -” you reply, hands slapping against the wall as you try to find something to grip onto for balance. “I don’t know.”

“Why don’t we give it a try, at least?” Oscar tries again, looking far more concerned than you think he has any right to be. He hardly knows you, after all.

“I - I can -” but the words die on your lips as your legs give out beneath you. You fall to your knees on the tile floor and that’s when Oscar jumps quickly into action. You feel unfamiliar arms wrap around your shoulders, a cushion to keep your head from smashing against the floor, and the last thing you see are Oscar’s frightened eyes above you, the echo of your name frantically erupting from the back of his throat as your vision fades out.

[fatallyfalling]

Secrets & Sugarcubes ~ ♆

“ Sugarcube ? “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

warnings: hurt/comfort, typical Hunger Games violence/trauma, mention/insinuation of forced prostitution, ptsd, soft reassurances, possible slight ooc?? Finnick fears physical touch, end is very fluffy with some slight cuddling, etc.

{{ word count }} 4.0 k

{{ Prompt }} The two of you had a game, a way of trading secrets when the world felt too big and a simple touch felt like a burn on Finnick’s skin. You always made sure to keep a tin of sugarcubes in your kitchen just in case.

{{ a/n }} I swear i know how to write happy things guys i promise akfkakkdka the next one will be tooth rottingly sweet i promise please bear with me >< ! I hope the length of this one makes up for it being a day late as well. This also might seem a bit ooc for Finnick? Not sure - but here is my full headcanon, I'd suggest reading it before this to better understand why Finnick is behaving the way he is as it's explained a bit more in-depth. Reader and Finnick are also rather affectionate with one another but there isn’t an established relationship yet between them. Please enjoy <3

Tip, Tap, Tip-Tip, Tap

Your door creaked under the coded knock, a beat of silence following before it was repeated on the old wood. Your nose scrunched in a perplexed manner, groggily padding down the stairs in your night clothes to your front door, a glimpse at the mahogany grandfather clock in the entryway tells you it’s well past midnight. Your confusion pooled into a sense of concern as cold fingers gripped the metal door handle and gave a firm tug. You knew the knock and who was behind the door as you started speaking before even meeting his gaze, the scent of almonds and honey tainted by a sickly layer of Capital roses filling your senses.

“What’s going on? It’s late. You should be asle-“

Your sentence was cut short as your gaze met a pair of bleary sea-green eyes. You knew the look too well as a frown settled on your lips, your shoulders sinking with your heart as you took in the male before you. “Oh, Finn..” You mutter as you open the door further to let him inside. He hesitates in the doorway, looking lost, but you give a flickering nod of encouragement, convincing him to cross the threshold.

“Come on, I’ll make some tea..”

Nodding towards the kitchen, he wordlessly treks after you. Finnick’s steel-colored dress shirt was well wrinkled, unbuttoned to his clavicle, and sleeves pushed past his elbows. His face didn’t look much better than his suit. His bronze waves were messy, brows sewn in with a tight jaw, and hunched shoulders added to an unsteady demeanor. You could only assume what had occurred earlier in the night while attending the latest Capital party before the famed “Capital’s Darling” appeared on your doorstep. The growing pit in your stomach churned at the thought, and a muscle fluttered in your jaw as you led the victor deeper into your home.

Settling into what sometimes felt like a nightly routine, you get to work on the tea. You also place a small tin on the counter before Finnick, his gaze dancing between your fingers and the tin as you do so. His hands were trembling.

“I think the sweater you left the other day is upstairs. I can get it if you’d like,” You offer while setting the kettle to simmer on the stove. Finnick shakes his head with a soft, tight-lipped hum. He was distracted, flicking his thumbs against the pads of his index fingers over and over again.

“I thought it might help to change...” You allow while stumbling over an apology. You round the counter in a retreat to hunt down the knit item. But you misjudge the distance. Your shoulder accidentally brushes his in a fleeting move that instantly causes recoil and a sharp inhale on Finnick’s part as if he’d been singed by a flame.

“Please,”

The word was strained in his throat as anguish flooded his tanned features. Your eyes widened at your misstep, immediately backtracking to provide more physical space between you. But your frown only deepens as you stare at one another for a fleeting moment before Finnick all but crumples in on himself, descending to the hardwood floor.

Heartbreak splinters through your chest like a knife, bringing yourself down with him as knees meet the polished wood with a thud. Taking further notice of his trembling, it spread up his arms and across his torso now, fists bunching the fabric of his sleeves. The victor wet his lips as his eyes screwed shut, visibly trying to push back whatever threatened to plague his mind.

“I'm so sorry Finnick. Hey, hey- it’s okay, it’s just me, I'm here. I’m sorry, you’re safe with me. You’re going to be okay,” Apologetic pleas pour out in whispers, your head tilting to see beneath the bronze waves blocking his eyes. “You’re safe here,"

He doesn’t respond, only wetting his lips again with a thick swallow that moves his throat up and down. Your lips press to a thin line as you scan around you for anything that might help break the darkness obscuring his senses. Your own thoughts swim with curses for your mistake before your vision finally connects with the small forgotten tin on the counter. Cautiously you rise to retrieve it, your movements are slow, ensuring your hands remain within view, and keeping a safe distance between Finnick and yourself. Once the cool metal touches your skin you wrap your fingers around it, returning to kneel before the distressed Darling on your floor.

“Hey, do you remember our game ?”

A small ‘click’ chirps out as you open the tin. Dozens of small white sugarcubes sparkle inside, gently shifting to let the tin rest between you two. Finnick’s eyes peek out in a squint, dragging his gaze down to the tin and then back up to fixate on your face. He gives a tiny nod to indicate he’s listening, the trembling doesn’t stop.

“Okay,” you manage a small, warm smile briefly as you dip your head to peer into the tin. Plucking four cubes out, simultaneously sweeping your calves out from under you for a more relaxed sitting position, you gently place two near his knee while keeping the other two in your hand.

“One for yes, two for no,”

Gesturing to show the two options, gaining another nod from the trembling victor. At least his attention is focused on the sugar now. Sometimes it took much longer to bring him back enough just to open his eyes.

This was what Finnick Odair hid behind showboating grins and that “Golden Boy” Capital mask. The poltergeists of sticky, unwanted Capital fingers and lips left dozens of invisible burns engraved on his skin. You’d caught the bronze-haired male regularly picking an invisible piece of lint off his shirt or whichever shiny garment the stylists forced him to wear. Soon enough you managed to decipher the minute gesture as a tell to when the discomfort the tanned male felt on his skin too often was starting to eat away at his thoughts.

Never quite free of the forces from previous nights.

It tore open your heart to see him like this. Thrown to the mutts of the Capital under President Snow’s threat of his loved ones being tortured or worse killed if he didn’t comply, there really was no escape from the taloned clutches of winning the annual Hunger Games.

Nobody escapes The Games, and nobody ever wins.

As much as you desperately wanted to whisk the 65th victor away from his position he wouldn’t let you even if you tried, claiming he couldn’t bear to see you come into harm's way and that he’d rather endure the torture just to keep you safe. The seeping guilt you felt was immeasurable.

“I’ll begin, you just answer with the sugar okay ?”

Another small nod earns a second weak smile tugging at the corners of your mouth to reassure him.

“Are you okay ?”

There’s a pause as Finnick thinks, eyelids squeeze shut again but soon open as a shaky hand gently moves the tiny pieces of sugar forward.

Two cubes, ‘no’

“Are you hurt outside ?”

Two cubes, ‘no’

“Are you hurt inside ?”

Another pause, and then he gently scoots one of the cubes backward.

One cube, ‘yes’

“Can you tell me what hurts inside ?”

Finnick hesitates, his brow twitches with a small crinkle of his nose. You wouldn’t pry if he wasn’t ready, you’re patience was strong and you’d spend all night passing sugar on the floor if it meant he could find peace of mind. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to,”

Finnick didn’t have many choices or say in life due to his position in the capital, so you found providing clear options to be rather grounding for the Bronze-haired male. It gave him a sense of stability and control over himself and what was occurring around him. Keeping the questions of your game simple and to the point in turn made his responses quick, a distraction technique you had picked up a while back to combat your own struggles post-games.

Two cubes, ‘no’

“That’s okay,” your small smile strengthens as you give him a tender look, not of pity but empathy. “Can I help?”

One cube, ‘yes’

“Please…”

The repeated word is barely above a whisper. If you hadn’t been hyper-fixated on him you might not have caught the parting of his lips that dripped the morsel of sound. His gaze has moved up from the floor to meet yours, wide sea-green irises soft in a pleading expression. You simply nod, assuring him you’re staying right where you are. The tension in his body visibly releases as the reassurances seem to sink in. Gingerly, he releases his biceps, picking at an invisible speck of dust on his sleeve. He drags a hand through his tousled hair before taking it down his face to rub his eyelids. He inhales a deep, shaky breath. You let him take his time to recuperate. Once his hand returns to his lap and he meets your eyesight you resume the verbal questionnaire.

“Do you want your sweater ?”

One cube, ‘yes’

“Okay, just a second,” you smile warmly, he nods, and you slowly stand, making your way upstairs, finding the ivory knit sweater on your bedroom dresser right where he’d left it. Turning around, you retrace your steps back to the kitchen, making sure to avoid the steps that creak louder than others on your way. “Here you go,”

Placing the sweater down as you return to sit with the Darling, he waits for your hands to leave the fabric before picking up the thick material and tugging it over his head. It takes a minute to adjust the layers and his sitting position so they’re comfortable but when he’s done the steel grey button-up collar peeks out from under the angled neckline of the ivory sweater along with the tails of the neutral fabric sticking out under the bottom hem. The ends of the sleeves are stretched around his fingers to mimic mittens. “Better ?” You offer while he takes a moment to breathe in the familiar scent. The smell of Capital roses is quickly suffocated in his familiar warm almond and honey cologne mixing with your scent clinging to the sweater. A sweet smile softens your cheeks as he allows a small lopsided smile with a nod and a hum, the corners of his mouth twitching up at the comfort.

“Very much so.”

“Good,” you nod, “Do you want the citrus tea you like so much? The one with the cinnamon?” Quirking a brow with a small tilt of your head.

“mhm,”

One cube, ‘yes’

“Very well,” you smile sweetly, rising again to move back into the kitchen. You gently open a cupboard, plucking a viridian mug off the shelf for the Darling along with your usual mug. A delicate clink echos in the otherwise quiet space as you set the ceramics on the counter. Finnick has turned to peek up and watch.

His sea-green eyes were still big and pleading, not really ready to stand but also not wanting to be away from you. With the counter cutting off just below his irises and his bronze hair tossed around and fluffy like that you couldn’t help being reminded of a small puppy. You mouth another reassurance with a wink as your cheeks warm, pulling open a drawer to pick up two small objects. They’re burnished silver spheres of metal, split in half but held by a tiny latch and speckled in countless minuscule holes for the nectar of the teas to slip through.

Reaching for two narrow jars on your counter you slide them towards your workspace and unstick each lid with an odd “pop”. Whisps of warm cinnamon, citrus, cloves, and black tea mix with the scent of herbs and spices more aligned with your tastes. The teas were a luxury gift from Mags on your birthday a year or two ago. You only use them on special occasions or nights like these.

You take a small spoon and gingerly press the correct amount of leaves in each steeper, adding a few extra to Finnick’s as he preferred a more prominent flavor. Afterward, you lower the metal orbs into their respective mug and quietly clean your workspace. Once the items are back in place you turn and just about jump out of your skin with a yelp of surprise as the tea kettle’s shrill whistle sings loud and clear.

Quickly you fumble for a cloth on a hook beside the wide farmhouse sink. Wrapping it around the heated handle of the kettle you remove it from the flames and onto an unused burner before shutting off the stove. Your heart pounds as adrenaline courses through your veins like lightning. A curse dances off your tongue but your embarrassment is short-lived as a coy chuckle fills your ears, wrapping around your senses like a soft blanket. A relieving warmth weaves its way through your ribs and melts the icy heartache as you hear Finnick laugh again. Turning towards the sound you spot the bronze-haired male now standing at the counter, his forearms leaning on the cool stone. His hands are barely trembling now although his eyes seem far away but his demeanor has seemed to regain its footing, a flickering of his naturally charismatic aura passes through his pointed-to-white teeth in the form of a lopsided smile. Color has started to ebb its way back into his tanned cheeks. That warmth in your ribcage spreads up your neck but you try to shove it back down. The components of your game; all four sugarcubes and the tin are sitting beside his elbow on the counter. You cross your arms over your chest loosely, narrowing your eyes at him in a playful manner.

“It’s not funny,”

“You’re right it’s hilarious,” Finnick drawls, his tone cocky.

An exasperated huff puffs out your chest followed by a sarcastic roll of our eyes. “There’s the Finnick Odair I know and Love,” You sigh, mischief flickers in those sea-green eyes. Carefully bringing the kettle over after it has a moment to cool you pour the boiling water as evenly as you can before returning it to the stove. A comforting quiet falls over the two of you while watching the liquid within the mugs change color. Eventually, your gaze shifts to watching Finnick slowly build a tiny pyramid out of the sugarcubes. The pristine wall of white crystals stands for all but ten seconds (not even) before the victor’s gentle tap sends it crumbling.

The joy from moments ago dissipates into something melancholic.

“Are you okay…?” You ask again, a crease forming between your brows as you search his sea-green eyes for any signs. Finnick gives you another tight-lipped hum, his smile has slipped away and you notice the set in his jaw returns. His gaze shifts from his folded hands to the sugar close by and hesitantly plucks up two of the four pieces.

Two cubes, ‘no’

“Still inside…?”

One cube, ‘yes’

“Still no touching?” Your voice is tender in a reassuring manner.

Two cubes, ‘yes’

Finnick understands that he’s safe. You’ll respect any boundary he chooses. You’re one of his few ‘safe’ individuals that he allows to fully trust besides Johanna, Mags, and Annie. Unfortunately, Annie was always rather emotionally distraught, meaning Finnick couldn’t be around her for long periods due to her tendency to claw at people during her episodes. It broke his heart to see the fire-haired victor he mentored through an awful arena be left so broken and afraid with limited ability to help her. But you did your best to pick up the slack in her care.

You were all damaged people just trying to survive the best you could with the hand you’d been dealt. No matter the cruelty of the dealer.

While caught up in your thoughts, the tea finished steeping. Gently, you slide the viridian mug of citrusy spices towards Finnick, who allows a small thanks and his “compliments to the chef” while plucking two sugarcubes from his fallen stack and dropping them into the burnt orange liquid.

“My pleasure,” you hum, fixing your tea how you like it and stirring the small steeper around the mug before lifting it from the drink and setting it off to the side. Finnick’s steeper soon follows. You’ll clean the sticky residue later.

Hot ceramic warms your fingertips as they curl around the mug, lifting it to your lips and parting them to give a gentle blow. Ripples of tea bounce around the rim, causing the curls of steam to dance around your cheeks. You inhale the Herbs deeply, and a calm feeling washes over your shoulders. The first sip immediately warms your insides as it goes down, observing the same reaction on Finnick as he takes a long swig of the tea followed by a hum of pleasure.

“Don’t burn your tongue it's still hot,” you murmur into your drink, the emitted sound coming out a bit warped. A ghost of a smile crosses the Darling’s face at your words, though he doesn’t reply, preferring another sip of the luxurious tea.

You already knew you wouldn’t hear the end of his dislike for the stinging on his tongue tomorrow from the burn.

You wish to reach out to him, brush your knuckles against his, or cup his stupidly handsome face in your hands, holding him close till all is better, but you can’t. You won’t. His safety and comfort is your priority right now, and you’ll always give him space when asked. You knew all too well what violation of space felt like.

“Are you feeling any better?”

You question the Darling while searching those sea-green eyes for any signs of pain.

Finnick offers a slight nod, casting a glance in your direction while adjusting the sugar.

One cube, ‘yes’

You nod in understanding. Even though the ache inside his chest still hurt you at least managed to help him start to move past it. The two of you stay at the counter for a long while. Secrets pass back and forth via sugarcube and Finnick has another cup of tea. You move in quiet tandem with one another as he preps the tea and you clean up your steeper and mug in the sink. Softly you hum a small rhyming tune from your childhood as you scrub along the inside of your mug, there’s a sense of domesticity in the air and you can’t help feeling more at ease.

Once everything is clean and put away except the sugarcubes you find yourself on your living room sofa, there’s a space between where your knees are tucked up against you and where Finnick sits. The tin of white crystals sits in that space, the Darling victor plucking up cubes every once in a while to suck on. He could eat all of them and you wouldn’t have minded.

The room is dimly lit, just the light from a lantern on the unused desk beside the fireplace. A soft glow is painted across Finnick’s features that makes his eyes sparkle and spread warmth up your cheeks, the tips of your ears surely going red. You try to suffocate the warmth as it threatens to bubble up past your grasp.

As time passes Finnick eventually speaks of what happened. You listen with full attention and offer much sympathy and reassurance once he’s finished. You thank the charming male for allowing himself to be open with you and he admits, “It’s easy to be an open book when it’s you,” and those sea-green irises seem to light up even more. That warmth twists your insides as your stomach does what feels like a backflip. “Thank you…for letting me in tonight,” he murmurs with that perfect smile, the outer corners of his eyes crinkle, and dimples press into his cheeks. The smile you return is equally as wide and sweet.

“Always. I’ll always be here Finn, and you’re welcome to stay here if you want tonight. There’s plenty of space,” You breathe through a slight laugh. The big house you were gifted in Victor’s Village was far too big to have just yourself anyway and this wouldn’t be the first time the Darling spent the night.

With a nod and a pat to the space between you, you nod towards the stairs before moving to snuff out the lantern. Finnick follows, closing the sugarcube tin and placing it on the coffee table. Quietly you two head upstairs, small giggles peppering the air as the stairs creak.

When you enter your bedroom you rummage in a drawer for a pair of sweats you had ‘borrowed’ from the Darling a while ago when it had been your turn to appear at his doorstep with tears in your eyes. “Here,” you speak gently while holding them out. A cheshire smirk creeps over Finnick’s face as he takes the pants.

“So that’s where these went~”

You shush him with a sarcastic wave of your hand, letting him go into the bathroom to change while you move to sit cross-legged on the plush mattress. You preferred sleeping with many soft blankets and pillows like your own nest. It helped you feel safe when alone - though most would end up kicked off or stolen by the furnace of a man you often shared the bed with. Your revenge usually came in the morning as your icy fingers assaulted the warmth of his lower back with a fit of laughter.

You smile tenderly at the thought as Finnick reappears.

“What?” He asks.

That coy smirk is still plastered on his lips as he comes over to sit beside you. “Hm? Oh - nothing. Lay down, I’m tired." You offer with a hum. He nods before joining you under the covers. You face one another, looking into each other's eyes. Slowly, you feel his hand creep over to yours and interlace your pinkie fingers.

“Is this okay?” Those heart-melting puppy dog eyes return. You can’t help the sweet smile on your face and the warmth on your cheeks.

“Always.”

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@justtrying2getby

[death---dealer]

Well.. since all we have to do is ask.. could we get an imagine with Owen where he and reader have been long time friends with secret feelings… maybe throw some angst in there, and then at the end they tell each other and we get a cute makeout sesh or something? 🫣🫣🫣

Authors Note: holy self-indulgence batman. I usually don't write stuff like this but let's give it a whirl. If it's not your thing, then just scoot along.

Title: Monkeying Around. Words: 4.2K+ Pairing: Owen Teague x Reader. Summary: You and he were best friends. What happens when he goes to Australia to film a little movie we all know and love? Taking place in 2022-2023. ** THIS IS PART ONE, THERE WILL BE A PART TWO IF ENOUGH INTEREST IS SHOWN ** Reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated! Show support for fanfic writers!

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“Oh my god,” You laughed, clutching your phone that much tighter as you tossed your head back in amusement at what had popped up on the screen upon accepting the FaceTime from your best friend. His face was always refreshing to see; the crisp white nature of his t-shirt balancing off the darkened nature of his eyebrows and his--- You blinked, sitting up a bit with a stammer, “Owen, y-... Your hair, what happened?”

You could hear the sigh he gave through your headphones, wishing nothing more than to have him beside you to cause the hot breath that accompanied it against your shoulder. Slowly, you admired the way that his lanky wrist rubbed the back of his head, feeling the pricking of shorter hair between his long fingers as Owen muttered.

“They had to cut it for the uh… Suits. You know,” Drifting his hand forward, there was a delicately placed motion in front of the striking features he held, your vision coated with his thinned ulna and radius along with the splay of long digits. No rings or bracelets against his skin, you drew your bottom lip in, probably for filming… Your mind was quick to deduce a reasoning.

