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willsdreamgirl · 1 year ago

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“morning mr. shelby.” — tommy shelby x reader ⋆｡˚

tommy shelby x fem!reader

you meet tommy as a nurse during the war, but happens when he realizes that he’s known you all along? (loosely based around some s1 plot points, but all set before the war)

18+ minors dni please! angst, fluff and smut

cw: mentions of war, shooting, stabbing, suturing, ptsd, friends to lovers, eventual smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), slight breeding kink

word count: 5.4k+ (sorry lmao)

a/n: ahh first fic alert!! i’m so excited for you guys to read this! don’t be a ghost reader and lmk if you want to be added to my tag list for future tommy/cillian stuff!! 💌

you met tommy shelby during the war. he was a soldier, you were a wartime nurse. before the war, you had obviously heard of him. tommy shelby, leader of the fucking peaky blinders. arrogant bastards.

you lived in small heath, and everyday you’d pass him on the street. and everyday, you’d smile and say, “morning, mr. shelby.” and everyday, he would barely look up at you. you were sure he wasn’t even aware of your existence. prick.

your parents had always told you to stay away from the shelby boys. your dad would say that “they’re dangerous and make whores out of innocent girls” and your mum would make some comment about “the shelby men and their stupid cocks and their stupid judgements”.

they were the most intimidating people in all of small heath, possibly in all of birmingham. truth be told, there was a certain charm to them that you couldn’t shake off. well, to one of them. tommy shelby. you couldn’t tell if it was because he was your age, or because he was powerful and strong, or simply because he was strictly off limits. or because of his piercing blue eyes.

everyone in small heath knew tommy. but you knew tommy. he didn’t know you, though. you could tell if was him by the way he exhaled or by the sound of his footsteps or by the way he held a cigarette in his hand, the peaked cap on his head, a hand in his coat pocket. you despised tommy shelby, but god, was he fucking irresistible.

when men were drafted for the war in france, it was common sense that they’d need someone to tend to their cuts and bruises. you’d decided to volunteer, and after a couple weeks of training, you were right there, in the field. practicing on dolls and bags of rice and flour was nothing compared to what you saw. what you heard.

your first day in france was… eventful, to say the least. some commander had led you to the medical tent, and you were welcomed by the screams of hurt soldiers, blood and panic. you were immediately assigned to a patient, who’d been shot in the chest. you tried your best, did everything you could have, but ultimately, he had just lost too much blood. you didn’t sleep that night, haunted by the bloodshed, by the pleas of the soldier to keep him alive, by the feeling of someone else’s blood on your hands. over time, however, you grew accustomed to having your pristine white uniform soiled with blood and mud.

a month or so after you’d started, you heard shouts outside the tent. “help! someone HELP, for FUCK’s SAKE!” this was a regular occurrence, but the voice the shouts came from didn’t sound wounded. you felt an instinctual need to go see what it was.

what you saw, though, was something you never expected to see. tommy shelby, with a comrade’s head in his lap, putting pressure on a wound in his shoulder. without hesitating, you helped tommy drag the soldier to a vacant bed in the tent. “what happened?” you asked, hurriedly. tommy was visibly panicked. “i- he- um, he got st-stabbed by… one of the germans… his name’s danny- daniel.” you looked in tommy’s eyes, trying to give him some semblance of comfort. “he’ll be okay.” you applied pressure on the wound, and luckily, the blood stopped flowing soon. you cleaned the wound up and looked to tommy. “i’m gonna have to disinfect the wound with alcohol, you might want to hold daniel down for this.” daniel was still delirious from the blood loss, but the pain would be excruciating. tommy braced himself. his hands firmly holding down daniel’s. you nodded before tipping the bottle over on the wound. danny thrashed around on the bed, screaming and cursing, struggling against tommy’s hold. you heard his voice over danny’s. “you’re alright, lad! y’er gonna be fine!”