Your heart fluttered a small bit at the smile that tore against his features when Owen rested his hand back down after charading to you in silence that he meant the suit that fit on his head with the camera attached for the film he was working on and you heard the shuffle as he held his phone more sturdily and sat back on what appeared to be a bed. “The head piece, it’s gotta fit. My hair was in the way! I told them not to--- I said ‘You can’t do this, my best friend in the whole wide world--- she’s gonna kill me if I cut any of it off’.”

“You’re bald.”

“I still have some hair! Just not… A whole lot.” Playfully defending himself, Owen drifted his tongue along the front of his teeth and felt his lips pull into a smirk at your reaction. You cackled almost manically and garnered yourself a laugh from him. Slowly, your smile dissipated into nothing more than a mirrored reflection of how Owen looked. Solemn around the edges as you both stared at each other through a screen, peeking in at 10,000 miles apart from each other. It was light there, abundantly so as the timezone shifted greatly. Morning for him now, it was cusped around the evening for you back in the States and the sun would begin its departure soon and Owen would have to leave.. You would… Have to let him.

There was a small sinking in your stomach at that. There was nothing you could do to get Owen to stay, you knew now as it had been a month into filming and the schedule for him seemed so tedious. It probably was, given much of what he was doing was considered physical workouts at times.

 “Does it feel weird?” There was a drull nature to your tone as you shifted your body upwards to prop against your bed frame with a small grunt.

“Kinda refreshing.”

Earnest honesty was the way to go as Owen flashed that boyish grin that only until recently with him being gone did you realize that you missed greatly. The way it would shift from innocent to absolute terror filled in a matter of moments when he thought of something devious was captivating, the strong brow ridge was formidable now that Owen had grown a bit more you wanted nothing more than to caress with your finger tips, a strong mouth… You pouted to yourself at the feeling rising against the back of your neck.

When… did this become… Not friendly anymore…? Something… Deeper.. All things about him you expected to miss, he was your best friend but this… Owen… You missed, drawing your pointer finger against the case of your phone. “Won’t be for long, you know?” He must have seen the look on your face as you attempted to smile, “Hair grows back. It’ll be back to normal in a few weeks, I wanna bet it’ll be back to normal length when I come home.��� “You just look so different,” Swallowing hard, you sat up a bit more so Owen was able to see your face properly instead of at an acutely unflattering angle. “Probably that Ape School. Got in your head, huh? Hoo-hoo.” There was piqued interest in how Owen laughed at that, baring his teeth for you and only you in the moment as he nodded in agreement.

“That’s… gonna take me a long time to get out of my head, I tell ya.” Owen huffed, “I’m gonna chase after you. I’m planning on taking the stilts they have me using when I need to move on all fours---”

“I will never forgive you if you chase after me as a monkey.”

“Not monkey,” Owen corrected you with a smug smile as he brought the camera closer to his face. Blessing you with a comedic angle that was facing upwards into his nose, you were finally beckoned to laugh wholeheartedly, “They’re called Apes, (Name).”

“Sorry, Monkey boy---” You popped your mouth as Owen chuckled deeply in his chest, the reverb itself attractive and you wanted to hear it in your ear. “Ape Man, more like it.”

“I’ll be the Ape Man to your Ape Woman.” 

“Think you can get me tuition to Ape School to start my training? I can book a flight to Australia---” “I’ll book the flight for you!” He joked, hearing a soft pattering against the door of his room. “Shit. I gotta go. Filming starts in thirty and we still gotta drive to the studio---” “Go, Ape Man.” There was an attempt to hide the disappointment in your voice but Owen was able to hear it as if you were already crying. He looked at the screen for a second longer than was needed, seeing the tear of your mouth from a smile into a mild frown. Not usually noticeable, but… He knew you well enough. Hell, being friends all these years, Owen probably knew you better than you knew yourself at times but… That wasn’t the point here as he heard Lydia and Travis chattering by the door, another knock ensuing.

He wanted nothing more in the moment than to sit and talk for hours like you two had done so many times before, occasionally even into the later hours of the morning. It took a lot to convince his mom to even let you stay in his bedroom, let alone that late but Owen managed. But there you were. Thousands upon thousands of miles away without him. He brisked you a slight half-smile that did nothing to reassure either of you.

“I’ll talk to you later, Ape Woman.”

“I’ll probably be asleep when you’re---”

“I’ll blow your phone up if you don’t answer me.” Owen chuffed, amused at the grin you gave him as your finger hovered over the end button to cut the call short. It pained you, always but it was better than letting him hang up on you. Anything… Was better than that.

“You better, Teague.”

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‘Flight lands at 3. Will you be here with mom and dad to pick me up?’

You stared at the text from your best friend, glancing longingly at the name ‘Owen’ accompanied by the monkey emoji. Fingers flicked against each other as you drew your laptop to a slow close and tucked your phone into the familiar stance of your hands. Hovering above the letters, you contemplated the answer. Months seemed to fly by without worry.

From October, into November… December… Two more and it was now nearing the beginning of March and the sensation of loss was right around the corner at the lack of contact that the two of you were at no fault for. Owen was busy, you understood that. Withdrawing was your way of letting him deal and do what he needed without you constantly pestering him. It was your choice as your fingers tapped a quick response, setting the phone down ardently face down as to not linger on it.

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‘Can’t. Busy with work. I’ll swing by when you get home.’

Owen’s blue-ish eyes stared at the message in a deepened state of dissatisfaction. That… Was not an answer he was expecting as his thinned thumbs tapped away at a response. Anything that made sense, his mind fluttering with sudden onset worry that you were mad at him. Why would you though? He’d done nothing wrong--- In fact, he was coming home so why weren’t you more excited? That was selfish, he thought to himself and drew a deep breath in, the rattling against his collarbones unexplainable. Reckon, there had been days where you two weren’t speaking. Owen’s thumb shifted upwards to look at the shared messages between the two of you, seeing more blue on his side than seeing any responses from you. 

Memes were Owen’s way of going around it, a few pictures sliding against his gaze as he clicked his phone shut, peering out the window of the airport. You’d been pulling away for months now. No doubt it coincided with his filming schedule and the proof was right there on the screen of his device. Lack of responses, you eventually even stopped reacting with the laughing emoji to the pictures he sent on set, fully garbed in his lyca suit and motion-capture camera. Not allowed, but Owen managed to sneak a few for your viewing pleasure. What was he expecting in the first place? Your undivided attention like you were his? You were just his best friend! Best… Friend… 

Eyelids slid shut. There was a small worry in his mind… What… If you found someone during that time? A boyfriend, he seethed inside of his own mind Sure, it was only a few months but you were well--- Owen tapped his phone against his thigh and sighed again, this one more melancholy than the last as he had no idea where this onset of feelings truly came from. You were you and he had no doubt that there’d be a line waiting as if he were first in it. 

He needed to say something. Anything.

Looking at his phone once more, he deleted the previous message. The ‘I miss you’ Owen longed to send in favor of a less drastic approach. Something… Less desperate, he hoped. 

‘Dinner is at 6. Mom is making my favorite ;) If you wanted to swing by.’

Owen left it open. Tapping send, he hoped… The hook at the end would garner him a monkey joke. Anything from you that wasn’t stagnant.

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“(Name)!”

Groaning softly, you rolled onto your side and peeped your eyes open for only a split second before they rested back shut. That voice… Your mom… She could wait, you decided and rolled back onto your stomach, face flattening into your pillow with a sigh of contentment. There was nothing quite like an afternoon nap. Well… From the darkness against your eyelids, you figured it was seeping into the evening time but that didn't matter as you tugged your blanket closer to your body. You’d sleep the rest of the night given the chance, better than picking up your phone and having to see what you would assume to be a bombardment of texts and maybe even a call from Owen. 

“(Name), if you don’t get out here I’m going to---” “What do you want!?” You snapped at your own mother, tugging yourself out of bed in a flurry and nearly slamming your door open as a result. “I’m trying to sle---” Peering down the hallway, you felt a small amount of shell-shock hit you at the lanky frame you were so incredibly familiar with. From the tear of the shoulders inwards to make himself appear even smaller, the long casing of his arms… The tousled hair and pursed mouth. Smacking your lips, you held up a hand and muttered hazily, “I’m still sleeping, that’s what this is.” Nodding at that, you trudged a hand through your messy hair and turned back to go into your room.

“Owen just stopped by to say hello!” Stiffening at his name, you rolled your shoulders and looked over your right one at the body standing next to your mom. “He’s been gone for so long, (Name), why didn't you tell me he was coming over?” There was nothing quite like getting scolded from her when you were still half-asleep though the other times she did this were often due to you not cleaning your room when you were younger. Go figure, you said sarcastically in your mind and reached up to rub your tired eyes.

“I---” Stammering once more, you held up your hand defensively in front of you and trailed down the small hallway into the ambient light of the living room. You ogled at him, no shame resting in your gaze as you started at his feet… All the way up Owen’s long and thin legs, the tapering of his waist the actual epitome of dreamy and the way his shoulders cascaded with strength you had not realized he garnered from his time in Ape School.

That was only noticeable up close and the shine of the necklace around his neck captivated your attention for a few moments to look at where his collar bones fused together under the otherwise pale and smooth skin you felt would be burning under your touch.  He was here. Actually… Here… Why? 

“I uh--- Sorry, mom. I must have… forgotten to tell you and I fell asleep---”

“See, I told you she fell asleep.” Owen told your mom with such a linen of recognition. You mom knew him as your best friend, after all. They were cordial and kind, friendly even as your mom constantly pestered you at times that he was single and you were single thus it made sense to want to date. 

Adamantly, that was torn down when you told her you had no interest. Owen was… Just a friend, your best friend that you lost contact with over the last few months, even now as Owen was looking over at you with what could be described as aggravated skeptical agreement, pointing at your mom with his eyes. ‘Just go along with it’, his expression said.

He was covering for you, you realized and laughed in the back of your throat at that. It was like no time had passed and Owen was chattering to your mom in the charismatic way he did in order to get himself into your bedroom with the door shut. Nothing would happen, he was always so assuring to her and even in this moment, you swallowed hard at the pat he gave your mom on her back. 

“Always sleeping, can’t even reply to my texts sometimes. You don’t mind if we go talk? I haven’t seen her in months, wanna tell her all about Australia.” His words were biting and unexpected as you crossed your arms in front of your chest.

Your mom looked at you and then back towards Owen with a smile, “Of course. Come over for dinner sometime and tell us all about it as well, I’m sure (Name)’s Father is interested in how big the spiders are down there.”

Owen playfully held his hand up and made a circle shape, “They’re huge.” Was said in passing as his taller body passed your mom and followed you closely to your bedroom. 

Your mouth flew open the second your bedroom door shut. “Why’re you here? I was really enjoying my na---”

“What a way to greet your best friend of all time upon his arrival from down under,” There was a faux accent placed on the last two words as you gave him a quirky grin. “I invited you to my coming-home dinner and you just left me hanging---” You groaned softly, bringing a hand upwards against your forehead to rub it tenderly. “I was taking a nap.” Truth. “I didn't even see your message!” Not so much the truth. “Liar,” The dark haired blond snapped at you with confidence and a smug smirk. He was right, you realized and gazed yearningly at the crown of his skull as Owen turned in your room so he was facing you properly, eyes lingering around the walls that held so many memories for the two of you from high school. His hair… Grew back. Not as long as when he left, but it was propped beautifully up and the mused tangles dug their greedy claws into you and you wanted to see how soft it was. You were just tired, you pushed that down and swallowed hard. 

“You have read notifications on, (Name).” Mentally, you slapped your forehead and looked off to the side, turning on the light to a lower hue so it wasn’t blinding you. Vaguely, you gave him a gesture to sit at the bottom of your bed as you crawled your body in and plopped down. A familiar position, this was how you two sat when in deep conversations with each other during the late nights of the summers. Sometimes, Owen would even sit beside you instead, letting his bony shoulder play against yours as you both fumbled over laughter. 

“Okay, so I read it and then I fell back asleep. You should--- Be with your parents, you just got home! I’m sure they miss you---” “Why weren’t you replying to my texts while I was gone?” “Oh my god, Owen.” Rolling onto your stomach, you pressed your face into the pillow once more. “Can I please fall back asleep and this is all just a nightmare?” Your voice was muffled as you felt the shift on your mattress and when you turned your head to peek, Owen was sitting beside you, nearly half off the bed as you were spread out, limbs flared outwards comfortably. “‘M sorry, I didn't mean that.”

“So, I’m the stuff of nightmares?” He joked and tilted his body against your own as you let out a small groan of approval at the sudden wash of body weight. It was hard to resist the small smile that played at your mouth, satisfaction falling on Owen for getting you to do that. “I don’t like being woken up---” “I considered just coming back, your mom was yelling for you though---”

That made you laugh hard as you cased your expression into the pillow again with a meager nod. 

“I was gonna come by tomorrow, honestly… I--- Just wanted to see you. It’s been months, (Name).” “I told you I was busy with wor---”

“I was the one busy with work, you think I don’t know what you were doing?” “Oh wise one,” You snorted and turned your head once more to look at him, your neck wrinkling with the unnatural movement, “Tell me, what was I doing that I wasn’t aware of?” “Am I a fortune teller now? I must have forgotten my ball in my other pair of pants,” Sarcastically, he rolled the beautiful rounded nature of his eyes and dropped his shoulders in comfort of there being some semblance of fun loving camaraderie between you two despite the small passage of time. “You were ignoring me!” “Was not!” “Even my sweet memes, you were ignoring all of them.” Owen placed a hand onto his chest to feign hurt and devastation. “The memes were aiight.”

“What about the pictures I sent from the set? You know I broke a big Disney rule sending those.” He teased, watching as you readjusted and placed a hand near your face. Lightly, you watched nearly cross eyed as Owen tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, the silver of his bracelet bouncing off what light was in your bedroom.

“They’re going to punish you for sending all that goodness in a lyca suit.” You raised eyebrows suggestively. 

“Not much goodness to be had, you should have seen Kevin Durand. Absolute madhouse. Big and buff,” Owen puffed out his chest and you laughed gently with the action, “I’m just… Me.”

“You’ll be a lot more when the movie comes out, you know. Even if you’re playing a monkey.”

“Ape.” “Will your Ape self be buff?” Owen smiled at you, cheekily at first before it touched back into reminiscence. He missed you and your comments. He missed the interactions despite forming great bonds with his co-stars while abroad. Nodding slightly, he turned his body to face you more head-on and you were catapulted into panic as your line of vision was almost thrusted directly onto his crotch. Nervously, you dragged your eyes upwards at the sound of his voice and watched his Adam's apple bob, “Why do you ask? You gonna have a big crush on him if he is?” “Maybe.” You snickered, rolling onto your back and gazing up at him with tenderness. 

Owen gasped dramatically, “I come back from Australia and you have a thing for furry Apes?” “Not when you put it like that!” Sniffling softly, you shut your eyes tentatively and drew a deep breath in, relishing in how it felt to be suffocated before exhaling sharply. “Maybe I’ll be just like everyone else and have a big crush on the actor instead. Remember the phase I went through with Andy Serkis? Same thing!”

“Well, in your defense, you could pull Andy Serkis any day.” Owen said confidently, throwing himself into self-doubt without care. 

“I’m glad you think that. I literally look like hot trash right now. I--- Would have gotten dressed up if I knew you were going to come over.”

“Leggings and a shirt are enough for me.” Owen admitted quietly, “Y’know I don’t really like all the glitz and glam. Makes me uncomfortable…” “The irony.” You teased, “Being an actor and such.” “That’s what’s so great about the role! I… can still walk down the street and act like a normal person. No one is seeing my face and no one is looking for me! Paparazzi who?” He admitted in a hushed tone to you, almost cusping around a whisper as if he were telling you a deep secret, “I don’t like that. I wanna still be able to come here…” He looked down at you with eyes that appeared more green in the ambience of the room, “Without anyone following me or speculating about what is going on. If anything… were to… go on.” 

“I don’t understand what you’re saying Owen.” You swallowed hard again, this time it got stuck in your chest. “You leave for a few months and come back all cryptic? What brainwashing did Disney do to you?” That was meant as a joke but as you fluttered your eyes back towards him, you felt a sinking in your chest. His expression was torn clearly into two camps. One of contemplation that rode against his strong brows and one of self-deprecation from the way that he was biting at his bottom lip. “Seriously, are you okay? You’re not jet lagged or…”

“Nahhh, I’m alright,” The man said next to you and lightly nudged you with three of his long fingers, “Just… Missed home, you know? You go off to pretend to be someone else. A completely different species and you start to miss home. Start to miss parts of yourself you didn't know were so important.”

“Australia turned you into a philosopher.” 

“I’m serious, (Name)!” Owen laughed ardently. Not at you. Never… At you but at the implications that your words made him sensationalize. They always did say that distance made the heart grow fonder, was that too philosophical to say to you? Would you understand what he meant? “Things…. Changed while I was there and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.” “Y’know you’ll always have me, Teague. I’m like a wart that won’t go away.”

“Right between my toes.” He played off you with such ease and felt a twisting inside of his stomach as he drew the fingers he had nudged you with down your forearm and to the bare skin closer to your wrist. “Things are gonna… Change. I’m going to have to do a press tour for this next year and then the premieres. It’s in my contract for me to be gone a lot…” Owen wasn’t sure if this was allotted information to share or not but there was no care, “I freaked out… On the way home thinking you hated me or something---” “Owen, you nee---” “I just… Wanna make sure when I get done with all of this, this whole… thing,” He gestured rather vaguely much like you had done earlier with his long arms, “That you’re still gonna be here cheering me on.”

“I’m your own personal cheerleader, you know that! I helped you keep your hair dyed when you did IT---” “This is different.”

Lifting yourself up, Owen broke the subtle contact he had around your gentle wrist and brought his hands back into his lap, watching out of his peripheral as you propped into a seated, cross legged position. “Seriously, are you okay? You sound like a crazy---” “Think I am jet lagged. Those fourteen hours are killer.” Owen deflected with a strangled laugh and stood up slowly, “Should get home. Get some sleep… In my bed.”

“Owen…” Your eyes were soft as you looked up at him, watching as he trailed around your bed to the door, “Y-you could spend the night here, you know. Like old times. I’ll sleep on the floor---” “Don’t worry about it,” He grimaced a smile for you that seemed forced. “I’ll swing back around tomorrow. We can go get ice cream at our spot.”

That was intriguing enough, your bottom lip dragging inwards as he grasped the handle of the door, “Hey.”

“Hm?” If Owen whipped around any faster, he was sure that his head would dislocate from his body.

“Did you steal those stilts from the set?”

“They’re in my car.” He admitted with a rushed laugh from you that made his heart beat that much quicker in his chest. “Why do you ask?” “Just wondering if I need to put my running shoes on tomorrow. Was hoping… You’d chase me a bit. Give me a taste of your Ape self.”

“I’m pretty fast on all fours.” He boasted. “Ape School taught me well.”

“Then it should be an easy chase.”

[sydsaint]

He's so unhinged, and I am in love <3

Summary: Solo looks to completely remake the Bloodline by finally replacing Paul with a newer, prettier, younger, manager.

You finish writing your email regarding your change in job title to Nick Aldis with a satisfied smile on your face. By the end of the night, you will no longer be Aldis's glorified errand girl. And it's all thanks to one, Solo Sikoa. With Solo and his new Tongan lackeys on Smackdown, there's a new Bloodline in WWE. Solo is looking to replace Paul with a newer, younger, and prettier manager.

A knock sounds at your hotel room door as you hit send on your email. You grab your bag and jacket and answer the door, finding one of Solo's new boys on the other side.

"Sup, shortie?" Tanga Loa greets you at the door. "Solo sent me to grab you so we can all head out together." He explains.

"How gentlemanly of him." You quip and step through the door, shutting it behind you. "I'm ready whenever you are, big man." You joke with him.

Tanga nods and leads the way down the hall toward the elevator. You and Tanga chat while the elevator glides down to the hotel lobby where Solo and Tama are waiting for you.

"The boys are waiting over there." Tanga nods across the lobby to where Tama is leaning against the wall.

"Where's Solo?" You comment when you see that Solo isn't with Tama.

Tanga shrugs, and the two of you walk over to a waiting Tama. Tama glances at his brother with a stoic expression, which softens when he turns his attention to you.

"You sure are looking nice tonight, doll." Tama comments on your outfit.

"Eyes are up here, playboy." You roll your eyes. "Where's Solo at?" You ask him.

Tama cracks an amused grin, rolling his shoulders at you. "He said he forgot something in his room." He informs you.

"Tanga, why don't you go make sure Solo doesn't need any help." You turn back to Tanga.

"Sure." Tanga nods and heads back to the elevator.

You watch Tanga walk off and disappear inside the elevator. You lean against the wall next to Tama and wait for Solo and his brother to return. And now that the two of you are alone, it doesn't take long for Tama to speak up.

"You aren't trying to get me alone, are you, YN?" Tama turns and leans over you with an amused smile.

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" You snark and roll your eyes, craning your neck to meet his gaze.