tommy sat by his friend’s bedside as he came to. you tended to other patients in the meantime but eventually went over to talk to him. “i want to keep him here for the night, mr. shelby. make sure there’s no infection.” he looked at you, surprised you knew him. “you know who i am?” “of course i do, all of small heath knows you. what i didn’t expect was to have a run-in with you, here in france.” he scoffed at his own misery and spoke. “you don’t belong here. you should be home.” you rolled your eyes, even in his state, he managed to be cocky. “if i wasn’t here today, mr. shelby, who would save danny?” that seemed to shut him up. he was about to speak, before you heard your name from the other side of the tent. “y/n, we need you!” after having helped a soldier who looked like he had been mauled, you looked out to see it was nightfall, and tommy had left.

a couple days later, at about noon, john shelby, the youngest of the shelby brothers walked in, clutching his arm tightly. “do you need help, mr. shelby?” you called out. “yes, i-i’ve been shot.” he all but whispered. you rushed over with a tray of distilled alcohol, forceps and bandages. after an afternoon of agony and pain, you had finally managed to pull out the bullet form his arm, john’s face a clear representation of his relief. “oh my god love, if we were home, i’d marry you right now.” you laughed at the proposition. “mr. shelby, i think you’re still a bit delirious from the anaesthesia. besides, i’m your brother’s age.” he looked shocked. “what, you’re arthur’s age? really?? you look nothing like that old prick.” you couldn’t help but laugh yet again. “i’m not that old, jesus. i’m tommy’s age.” he sighed. “marry him then. lord knows he needs a girl.” you giggled as you gathered your things and walked away. “you amuse me far too much, mr. shelby.”

it felt like ages had passed before you saw tommy again. your back was towards the tent entrance but you knew who had walked in. his breath trembled and his footsteps felt a bit unsteady, but it was undoubtedly him. you waited to turn until he called out your name. “y/n, is it?” you turned around, to find his face and shirt covered in blood. “mr. shelby! what happened?” you rushed over to him, taking his hand and sitting his down on a bed. “i- i… killed a man today, y/n.” he looked down, he couldn’t bring himself to look at you. you didn’t respond, simply got up and grabbed a stitching kit and a bowl of warm water. “is all this blood yours?” was your first question. “no. most of it is his.” you sighed and searched his face to find a cut on his cheekbone, the source of his own bleeding. “i’m wiping away the blood now, okay?” tommy gulped and nodded, his eyes still trained on the ground. “mr. shelby, i want you to look at me.” it was as if he didn’t hear you. you spoke again, softer yet more authoritative this time. “tommy. look at me.” he finally brought himself to look into your eyes. in his eyes, you saw guilt, regret and fear. in yours, he saw compassion, love and a warmth that could engulf all his pain. “good.” you whispered. you wrung out a washcloth and began wiping the blood away from his face, using your other hand to hold his chin in place. his arms found themselves wrapped around your waist, in an attempt to ground himself. you didn’t say anything, but your eyes told him that you didn’t mind. in that moment, you saw a different version of tommy shelby. you didn’t see ‘tommy, the criminal’, ‘tommy, the gangster’ or ‘tommy, the womanizer’. you saw tommy, a good man, an honest man. you felt his arms tighten around your waist as you pulled your hands away from his face, as if he was afraid you would dissipate into thin air. “tommy.” you whispered. “i’m gonna have to stich that wound up. it might hurt.” but he didn’t mind pain, not if you were the one inflicting it. “okay.” he spoke, his voice deep. he rubbed circles into your skin with his thumbs, the pain making him hum. “sorry, almost done.” you finished the last stitch. “there. you’re all fixed.” tommy held you like that, his hands around your waist, icy blue eyes staring into yours. your arms rested on his shoulders and you leaned down to whisper to him. “tommy. people are staring.” “so? let them.” eventually, he reluctantly pulled away from you. “it’s time for dinner, and then lights out.” he smiled as he spoke, and slowly exited the tent, catching a glimpse of you as he left.

needless to say, you only grew closer over the next few weeks. you were inseparable. whenever tommy had free time, he’d make his way to the familiar tent, and talk to you. it was wartime. you were left hurt and traumatized and so was he, but you both found solace in each other’s company. you told him how you knew him, and how you’d wish him good morning every day, only to receive complete silence from him each time. he chuckled and apologized. he told you about the peaky blinders, what they did, how they ran their business. you bonded over your shared hunger for knowledge and stories. you told him everything you knew about art, history and literature; and he told you stories of fighting gangs in the streets and stealing contraband. his stories were always more thrilling than yours. you’d try to set each other up with people for fun. you’d introduce him to every nurse, telling them how he was fighting for his country, and of course, they fell prey to his charming eyes and dashing smile. they’d ask what he did back home, and as soon as you said the words ‘gangster’, they’d run in the opposite direction. he’d done the same for you. introduced you to other soldiers, and when you spoke to them, about art and literature, they’d call you ‘unladylike’ or ‘too ambitious for a man’. you both secretly liked it this way, it was like you were his and he was yours.

when he became sergeant major, you both celebrated together. he’d brought you a bottle of whiskey, and you spent the night, talking and giggling drunkenly. but soon, he was assigned to be a sapper and dig tunnels. you both knew that the germans were going to dig their own tunnels, and at some unfortunate point, the tunnels would converge. both of you realized the danger it held, but he had to do it. you tried to talk him out of it, though. “tommy, please!” “y/n, calm down.” “goddamn it tommy, think! you’re gonna get yourself killed! what the fuck are you doing?” “i’ll be alright.” “no, you won’t! what if you get hurt? what if they shoot at you, huh? i won’t be there underground to make sure you’re okay!” “y/n, i have to serve my country. i have to do this.” “tommy. i’m begging you, don’t do this.” he simply sighed and kissed your forehead and held your face in his hands. you held tightly onto his wrists as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. “shhh, i’ll be alright. in fact, i’ll write you.” you seemed to calm down at the idea of him writing you. at least you’d be updated on his condition.

the morning he went down to the tunnels, he came to see you. you were sorting gauze and bandages when you felt his presence near you. you turned around and ran to hug him. he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in. you could feel tears brimming your eyes. neither of you knew why you felt like this. you were just friends, right? “tommy michael shelby, i swear to god if you die, i’ll kill you myself.” you heard him chuckle. he took a step back and caressed your cheek. “you take care, darling.” you wished he wouldn’t leave, but in your heart, you knew he had to. a few hours after, you found a letter tucked under a book on your desk. you curiously pulled it out and opened it.

dearest y/n,

i know how much you hate that i’m going to be a sapper now. i want you to know, no matter what happens down there, i care for you, and i love you, unconditionally. i’ve loved you since the day i first met you. i can’t believe i was looking for love in whores and prostitutes when the love of my fucking life was saying the sweetest good morning to me every morning. i’ll protect myself, and i want you to protect yourself too since i can’t do that for the time being. if we survive this wretched war, i want to take you home, ask your father for your hand and marry you, sweetheart. you take care of yourself, alright?

all my love,

tommy shelby.

you couldn’t help but gasp at what you read. he loved you. tommy shelby loved you. the same tommy shelby that was too arrogant to say a word to you, the same tommy shelby that your parents told you to stay away from, the same tommy shelby was head over heels for you. you immediately looked for a piece of paper, a pen and some ink. you wrote a letter back and sent it with one of the workers heading down to the tunnels. you didn’t know what it was like down there, but you hoped your letters would keep him sane. meanwhile, tommy received your letter and opened it with the same enthusiasm you showed his letter. however, he was also filled with nervous energy. he had confessed his love for you, which was so incredibly out of character for him, but with shaky hands, he proceeded to open the letter.

dearest tommy,

to say that your letter was shocking would be an understatement. i never knew you felt this way for me. like i’ve told you on several occasions, my parents always told me to stay away from ‘your kind’ and as a good catholic girl, i obeyed them. but tommy, in these few months, i’ve seen a side of you i can’t ever forget. i love you too tommy, the real you. the honest, raw, genuine tommy that i get to see on late nights and in random moments on busy days. i’d love to marry you, just make it out alive of that damn tunnel, you prick.

only yours,

y/n.

tommy felt his eyes welling up as he read the words you had penned on the paper. it had been so long since he’d seen you, or heard your voice. he wanted you. he needed you. to keep him stable and sane. as the days passed, your and tommy’s letter exchange became more and more frequent, and you felt like even if you were in this goddamned lawless land of blood and chaos, you had tommy. and he was all you needed.

that was, until the letters slowed down. you kept writing him, but to no avail. he hadn’t sent you a letter in days, or weeks, you weren’t sure anymore. you’d almost lost hope, and spent entire nights grieving him. trying to remember the sound of his voice, the feeling of his hands on your waist, the smell of his cologne. you hadn’t heard his breath or felt his footsteps in a long time. the pain was almost unbearable, and some days felt like decades. but the only thought that kept you going was that you saw tommy in all the wounded soldiers you treated. they were someone’s tommy. and they needed to get home alive.