Tama licks his lips, and you spot his hand moving from his side out of the corner of your eye. His hand trails up your bare arm, sending goosebumps over your body, and comes to a stop at the base of your neck.

"I'd watch that hand if you were you." You warn Tama, the two of you staring at one another intensely.

"Why?" Tama replies. "You bite, pretty lady?" He taunts you, his fingers brushing against your neck.

You spot Solo and Tanga stepping out of the elevator over Tama's shoulder and promptly swipe his hand off your neck.

"You'll have to stick around and find out, I guess." You taunt Tama right back with a grin before pushing off the wall. "Solo! I was beginning to think that you'd gotten lost." You walk over to him and Tanga.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Solo rolls his eyes. "You guys ready to leave?" He asks you and nods to Tama behind you.

Tama pushes off the wall and nods. "Whenever you are, boss." He answers Solo.

Solo leads the pack, and everyone heads out to the parking lot where the rental SUV is waiting. Tanga drives, and Solo takes the front passenger seat which leaves you and Tama in the back.

The ride to the arena is mostly silent, save for the hum of the radio up front. It's dark in the back of the SUV, which gives Tama's hand cause to wander across the seat and toward your exposed thighs. You glance over at him with a stoic expression when you feel his fingers brush against your leg. But the Tongan only flashes a suggestive smile at you.

You roll your eyes and swat his hand away, the expression written on your face warning him to behave himself.

The SUV finally pulls into the arena and Tama jumps at the chance to get your door for you. He hurrries out of his door and swiftly makes his way around to the other side just as you manage to get your seat belt off.

"Let me get that for you, doll." Tama purs as he pulls the car door open for you.

"Thanks." You roll your eyes again and attept to hide the amused smile that creeping it's way onto your face.

Solo starts barking orders at everyone as soon as he's out of the car. He informs everyone that he's headed to the Bloodline locker room to start discusing plans with Tanga about Cody. But before he leaves, Solo instructs you to make sure that Paul understands that his posistion in the Bloodline is no longer viable.

"And take Tama with you." Solo adds before he walks off. "He'll make sure Paul gets the message."

"Sure thing, boss." You nod and turn in the oposite direction of Solo and Tanga.

When you turn Tama is right at your side, his eye sparkling with eagerness at the prospect of having some more quality time with you.

"Looks like we get to spend some more time together, doll." Tama grins. "How lucky am I?" He smirks at you.

"Not nearly as lucky as you think, playboy." You quip and walk off in search of Paul. "Come on, let's find Paul and get this over with."

It doesn't take you long to find Paul hanging outside Nick Aldis' office. Paul spots you coming down the hall and cracks a friendly smile. But that smile doesn't last long when he see's Tama turn the corner behind you.

"YN! How lovely to see you." Paul smiles at you and does his best to ignore Tama intensly glaring at him from behind you. "Can I help you with something, my dear?" Paul asks you.

"Nice to see you too, Paul." You match Heyman's smile. "And yes, there is something I need to tell you. It's a message actually, from Solo." You explain.

Paul's eyes widen at the mention of Solo's name. He swallows hard and glances back at Tama towering above you a few feet behind you and Paul. "A message? From Solo?" Paul trips over his words nervously.

"Mhm." You grin. "In light of Solo replacing Roman and being crowned the new Tribal Cheif, he has decided that you are no longer needed as special counsil, Paul." You inform him. "From now on, I'll be taking over as specal counsil and mangerial duties to the Tribal Cheif. But Solo sincerely thanks you for your service."

You watch Paul's mouth drop open with an amused smile. Heyman stumbles over his words for a moment in search of a reply. But the hall of famer can't seem to find anything to say in response to your news.

"Well, this was fun." You set a hand on Paul's shoulder. "Good luck finding a new client to employ, Paul. We'll be seeing you around." You let go of his shoulder and go to walk off.

Paul watches you take a few steps forward before reaching for his phone. He brings his phone up to his mouth and is about to make a phonecall when Tama steps in front of him and plucks Paul's phone right from his hands.

You turn back around with a laugh and Tama hands you Paul's phone. "Yeah, there's no need for that, Paul." You smile and twirl his phone your hand. "Roman Reigns is an afterthought in WWE now, Paul. Just like Dwayne is." You hand the phone back to Tama.

Paul stands flabberghasted and once again stutters out a few incoherent words. You turn back around and gesture for Tama to follow you. Tama winks at Paul and lets his phone drop to the floor, making sure to step on it as he walks off with you.

You round the coner and Tama hurries to catch up with you. You hear his hearty laugh as he comes around the corner and falls into step with you.

"Fuck that was sexy, dollface." Tama purrs. "I can see why Solo likes you so much." He adds.

"Solo's always been smart." You reply. "Now come on, let's get back to the locker room."

Tama nods and quickens his pace to keep up with you. "Yes, ma'am." He cracks a devilish grin. "You just lead the way, pretty lady. And I'll follow."

"Hmm." You hum in approval. "Another smart man." You tease Tama.

[sodaabaa]

watching wicked got me back into jonathan bailey which got me back into my love anthony bridgerton and now im drafting up a new one shot bitchessssss. marriage of convenience??? anthony being a clueless dickhead and refusing to feel love???? let’s gooooo i missed this man. and i missed writing. i’m sorry for leaving so many unfinished fics 😫😫.

[minnophee-writes]

Right Where You Were Meant To Be

Fandom: Avengers [Marvel]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Plus-size Reader

Summary: The reader has a crush on Bucky the second she looked at him but she also has feelings of self-consciousness about her body and doubts she’d ever end up with Bucky or any guy like Bucky. That all changes one night at one of Tony’s parties.

Word Count: 2,760 words

A/N: This is a cute little one-shot idea I had and just wanted to write out. I feel there aren’t many plus-size!reader stories so I wanted to make my own. I’m a chubby girl and felt like I needed some love, lmao. Any mistakes I take responsibility for, this story wasn’t beta read, so I apologize for any mistakes. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!!! <3 <3 <3 [edit: this is an old fanfic lol]

It all started when you looked at him for the first time. He had just moved into the Tower, and you had just gotten the job as Tony's new assistant since Pepper had become CEO of Stark Industries. Because you worked in an environment with superheroes who were very fit and healthy, you had become self-conscious of yourself; whether it would be what you wore, the things you ate, or just how your body looked in general.

Being a bigger girl, it often took a toll on your mental health when you would notice the glances, the whispering, the judgmental stares, and how shopping for clothes in your size was difficult, and it made you feel like you had to lose weight to fit in and belong. You felt alone and isolated.

You didn't have any friends; you didn't even talk to many of your co-workers, and just kept to yourself a majority of the time. When Bucky moved in, you noticed he did the same. He didn't speak much to the rest of the team, he mostly stayed in his room, and only hung around Steve. Bucky was very fit, and his muscular body showed it whenever he wore tight-fitted clothing. You would never wear tight-fitted clothing for fear of having your plumpness accentuated.

After five months working for Tony and having a more friendly relationship with the rest of the team, you had built a few close bonds with some of the heroes. Wanda and Natasha were your closest girlfriends and would regularly have 'Lady's Nights' every Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Tony, Clint, Sam, and Steve were like your older brothers and would look out for you.

You and Steve made it a routine to do small exercise and yoga in the afternoons just after 4 o'clock. How this all started was because you wanted to accomplish small goals for yourself, as Sam told you to do to help with your mental health.

"Steve," You called out as you stepped into the Tower's gym, the one place you knew where to find Steve if he wasn't in the common room.

"Oh, hey (Y/N)! What's up?" Steve turned to face you as he held the punching bag still while he watched you walk closer to him, noticing you fidgeting with your fingers nervously.

"I just... I wanted to start doing light exercises, you know, to boost my endorphins, and so I have something to do in the afternoons when I've finished with work." It wasn't a complete lie, but it just sugar-coated the fact that you just wanted to lose weight to gain confidence in yourself.

Steve had agreed to help you; he wouldn't push you too much either because he didn't want you to strain anything and not push you out of your comfort zone too much. Both of you would exercise for an hour each day in the afternoons. This routine had been going on for six weeks, and you were enjoying it. You felt better about yourself each week when you would check your progress and write down how much you lost during the week; you were more confident than you were all those weeks ago before asking Steve for help.

During one of those afternoon exercises, you and Steve were both in the Adho Mukha pose with Steve wearing his usual tight t-shirt, that you swore was a size too small, and shorts while you wore a loose, black tank top, and tight-fitted leggings that complemented the shape of your plump ass. You were so in the zone that you hadn't heard the gym doors open and the sound of footsteps coming closer to you. Bucky stood behind you and Steve, him getting an eyeful of your butt while he cleared his throat to catch his best friend's attention.

"Hey, Bucky! I didn't notice you were there. (Y/N) and I were doing some yoga, would you like to join us?"

You. Were. Mortified. You quickly stood up beside Steve and looked down at your feet, trying to avoid looking at Bucky after having your ass practically in his face.

"Uh, I kinda have to get ready for 'Girl's Night' tonight, but I think Bucky can keep you company." You nervously spoke, having your words jumble out quickly due to your inner-embarrassment. "I'll see you later, Steve!"