4 months. 4 whole months since you heard from tommy. you were convinced he was dead now. you spent your days bandaging and stitching wounds, yet you could never fix the wound tommy left in your heart. it was one of the hottest afternoons, the french sun blazing unmercifully. you were insanely busy with patients today, the war was almost ending, and the soldiers needed to be fixed up before they could go home. yet, no sign of tommy. you sighed, cursing yourself for holding out hope now for someone who would not return.

“can i have a nurse here?” you could recognize that damn voice anywhere. the deep voice that filled your ears, smooth like honey, you’d recognize that voice at the end of the world. you turned around. tommy. “hi, love.” he smiled. but his smile quickly changed into a frown when he saw your sobs. you took him to a quieter corner of the tent. you stepped closer to him. he went to put his arms around you. you slapped him across the face. “where. the FUCK were you, thomas michael shelby?!” he was incredibly confused. “l- love, what?” “i thought YOU DIED, YOU BASTARD. where were you?” the time you spent apart had changed you, and from his response, you could tell it clearly changed him. “i was TRYING to fucking STAY ALIVE for YOU.” he raised his voice at you. he never raised his voice. neither of you spoke for a while and tension filled the air between the two of you. “i should leave.” he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. he left, and you let him.

after a few weeks, news broke that britain had won the war, and everyone went home. five years had passed since you last saw the familiar streets of small heath, and you were no longer a girl, but a woman. a woman who needed to get a job to survive in this city. you walked around and saw a flyer on the doors of the garrison. ‘BARMAID NEEDED.’ you walked in to find harry. he looked up pleasantly surprised. “y/n! haven’t seen you in a while, eh? what can i do you for?” “i’m here to get the barmaid job, harry.” he sighed.” y/n, this job isn’t suitable for a girl like you. these men, they’ve just come back from war, they haven’t seen a girl, let alone a pretty one like yourself, in ages. they’ll have you up against a wall within the first hour of your shift.” you looked at him desperately. “harry, please. i need this job, otherwise i’ll be out on the streets, which are surely worse than this pub. i was a nurse in france, i’ve dealt with these men. please?” he sighed again before nodding. “alright then, you start tomorrow.”

your first shift consisted of the usual alcoholics, men with ptsd, everything that was to be expected after a war. you hear the bells at the door ring as the familiar footsteps walk closer to the bar. without turning around, you ask, “what do you want?” he replies, “whiskey, scotc- y/n?” you finally turn around at the sound of your name falling from his lips. “yes, mr. shelby. so, scotch? on the house right?” he leans over so that just the two of you can hear. “don’t mr. shelby me. come on, love, talk to me.” “i have nothing to talk to you about.” as you poured him a glass of whiskey, he held your wrist assertively. “y/n. come.” you rolled your eyes and went to the shelby’s private booth. “what is it that you want, tommy?” “what the fuck do you mean ‘what do i want’? you, i want YOU. i need you. did ya lose your fucking mind in france like danny whiz-bang?” you felt your bottom lip trembling and your throat choking up. “i… i thought y- you were fucking dead. i mourned you. for MONTHS. i grieved over the death of the love of my life. of my future husband. of my future children that i’d have with him. and then, just as i’m making my peace with it, YOU have the fucking audacity to show up? you have some bloody nerve, tommy shelby.” the look in his eyes softened as he took a step closer to you. “no. don’t you dare come any closer to me, tommy, i’ll kill you.” you said, holding up the bottle of whiskey as a weapon. he embraced you, holding you tightly, his fingers stroking your hair. you resisted the hug and tried to push him away, only to find his grip on you getting tighter. “g- get away… from me, p- please… i- just” your voice came out muffled between sobs. tommy felt hot tears rolling down his own cheeks. “shhh, sweetheart. i’m okay, eh? i’m fine. i’m here, with you.” you dropped the bottle you were holding and it shattered into a million pieces on the ground. you stood there in his arms, crying for what felt like an eternity. you finally pulled away from him, and he wiped your tears with his thumbs. you laughed, but then lightly slapped his arm. “you scare me like that again, tommy, i swear i’ll kill ya.” “i’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead, and you rested your forehead against his. he tentatively closed the gap between your lips and his, and you pulled him by the collar and kissed him with enough force to make him trip and fall. he managed to stay steady and kissed you back with equal fervour. he spoke between kisses. “i *kiss* spent *kiss* every *kiss* second *kiss* thinking *kiss* of you.” you giggled. “i missed you too, tommy.”