You bolted out of the gym as fast as your legs could go and made it up into your room without another incident. When you flopped onto your bed, you let out a loud, exhausted sigh before closing your eyes shut tightly. 'Why did I have to act like a nervous wreck? You didn't even let him talk for Christ's sake!' After beating yourself up over the little incident, you started to get ready for 'Girl's Night' with Nat and Wanda.

~~~~~~

It was two hours into 'Girl's Night' and you, Nat and Wanda had, at least, drank four glasses of Kraken Rum and about three shots of Vodka. You were more relaxed and carefree, enjoying your time with your best friends while gossiping about an episode of Criminal Minds you all saw the other day together.

"Not gonna lie, I would love to have a man like Morgan. Have you seen his muscles? And how he kicks down doors like a badass?" You gushed.

"That is true, and I fully believe Morgan and Garcia should be together. They have chemistry and look so cute!" Wanda loved her Morgan and Garcia ship.

"Eh, I like to have a super cute genius but that's just my opinion" Nat took a sip of her fruity vodka drink while shrugging her shoulders.

"Of course you would, you're with Bruce and that's a little bias, Nat." You gently shoved your red-haired friend playfully.

You and Wanda giggled like school girls when Natasha scoffed before she pointed an accusing finger at you.

"Well, says you, (Y/N)! You practically drool whenever you see Barnes."

That shut you up quickly. 'How does she know?! Play it off...'

"That's very funny Nat, but I don't know what you mean."

"Don't bullshit me, (Y/N). I've seen the way your cheeks get all pink and how your eyes are glued to him whenever he walks by. You're so smitten it's grossly cute." Then Wanda turned to you with a small smirk on her face.

"Maybe you should ask him to work out with you and Steve!"

Flashbacks of your embarrassment earlier that day made your face go pale. 'Absolutely not'. You shook your head furiously, staring at your two friends with fear. There was no way you'd have the guts to do such a thing, not after how you acted around him before. Plus, you didn't want him to look at you with disgust when he looks at you working out. You shake off all the negative thoughts before finishing off your last bits of rum.

"I think I'm going to head off to bed now, gotta wake up early tomorrow. Tony wants me to help him organize and plan a gala party to celebrate his newest project. And when I say to 'help him' I mean I'll be doing most of the work while he hides away in his lab with Bruce." You said before walking off and waving the girls goodbye.

2 weeks later...

You had most of the gala planned out. You had booked a cute catering company to organize some food dishes for everyone and even hired a group of people to decorate one of the large common rooms that would fit all the guests on Tony's guest-list. You had even bought a cute new dress to wear for the party. The party was starting that night at 7:30 and you would hopefully get everything done while having an hour and a half to spare to get ready.

When the decorating and planning finished, you quickly made your way to your room and got showered and changed. You stood in front of your mirror for quite some time, nitpicking every flaw you could see, judging your appearance because you knew how the other women at the party were going to look flawless and have every man swooping in for them. A sudden knock on your door snapped you out of your negative thoughts.

"(Y/n), you ready?" Wanda's voice called from the other side.

"Y-yeah! I'm coming now." You dashed for the door to get away from the mirror so you can't put yourself down even more. Once opening the door, Wanda linked your arm with hers, and both of you walked toward the elevator.

Telling FRIDAY which floor, you both arrived just as a few of the guests were mingling around; drinking, eating, and chatting. You glanced around, hoping to see the familiar faces of your friends, spotting Sam, Nat, and Clint near the bar where Natasha was serving the drinks. Tony was standing next to Pepper and being an absolute flirt as always while Steve and Bucky were standing near a corner with drinks in hand. Before you could make your way over to the bar, Wanda told you to wait where you were while she goes to quickly touch up her make-up, disappearing before you could say a word. You stood there awkwardly and looked around, making sure everything was going swimmingly until you felt a presence behind you. A tap on your confirmed that someone was indeed behind you.

You turned around to see a group of two slender women and three muscular men staring at you with smug and cocky smiles on their faces.

"Can we get some more drinks? And make them with a little more alcohol this time." One of the men quirked an eyebrow, waiting for you to scurry off to grab their drinks.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not part of catering. I'm-"

"You certainly look it though, I mean, you're not dressed like you're here as a guest. The dress you're wearing looks like the other catering staff." A woman spat, her eyes narrowed at you. You started to feel self-conscious about your outfit now, realizing the color-scheme looked very similar to the catering staff.

"Plus, the dress isn't that flattering for your body hun. We can practically see your muffin top and panty lines with how tight that dress is on you." The other woman commented while she leaned to the side to glance at more of your plush figure.

A stinging sensation began to appear behind your eyes, feelings of doubt, and an anxiety attack began to make themselves known. So looked away from the group and quickly made for the elevator, shooting Wanda a quick text saying you weren't feeling too well. 'How stupid of me to think I even looked good or that I could fit in at the party.' By the time the elevator doors reached your floor and the doors opened, hot tears were falling down your cheeks as you tried to furiously wipe them away with zero results. The tears kept flowing down as you began to walk down the hallway to your room; quiet footsteps barely making noise as they followed you. Just as your hand settled on the door handle, a warm hand clasped onto your shoulder gently. With a yelp, you spun around with a jump to look at your "attacker", only to find a pair of stormy blue eyes staring at your teary eyes intensely.

Bucky's eyes held hints of concern and worry, but it was hard to see because he was good at hiding his emotions, and the fact that your eyes were blurry from crying.

"You okay, (Y/n)? I saw you leave the party quickly and noticed how fast your breathing was." Bucky had to look down at you because he was so tall, or was it because you were just very short?

"I'm fine, Bucky. I just don't do well in crowded places or with so many strangers. I got a bit overwhelmed but it's fine now." You weakly smiled but he could see right through it, he always did.

"You had a panic attack after speaking to a group of people and judging by the looks they gave you while talking to them, I can only believe it wasn't a pleasant conversation." Bucky then brought both his flesh and metal hands to cup your face while he peered into your eyes more. "Tell me what happened, doll."

You sighed, you knew he wasn't going to let this go. Even though you both barely spoke to each other, he still cared for you like the both of you knew each other for years. Something about his calm voice and caring nature helped your nerves settle.

"They thought I was part of catering and asked if I could get them more drinks. I told them I wasn't catering, only for them to make snarky comments about my outfit and body. But it's fine, I'm used to having those comments made to me, I've dealt with those types of people all my life." Your hands gently held his and tried to move them away from your face but Bucky didn't budge.

"You don't believe them, right? I mean, I think the dress looks good on you. It shows off your curves and any man who doesn't get blown away is blind."

You gave a humorless laugh and shook your head at Bucky, looking down at the floor.

"You're just saying that to be nice to me, Buck. We both know girls like me don't belong in a place like this, or a party like that. You can go back to the party, I don't want to waste more of your time." You went to turn away when Bucky held your upper arms tightly.

"Not a chance, doll. I'm not a fan of crowds myself and was about to leave the party myself until I saw you run away. I'd rather spend my time with you and making sure you don't ever think that you don't belong."

You both stared at each other for a few seconds, his stare was intense with adoration and love while you stared at him in shock that he'd want to spend time with you. Before you could blink, Bucky leaned down and you felt his soft lips on yours, his arms wrapping around you and caging you into a warm and gentle embrace. Your hands rested onto his firm chest while his hands rested on your lower back, just above your butt. At first, you were in shock but then you gave in to the kiss and snaked your arms around his neck, your fingers embedded into his long hair.

The kiss was full of passion, and so much love that you didn't think it was possible. When the need for air was too much, you both separated and looked into each other's eyes once again.

"H-how? Why me? We barely know each other!"

"Because, (Y/n), I've been smitten for you since I first laid eyes on you but didn't have the guts to tell you. Steve's been a punk and trying to get me to join your work out sessions for weeks but I was too nervous to do it." Bucky's cheeks tinted red as he chuckled.

"And why's that? I was scared that if saw me working out, that you'd be grossed out by my body." You explained, chewing on your bottom lip.

"I could never be grossed out, sweetheart. I love a woman with curves and plumpness to her. I was nervous that if I watched you work out, I would try to make a move on you too fast and scare you away. I didn't want that to happen." Bucky grabbed your chin and leaned in again, his lips almost touching yours. "And you looked downright sexy in those tights, they shape your ass well."

You gasped and lightly smacked his shoulder while he smirked at you. His playfulness coming through. You made the first move this time and got onto your tippy toes to kiss him. It was quicker than the first but still held the same emotions. With so much strength you underestimated he had, Bucky lifted you up - your legs wrapped around his waist - as he opened your door and carried you over to your bedroom. Both of you watched a bunch of movies in your room; many kisses were shared before you both passed out, cuddled up under your fluffy blankets, safe in Bucky's arms. 

Right where you were meant to be all along.

[heartsforvenus]

supernova ⛥

robin buckley x fem reader

summary- you and robin are newfound friends, but you wish you were something more. little did you know, so did she. you were both too afraid of admitting your own feelings

tags- song fic 'red wine supernova' by chappell roan, fluff, kind of angst, 'one-sided' pining, sex references, mention of drinking, the joys of a first homoerotic friendship

lowercase intended

this is lowkey trash and all over the place, but i had the idea and thought it was cute. hope you enjoy my first fic <3

i'm in the hallway waiting for ya, mini skirt and my go-go boots

"we're gonna be late!" you exclaimed, standing outside of robin's bedroom.

you had recently befriended robin buckley, one of the band geeks of hawkins high, and somehow convinced her to go to a party thrown by tommy h. not only is she your new friend, she is also your longtime crush, but that was a secret between you and your diary.

that led you to this moment, where you were standing in the hallway outside of robin's bedroom waiting for her to get ready and contemplating your life actions. robin did say that you could stay in her room while she changed, yet you knew yourself better than that. even if you were turned around and forcing your attention on the most mundane object in her room, you were sure to die of embarrassment, thinking about her bare body standing mere feet away from you.

"would you chill out? i'm getting ready for a party i didn't even want to go to, nor was i invited to for that matter," she reminded you and you leaned your head on the wall behind you.

"half the people at those parties weren't invited, he's not gonna point out you in particular," you told her and you saw her head pop out of the door.

"i look like a fucking idiot and i can't zip up this dress. let's just not go," robin decided. your body was on autopilot when you turned the corner into her room and grabbed her arm. the touch of her soft skin against your own was almost enough to make you forget what you were even doing, as she stared at you waiting for you to say something.

"let me zip it for you." your voice came out in almost a whisper as you were still kind of stunned from the previous interaction. and don't get me wrong, the two of you have touched each other before, even held hands, but you weren't sure if you would ever get over this phase.

"fine. but don't break it. maybe i can return it after tonight," robin thought aloud, which made you frown.

i just want you to make a move, so slow down, sit down, it's new

"robin, you look... i mean, this dress... it's so nice."

you mentally facepalmed at yourself. obviously she looked beautiful. this was not the first time you chickened out on complimenting her and it surely wouldn't be the last. you were honestly just saving yourself from the inevitable embarrassment. you couldn't handle the 'i only see you as a friend' from robin, that would just be the point where you would genuinely hope the ground would swallow you whole. or that you'd get hit by a car. or that the world would end.

"thanks, you can have it if you want it. it would probably look better on you anyway," robin commented, and you could feel the all too familiar feeling of warmth rising to your face.

"no..." you shook your head. you wanted to tell her that the dress looked like it was made personally for her. it showed off all her curves in a way that wasn't too revealing, but it was just enough to catch your eye as you glanced over her body in a manner that was not as discreet as you hoped.

in an attempt to change the subject, you yet again grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her out of the room.

"let's go before all the attendees get too bored and start having sex in every room," you suggested. her lack of resistance was a shock as she willingly let you drag her out of the house.

"now, how are we even getting there? if you plan on drunk driving me home then you're even worse of an influence than i thought," robin wondered, leaning back on the hood of your car.

"i was just thinking we could walk. it's not too far from here." robin groaned at your suggestion before standing up straight.

"fine, but you can carry me on the way back," robin agreed.

i just wanna get to know ya, guess i didn't quite think it through

once the two of you made it to the party, you began drinking whatever anyone would hand you in a red solo cup. you guys were stuck inside of your own bubble, accidentally ignoring everyone around you to just speak to each other. you each spoke about your families and your deepest fears, but there was always that one thing on the tip of your tongue that you couldn't force out.

not here, you'd tell yourself, someone might hear and then everyone will know.

as if she could read your mind, robin narrowed her eyes and asked, "what's on your mind?"

"oh, it's nothing," you promised her, not realizing your dilemma was so evident on your face. or maybe she could just read you that well already.

"right... well i just told you about how i literally peed my pants a year ago, so i think we can talk about anything." her blue eyes pierced into your soul, and you so badly wanted to tell her what you were thinking about. another day.

"i was just thinking about how embarrassing it is to pee your pants," you lied and she giggled, that giggle that would've had you weak in the knees had you been standing.

"okay, you jerk, i'm sure you've done embarrassing things too." she pushed your shoulder lightly.

"not yet," you told her. she shook her head, wondering why you were such an enigma, and why it always felt like there was something you weren't telling her. for a moment you snapped out of your bubble to notice everyone around you was either making out or passed out, just as you had predicted. "maybe we should take this as our cue to leave."

this caused robin to notice her surroundings for the first time and jokingly gag, which caught the attention of one of the girls who was kissing some guy. she just glared back at her, and robin jumped up.

"yeah, let's go before this girl beats the shit out of me," robin, wide eyed, agreed. the two of you clumsily rushed out of the front door, passing more and more couples until you finally made it out into the night.

there was a breeze in the air, but it wasn't too cold. you hoped that robin wasn't cold, because you didn't bring a jacket to offer her. she hoped the same about you.

fell in love with the thought of you, now i'm choked up, face down, burnt out

now, you were laying next to her in her bed. wearing her spare pjs, literally surrounded by her scent. you couldn't sleep, because you were thinking about the girl beside you, as you often did in the middle of the night. usually in your own bed, though, so being near her was making it much worse. you had half a mind to just leave, but you didn't know if you'd ever have the opportunity to sleep in her bed ever again. you certainly wouldn't once she found out what you were, or so you thought.

you felt her shuffle closer to you, and you tensed up. she had been jerking about the bed the whole time, but you didn't expect her to unconsciously move closer to you.

god, you had it worse than you thought.

[rippersz]

𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐬

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Zombie Apocalypse AU w/ Gwendoline Christie characters; (~9.2K words)

(Featuring: Larissa Weems, Brienne of Tarth, Jane Murdstone, Anna from WTM, Lucifer Morningstar, Miranda Hilmarson, Captain Phasma, and Jan Stevens) x Reader

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It started about two months ago. Russia went down first, then Mongolia. China. India. And in the midst, Finland, Sweden, Norway, the United Kingdom, down to the very southern tip of Africa. The Ocean is no killer of disease, frozen or not, and encouraged it to ravage South and North America, then Canada and Greenland. Until every place was overrun by dead freaks. Stinking corpses and moving gore. 

They traveled in herds, packs, whatever it was that people wanted to call them—murders, perhaps—and shuffled aimlessly across any land they could find. Eager for food, for sustenance, to fill the empty bellies that would never be full. Gorging themselves on creatures like you. 

Officially ‘the other’. Officially ‘the enemy’. The sole survivor of a good group that was attacked some days ago because an idiot forgot to shoot one of the creatures in the head. And by sunrise, it was over. Screams echoed into the silence and you soon found yourself alone… running for your life with a duffle bag over your shoulder (slowing you down) and a gun in your hand (low on ammo). Trekking through thick woods in a heavily-infested Vermont town was not a good idea, but you had no choice. The house you were camping in was left behind, ravaged by bullets that you put into your friend’s heads, and every other spot nearby had been looted. You couldn’t move all of those bodies yourself. You couldn’t do much yourself. There was no army background attached to your name, no conspiracy theorist survival-obsessed gene in your body, and not much training in fighting either. All you could do was run. Run and run and run until you were miles away and your lungs started to burn. Not the most useful skill considering most people could run, but if you were quick enough to speed past the shuffling bastards, you were quick enough to make it to safety. 

—

Safety…what a joke. A shit joke. A joke that was, quite honestly, the worst joke to ever exist. There was no safety. No place, nowhere. You’d been walking for a few hours, hearing nothing but the forest’s silence, and stumbling over leaves and branches. They ravaged the animals, took them into their mouths like they were people, and ate until there was nothing left. Not even a squirrel, or a fox, and the birds had grown weary of the vast number of hunters (both dead and undead) that found themselves in the woods looking for food. So no birds either. And no houses. And you were pretty sure, as you paused to catch your breath, that you were doomed. 

Only a few bullets left and your aim was never perfect. One knife tucked into your waistband but it was getting uncomfortable, digging into your skin, and caked in blood. Creature blood. Everything smelled horrible. Like burning flesh or dirty meat, raw and soiled. You probably didn’t smell too good either. It wasn’t like the world still worked without the people; only a few places had running water and you couldn’t trust the creeks and rivers. The undead enjoyed walking through shallow water, knowing somehow that there’d probably be prey nearby. 

But you hadn’t seen anything in a while. A long while. A suspiciously long while... 

Everything was green and brown around you, whisked by wind and soil, and you stood out like blood against snow. The last thing you saw was yesterday. Ever since? Not a single flash of undead flesh. 

You swallowed, throat embarrassingly dry, and tapped your fingers against your thigh. 

It wasn’t good when everything was still. You were vulnerable, out in the open, and without a good few rounds of bullets to spare. Every muscle and organ in your body screamed for mercy, crying with the effort it took to keep surviving even when you didn’t want to. 

You thought about it a few times; gave the gun in your hand a long look on several occasions, but ultimately decided that ‘opting out’ was only a last resort. Somehow, even amidst the chaos and hatred and swill of humanity’s nature, you managed to hold hope. And often wondered where it would get you. How it would get you. While you were sleeping? While you were already wounded? Fighting off the hands of a loved one? The twist of hope’s rope… would you feel it closing in around your neck? A literal metaphor for the eventual death you’d experience? 

Thinking about it gave you a headache. 

For where was the point in wondering? 

You had no one else. Whatever form of death awaited, it would end up being your fault. Probably because you couldn’t run fast enough. Probably because- 

Because-

Wait. 

Somewhere behind you, on the right, was a low sound. A hum. The smooth whoosh of something quick. The parting of wind… the low growl of… 

“Fuck.” 

You shot off in that direction, bag smacking against your shoulder blades, and instantly felt the exhaustion pull at your body again. It lingered like a plague, like the undead disease, and you yearned to fall to your knees - to give in - but it wasn’t the time for that. You had to at least try. You had to at least make it over the hill. Right over the hill. So close but so far. You leaned forward, threw yourself at the ground, and grasped onto gnarled tree roots. The Earth smelled wet with decay, sweet with promise - you huffed against dry leaves. They crunched and scratched at your fingers, eventually crinkling into nothing when your arms worked to drag you up. You probably looked a little mad, scrambling up a steep hill to reach something that probably won’t save you, but there was no other option. The hum grew louder, the quiet was broken, and you only had a few moments to get this right. 

“Help!” Your lungs caved around your scream, but the forest swallowed it instantly. Greedy trees with their greedy barks, wanting to keep you hidden from salvation. The hum grew louder. Your fingers grew clammy, sweating and slipping against rough wood. 

You’d be bruised to high heaven later, and probably exhausted, but the hum and the growl of an engine meant a road and a road meant civilization and goddammit you just needed to get over the stupid fucking hill. 

There was a loud ringing in your ears, nearly deafening, and making your voice sound fuzzy. 

“Help! Help!”

Was that you? Were you the one screaming like that? Why couldn’t you be quiet? Those things could have been lurking… wandering nearby… coming up behind you, eager to grasp at your ankles and drag you back down to Hell. 

A glance back over your shoulder, aching from the duffle bag, found nothing but blurred terrain and darkened leaves–a symptom of the setting sun. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If the light went out, you’d be screwed. You couldn’t use the last of your matches and the world went black when evening struck. So there really was no choice. As the growl turned into a roar… there was no choice. Just a little higher- a little more. Your arms pushed, biceps straining against the cotton of your shirt, and your pants threatened to get caught on wayward sticks and tear into rags. The boots on your feet pressed hard against loose rocks, kicking them out of place, and gained just enough ground to push you up - over the ridge. The final stretch. Your chest pushed to the hard dirt and forced a grunt of effort from your tired body; the sound echoed through the woods, through the ground, and through the air that sat above the concrete road in front of you. Hard and vast, grey and long… you looked at it as though it were the holiest of grails, lying just beside it with your arms outstretched, your fingers still pulling at dirtied grass. Soil covered your skin, masked your features, caked beneath your fingernails, and when the roar of the speeding vehicle grew so close you had to close your eyes and wince, you knew raising a hand for help would not be enough. In the shade of the forest’s edge, half draped over the peak of the hill, you were inhuman to other survivors. Your dry mouth opened, your throat croaked, and your legs moved to push you up–closer–just short of the wind that caressed your hair when the car, the truck, ran past you with no second glance. You looked after it, watched it pass, and felt the burn in your heart grow into its own inferno. It licked at your insides, at your desperation, and had you hauling the duffle bag off of your shoulder and out onto the road. It rolled, a shuffling sound, and you followed after it with deep growls of effort and dwindling strength. 

“Please,” you wheezed, panting for breath as soon as you staggered up to your feet. 

In the distance, the car turned into a disappearing black spec. It drove and drove, out of sight, and you stood there, putting your arms in the air to wave it down and bring it back. To beckon it back. To beg and plead.

“Please please no-,” your voice was soft, weakened by days of rugged survival, “no…” rough and lost to the wind, it dissipated into nothing and you were forced to swallow again.  

The thick smell of car exhaust settled against the steaming road. You watched the horizon, tracking the space in the atmosphere where the gold traced into a deep blue, and felt your bones quake beneath your skin. Their final cry. The last hurrah as you watched your future, the tatters of it, drive away from you. 

Too late. 

You were too late. 

And you’d die there, on that road, and they may never come back and find you again in the morning. And your corpse would be chewed upon by undead bastards who would never give you a proper burial. And you’d be just another stupid human that found themselves trampled beneath the stinking feet of the walking dead. 

Tears teased your eyes, burning the dry lands of your irises, and you felt the heart in your chest lurch against its cage. 

 Too late. 

You were too late. 

You had a duffle bag, a handgun somewhere off to the side, and the clothing on your back. One lasting water bottle, the knife you felt poking your side, and small bags of food that wouldn’t last you long at all. The tent, too, was destroyed by animals the night before. The most you could go was perhaps one more day, but your feet were aching so terribly that each step was a journey within itself. And you couldn’t push yourself to go further. There was no further. There was nothing in the woods and there was nothing beyond the road and you were running on fumes that no longer existed. 