he told harry that you’d be leaving the bar early that day, and dragged you out the bar while holding your hand, a smile on his face for the first time in a long time. “the great thomas shelby isn’t embarrassed to have a barmaid as his girlfriend?” you giggled. “never. and those who think i should be embarrassed can suck me cock.” he spoke proudly. he opened the car door for you, and you sat inside and waited for him to turn the ignition on. “where are we going, tommy?” “i want you to meet my family, love.” during the countless hours you spent together chatting, he told you about his family’s idiosyncrasies and stories about them. how arthur needed to be protected the most during fights because he was just as likely to hurt himself as he was to hurt someone else, how aunty pol’s instincts about love were never wrong, how john once fell in love with a prostitute and everyone laughed at him, how ada was the most rebellious and married a communist (who happened to be in of his best mates), and how finn always pretended to act like tommy, doing whatever his big brother did. you were excited to meet them of course, but anxious. they would be your family one day too.

he held your hand as he brought you in, everyone sitting around a table waiting for him. “does everyone just sit together like this?” you asked. “uh, no i called a family meeting for 3 pm.” tommy replied simply. “how did you know you’d be able to have me here by 3?” he winked at you. “i have my ways. and i know how much you love me.” he spoke in a singsong voice. you rolled your eyes at his schoolboy behaviour and waited for him to speak. “shelby’s, this is my girlfriend and soon to be fiancé, y/n.” he held his arm around your waist proudly, and you leaned up to kiss his cheek. you recognized arthur and john immediately from your time in the war. you assumed that the older woman was aunt polly, and the younger with the baby in her arms would be ada, leaving the youngest member of the family, finn. john came up to talk to you first, while tommy spoke with polly. “you know i didn’t really mean the ‘marry tommy’ thing?” you laughed as you replied, “i didn’t either, but fate works in weird ways, eh?” he agreed with you before talking to tommy. arthur was the next one to see you. “you and tommy, eh? if it wasn’t for the war, you two would probably never have met. i s’pose war isn’t all bad then.” “perhaps you’re right. i did find your brother to be arrogant before the war.” “that he is, y/n. that he is.” both of you looked over at him, engaged in conversation with everyone else. you fussed over the baby in ada’s arms. “awww, he’s precious! what’s his name?” “karl, after karl marx.” you shot her a look. “it’s unconventional, i know. but freddie really wanted it.” “it’s lovely.” finn rushed over to you and kissed your hand. you gushed exaggeratedly. “what a gentleman you are, finn!” “if tommy wasn’t here, you’d be my girlfriend, miss y/n.” you laughed at his childishness and ruffled his hair. “sure i would, finn.” the only person you hadn’t spoken to yet was aunt polly, arguably the most intimidating person of the family. “i have one question for you, y/n. how you answer it will determine if you’re fit for being a shelby. how do you think i kept this business up and running during the war?” you felt put on the spot but tried your best to answer. “um, well, to be quite frank, i’ve believed that women are better at business anyway. we know how to settle deals with whiskey and not fists or guns. and you seem like twice the man than most men i know anyway.” her lips twitched up into a smile as she looked to tommy. “oh, i like her already.” he held your hand in hers, and addressed tommy. “she seems like a lovely girl, do not fuck this up tommy.” tommy shook his head and laughed. “i’ll try, pol. i’ll try.”