But you couldn’t just lie there and take it. You were about to reach over, bending at the waist, to grab your bag. To pull it up over your shoulder and trek on, even though it was pointless. But something stopped you. 

Something–a sound–made you freeze. 

It was faint. It didn’t sound like the undead, with their discordant groans and disgusting squelches, no… it was far. Getting closer. Closer. The hum and the growl. The purr of a motor. The hiss of pavement. 

Your head snapped up, eyes bulging wide as you looked over the horizon to see…. Yes. Yes! Yes, it’s them! The car! A grin pulled at your lips. Halle-fucking-lujah! You felt the anxiety ebb, slowly falling away from your body, as they got closer. The black spec turned into a black blob, then a figure that took shape, and finally you could make out a Vermont license plate and the dirt that stuck to big wheels. Up close, it was a sleek thing, tall and well-built. Midnight black and aside from the splatter on the rubbered wheels, it was polished and clean. The dark paint reflected the bright world around you, turning it into weird warped versions of a faux-paradise. You swallowed at the feel of warmth against your legs, the exhaust from the truck flooding over the smallest sliver of skin around your ankles. Suddenly fearing a changed mind and bad intentions, you stumbled back until your heels pushed against your bag. 

Tinted windows stared down at you, menacing and opaque. Not a thing to see behind them, even if you squinted. Nothing moved, nothing jumped, and you watched with bated breath for a window to roll down - until finally, it did. 

The driver’s side. It went whirr-ing down, sliding for the shortest period of time in the world until only a shadow met you - and then a flicker of movement. And then- 

“Oh my god! Jesus! Okay okay!” You flinched, not even hesitating to raise your hands above your head. You spread your fingers out, desperate to prove your innocence to the stranger in the car. And the gun they were holding, pointing at you, through the gap. 

“Were you bit?” A rough voice, muted and deep, broke the atmosphere. 

You shook your head.

“Words. Use them.” 

“No,” you licked your lips, instantly deciding to turn around in a slow circle. “Not bitten. Not scratched.” You tried to ignore the way your hands shook, even as you shifted all the way back to face the gun’s muzzle. 

“Ask where…” a voice, soft and feminine, came from somewhere beyond the driver’s seat. It was saying something, telling something, but faded into a whisper so quiet you couldn’t hear a thing. Your eyes shifted to the dark backseat windows, trying to see something- anything- and found no surprise in the lack of life. 

“Any weapons?” The driver seemed to ignore the other person, and instead held the gun steady. You watched it with weary eyes.

“Yes.” And before they could ask, you tugged the knife out of your belt and the gun out of your pants pocket. They were held up in the air, another white flag, and you twitched the hand that held the firearm. “At least three bullets left, but that’s it.” 

“And the others?” 

You blinked. “Others? What oth-”

“Where is the rest of your ammunition? In the skull of a human or scum?” The stranger spat, and you detected the hints of an accent. 

Scum… you’d never heard them referred to as that before. Your last group called them walkers, and some others claimed flesh-eaters. You were tempted to use ‘zombies’, but it felt rather silly. The world took that term too lightly, and the undead were nothing if not a very serious problem. But scum? Like they were beneath humanity and not its current destroyer? You’d ask about it later, you decided, if they deemed you well enough to take in. 

“Both,” you breathed honestly, dropping your weapons to your sides with a heavy sigh. “They um- weren’t quite there yet. Got ambushed overnight.” 

The gun still didn’t move. 

“They don’t ambush. What really happened?” 

Hm. They weren’t wrong. Animated corpses didn’t ‘ambush’, but when a herd of them went lurking about, it certainly felt that way. You didn’t think logistics were entirely necessary, but you understood the need for specifics. Trust among men was eviscerated in the face of danger, especially against those once living. You’d seen paranoia before, in others. Humans simply didn’t take each other in anymore… not without some level of severe mistrust. The second thought after seeing the truck drive off was that you probably wouldn’t be accepted anyway - you’d killed without technical reason. Could have just left. Run away. 

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t want to see them turn into those… creatures. 

So what else was there to say? You stared at the gun, willing a click and the shot of a bullet, as you opened your mouth. 

“A herd. A lot of them. Just… descended upon the place. Someone might’ve been walking around in the woods or something, and there was just not enough protection,” you paused, licking your lips, “...I was the last one alive. Had to shoot them and go.” 

“How long since?” 

“Few days, give or take,” you shrugged. The exhaustion only built as you stood there, trying not to sway and collapse in your spot. The truck was still running, hissing hot exhaust; it was the first genuinely warm thing you’d felt in so many days that you wanted to crawl underneath and take a nap. The world, turning to autumn, was growing chilly. There was no chance you could survive winter on your own. 

“...Give or take,” you heard the driver scoff and laugh, bitter and mean. You frowned. 

Then the window started going up, and you couldn’t help yourself. With a hard thunk, you pushed your shoulder hard against the car, and knocked on the thick glass with the butt of the knife. A look of utter desperation crossed your features, heavy and thick. Urgency, anxiety, fear forced any sense from your mind. There was no chance. There was no survival at all.

“No please- please I can’t be out here alone please- I’m smart and- and I can run fast and be an asset. Please,” you shook your head, searching with worried eyes, “please, please you can’t do this to me-” 

Something dark spliced through the corner of your vision, dragging a shadow with it, and you just barely dodged the sudden swing of the truck’s backseat door. It bounced with force and you glanced back at the driver’s window once before stepping back and hastily swinging your bag over your shoulder. The knife and gun were slipped back into your clothing, concealed, and you held yourself strong as the black leathered interior bore itself to the world. 

“-we can’t just leave them-” 

“-on’t be stupid. They could be a liability-”

“-not stupid. We need more people-” 

Voices, at least two, were rushed and tangled in an argument. You didn’t pay much attention to what you could hear, though the growing irritation was hard to ignore. It would be a hassle to be accepted, you knew, but you’d deal. There was no choice. The backseat door was open and there was a figure hustled back against the other window. 

“The offer won’t last,” the stranger murmured, somehow louder than the two people in the front seats, and you decided not to take any chances in the world alone. 

With a grunt, a push, and a final slam of the door, you found yourself in the truck. Your bag was pushed down by your feet, you tugged your knife out to rest it on your thigh, and you turned to say thank you- but was cut off by a cold blade at your throat. It grazed the soft dirty skin, less than a centimeter away from pushing, and you felt saliva pool in the back of your throat. Swallowing would have pressed you closer, so you fought the urge and only stared.

“Woah-” 

“Try anything and you die. I don’t want a peep, not a shuffle. Do I make myself clear?” 

The driver’s voice, clearer in such close quarters, was deep and mean. Accent, as you had clocked, from somewhere in the United Kingdom. It held a natural growl, a gruffness from years of smoking, perhaps, and you couldn’t help but sense the intimidation. It wasn’t fake confidence, you noticed, as you looked up and met the cool sharp grey gaze of a woman. Her hair, a deep blonde, was slicked back and short, ruffled slightly by the nape of her neck. A long neck… that led to strong looking shoulders. They were half covered by a jacket, but you could see the strength in the chords of her muscle. A force to be reckoned with. A leader, perhaps. She was pale, with a defined nose and lips twisted into a permanent sneer, and you probably would have thought she had some potential for post-apocalyptic modeling, if it weren’t for the scar that covered one half of her face. Slashed across the left eye, the wound was jagged and rough - it dragged from a point close to the exact middle of her forehead, right to the corner of her jaw. Thicker at parts and thinner at others, it split through a pale eyebrow and seemed to have permanently rendered her blind. The lid didn’t even move when one stormy eye shifted, and you suddenly felt extremely creeped out. Something about her was undeniably cold. Almost reckless, but her hand was so steady with control you knew not to make a move. She’d probably kill without hesitation, dump you back into the road, and drive off with the duffel. There was no choice but to answer, answer quickly, and do as told. 

“Yes, clear.” Your head shifted half an inch up and half an inch down, still cautious of the blade. 

But she didn’t move. 

It was a battle of wills for just a moment, with your hands in your lap, empty and docile. You weren’t looking for a fight, or a staring contest, but the stranger didn’t let up until the figure to your right decided to sit up and speak. 

“Ah they do not seem so bad. Look at them. Tired and scared, like sad city mouse,” another woman, one with a Russian accent and a voice a hint too loud, cooed. 

Silence followed, persisted, for only a minute- and then the blade was tugged back so quickly you swear it nearly cut the air in two. The driver tsked as she twisted herself around, murmuring as she went. 

“More like a rat.” 

And then you were thrown to the side with a heavy wheeze as the truck lurched and began moving, working into a turn so you could go back the way they’d come.

You glared at the back of the headrest, not feeling above a little bit of irritation for some poor handling, but eventually grew bored. With some apprehension, your eyes flicked over to the person in the passenger seat. Their profile was strong, feminine, and you noted the unbelievably well-kept head of snowy hair. She looked clean, just like the driver, and a spark of hope welled up in your tired heart. Running water and food existed where they came from, wherever they were camped out, and if you played your cards right, you could finally indulge in some good hygiene. Unless the woman in the passenger seat was stingy with her water… god her skin was so clear, and she seemed to be wearing makeup. No one wore makeup anymore. Not the people in your old group and not the few stragglers you’d stumbled across. It simply wasn’t a necessary luxury anymore, but the woman sitting across from you, back straight and hands in her lap, seemed to think it was of the utmost importance. You wanted to speak, wanted to ask her name, but found yourself turning to your right - and catching the gaze of the person that opened the door for you. 

“Anna,” your savior spoke, tilting her head to the left and regarding you with curious eyes. A pale hand, big and long-fingered, shot out and hovered above your lap. You glanced down at it, at the clean skin and the perfect fingernails, and knew that you hit the survivalist jackpot. 

With a nod and a quick clasp of her hand, you whispered your name in reply. She nodded before leaning back against the door and crossing her arms; she seemed quite comfortable there, with a rather large gun resting across her lap. Her hair, blonde as well, fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. She saw with deep blue eyes - a contrast to the cold steel of the driver - and didn’t hesitate to flick them over your body in some sort of analytical search. Weapons, you figured, is what she was looking for. And the knife in your lap, which she eyed with some interest. 

You wanted to say something, wanted to thank them, but it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough those days. Asking something of someone was a risk every single time. And you’d asked—begged—them to take you in. You needed to pull your weight, no questions asked. 

“Um- thank you for-”

“Shoot them.” 

“What?!” You straightened up, eyes going wide as, in your peripherals, you saw Anna’s hand inch toward her gun. Through the rear-view mirror, you caught the way the driver’s brow twitched. 

“You heard me. Shoot them.” 

“Pha-”

“I said no talking,” the stranger growled, not even bothering to address the woman in the passenger seat. The white-haired woman looked frustrated, her red lips tugging into a frown, as she watched the driver double down on her focus. “Didn’t I say that?” 

“But I-,” you wanted to plead your case, wanted to defend yourself, but were cut off. 

“I am not going to shoot,” Anna said before you could speak. “Why do you expect her to be quiet hah, Phasma? We just saved her жопa. No need for fighting.”

You glanced at her, picking up on the Native tongue. Fresh off the boat, or perhaps visiting, with the way she said it so easily. Zhopa? Given the context, it wasn’t hard to tell what she meant. Yes, they had just saved your ass. And yes, you wanted to say thank you. Even if that Phasma person wasn’t too keen on a bit of gratitude. 

“I hardly think thanking us for a kind deed is worthy of execution, no matter how much silence you require,” the fair-haired woman across from you said smoothly, throwing a slight glare to the woman on her right. And finally, she took that moment to turn around in the seat and make eye contact. 

Something that proved to be far more difficult than you thought it would. Good lord, she was gorgeous. Pale skin, deep admiral blue eyes, and lips redder than blood. Not even a scratch on her face, not even a single spec of dirt - as if the apocalypse never happened and there weren’t dead people roaming every street in the world. In fact, she didn’t seem incredibly worried about the predicament the human species found itself in, and was looking at you with kind eyes, a furrowed brow, and a smile that she hoped was welcoming. 

“My name is Larissa,” her hand, gloved in white fabric as soft as silk, reached out as an olive branch. You wanted to take it, wanted to feel something so lovely for the first time in a long time and create some sort of bond, but your hands were very dirty. A part of you guessed that Larissa hadn’t put them on earlier that day with the hope to return to camp holding soft fabric smudged with dirt and dried blood, so you only looked down at your palm and then back at hers. 

“Oh uh- I don’t wanna get your gloves dirty-” 

“Oh,” she glanced down, realizing that she was, in fact, wearing hand-coverings. “Later, then,” a warm smile shone back at you - and you were helpless, instantly offering her a nod in return. 

“Finished?” The driver piped up, eyes cold as she stared at you in the rear-view. 

As if on cue, Larissa turned back around in her seat, rolling her eyes as she went, and you could only fall quiet. Introductions were over, you were warming up to the easy heat in the car, and Phasma–if you dared address her by name in your head–had a good handle of the wheel. You were safe. For now. And with one last suspended look at the gun on Anna’s lap, you reached over for the seatbelt, tucked yourself in with a click, and leaned back in the seat. It was so suddenly comfortable, such a huge contrast to the shit you’d dealt with recently, that you couldn’t help but close your eyes and revel. Even for a moment. Even for a second.

—

“Get up,” a mean grunt, paired with a quick rush of piercingly cold air, tugged you from the depths of sleep. 

Before you could even open your eyes properly, a shiver set itself into your bones. Eager to escape it, and the confines of the car, you jolted and scrambled for your seatbelt. Leaning against the open door, watching you grab your things, was the driver. Phasma? Weird name, but there was no time to dwell - especially not when she was looking at you like that. Eyes sharper than the knife on your lap, holding a polished chrome pistol in one hand, and waiting with some tension for you to hurry up. The duffel was pulled up onto your shoulder, the knife was tucked into your belt, and your hands scratched at the leather as you looked around wildly for your gun. 

“We took it. You’ll get it back when you prove you’re not a complete imbecile,” she spat, peering down her nose at you. Disgust danced in her expression, sparking flames of unwanted insecurity, and you felt compelled to look away. Her nostrils were flared, her pink lips curled into something disdainful and mean, and you couldn’t help but watch the way her jaw shifted as she tensed, watching you watch her. The hatred seemed a bit out of place, too strong for normal trust issues, and you briefly wondered if perhaps she’d always been that way - even before the end of civilization. She was clearly a bitch, and not interested in showing you kindness any time soon, so you decided to forgo a response, ignored her glaring, and slipped out of the car without a word. 

Before your feet were completely on the ground, and your bag was out of the way, the door slammed closed behind you, quick and sharp. The speed of it nearly clipped your shirt, and you whirled around to face the stranger’s irritation. She seemed to have lost interest in you and side-stepped your figure without another glance. One finger on the trigger, a shit-ton of audacity-filled swagger in her walk, and a back broad and strong. She looked like an outlaw, tall, mean, wearing grey with a belt around her strong hips and a leather jacket over her shoulders. You wanted to throw your gun at her and watch it hit the back of her head, but there was no way in Hell you’d be able to run away faster than she could catch you. 

“Come,” you heard Anna speak, interrupting your train of thought as she trudged up to your left. You turned, seeing the way she cocked her head. “I’ll introduce you.” The gun swayed in her grasp as she turned, making little shuffling sounds in the grass. 

The grass. 

You went to go forward, but stopped. The grass. It was… terribly neat. Very well maintained. Not like apocalypse grass, which was flat and bloodied and mudded and dusted, but like rich person grass. Striking green grass, healthy, it bounced back behind you when you stepped on it. And the air… you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. It was fresh. Pure. Free of the smell of death and free of gunpowder and spraying blood. Just where on Earth were y-

oh.

Oh. 

You looked up, finally, and found yourself in a courtyard. On all sides was a wall, sections of it made of brick, others of stone, and the rest of wrought iron fence, bolted hard into the ground; and across the way, piercing the sky, was a manor. Or what looked like a manor. No - what was definitely a manor. Dark, illuminated slightly by the deep blue of the atmosphere and the torches that littered the ground in neat paths, splitting off into cobblestone sections. You swallowed. It was gorgeous. Untouched. A world that seemed to run on and on while the rest of the globe went to shit. 

How fucking lucky were you? 

“Come! I must say twice?!” Anna called, giving you an exasperated beckon as she started disappearing behind the dark stone brick of the main entrance. 

Sparing a quick glance behind you, you found a fortified gate and short stone walls - reinforced and built upon with barbed wire, wood, and sheets of metal. It must have opened up for the truck when you were still asleep, but was very much firmly shut and impenetrable once closed. You wanted to explore it more, wanted to study the mechanism and the layout and come to understand just how they managed to get the place so protected, but you didn’t want to leave Anna waiting. And a low rumble of thunder, far but rolling quick, told you that rain was eager to make her appearance - and you did not want to get caught in that. 

After adjusting your bag and patting the knife in your belt for reassurance, you set off after the Russian stranger. 

—

“So I am Anna, this you know already,” she pointed to herself, tapped her chest twice, then rolled her hand over to gesture to the clearing ahead. 

It was beautiful, outlined against a dark wood. Rocky paths led to a big circle in the middle, and the ruins of stone benches and statues littered the camp. You could definitely see what it used to be - a beautiful place for the elite to sit, to bask, to enjoy the nice air and the wind. But the end of the world had gotten to it, not with the bearings of total destruction, but with the promise of change. A big spruce shelter had been built to the far left, reinforced with four beams and no walls - clearly just meant to keep the rain at bay while they worked outside. Beneath it, there were wooden benches and designated spots for farming equipment, guns, and even a water purifying system from the looks of it. If you assumed that sleeping quarters and showers existed in the castle, then they seemed to be in the best shape anyone could be in.

Even the people, who were busy going about their evening and tending to their duties, while you watched by Anna’s side and felt your excitement grow.

“Phasma was woman driving. Not so kind,” she tsked, giving you a knowing look, and you found yourself unable to ask about the strange name. You figured she wouldn’t have known the answer anyway. Then her hand moved, stealing your attention. “That is Jane,” she pointed to a pale woman sitting on one of the large stone benches. 

Her back was turned, but you could see the severity of her expression in the reflection of a hand mirror. She was handsome, free of makeup, with jet-black hair. The strands fell from between her fingertips, spilling like water, as she threaded them into a braid around her head. Her movements were slow, methodic, and you watched, sort of hypnotized, as the long sleeves of her hooded dress stretched across her slim back. Tight along her arms and resting over the black pants covering her thighs, leading down to knee-high leather boots. Fit for an apocalypse, but somehow still chic. You watched her hands for a moment more, and turned slightly to her right when Anna gestured to the woman beside her. 

“Miranda. Good girl, but way too skinskie,” she nodded to herself while crossing her arms. 

The stranger in question–Miranda–was holding up an antique hand mirror for Jane to look into while doing her hair. They seemed to be the same height, though Miranda’s build was lankier and toned. The sleeves of her white top had to have been torn off, leaving freckled shoulders free to the air, and around one wrist was a black watch. It nearly matched the same leather as her belt, which held an attached holster and a sleeve for a walkie-talkie. Its antenna stood out against the baby blue of her uniform pants; tight by the hips but baggier toward the ankles, tucked into dark laced boots. Her hair was styled into a fair blonde bob, probably recently cut by the sight of such clean edges. It looked unbearably soft kissing the back of her neck.

“She was policewoman. Strong.” Anna commented, gazing at her from your spot by the castle wall. 

You nodded absentmindedly, looking over the two strangers and the chess board that sat between them on the bench. Jane had black and Miranda white. The latter seemed to be focusing quite hard on the game, holding a pawn loosely in one hand, as the dark-haired beauty tsked and adjusted the hand mirror that slowly slipped to the side. You watched Miranda jump and offer what you assumed was a sheepish apology, as she tried to multitask. Her small smile was pink and soft, warm and welcoming. A friend, perhaps. 

“Very…domestic,” came your soft murmur, sparked by the surprise of such a peaceful camp. In the past group, everyone was too busy trying to sleep, find food, or talk themselves through panic attacks. Maintaining sanity with comfort was not a priority. 

“Da. Comfortable,” your companion nodded. “Jan is there, washing.” And you turned, yet again, to find a figure standing in front of a clothesline. 

The combat boots made her seem tall, though they were a bit out of place—not really matching the long white sleeved shirt and full red skirt combo. Immaculate and clean, you noticed, though that was to be expected from a woman trying her hardest to get blood out of a white blouse. Her hands were covered by blue rubber gloves, with one clutched around a sponge and the other around the neck of a bottle of white wine vinegar. On the ground by her feet was a large pale jug of hydrogen peroxide and a bucket of what you assumed was water. And the blouse in front of her, held up by wooden clothespins, rippled from the breeze. It seemed to get colder and windier the longer the night went on, probably bringing the rain with it at some point. With any luck, it would clear up the light splotches of pink that covered most of the shirt’s chest up to the collar, but ‘Jan’ didn’t seem too patient and satisfied with that. She got back to her scrubbing a moment later, the strict waves of her blonde hair bumping gently against her neck. 

“Jan is very chic. You go to her for fashion advice, no?” Anna tilted her head at you, dragging dark blue eyes over your face. The lawn lamps stabbed into the grass lit everything up with a sweet warm glow, bringing out the flames in her expression as she peered at you curiously. Very handsome, in her own sharp-featured sort of way. You couldn’t help the snort that bubbled up. 

“Respectfully, I think fashion is the least of my concerns right now, Anna.” 

“Hm. Maybe,” she hummed, shrugged, and gave you a once-over that set your heart racing before turning her attention back to the group. 

“Brienne!” You jumped, flinching away as Anna’s loud voice carried into your ear. In the distance, a hulking figure shifted and unfolded, moving to look up at the call. They were sitting on a big pile of cut logs, holding a stone cylindrical sharpener in one hand and a… sword… in the other. Anna waved, talking to you gently as you both watched the figure’s expression change into one of suspicion. She was handsome. Pale, with the lightest blonde lashes and brows, and eyes that sparkled even from that distance. They squinted, drawing frown lines across her face, as she straightened up in her spot. You tried desperately not to stare at her figure, but it was impossible. The deep blue ribbed shirt clung to her torso like a second skin, wrapping tightly around strong biceps and broad shoulders. It was tucked into muddy green cargo pants, offsetting the brightness of the steel that covered the toes of her dark boots. You tilted your head and watched as she glanced between you and Anna before she finally decided to shoot the woman a firm nod. Anna’s lips quirked up into a smile. “She was once soldier. Good woman - she will protect you if you’re in trouble. Saved me many many times.” Her blonde curls swished as she nodded to herself. 

That was good to know, you reasoned. Everyone seemed quite strong. Tall, too. And pale. The camp was gorgeous, the people seemed mundane enough, and the company was… well. Your eyes drifted over to Anna’s side profile, a silhouette of soft dips and curves, and you couldn’t hide the attraction you felt even if you tried.

“Larissa, you know too. She is leader, xорошо?” You didn’t really know what ‘harasho’ meant, but the light intonation of her voice had you saying ‘Yeah’ anyway. 

Then an arm was winding itself around yours, jostling the bag on your shoulder and the gun slung around Anna’s body. It rested against her back, hitting her thighs, and you were suddenly powerless to the way she steered you further down the gravel path. Toward the right, there was a makeshift driveway; a patch of land ripped up from the grass and replaced with gravel, soil, and rocks. The black truck made an appearance again, probably having been driven up from around the back, and you watched with curious eyes as Phasma busied herself with a few bags and boxes from the trunk. Jesus, she was fit… tall and lethal. A small grunt left her lips when she hauled two boxes up into her arms, never faltering or pausing. Damn. You found yourself getting lost in the sight of her legs in those cargo pants, filling them out, until Anna clicked her tongue. 

“Lucifer is strange, but ultimately harmless. Do not worry, they are not naked under the robe.” 

Lucifer? Naked under the what? 

You were going to take a quick glance around, to find whatever the hell Anna was talking about, but there was no need. Some feet in front of you, lounging on a red and gold velvet chase, was a lithe figure. They were almost glowing in the reflection of the walkway lamps, with the deep crimson of a flowing silk robe offsetting the smooth pale planes of soft skin. One elbow was propped up on the arm of the chair, and you traced the folds of flowing sleeves up to a slim forearm, wrist, and a delicate hand. Slender fingers were curled under the curve of a pale cheek, and you felt your heartbeat speed up at the sight of soft features and  crystal eyes. And their hair, curled so perfectly into handsome shining ringlets of spun golden-web… goodness, they were… 

“Luxurious,” you murmured, tilting your head as you watched the stranger chat with Larissa. She was standing over them, in front of the chase, and even at that height, you had a feeling that the one laying down was somehow a little bit taller. “Is Lucifer their real name?” 

“Da,” Anna nodded, “little strange, no?” 

“Yeah,” you gave her an odd look. “Strange as fuck.” 

“Don’t get comfortable,” a voice growled from behind you, making you slip away from Anna’s hold and turn around. Phasma was walking past, holding a big bag under each arm. Her muscle was impressive, but dear god she was an asshole. You had to sort out that situation as quick as possible.

“Hey what’s your problem, man?” You spread your hands out at your sides before letting them slap against your thighs. “You picked me up, and while I’m grateful for that, I am, you didn’t have to-”

“Exactly,” she bit out as she whirled around and marched right back to you. Her breath was cool, washing lightly over your face, and she stood so close that your foreheads nearly touched. From that angle, looking up, you could reach out and trace the jagged line of her scar. It was quite attractive actually, even if her eyes narrowed as she watched you look at her. They were cold. Not an ounce of care.

“Don’t. Get. Comfortable.” Her lips twitched, carrying a silent threat.

“Okay,” Larissa’s voice, sing-songy and weary, cut into the conversation. “Why don’t we all take a moment to calm down, hm?” Her smile was blinding as she turned to you. One gloved hand hovered above Phasma’s right shoulder, but was instantly shrugged off the second it made contact. Her sneer didn’t fade even when she stepped back, eyes still flaming with anger. Larissa cleared her throat. “Y/n, you’re new here. Why don’t you and I have a little chat?” 

Her expression, although kind, hid a sharpness that you didn’t think was wise to fuck around with. If Larissa was the leader, according to Anna, then it was her you had to charm. You didn’t really know why she was the top dog, especially because some of the other group members seemed more… abrasive… but clearly something about her was good enough to be the one in charge. And pissing her off, messing around with her people, was a one-way ticket to possibly turning into those fuckers lurking in the woods. So you didn’t really have a choice - and you didn’t really want one. No matter what, you’d stay. You’d be of some help. You’d stay on the soft grass, smelling the clean air. You’d become best friends with Larissa, the group would learn to like you, and you’d try not to combust when any of them looked your way.

Easier said than done though, of course. Especially when Larissa’s smile knocked down all of your reservations at once, in one big swing, and coaxed an obedient nod from your body. 

“Okay. Yes. Sure.” 

“Perfect,” Larissa’s grin, somehow, grew even wider. 

“It’s getting late,” were Phasma’s parting words before she turned away and headed off toward two big wooden double doors. 

You watched her strut without much thought, and found yourself on the other end of a staring Larissa. Her eyes were utterly striking in the evening light, and the outline of her face… a sight to be seen for a person as weary as you. 

“So… is your group considered women only?” You murmured, peering up at her through your eyelashes. 

Red lips twitched. 

“Not intentionally. Though we have had the discussion before,” she contemplated her next words carefully, looking all over your face before resuming, “and we think it’s best if it’s just women. And Lucifer.” 

“And Lucifer?” You still can’t get over that being their real name. Probably just picked out in a moment of edginess when they were a teen. Lucifer did sound cool, sort of bully-worthy. Like they were emo kid once upon a time.

“Lucifer is what many would refer to as non-binary. Not a man and not a woman. I hope that won’t be a problem?” Something flashed behind her eyes. Not a threat, but a warning. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Not at all. They and I are… one and the same,” you shrugged and adjusted the bag on your shoulder. 

“How lucky I must be…,” someone purred from over your shoulder.

You tensed up, surprised by the closeness, and felt yourself grow a little weak at the tone. Like spiced honey, their voice was intense and smooth. You wanted to lap it up. 

“Ah right on time for a proper introduction,” Larissa, ever the most efficient woman from what you could tell so far, found herself a golden opportunity. One hand shot out and gestured over to you, then to the person slinking around to your right. “Y/n this is Lucifer, one of the strongest members of our group. Lucifer and I make most of the big decisions, with the necessary input from everyone else. And Lucifer,” Larissa’s grin relaxed into a smile, “this is Y/n. Depending on our discussion of the rules, they may become a familiar face, so I suggest you play nice.” 

You found that you couldn’t look to the side without short-circuiting. There was something.. something… about their aura that had you wanting to shy away and cower. It wasn’t the explosive intensity of Phasma or the consuming strangeness of Anna, or even the gentle but strong hand of Larissa… but instead a subtle sort of consumption. Utterly intriguing and fascinating - like they were put on the Earth to confuse humans. You didn’t even look at them and you could feel that. Didn’t even know them and you could feel that. Standing so close. So much body heat. 

“It’s a pleasure,” they murmured, turning to you fully. 

You swallowed, braced yourself, and looked up to your right. 

Sweet holy Jesus. They were even more handsome up close. Just absolutely soft and glorious. And carrying the faint scent of… firewood? You cleared your throat. 

“Um yeah- likewise. Hi.” 

A flash of black, followed by measured footsteps in the grass, had all three of you shifting to see Jane walking past. Miranda was not too far behind, taking her time to cross the yard. 

“Dinner is being prepared. Show face in the next 20 minutes or go to bed hungry.” Jane didn’t even spare you a glance before she disappeared behind the same doors Phasma had gone through. 

“Thank you, Jane,” Larissa managed to call just before they closed behind her with a dull bang. 

“Three moves…,” Miranda was muttering, holding the box for the chess set in one hand. “She beat me in three moves.” 

“Oh it’s not hard. I would’ve beaten you in two,” another voice entered the fray, polite but amused. Jan, you recognized, as she sidled up between you and Larissa with a small smile on her deep red lips. 

Miranda scoffed and turned to look at Anna, only to find that she was gone. One glance behind you revealed that she’d wandered over to Brienne, probably prompting her to go inside for dinner. You hummed, hiding the amusement of friendly banter. It had been so long since you felt even the smallest sense of normalcy. If they were so comfortable with each other, then it must have been a bit since they were all alone out in the world. You’d probably ask Larissa about that later - once everything was said and done. 

“I would’ve beaten you in one,” Lucifer smirked as they pulled away and went walking inside. Had they been barefoot the entire time? 

“That’s not even possible!” Miranda yelled, but the door was already shut. “...Is it?” She turned to Larissa, then to you, then back to Larissa. 

“I don’t think so, Miranda,” Larissa smiled before looking at you. “Any chance you’re good at chess?” 

Dear lord, having two sets of beautiful blue eyes on you was nerve-wracking, but you ignored the flush building up on your cheeks and nodded. 

“Um yeah- it’s possible to beat someone in two moves. But it’s only black, I think.” You gave Miranda an apologetic smile and a shrug as she pouted. 

“You will beat her next time Miranda,” Anna returned with Brienne in her wake. The sword she was sharpening earlier was still in her hands. “She cannot win forever.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brienne cut in, her voice strong and deep. Her mouth was pulled into a light frown, and you noticed the scar that cut through the upper lip on the right. From the time before, you suspected. Otherwise she’d be turned. “She beat me and Phasma one after the other.” 

Miranda sighed, tsking beneath her breath. 

“Then there’s no hope…” Goodness, she looked like a sad puppy.

“Why not?” It slipped out of your mouth before you could grab it. 

And of course, all of the attention then dragged itself over to you. Five sets of sea-blue eyes, all gorgeous in the glow of the evening lamps, traced lines over your tired body. In comparison to them, you looked a sight. Obviously having been picked up from the side of the road, unclean and awkward, somewhat detached from society. In your bag? Not enough clothing and not enough supplies. In your belt, peeking out from beneath your shirt? A knife, dirty and growing dull. And in your eyes? Lurking sadness and horror - the same which probably lived in the women that were observing you. 

Larissa, thank goodness, finally broke the lull of silence. 

“Brienne and Phasma were in the military,” she said gently.

“Oh. That makes sense.” And it did - Jane must have been an intellectual force if she beat people that used to be in the military before the world ended. Though that made you wonder… “What branch?” You turned to Brienne, not really surprised that you had to look up to meet her eyes. It seemed you’d been adopted into a camp of skyscrapers. Though the sharpness of her eyes had you swallowing. “I mean- if you don’t mind me asking.” 

She seemed to consider it, sizing you up, before saying, rather shortly, “SAS. Then Delta Force.” 

You couldn’t hide the way your eyes widened. 

“Oh.” 

“Oh, indeed,” Larissa hummed. “But I think now would be a good time to head in, wouldn’t you say?” She spared her smile for everyone, meeting the gaze of each woman, before finally looking at you and raising her eyebrow. 

It wasn’t really up to you, so you just shrugged and waited for Anna to say ‘Da, da, xорошо’ before heading in. Brienne followed after her, then Miranda, who was studying the back of the chess box, and Larissa, who started taking off her gloves. Jan, meanwhile, stayed where she was and kept her eyes on you. They were curious and deep, never-ending, and lined with mascara and eyeliner. Mascara and eyeliner that… well it suited her, but goodness it was certainly intense. Dark and shadowed, but beautiful nevertheless. You couldn’t look away. 

“Jan Stevens,” she breathed and gave you her hand, elegant and admittedly quite charming. Her nails were painted a deep cherry red. Utterly flawless.

At the sight of it, you weren’t entirely sure what to do. Your palms were still dirty, and sort of calloused, and you didn’t want to… ruin her. So you hesitated, stared at it, looked back up at her, and found her kind smile to be unwavering. 

“Go on,” Jan finally whispered, giving her hand a pointed look, and you fell prey in an instant. 

Quickly, you shot out to gently cup her hand into your own, and gave it a gentle shake. You felt strangely compelled to bring it up to your lips, but you weren’t sure that meeting a stranger in an apocalypse really called for such formalities. Even though you yearned to feel her skin beneath your mouth. It wasn’t proper; though you did think that Jan’s expression fell just a little bit. Like she was excited. Like she wanted you to kiss her hand. 

“Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” she purred, looking you up and down, before turning toward the door. “Come quickly now. If we’re late, Jane will send us off to bed without dinner. And we wouldn’t want that.” 

It probably would have been wise to consider and contemplate the fact that you were in a stranger’s camp, with a stranger’s group… but the saucy little wink that Jan threw over her shoulder sent a deep blush crawling up your cheeks. And just like that, without fail, you were one of the flesh-eaters… caught in the pretty paws of eight different beasts. 

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Please let me know if my characterization is okay and if you'd like to see more. Be safe, darlings. - Rip x

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Far too many names to tag. Find it as you come.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

[sqyyadina]

A JOINT PRAYER.

Pairing: Lorraine Warren X Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Tags: fluff, first kiss, period - typical homophobia.

Summary: You weren't raised to worship any God, but Lorraine Warren is starting to make you believe.

Author’s Note: I'd take a bullet for this woman. This is also on my AO3!

“We’d like to take you to the movies tonight. To thank you.”

Her voice is as honey as her perfectly curled hair, and as Lorraine hands you a porcelain cup of tea, you revel in the way your hands briefly ghost past each other.

Though you’ve worked as a secretary for the Warrens for well over a year now, you can’t help but feel intimidated as you sit on their plush couch, nursing your tea, the smiling couple sitting beside you. Their combined gaze is nearly suffocating, as if you are consumed by a demon of your own and they’re trying to rid you of it.

“Thank me? Whatever for?” You ask gently, head cocked to the side in question while you sip on the chamomile you’ve been offered.

“You’ve been a great help to us as of late.” Ed adds, a protective hand patting his wife’s thigh. You hate to admit it, you do, he’s truly a lovely man, but every time Ed begins to speak, you just wish he was out of the picture entirely. You wish that could have been your thumb rubbing circles into Lorraine’s plaid skirt; your lips pressing a kiss to her forehead wrinkle every time she got too focused on her Bible.

But it wasn’t you.

It was him, and it would always be him. You saw the way they looked at each other, the way he sang to her when he thought they were alone in the office. They were practically destined to be together. It’s cliché to say that it made you sick, but there genuinely were nights in which you felt feverish over the fact that Lorraine Warren would never be yours.

“Oh, you flatter me…” You hum back, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ears. “Really, all I do is organize files… how much of a help can that be?”

You’re much more sheepish than the two sitting across from you, and it shows. Lorraine, ever the investigator, the curious mind, always searching across the face of the person she’s speaking to as if it’s a map into their soul, picks up on your shyness immediately. She always does.

You know that Lorraine has a nurturing spirit, but you rarely expect her comforting gestures. That’s what makes it so special. That’s why it gives you pause when she leans forward to press a warm hand to your knee.

“Please, don’t deprecate yourself.” Her tone is stern, like she truly means to command you into being kinder to yourself, but her voice is so delicate and her smile so warm and inviting that you soften into her minimal touch and nod your head. “Really, you have no idea how having you around has improved our lives.”

You feel your face turn hot at that last sentence, and you fail to maintain eye contact with the older woman any longer. Gently bouncing you heeled foot against the ground, you giggle lightly, and bat a hand as if to dismiss what she’s said.

“You’re too kind…” You hum back, slowly lifting your head again to meet her gaze once again. At this point, you’ve all but forgotten that Ed is even present. “I’m not sure I believe you, but I’d love to go to the movies.”

It’s without pause that Ed claps his hands together and rises to his feet. He says something, quite loud, but you quickly forget what it is. It startles you, to say the least, and you jump back a bit, your tea threatening to slosh onto your blouse. You notice that Lorraine’s hand stays put on your thigh, though, and only leaves once it’s given you a few gentle pats to settle your nerves. She stands as well, always following her husband’s footsteps. You quickly join them, always following Lorraine’s.

“Let’s see something scary!” Ed grins, searching around the room for a newspaper that may have the local theater’s lineup.

“Oh, do you not get enough of a fright out of our daily lives?” Lorraine jokes with that tender laugh of hers, patting her husband on the back and looking at the paper over his shoulder.

“No, I don’t.” Ed replies simply, and plants a kiss on Lorraine’s cheek.

It makes your stomach turn.

“What would you like to see, dear?” You realize that she’s turned her attention back to you. You stumble forward, as if both of your legs had gone numb in the few moments that you had spent sitting on the couch.

You really do hate to agree with Ed, but most of the movies offered sound utterly boring. The thought did cross your mind that watching a horror film would allow you to look to Lorraine for comfort under the guise of fear, which immediately influenced your decision. Sufficed to say, the Warrens’ ghost stories had both satiated your hunger for fright, and completely desensitized you to it, yet you figured you could act scared enough to win a little more of Lorraine’s touch.

Your first few weeks, of course, you had been absolutely terrified of the previously haunted artifacts that your employers always brought home, but with the fervor of their exorcisms and the frequency of their jobs, there isn’t a whole lot that you hadn’t seen nor heard. You had become primarily neutral when it came to horror, but maybe that was because of Lorraine’s calming presence and Ed’s story-telling ability that made the murderous dolls much less terrifying.

“I think I’d like something scary. It is almost Halloween, after all.” You smile to the older woman before pointing to a certain line of text. “This one has the word ‘massacre’ in the title… I don’t believe you can get much scarier than that!”

Ed quickly makes his approval known, and Lorraine playfully rolls her eyes at him before giving his arm a light squeeze.

“I suppose that’s alright.” She hums, her eyes focusing on the page for a second longer. You’ve always known Lorraine to be the bookkeeper of their operation, and suspected she was always the one in charge of appointment dates and important phone numbers. When she rattled off a list of movie times, Ed already having moved to re-read the sports section, your suspicions were proven right.

‘How about eight?” you muse, looking down at your wrinkled dress and chipping nail polish. “It will give me time to change. And fix my hair… and my nails…” You had expected the weather to be bearable this time of year, but you had been burdened by particularly warm weather that caused your hair to frizz uncontrollably. You certainly shouldn’t have chanced long sleeves.

Lorraine, leaving her husband to his muttering about the Yankees, took the half step closer to place her hand on your shoulder. It was shockingly warm, but not at all a warm that you disliked. A comforting warm, that you could enjoy even on a day as sweltering as this one.

“You look beautiful.” She hums, nearly whispering it, as if she doesn’t want anyone else in the world to hear. “As always.” Lorraine adds before disappearing behind your back. She’s picked up your now empty teacup and makes her way to living room door. “We’ll pick you up at seven thirty.” She winks in your direction before exiting the room.

Your knees feel numb, and you try your hardest to wipe the dumb smile off of your face, but it doesn’t disappear, even as you crawl into your car and turn on the radio that just happens to be playing some cheesy love song.

The honking from outside startles you. That’s easy to say; there’s not a lot that doesn’t startle you. You just hadn’t expected them to be so punctual.

You had been sitting in front of your mirror for a little over an hour now, staring at every little detail of your visage to make sure everything was just right, even down to the placement of your beauty marks. It was honestly quite hard to focus, what with Lorraine’s compliment ringing in your ears. You didn’t even need to apply any rouge to your cheeks, they were still so hot.

Now donning a shorter sleeved blouse and a much lighter weight skirt, hair re-curled and nails painted perfectly, you cheerfully snatched your bag and raced out the front door.

Wiggling into the back seat of their fancy new Chevy that Ed couldn’t stop bragging on, you shoot a smile at Lorraine, who returns it through the rearview mirror. You quickly look away after that, yet you can still feel her eyes bore into you. You might just be making that up, but you’re far too scared to glance back up and check.

The drive is primarily quiet, save for Ed’s singing along to the radio, and you even find yourself enjoying his presence for once. He really does sound like Elvis when he tries hard enough.

By the time you arrive at the theater, your heart is racing. Something about sitting in Lorraine’s presence for more than ten minutes at a time causes you a great deal of panic. Despite knowing the woman all this time, you still find her completely enthralling, yet endlessly terrifying.

When she exits the car first to open your door with a playful smile, you feel your pounding heart drop to your stomach. You felt like you were on a date, except your date had brought her husband along. Plus, there’s simply no reality in which said date reciprocates the ways in which you are feeling for her. It’s a very hard pill for you to swallow, but you’ll need to keep reminding yourself that you in fact are not going steady with this woman, but are in fact her employee, and should be furiously professional tonight, no matter what.

It's when you step out of the car that you deeply regret your outfit decision for the second time today. The day had quickly turned to night before you had realized, and the evening’s chill was starting to settle in. You hug yourself tightly as the three of you enter the theater, trying desperately to distract yourself from the cold by figuring out what you’d like to eat.

Your unease must’ve been immediately noticed by the woman that notices absolutely everything that happens around her, because it’s within seconds that you feel a sweater draped over your shoulders. You perk up and whip your head to the side only to catch Lorraine smoothing down your collar.

“I brought an extra, just in case.” She winks at you again, a knowing smirk on her lips. She must’ve picked up on how haphazardly you tend to make decisions, and you appreciated it more than Lorraine could ever know. It wasn’t often that people remembered much about you, so for her to be so prepared for you made your chest swell.

Lorraine sweater is just heavy enough to feel like a hug, and it smells heavenly. Just like her. You don’t want to seem like a weirdo, but you’d be perfectly content to spend the next hour with your nose buried in the soft material, surrounded by the warm vanilla scent of whatever expensive perfume Lorraine wears. Or maybe she just naturally smells that good. You wouldn’t put it past her.

Your attention turns back to the giant menu board as you pull your arms through the sleeves of the sweater, and right away you could feel your brain go silent. It was impossibly difficult for you to decide, especially when there were so many options. That, paired with the steep prices and the very lackluster salary you make as the Warrens’ glorified secretary, make your brain completely stop its functioning for a second. Your worry makes its way into your hands, which fiddle with the sleeves of the sweater that are just an inch too long for your arms.

Lorraine, yet again magically anticipating your every need, places a firm hand on the small of your back, lowering herself to practically purr into your ear.

“Do you need help choosing?” She’s just close enough that her voice, as low as it is, drowns out all of the madness of the bustling theater, and the commotion inside your mind. `

You nod up to her, chewing on your lower lip as the two of you glance over the menu together.

“I can’t decide…” you begin, eyebrows furrowed as you dart over the row of boxes of candy before you. “… between chocolate or popcorn.”  You’re getting dangerously close to the front of the line now, and it’s really beginning to wear on your nerves, but Lorraine’s ringed fingers lightly rubbing into your back is calming you tenfold.

The taller woman laughs gently, and you wince a little in fear that she’s making fun of you for having difficulty with something so simple, but you’ve never known Lorraine to be a cruel woman, so the thought is easily dismissed.

“Silly girl.” She says gingerly, giving you a light pat before dropping her hand. “Get both. I’ll make sure Ed pays for it.”

Your cheeks burn once again, and while you yearn for the feeling of her hand to replace itself anywhere on you, you find that Lorraine is already a gift from God and there’s no use praying for any more from the woman.

“Thank you!” you giggle softly, returning the clairvoyant’s playful smile with one of your own as you step forward to the concession counter.

Ed begins rattling off all the things that he wants, and it’s yet again that you remember he’s even there. You figure that if a man as boisterous as Ed Warren can be so easily forgotten in your mind by the likes of his wife, you must truly be under a spell. You shyly give your order when Lorraine ushers you in front of her, hands fiddling with your sleeves again. When you begin to reach for your purse, a hand lightly swats at your own. You really don’t find it necessary for the people that already pay your living wage to give you anymore, and yet you don’t deem it possible that Lorraine will let you pay for anything yourself.

With treats and tickets in hand the three of you make your way into the theater, Ed taking the exact seats that you would have chosen yourself. It’s by a miracle— or rather very careful planning on your behalf— that you’re sitting next to Lorraine, with Ed on her other side. You silently cheer yourself on for what you believe to be such careful maneuvering, because there is just no way in the world that you would spend the next two hours sitting next to someone who will probably talk over the entire movie anyway.

You settle in as the opening credits of the film begin, and right away you feel anxious. Even in a room full of people and the ever so comforting presence of your favorite demonologist by your side, it’s hard not to be scared in a dark room watching a movie about a psycho killer. Your leg begins to bounce nervously as you begin shoveling popcorn in your mouth, anticipating the many scares that are soon to come your way.

And they do come, in multitudes. You’re jumping out of your seat nearly every minute that goes by. The Warrens, as cemented in their occupations as they are, jump a few times as well, which comes as quite the comfort. You had seen them frightened before, when assessing houses for possible spirits, but neither seemed to be as much of a scaredy cat as you.