you ate dinner with the shelby’s before you headed up to his house. “you sure you don’t want me to walk you home?” he asked for the hundredth time that night. “no tommy, i’m perfectly content spending the night with you. unless you’d like me to leave?” you questioned. “no no, stay, please!” he said, almost pleadingly. you looked around his bedroom when you reached his home. it was obviously a house, but it didn’t feel like a home. you frowned at your observation. “what’s wrong, y/n?” “this house isn’t a home yet, tommy.” “that’s because i want my first home to be with you. with our children. and as far as i’m concerned, you are my home.”

“care to dance?” he asked, holding out his hand. you looked at the gramophone in the corner. “that doesn’t look like it works, love.” you placed your hand in his. “so what? we can dance without music.” he said, holding your waist close to him, your hand on his shoulder. you leaned your head on his shoulder, both of you dancing in the silence, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. “kiss me, tommy.” you whispered. he obeyed probably for the first time in his life and kissed your soft lips.

things escalated and you were now on tommy’s bed, tracing the sun tattoo on his chest, with him on top of you. “fuck me, tommy, please.” “your cunt wants this cock?” he growled. you moaned in his ear. “fuck, yes tommy, make me yours.” he stretched you out in the most blissful way. of course, you had used your fingers before, but nothing could replace the feeling of his cock. “god, please!” you moaned out, words slowly turning into incoherent sounds. tommy chuckled. “god can’t hear you now, sweetheart. not here.” he pistoned his hips into you just right and it wasn’t long before he found the spot inside you that made you scream. “t- tommy fuck! right there, please don’t stop!” “i wouldn’t dream of stopping, darling. my girl, so pretty all spread out for me. take it, love. take that cock.” the feeling of your impending orgasm coursed through your entire body, making you writhe in pleasure. “god, i’m so close tommy!” “good fucking girl.” his hand reached down to rub circles on your clit while he fucked you so good. “oh god, tommy, i’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow…” “that’s the plan, sweetheart.” he spoke as he kissed hickeys on your neck, matching the ones you’d given him earlier. “come on love, make a mess on my cock.” as soon as he said that, you felt yourself falling apart, the tight band in your stomach snapping, uncontrollable moans of his name falling from your lips. “thank you tommy, thank you so much.” you moaned, drunk on the feeling of his cock inside you. “such an angel. who do you belong to, sweets?” he said, still pounding your cunt. “y- you, tommy. i belong to you!” “that’s right, sweetheart.” he whispered in your ear, “i love you, darling.” you moaned as you felt your second orgasm approaching. “tommy, fuck! i- i love you too!” “god i’m gonna cum inside you! you’d like that, eh? me getting you pregnant, all nice and round with my baby?” you felt your orgasm pulsing through you at his words. “yes, tommy! fill my womb up, please! i need it!” you heard tommy’s loud moans as he came inside you. “oh, such a good girl. took my cock so well, love.” tommy stayed on top of you for a while, his cock still inside you. “i’ve wanted to do that for five fucking years.” he spoke, voice muffled since his head was buried between your tits. you laughed, but the laughs quickly turned to moans as your sensitive cunt felt friction from tommy’s cock rubbing up against its walls. he pulled out of you slowly, watching his seed spill out of you. he eventually got up to get a warm washcloth and a glass of water for you. you drank the water as he cleaned you and himself up and pulled you into his chest. you pulled the covers over both of you, feeling your body flush against his. “that was amazing tommy, thank you.” “the pleasure is all mine, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead.

ever since tommy came back from france, he had these recurring nightmares every night. of his time in the tunnels. the germans. his comrades. how he had to kill people with his bare hands. he could still hear the shovels digging the tunnels when he closed his eyes. when he was with you though, he could finally fall asleep. or so he thought.