You’re granted the solace of Lorraine’s hand when she offers it to you about halfway through the movie. It’s after you jump at the sudden sound of a chainsaw revving up, and she must take pity on you, but you don’t care about the implication because you take the hand as quickly as it’s offered. As you’re sitting to her left, you notice that she’s come to the theater with her signature rosary wrapped around her hand. The cool beads do give you a bit of alarm when you first feel them, but then you realize that it only comes as added protection. You’re not sure what the power of the Spirit can do for you in this moment, but you’re very happy that Lorraine is always prepared against whatever dark forces she’s prepared against.

Sitting next to her, hand-in-hand, Lorraine’s gravitational pull is so strong that eventually you find yourself fully leaned against her arm, gripping her hand for dear life. It doesn’t seem to bother her one bit, and if the lights were any brighter, you’d be able to notice a smile planted firmly on her rosy lips.

Just as you feel yourself in a safe position, completely relaxed and feeling entirely safe (or as safe as you can feel during a movie like this), the movie’s third act kicks into gear and you feel your heart start to beat about a million beats a second. You feel a wave of panic wash over you, and it came out of absolutely nowhere. You swallow hard a few times, looking around the theater to keep yourself calm, to remind yourself that there’s not really a chainsaw wielding maniac running around the place, but it doesn’t do much to settle your nerves.

Before you even notice the stinging in your eyes, before you can stop from embarrassing yourself, your cheeks are wet with tears. You swipe at them a few times with your free hand, hoping to not draw too much attention to yourself as you begrudgingly pull yourself from Lorraine’s grasp.

“I… I’ll be right back.” You whisper next to her ear, praying to God that she didn’t notice the crack in your voice.

You can hear her whisper something back, but not well enough to register it, because you’re already out of your seat and rushing to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, you assess the damage to your makeup.

Your mascara has run down to your neck, and your lips are all smudged from your nervous popcorn eating.

… And you had left your purse, with all of your extra makeup and tissues, beneath your seat.

You felt on the verge of a breakdown, but the very last thing you wanted to do right now was to sit on the floor of this horribly rotten bathroom and cry until your eyes gave out.

You had been staring at yourself in the mirror between broken sobs for God knows how long until you heard someone else enter. Deeply ashamed of your appearance, you turned your back to the door, using a damp towel to try and clean up your makeup.

Then you heard a lock click.

But it was unlike the lock of a stall door.

Then the echoing tap of a pair of kitten heels.

You tense up, too scared of embarrassment to turn around to face whatever movie attendee, or, as you now feared, possible murderer, you were now trapped in this bathroom with.

That’s when you felt the hand press against your back.

“Are you alright?”

That voice was too kind to belong to a murderer.

“Lorraine!” You nearly scream, tossing a hand over your heart to clutch the imaginary pearls that you couldn’t even afford if you tried. “My goodness, you startled me!” You laugh softly, sniffling while you turn to a sink to wash your hands. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” She hums, voice barely above a whisper. She’s standing right behind you now.

You’re awfully embarrassed to find that there are no more paper towels in the bathroom, and you have to wipe your hands on your skirt, but Lorraine doesn’t seem to notice.

No, her attention is solely on your face.

Her hand lifts up to push a wayward curl behind your ear.  It lingers there for a moment, smoothing down the rest of your hair. Her other hand sneaks its way around your waist, resting just below your belt.

“I just wanted to check on you.” She flashes you that oh-so very endearing smile in the mirror, and lightly runs her thumb below your eyes, wiping away the last remnants of your tears.

You swallow hard, chancing a glance up to her only to miss the woman’s gaze, as her eyes are now glued to your cheek, then your neck. She’s petting your hair, and each stroke is sending a shiver down your spine.

“Oh no, no…  I’m alright…” you manage to mumble out, your voice a mere breathe that hitches when Lorraine’s hands maneuver you to turn to face her.

“Good.” She purrs, leaning in until your foreheads nearly meet. “I wouldn’t want my baby to get too scared.”

Dear God.

You didn’t often take His name in vain, but this felt an appropriate time to do so.

Your heart is beating so hard that you’re worried you may pass out. 

She called you her baby. You were hers.

Your body betraying you, you practically melt into the taller woman, your hands finding themselves on her hips, holding onto the material of her skirt for dear life.

Lorraine calculates, as is her way, but only for a moment, before her hand slides down to gently grasp your cheek and pull you closer into her.

You gasp into her, her lips latching onto your own before you can even remind yourself that you were meant to remain professional tonight. It seems you’re well past the concept of professionalism by now.

It takes you a moment, a very brief moment, to soften into her kiss. You’re like putty in her hands, molding into the curve of her chest and pressed so hard against her that you’re sure you’ve become one being.

But you haven’t, and before you know it, she’s pulled away.

It takes everything within you to not whine and fuss at her for being so rude as to pull herself away from you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” She says rigidly, fixing her hair in the mirror with one hand, the other still latched onto your hip. “But you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to.” She laughs a little, finally turning back to meet your gaze.

“I…” You’re at a loss for words. Never in a million years would you have expected for Lorraine Warren to waltz in and kiss you out of the blue like that. You must have truly racked up your good karma with the Lord, because this was enough to be considered a miracle. “I… I’ve also… wanted to… with you.” You stutter out, brain just barely conscious enough to put together a string of words.

Lorraine laughs her beautiful laugh again, her hand returning to caress your cheek.

You shut your eyes tight, laying all your weight into her hands. A thought crosses your mind – that she very well may be testing you – trying to sniff you out for being a freak – that there very well be someone right outside that door ready to ship you off to the loony bin –

That thought disappears almost immediately once Lorraine leans down to press her lips to yours again, this time much more confidently.

Her hands wander down to your hips once again, and yours are gripping into her skirt so hard that you’re sure you’ve left permanent wrinkles in the fabric. It’s impossible for you to be any closer to her now, and yet she’s still pulling you tighter, lips coaxing small whimpers from your own.

You’ve gone completely lightheaded now, the lack of oxygen making you a bit dizzy on your feet. Luckily, you’re so sustained by Lorraine’s embrace that there’s just no chance of you falling over.

Her hands threaten lower, her kisses become sloppier, her thigh situating itself between your legs so that you can press your weight there and feel a shock through your entire system unlike you’ve ever experienced before. Lorraine’s whispering some string of messy whispers. Maybe a prayer, much like the one you’re reciting in your own head for someone, anyone, to make this moment last until your dying breath.

Your joint prayer comes to a halt when you’re so rudely interrupted by an angry knock on the door. Lorraine quickly pulls away from you and immediately begins wiping her smudged makeup in the mirror.

You’re stuck in space, stood blinking, mouth hanging open, feet unsure of where to take you.

“Go get in a stall.” Lorraine commands, a gentle finger wiping at your tongue to collect all of the saliva that you had produced in the midst of your affair. She flashes you a sickeningly sweet look before turning you around and patting you towards the stall, where you quickly hide, being able to take her command even though you’re sure your brain can’t conjure any other actions.

Lorraine’s heels tap towards the door, and where she exclaims how sorry she is, how silly she must be for locking the door behind her. Her voice is so pure, so normal. You’re shocked that she can find herself so calm after an event that had nearly introduced you to your maker.

When you hear a stall door click shut, you make your escape, checking your appearance in the mirror just in case. You certainly look bewildered, a little frazzled, but nothing you can’t excuse under the guise of a scary movie.

When you return to your seat, Lorraine is sat with her hand in Ed’s, her eyes glued to the screen. You sit reluctantly, reaching for your popcorn.

It’s less than a minute before she has removed her hand from her husband’s and has given it back to you.

You’re smiling much too brightly, and you can tell that your clairvoyant is smiling just the same. You’re too focused on the way that her hand feels in your own to pay any attention to the God-forsaken movie playing in front of you.

[cryptidghostgirl]

Make You Wish Chapter Three -- A Reunion

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Previous Part: Chapter Two -- Where Is She

Warnings: Another pretty tame chapter ngl. Mild mention of murder I guess??

Word Count: 1,195

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List 

Make You Wish Master List

A/N just a reminder that my requests are open :)

"Blitzo, can't you just deal with whatever it is on your own?" Y/n groaned, rubbing her temples in irritation as she stepped out of the office, "I swear to god, if this is some joke? I'm gonna kill you."

There was the quiet, indiscernible drone of the TV. Other than that, the room was silent. Y/n looked up, her eyes falling on the wall beside the office's door and the people who stood before it.

Moxxie, Millie, and Blitzo in a quiet, tense line. She raised her eyebrows, nearly smiled.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Blitzo uncharacteristically said nothing, simply raising his hand and pointing to the entry way. Y/n's eyes narrowed, her muscles tensed and ready for a fight as she followed the path indicated by his gesture. The hand on the knife at her side fell slack as her gaze landed on an achingly familiar face.

"Holy shit." she mumbled, her mouth falling open a little.

"Yeah, uh, he's been asking for you?" Moxxie nervously explained, "You didn't... I mean, he's the Radio Demon. He hasn't been seen in years, you didn't fuck with him... did you?"

Y/n felt tears press behind her eyes again as she took a tentative step forwards. Then another one. Slowly, she crossed the room to the taller demon who just stood there with a smile, watching her all the while with his arms folded behind his back. Y/n peered up at him, her eyes narrowed as they met his own.

The one person in the whole world she'd been practically dying to see. There was a pain, he was the cause and the cure of it. Hesitantly, she raised a hand and poked his nose.

"Shit." Blitzo muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly as Millie let out a subtle gasp.

"Are you done?" Alastor asked, his voice crackling with irritation as he looked down at Y/n, whose arms were now crossed over her chest.

"I had to make sure you weren't a dream." she shrugged, turning her head away, "Mox was right, you've been gone seven years."

"Are you mad?" he teased, leaning down towards her ear.

Y/n rolled her eyes, turning to face him once again. She scowled at the man for a moment before a smile broke out across her face.

"I never could stay mad at you." she admitted, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I..." Moxxie trailed off in confusion.

Alastor slowly wrapped his arms around Y/n's waist.

"Mills, start planning a funeral." Blitzo scoffed.

Before any of the trio could say another word, he had lifted her off her feet and was spinning her in the air.

"Al!" Y/n shrieked through her laughter, "Stop it! You'll mess up my hair!"

He set her down again and the pair released each other.

"You menace." Y/n shook her head, still laughing, "It's like you knew I was thinking of you."

"You were, were you?" he teased, leaning down to her level.

"Y/n, do you know the Radio Demon?" Millie interrupted, taking a step forward.

Both Alastor and Y/n turned to face her.

"What, this old freak?" she asked, elbowing him gently.

"I resent that." Alastor hummed and Y/n laughed again, her joy unbridaled.

"Yeah, we're friends." Y/n confirmed, catching the genuine concern in her friend's eyes, "Known each other for about as long as I've been down here."

Alastor nodded as Y/n looked back up at him.

"Speaking of the old days," he hummed, looking her up and down, "what's this new look you've got?"

"Huh?" Y/n looked down at her clothes before turning and meeting his eyes once again, "Oh, I'm an assassin now."

"No no no, my dear." he shook his head, "This simply wont do. I can't have you wandering around looking like some ragamuffin."

Alastor snapped his fingers and Y/n looked down to see she was wearing a dress now. She almost yelled at him, almost tore him a new one and called him a dick. Then she realized what dress it was she was wearing. Y/n looked up at Alastor with wide eyes.

"This is..."

"The dress you murdered your husband in, yes."

Y/n squealed, throwing her arms around Alastor's neck and pulling him in for another tight hug that he reluctantly accepted. Letting him go, she spun around, watching the way the skit splayed out from her legs.

"You remembered! Oh, Alastor! Thank you."

"The fuck." Blitzo muttered to himself, watching the scene playing out before him.

Y/n beamed up at him as Alastor raised a claw, looping it through the circle on the collar Y/n still wore. All of her other accessories and clothing had vanished, as he had intended, except for this. He hummed thoughtfully and Y/n's cheeks grew hot with shame. She looked away.

"What's this then?" he asked, letting the ring fall from his finger.

It hit the leather of the collar with a quiet thud.

"Look, I... made some bad choices." Y/n sighed, refusing to meet his eyes, "A physical sign of a very real metaphysical decision I had to make."

"Quite possessive, to cast a spell like that." Alastor mused, "You always had a thing for that though, didn't you."

Y/n raised her arms, wrapping them tightly around her body at the harsh remark. She made to move away from him but, as she did, Alastor grabbed Y/n's chin, forcing her to look at him. He watched her expression carefully.

"You could have come to me. You know I would have taken that delectable little soul off your hands in a moment."

"Yeah well, you weren't here." Y/n firmly stated, taking a step back so he no longer held her, "I did what I had to do to survive."

Alastor raised his eyebrows.

"And who exactly did you make this... bad decision with?"

"Al, can we please talk about this later?"

"They don't know, do they."

"They do." Y/n insisted, "I just... please, not now."

"Fine." Alastor relented after a moment.

The pair fell silent, Alastor's critical gaze interlocked with Y/n's indignant one.

"Sooo," Blitzo began, breaking the awkward silence and drawing the attention of the room off the pair and onto him as he took a step forward, coming to a stop beside Millie, "you two fucking?"

"Jesus, Sir!?" Moxxie exclaimed in shock.

"You can't be serious, right?" Y/n laughed in surprise, "No, Blitzo, we're not fucking. The day Alastor has a sex drive is the day Heaven is overrun by... I don't know, giant killer bees?"

"It's more likely than you think, dear."

"What's that-"

Alastor cut her off mid sentence, placing a hand over her mouth as he caught the images flashing across the TV on the other side of the room.

"Hey, rude." Y/n scoffed, pulling herself from his grip.

Alastor ignored her. With a flick of his finger, he raised the volume on the TV. At the sight of his narrowed eyes and tight smile, Y/n turned to see what exactly was bothering him so much.

----

Next Chapter --> Chapter Four -- Vox

[argisthebulwark]

My Best Friend, My One & Only

summary: how they propose <3 gn reader, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. feat: Farkas, Teldryn, Miraak, Brynjolf, Balimund, Mercer, Vilkas warnings: non explicit mentions of battle/injury a/n: yes I know this isn't how proposals work in the elder scrolls, I know about the amulets, rings are just more romantic to me masterlist

Farkas does it in the middle of a difficult battle. When you're back to back, weapons bloodied and muscles beyond exhausted and the enemies are circling closer. "If we make it out of this," Farkas pants, back flexing as he readies his sword once more. "Will you marry me?" "What?" "C'mon, if we're both alive tomorrow we'll get married. Deal?" "Alright, deal." You gulp, rallying whatever shred of strength you have left. An arrow lodges itself near your feet and you're lost again, hacking and slashing through the seemingly endless waves of bandits. It isn't difficult to keep track of Farkas on the battlefield - his stature and the roar of his victorious laugh calm your worries about losing him. Once only the two of you remain standing, you turn to him. Through the mud and viscera Farkas is grinning as he approaches you, chest heaving with each deep breath. "We both lived." He brags, one messy hand scrounging in his pockets. Your heart flips when he produces a stunning ring in his outstretched palm and offers it to you. "I didn't think you were serious." You breathe, plucking it from his hand despite the screaming of your muscles. Holding it up you marvel at the silvery moonlight glimmering on its beautiful stones. "I wouldn't joke about this." The ring fits so easily onto your finger. Farkas presses shameless kisses on your hand and up your arm, clearly so excited to see his ring on your finger. You can hardly believe that this is real, this isn't a dream.

Teldryn has never really brought up marriage, so the hypothetical catches you off guard - would you ever want to get married? Coming from a relatively large family it had once been the expectation but after the years of dealing with dragons and wars it's become less of a priority. "Yeah, I suppose I would." "You suppose?" "Well, you never bring it up so I haven't given it too much thought." "I ever said to me, specifically." There's a glimmer of humor in his eyes but you can't bring yourself to play into it. Something about this conversation feels heavy, like it's more important than some silly banter. "I wouldn't consider it with anyone else." Teldryn sighs and flips a coin your way. You scramble to catch it, glaring over at him when he begins to wander away. Prepared to ask why in the hells he would throw a septim your way you stare down at your hand. Sitting there in the palm of your tattered glove is the most beautiful ring you've ever seen. Small pale stones glitter around one dark gem placed in the center, all held together with sturdy metal. That bastard has the audacity to propose to you so casually? To toss this gorgeous ring at you, risk it falling into the dirt, and stroll off as if he hadn't just offered you something so beautiful? "What d'ya think?" Teldryn smirks, glancing over his shoulder. You want to berate him for his nonchalant tone but you've lost all words, tears springing into your eyes at the realization. Teldryn's offering you a future together, a promise that he won't leave. Placing that ring on your finger, you know that it's all you want.

Miraak doesn't. He began referring to you as his spouse ages ago. You've been his partner for so long it's an easy rhythm to fall into. Everyone else simply accepts that you're married and you're comfortable with it - saves you the trouble of planning a wedding. You know that Miraak isn't going anywhere and neither are you. After lifetimes together, you feel that traditional wedding ceremonies can't capture the depth and love that have been crafted between you. Miraak is your future and your past, and when he whispers that you are his entire world you know that it is true. "So," some lordling pipes up, drawing everyone's attention. Thanes and Jarls mill about the room and Miraak rolls his eyes, still unsure why you insist on maintaining relationships with them. "Yes?" You respond, rubbing a soothing hand over Miraak's arm. You take a sip of your drink and ready yourself for whatever political nonsense they have to offer now. "We've heard so many stories about you two - how did Miraak propose to you?" Wine practically shoots out of your nose. You snort, grabbing onto Miraak's coat and fight the laughter bubbling up at his expression. Your beloved husband is looking especially pale when he wipes absently at your face. "Well," he stalls and oh, it is delightfully entertaining. Miraak, always so eloquent, at a loss for words? It's a rare sight, even you have hardly seen it. "I may have skipped a few steps." "There's still time." You snicker playfully, fixing the lapel of his coat. He sends you a cutting glare, though it hasn't scared you for ages.

Brynjolf wants to keep it lowkey. He never thought he'd make it this far, not bothering for decades to imagine anything for himself outside of the Guild. When you're seated atop a manor, packs full and enjoying your last night before the long carriage ride home, he slides the ring toward you. "Did you steal this?" You question, totally ignorant of the furious blush in his face. Examining the ring in the moonlight is difficult but you're impressed, a simple and stunning piece. One deep green gem is framed with gentle swirls of metal, so unlike the terribly gaudy pieces you're used to pocketing. "Usually these lords have awful taste but this is beautiful, Bryn." "Glad you like it." He sounds a bit off, almost nervous. You scour the streets below but can't make out any guards. "It looks expensive, I bet Tonilia can fetch a good price." "No." "No?" Your brows tighten, that strained tone of his voice sets your nerves on edge. "It's for you." The situation punches you in the gut. Brynjolf, usually so calm and collected, looks nearly ready to launch himself off the roof. The gorgeous ring sitting in your hand, the ring that's for you. "Are you asking me to marry you?" Your fingers quiver when Brynjolf finally meets your gaze. "That depends on how you're plannin' to answer." His nervous laugh is so endearing. How could he possibly think you would refuse him? "Well, we live and work together, we've discussed spending our lives together, and all the recruits think we're already married." You squeeze his chilly fingers, surprised at how scared he is. "Of course I want to marry you, Bryn." "Oh, thank god - please don't fence that, love. Cost me a fortune."

Balimund works with Madesi for ages to forge a ring just for you. He's known for years that he intends to spend his life with you, there's no need to rush this step. The pair craft a ring to Balimund's exact specifications, priding himself on knowing exactly what you like. He chooses one of the nights you treasure the most - a quiet night at home together. No couriers pounding down the door or Jarls demanding your presence, just a night at home. You notice Balimund planting extra kisses to your shoulder while you cook dinner together and gazing at you across the table until you're certain there's something stuck in your teeth. Curled up on the couch together, your heart feels so full it hurts. Balimund's heavy arm rests around your shoulders, calloused fingers trailing over your skin as gentle kisses press to the crown of your head. You notice the uptick in his heartbeat where you're pressed to his chest and snuggle closer. "You alright, dearest?" You yawn, glancing up at him. Balimund finds himself struck by the sight of you; eyes soft and tired after a lazy day together, that gentle smile on your face he loves so dearly. He swears he falls in love with you all over again in this one moment. "I want this for the rest of my life." He mumbles, grasping the little box in his pocket. He's been fussing with it all night, gathering all his courage over the course of the evening but suddenly it's all gone. When he feels your hand cup his face Balimund gulps and draws the box out. "Me too, love." "Yeah?" He thumbs open the box, nervously presenting you when the fruit of his labor. Perfectly polished metal bears three sparkling gems. They aren't large or especially impressive but he recalls the way your eyes lit up when you'd seen each of them in his chest of supplies. "Balimund, please tell me you're proposing." "'Course I am, dearest." "Oh thank the gods."

Mercer doesn't. He's already gotten far too close, he can't let you creep any further into his heart. Occasionally when you're tucked into bed at his side, legs tangled together and all worries banished, you smile up at him and he sees an entire future. And gods, he hates it. Boring days spent together in the Cistern and weeks on the road to some high profile job. His family's ring sparkling on your finger and your lips on his skin. Watching grey creep into your hair and retiring in some fancy manor not too far from Riften, somewhere you can watch the leaves turn that shade of orange that lifts your spirits. Marriage, family, a real life together... he hates the thought of it. He's in too deep and there's no going back. His stomach always turns when he catches glimpses of that potential life he could have with you because for one desperate moment he wants it. He wants to forget about all the bullshit he's spent his life building up, the Guild, the Eyes, everything to live that life with you. But he can't. Mercer wishes he didn't make your smile falter in these moments when he wants you so badly. He clutches you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead in a silent apology for the heartbreak he'll surely dump on you someday. He knows he'll only break your heart, the longer he puts it off the worse it gets, but he can't bring himself to give you up. "Love you." Guilt spikes at his heart each time you yawn those damning words into his chest. Your skin is so lovely and warm when an arm wraps around his waist. I love you. He chokes on those words he can't say, choosing instead to kiss your head once more instead of damning himself further.

Vilkas knows that you'll say yes but fuck, he's still terrified. You're relaxing in the fancy inn, muscles loose from an afternoon of lazing in the hot springs. He's never been away from Jorrvaskr for so long without being on an assignment but tonight his nerves are entirely your fault. He's had it planned out for weeks. The many days spent relaxing far from the worries of your everyday life have lead up to this evening; a fancy dinner he's picked out every little component of, chilled drinks on the patio, and the ring. It sounds so easy in his mind but standing here in your rented cabin, he can't keep his hands from shaking. Thank the gods you help him with that last button. He'd only bought the jacket after you pointed out it would look nice on him, and when you smile up at him he can hardly breathe. "Are we running away?" You sigh, thumb tracing over his cheek. "Not if we plan on going back." He fumbles with the box in his pocket, stunned when you smile up at him. "There's no one else in the world I'd rather run away with. Even if it's just for a couple days." He isn't sure what he's thinking - the entire plan is forgotten when you're beaming up at him. Vilkas produces the ring, heart swelling at your words and the blatant love in your eyes when you gaze up at him. Suddenly his meticulously planned dinner seems far less romantic than what you'd said. "Vilkas," you pause, carefully reaching toward the little box. "What is this?" "Please marry me." He chokes out, all his fear and anxiety spiking when you thumb it open to glance at the ring. It's bewildering how just a few minutes can feel like hours but he endures it, choking back every nervous word until you respond. "Of course I'll marry you, Vilkas." Thank the gods you put him out of his misery. Vilkas feels numb when you launch yourself at him, arms around his shoulders and face buried in his neck. God, the world feels so wonderful right now. Vilkas holds you to his chest, relief slowly ridding him of those nerves until he's practically giddy - you've agreed to marry him.

[int3rst3ll3r]

"𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚗,"

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀- Spanking, Pet names: ‘Good girl’ ‘Bad girl’

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴- Possessive Hua Cheng & Possessive Xie Lian

————————————————————————

𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 the wife of the ghost king and a god was quite nice. You lived a life of luxury, always being spoiled with the nicest gifts and wonderful affection from both your husbands. There was never been a day when you had to worry of not being taken care of.

Both Xie Lian and Hua Cheng were extraordinary husbands. They loved and cherished you as if you were the most rarest thing on earth. They gave you all the love you thought you never deserved. They seem like perfect husbands, which they are, don’t get me wrong, but every good thing comes with a bad thing. What may that bad thing be? Well, they were extremely possessive.

This may be a shock to some people, especially with Xie Lian, not so much with Hua Cheng. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Xie Lian was the most possessive of the pair. He might not show it, but he definitely feels it. It even concerned Hua Cheng how possessive Xie Lian got with you, like Hua Cheng isn’t almost as possessive as Xie Lian is. Your husbands’ possessiveness does sometimes get the better of them, which leads to the scenario you’re facing at the moment.

Before I get into the current situation, let me inform you on the earlier events which lead to this one. It was a normal day, everything was smooth sailing. Ghost City was thriving, as it usually was. The streets were crowded with ghost, leaving almost no space for anyone to walk. The street vendors voices could be heard trying to draw the ghosts attention.

You were pushing passed ghost, trying to get out of the streets. You were holding a big basket of fruit that you manage to get a discount on. Of course, you weren’t paying attention to your surroundings and accidentally bumped into a ghost. You dropped the big basket of fruit, making it land onto the group. You looked up at the ghost, who was fairly good looking.

“Sorry,”

You spoke, your eyes never leaving the ghost’s jade ones. The ghost smiled slightly, replying to your apology.

“Oh no, miss, don’t be. Here let me help you,”

The ghost knelt down and started putting the fruit back into the basket. You also knelt down as well, hastily picking up the dropped fruit. Soon, all the fruit was picked up and you had a full fruit basket in your arms once again.

“thank you very much,” You smiled at the ghost.

“It’s not a problem, miss. I must say, you look extremely beautiful,”

The ghost flirted with you. You noticed his tactics in flirting with you easily. It was obvious, to you at least. You knew you should’ve said something about you being married, but you didn’t want to come off as rude. You smiled slightly and thanked him.

“Here, let me help you,”

The ghost offered, his hands going up to grab the basket. Before you could react, his hand grazed yours and held onto it. You gulped, hoping Hua Cheng didn’t send someone to keep an eye on you. You looked up at the ghost, a sweet smile still planted on your face. You could see a hint of lust in his eyes. The ghost smiled at you, dimples planted on either side of his cheek.

“What’s going on here?”

You froze upon hearing that voice. ‘Oh no’ you thought, ‘I’m fucked’. You could see the Ghost go pale, his hands moving away from yours. You already knew who was standing behind you, a not so happy Hua Cheng. You slowly turn around, meeting the eyes of your husband.

“Darling, who’s this?”

Hua cheng asked, his voice dark and possessive. You gulped, not knowing how to reply. The ghost behind you was in terror. A crowd gathered around the three of you, wanted to know what was happening.

“M-miss, i-is this your h-husband?”

The ghost shook and trembled, regretting he ever spoke to the wife of the ghost king. You didnt respond, only nodding, knowing any word you say will be used against you. Hua Cheng was staring daggers into the poor ghost’s eyes. You clutched onto the fruit basket, waiting for any words to be said.

“Scram,”

Hua Cheng commanded the ghost, not wanting to deal with him. The ghost was quick to run away, leaving you with your very angry husband. You knew Hua Cheng knew the ghost was flirting with you moments before, and you knew he was mad at you for not stopping the flirting.

Hua Cheng grabbed your wrist and dragged you along the streets of Ghost City.

“H-hua Cheng, please don’t tell Xie Lian about this,”

You pleaded with Hua Cheng knowing how Xie Lian will react to the whole situation. Hua Cheng’s grip on your wrist becane tighter, as if a warning for you to not say anything more. The walk back to Paradise manner was dreadful. All you could think of was how Xie Lian was going to react and the consequences to come.

Now, let’s get into your current predicament. You were in the privacy of you and your husbands’ shared bedroom. You were perched over Hua Cheng’s lap, you clothes disregarded on the floor of the bedroom. All that could be heard was the sound of Hua Cheng’s hand landing on your ass and your mewls.

“15!”

You cried, your hands tightly grabbing the robes of Xie Lian who sat beside Hua Cheng and you. His hand was stroking your hair.

“You knew the rules, and yet you still decided to let that ghost flirt with you,”

Xie Lian spoke to you in a disappointed manner. You whined as Hua Cheng’s hand hit you ass for the seventeenth time. You looked at Xie Lian with glossy eyes.

“17! ‘M so sorry!”

you tried to apologize, hoping both your husbands would let you off easy. Hua Cheng only chuckled and continued to spank you. As he continued to spank you, you continued to count, all the way until you got to thirty. During this time, Xie Lian made sure you knew what you had did wrong.

By now, your face was tear streaked. Hua Cheng sat you up on his lap, making you face him. His hand gripped you chin tightly, making you face him.

“Now, what do you say to Gege and me?”

“Sorry for being a bad girl,”

You whimpered, looking into Hua Cheng eyes. Xie Lian looked at you and added.

“And?”

“Thank you for taking the time to put me in my place,”

You feel the tension in the room ease. Hua Cheng smiled and kissed your forehead.

“You’re very welcome, Darling,”

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.09 ~ ♆

“ maybe it was better that way. “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, PTSD, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, time skip, unshared feelings, nightmares, unintentional self-injury, alcohol, sexual harassment, character death, gore/blood, etc

{{ word count }} 3.8 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} Following the conclusion of the 70th Games, emotions are tense, and the weight of being crowned Victor weighs heavier than ever.

{{ a/n }} The ending of this chapter is a bit rushed I'm sorry :( also, we're not gonna talk about the time I post these at....

Annie Cresta was the lone survivor of The 70th Annual Hunger Games.

When she returned to District 4 a few months later, she wasn’t anything like the timid girl you’d met while mentoring Trout. The Capital medical teams had kept her longer than they usually held Victors due to the severity of her traumas. The wickedness that had sunk its talons deep inside her memories was less than favorable in their eyes. A tarnish to the reputation of The Games.

She’d taken victory by pure luck. The Gamemakers had chosen to cause an earthquake roughly two days after Trout died - having grown bored of the remaining Tributes hiding from one another in different corners of the Arena. The quake destroyed the large dam where the Cornucopia had been set, flooding the Arena. The remaining tributes couldn’t swim as well as someone from the Fishing District could. She’d outlasted without taking a single life - but that didn’t make the fracture in her thoughts any less tormenting. 

She was only a year younger than you at eighteen. Her age made her experience of being Reaped almost as depressing as Trout’s name being drawn. She’d nearly gotten by without ever having to face the Arena.

Almost.

You weren’t even allowed time to grieve the small red-headed boy after you returned to the nautical District.

The closest thing to closure you’d given yourself was tracking down Trout’s family. You’d discovered he had been the middle child of a seven - now six-person household. His mother was an angular woman who managed the busy home by herself. You recognized her from the shipyard where she washed sails and nets with other older women in the large washbasins filled with filtered seawater and bubbling soap. You’d never spoken to her till now. She stood straight-backed and stoic, her apron stained and the scent of sage and linen wafting off her as she pulled open the front door. She had struck you as hard as she could with her palm when you’d tried to offer your condolences. She screamed in your face that you should have tried harder. That you should have protected Trout. The words were strained and broken - just like her heart. Her voice was grief-stricken and harsh - but you’d expected nothing less. She was right in your failures. Even if she was using you as the outlet for her grief and anger for the death of her son when you’d done everything you could, nothing would make up for sending her son into that Arena to die. Nothing would compensate for her contempt for The Games - For The Capital.

You still left small bundles of wildflowers on her porch once a week. 

Trout’s mother never touched them.

You didn’t expect her to.

They stayed there to rot and be replaced with something new each week, the cycle of life continuing.

Sometimes you left seaweed bread instead. But the green-tinted, fish-shaped buns were left to rot just the same.

Trout’s funeral service was small - funerals always were. Despite District 4 being the fourth wealthiest district with the seventh largest population in Panem, their funerary traditions were kept private, with only close family and friends in attendance. There wasn’t much of a procession, nor a public wake, but the shipyards and boardwalk would be silent as dusk settled on the damp sands of the coast. The silence came as a sign of respect. Funerals were hosted at sunset to see the sky spread in a beautiful array of color, a beacon calling their loved one home. You’d only attended a handful of funerals in your lifetime - the last one having been your Mothers. 

The citizens of District 4 honored their dead by returning them to the sea.

The ritual was elaborate, but not at all luxurious or gaudy. The deceased loved one would be dressed in white, often the same soft, lightweight linen material they wrapped around newborns right after delivery. A symbol of safety and new beginnings. They would then be wrapped in a specially woven net, handmade by their loved ones and often intertwined with mementos like ribbons, locks of hair, shells, pearls, photographs, letters, and more between the ropes. The net was made to protect and aid the deceased on their journey to the afterlife. Their body would be carefully cradled in a wooden longboat atop a bed of dried tall grass and seaweed. Sometimes grieving families gave them blankets to lie upon for their voyage. The boat’s prow is carved with their name, lest they forget it in their journey onward. Their crown is surrounded by a fan of cattail stalks, a symbol of survival and protection, with the prospect that their loved ones will follow them to the sea when their time comes. The rest of the shallow hull of the longboat holds wildflowers, heirlooms, and personal belongings the family chooses to send with their loved one.

Goodbyes are said individually, between hushed voices and tears, with as much love and care as they can manage. This way nothing is left unsaid to the deceased before they begin their journey home. The speech before the send-off is brief, usually made by the head of the household if there is one or the next best substitution. There are slight variations in the rituals between the Northern and Southern ports.

The send-off is accompanied by a song older than even the Districts of Panem. The melody is languid, and peaceful, speaking of a sailor’s final voyage home to rest the remainder of his days. The tune is sung by whoever gathers for the send-off. It’s tradition to teach the songs of the District’s rituals from an early age. The lyrics are bittersweet. Finally, the longboat is gently pushed from the shore, guided forward by six members of the family, who wade into the salty water with the boat till a current catches. It's a way of giving one last embrace to the deceased. A final warmth of touch and farewell filled with heartache and love. Once the members of the family return to shore an arrow is lit, the flames a small orb of flickering light as the sky above darkens overhead, casting shadows on the attendees’ faces as if that small flame was the very soul of the person they’d lost. The head of the household knocks the arrow and draws back, the flame is a welcome warmth to their shaking hands. With a sealing, permanent farewell the arrow flies.

The boat sails on as the flames catch the dried grass beneath the body.

Those in attendance remain on the sand till the longboat burns through, another sign of respect for their dead.

Some stay long after the flame disappears and the darkness of night cloaks them in shadow.

You weren’t permitted to attend Trout’s funeral.

Maybe it was better that way.

You visited the cove where the funerary boats were launched a week after he’d burned. You hadn’t set foot there since your Mother's funeral. And you couldn’t say how long you stayed on that beach either - staring out at the waves with only the sound of their crashing on the coast and the distant call of seagulls to fill the silence. You’d whispered your goodbye alone and to the wind that day. 

There was no answer as the waves crashed.

Life continued - nothing stopped as the world kept turning and your heart begrudgingly kept beating.

The process of helping Annie adjust to Victor’s Village was difficult. 

She was placed next door to Mags, which made her two doors down from Finnick and across the street from yourself. The three of you tried to help her adjust, taking shifts to monitor her considering the extent of her traumas and unstable condition. If she had family, they hadn’t moved with her. Annie was alone. You’d asked Marjorie for help as well, but the elder couldn’t give the poor girl any tonic or natural aid to quell or repair what The Games had broken. Your heart broke for Annie, but sometimes even you were too overwhelmed to stay with her during her episodes due to the unpredictable nature triggering your own symptoms.

Her episodes were fierce and sporadic. One minute she’d be sitting quietly trying to read with you beside her, Finnick in an armchair nearby as the two of you monitored her. And the next she’d be sobbing while clawing at your arms, desperately trying to hold onto something as her gaze turned far off and she screamed. All because the wood in the fireplace cracked. Or because a door shut too abruptly or she had to close her eyes under the showerhead. Both of your aversions to water were similar in that way. But the angry red scratches that her nails left stretched over both your and Finnick’s arms only grew in number as her episodes worsened. Her grip had drawn blood once or twice now - both of those times leaving you to deal with poltergeists of your own after Finnick had pried Annie off of you, furiously blinking back memories of a ravine and a river and the way your fingertips had clawed into a girl’s arms as she’d attempted to drown you almost four years ago now. The same way she’d clawed into yours as you’d drowned her instead. Bile had threatened to rise in your throat as you had forced yourself out of the room, panic and adrenaline seizing your chest and constricting your throat to what felt like suffocation. Your heart hammers in your ears, drowning out your ability to focus as your breathing grows hyper and you crumple in a hallway of Annie’s house. You fight the panic attacks alone. Finnick asks if you’re okay when you return, concern constricting his features, and you say you’re fine - even though you’re not.

He doesn’t pry.

The Darling has his fair share of moments that he has to step out as well - the way he recoils from Annie as if she were burning him with just the pads of her fingertips elicits a pang of something in your chest that you can’t place. It’s a feeling you don’t recognize and that scares you. So you shove it so far down that you’re almost able to forget it. Sometimes you feel that strange tether again, almost like an urge to reach out to him, but you’re quick to smother it. You don’t allow yourself to even think of the implications of the internal tether. You ask if he’s okay when he returns - he says he’s fine. He isn’t.

You don’t pry.

The two of you were just two damaged people who were equally sinking. Opposites - pulled together by shared traumas and guilt. Nothing more - nothing less.

Your role as Desirable was once again hanging its guillotine over your neck as well.

One misstep and it was all over.

Because of the high demand you and Finnick had garnered as Mentors, the onslaught of clients and sometimes back-to-back events was strenuous - leaving you barely any time to grieve your Tribute, let alone think.

Finnick appeared to be doing the best between the two of you. 

If he was struggling - he didn’t show it. Nowadays it seemed he wore his mask as The Capital’s Darling more often than not, leaving you unsure of how many of his words were truths.

The responsibilities of being Desirable to the Capital had picked up right where they’d left off after the two of you were released from mentorship before The Games had even finished. Neither of you had any semblance of peace till the demand eventually slowed months later. You barely spoke - not that there was much to say. The two of you had been kept in the Capital for the same period they’d kept Annie in the medical bays of the Tribute Center. Finnick wasn’t even sure what he’d have said to you if he’d gotten the chance. How do you casually ask about the well-being of someone who is grieving a person they’d been forced to send to their inevitable death against their will? 

Certainly not over tasteless hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

Definitely not.

He was back to being held at arm’s length. Unallowed to get anywhere near close. 

Maybe it was for the best.

But Finnick had spent the last several years teetering over an edge he couldn’t see the other side of. Meticulously toeing the line between stranger, acquaintance, and sometimes friend. Though, he doubted he was ever really your friend. The verbal waltz the two of you had tediously crafted through both passive and direct interactions over the years had brought the Darling peace. He’d even found himself looking forward to whatever witty remark you’d say in response to his instigating. Maybe a part of him craved it. Your attention, the way you looked at him. But any shred of your attention he’d once held was gone, swallowed by the gluttoned maw of the Capital. He tried to ignore the itch that crept up under his skin when you glanced his way across the crowded halls and parties. Still acknowledging his existence but unable to slip away. Peacekeeper security had increased in the last few months due to rumors of a riot in one of the lower Capital neighborhoods. An artist’s collective protest as they’d burned their gallery and studio after displaying multiple works of treasonous anti-capital rhetoric. The artists all but ceased to exist from Capital records and their work was removed and destroyed from establishments across the city. The incident was quickly, and efficiently removed from the public eye. There had been no news coverage - the rumors only spreading by word of mouth. Secrets shared between sugarcubes and wineglasses to listening ears and prying eyes. The added security made the secret meetings that you and Finnick used to share nearly impossible. He tried to feign nonchalance, to keep his cooled exterior and charming wit in check. Hell, he really did try. But despite his best efforts to remain cordial - to quell the snapping thread in his chest that tethered some part of him to you, a part of him yearned for something he couldn’t name. Something he couldn’t have. He’d patiently waited till you’d opened up to him through your small trade of secrets. He’d gotten to know pieces of you that only made that thread in his chest snap harder. 

He’d tried to forget the thread, or at least move past it.

Multiple times - actually.

He’d tried being logical - chalking it up as a foolish infatuation of youth. Overthinking and over-rationalizing that whatever it was, had been the result of some shared Victor trauma bullshit. He’d even warred with himself that it didn’t matter, that it was unattainable and foolish. Finnick wouldn’t allow himself - no he couldn’t, allow himself to ponder the meaning of the thread. He’d drilled it in his head that it would fade, that the painful yearning would cease as time went on.

But it hadn’t faded.

Not even a little bit.

As much the two of you had gotten on one another’s nerves, as much as you’d hated him, It felt like a routine at this point. He’d let you do what you had to, to get through your Games, The Victory Tour, then that first year of being Desirable, and then the next, and then Mentoring, and now this. The push and pull of drawing near enough to almost step afoot the shores of your thoughts only to be dragged back out to sea by the tide of the ever churning life of a Victor.. He’d started smothering any flicker of that tether in his chest somewhere along the way after your initial announcement as a Desirable. It was pointless considering the life he led. The life both of you now led. Doomed to walk beside one another on similar paths with different destinations. He could handle the sharp edges as the thread frayed. He could handle it. Survive it.

His mind was swimming, unable to focus on whatever his client was squawking about in his ear as she dug her talons into his forearm. There’d be marks there tomorrow. A muscle in his jaw pulses as he grits his teeth, forcing a coy smirk and a nod as if he were listening to anything she said. He wasn’t. The Darling’s mind was elsewhere. He’d spotted you across the pleasure hall about a half hour ago. You’d already settled into your timid demeanor, the role of the Capital’s Doe, and hadn’t spared him a glance. You were linked arm and arm with a regular client, Mr. Sarginski. He was an older Capital Broker who wore too-tight suits and drank too much for his own good. It was an effort not to glare toward the older male as Finnick was all too observant of the man’s wandering hands, or “grubby paws” as you’d referred to them on multiple occasions. 

“Bastard.”

The curse echoes through Finnick’s thoughts as his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

A firm pinch to the Darling’s bicep has his attention whipping back to his client. It’s an expensive effort not to recoil or pull away from her. She scolds him for looking at anyone besides her, her angular face flushed with irritation as she sticks her nose up at the other guests. That muscle in his jaw pulses again as he slides his arm around the vulture’s waist, tucking her into his side just to shut her up with a sly, feigned smirk, crossing his lips. He gives her an apology sugar-coated with his signature charm to make up for it. Her feathers smooth and she continues to yap his ear off, though her grip on him tightens painfully again.

The touch burns.

Tonight would hurt.

The revelry continues. The music swells, and the Capital aristocrats overindulge themselves in food and drink to make themselves sick and overindulge again. Finnick tries his best to keep up his act. Despite his client’s scolding, he caught himself still turning his gaze your way on occasion. Your dress was a gauzy, muted pink that whispered when you moved, the delicate movement of the fabric made it seem as if you were floating each time you were twirled on the dance floor. That thread in his chest snaps against his heart and he forces his gaze elsewhere. 

“Stop it.”

The thought clamps down on the thrumming in his chest like a vice. Like it did everytime his thoughts began to stray. Everytime they flowed to close to you. It was like drawing back an empty net, the hope of something fruitful only to be disappointed. He still tried to convince himself things were better this way.

Better for both of you.

Not that he’d ever allowed himself the pleasantry of even hoping if not down right praying for something different.

Finnick tried not to think about what that meant, what different meant.

It didn’t matter.

None of it did.

In the end, all of it did.

Its another excruciating hour before the honey tanned victor finally finds a moment to himself, leaning against one of the marble pillars in the hall pretending to sip the drink in his hand.

He didn’t even notice your approach till the familiar, sweet yet earthy scent of your perfume fills his senses.

“I think If I have to spend another moment smiling my face is going to get stuck.”

Your voice was soft, despite the resignation in your tone. His gaze snaps to your features in an instant only to force his sea-green eyes elsewhere not a moment later, trying to feign indifference but somehow failing miserably

“Tell me about it,” Finnick almost scoffs and he can almost feel the way you roll your eyes at him. Hes trying to play it cool, swallowing thickly as if that’ll quell the acceleration of his heartbeat against his ribcage. “I’m surprised Sarginski loosened your leash this far,” he attempts to jest, hoping you don’t pick up on the slight hitch in his breath. You dont, instead scoffing while crossing your arms over your chest while casting the honey-tanned Victor a sidelong look. “He’s too drunk to care.” you muse with a small shrug. Atleast your whit and sarcasm remained intact. A slight smirk tugs the corner of his mouth as he allows his gaze to meet yours again. You’re still looking at him, your gaze intent yet unconcerned. He can’t help the brief once over he gives your form, trying not to let his vision rake too long over the planes of your face.

“You’re staring again,”

You arch a brow as your look turns knowing. Finnick looks away again.

“Am not,”

“Are too,”

“Nope.”

“You’re insufferable,” You huff, fighting the urge to roll your eyes again.

“You love it,” Finnick rebuttals, his tone teasing and he almost doesn’t catch the words till they’re tumbling off his tongue faster than he can even try to reign them back in. He’s stuck in a stunned silence, not daring to move even a fraction of an inch as he stands mortified with what he’d just said. Not to mention the possible prying eyes and ears around every corner.What they wouldn’t give to feed the propaganda machine that  festered the most heinous rumors concerning the Victors and Districts.

You seem almost just as shocked by his claim at the moment.

But you don’t reply, and he doesn’t apologize. Neither of you say anything at all, actually, for a moment or two. 

“Shut up, Peacock.” You mutter, and its clear the slight hush to the words are both in jest and subtle warning. Despite your usual sarcasm you really were telling him to shut his trap. And he does, shaking his head and shoving his hands in his pockets.There isn’t a chance to say anything more as you’re approached by one of the party goers, both of you almost immediately going rigid.

“Greetings, Victors. Apologies for the interruption, but I believe it to be time I finally introduced myself,” The stranger begins. His voice is deep and he appears to be about middle age. He could almost appear to be district if it weren’t for the finely trimmed suit he wore. Most members of the capital favored cosmetic enhancement. He’s a tall but stocky fellow, not quite strong but not flabby. His posture is straight as well and his overall demeanor rings authority - which immediately has warning bells going off in your mind. The stranger outstretches a hand to Finnick before stating his name, The bronze haired male hesitantly accepting the handshake as the name forms on his lips.

“Plutarch Heavensbee, I’ve been looking for you.”

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