you were awoken in the middle of the night by the sounds of a gasping tommy, suddenly sitting up. you felt groggy for a moment, having just woken up, but quickly sprung into action. you sat next to him, rubbing his back. “tommy, what’s wrong?” he didn’t speak. but he didn’t need to. you’d seen enough cases of ptsd from your time in the war to know what was happening to him. “you still see it, eh?” he only nodded. you laid back down and pulled him into your chest. he protested. “what are y-” “shut up.” you could tell, he was still a bit frantic, his breath still heavy. you spoke to him in a soft tone and you played with his fingers, his head on your chest. “listen to me. listen to the sound of my voice. feel my body against yours. you are home. you are safe. the war is over. the nightmares are just parts of your mind trying to scare you. but you’re stronger than that, eh? i’m here with you, and you don’t need to be scared. alright? i’m here with you, always.” he hummed, heavy eyelids slowly closing shut. being able to smell the scent of your perfume helped ground him. “good job, tommy. now sleep. i’ll be here with you when you wake up.” you managed to get him to go to sleep, but somehow convinced your mind to let you sleep light enough that if tommy were to have another nightmare, you’d be up immediately. fortunately, he didn’t wake up during the night.

he woke up to the sight of a sleeping you, the sun rays hitting you just right. he swore he could look at you forever. you felt his gaze on you and slowly opened your eyes. “how’d you sleep?” you asked. “like i hadn’t slept in years.” he replied.

“morning, mr. shelby.” you wished him, as you did, every day before the war. except this time, you were in his arms, in his bed. you kissed his lips softly. except this time, he finally wished you back.

“mornin’, sweetheart.”

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deputyrook · 3 months ago

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In Her Absence: Lucanis/Rook/Spite.

A03 link! Female Crow Rook x Lucanis. Lucanis POV.

Takes place when Rook is in the fade prison, because 1) I love angst and am a big softie; and 2) I wanted to try to work out the logistics of what the team did in Rook's absence, and how they managed to reach her.

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In the four days that Rook’s been gone, the Veilguard has devolved completely into infighting.

Taash wants to know why they can’t just “break into the fade and pull her out.” And no one really wants to hear Emmrich’s overly technical explanation as to why that’s not feasible, least of all Taash, who’s grieving and angry. Davrin keeps saying that it should have been him instead, which isn’t helping, and no one even wants to think about what’s happening to Bellara right now.

Harding is dead. Bellara is kidnapped by Elgar’nan and Maker knows where. They’re a mess as a group, angry and hurting. And Rook...

Rook’s gone.

Neve is the only person who remotely has their shit still together, and for that at least, Lucanis is thankful.

Because he absolutely does not have his shit together. Maybe the others can’t tell, since he’s not arguing or yelling or breaking down, but his thoughts are spiralling so badly that he’s barely said a word in three days. All he can think about is Rook.

He loves her. He loves her. And she’s lost somewhere, trapped and alone, and they have no plan whatsoever on how they’re going to get her back.

He never told her. It’s tearing him up inside. The thought that he might never hear her voice again. Never hear her make some stupid pun, or hear her teasing, or hear her give them all one of her legendary pep talks. Never hear her laugh again-

“Lucanis,” Neve’s voice is firm, dragging him out of his despondency, “You need to focus.”

How can he possibly focus? “You’re right,” he says instead, voice tight, because Neve is right. Standing around brooding isn’t getting them any closer to getting Rook back. What he needs to do is act- but how?

Solas is a God, and even he couldn’t break out of that prison. This isn’t the kind of problem Lucanis can solve with a dagger. He can’t stab at the prison walls until they crumble away- but Maker knows if that could work, he would stab until his daggers shattered and his body collapsed.

What is he supposed to do? What can he do? How can he help them, when all he knows how to do is kill things?

No. Spite says to his left, his voice hard and determined, No! We will find Rook. Won’t leave them there.

Neve puts a hand on his shoulder, and gives it a squeeze.

“When has Rook ever been content to sit and wait to be rescued?” Neve says, and he lets out a long, even exhale, because it’s exactly what he needs to hear. “I’m worried too. But Rook would chew off her own leg to escape a trap. If there’s a way to get out, she’ll find it. Have some faith in her. In all of us- and in yourself.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice quiet. After a moment, he adds, “…Someone should let Viago and Teia know.”

That, at least, is a burden he can bear.

But the days stretch into weeks. Elgar’nan seizes control of an already broken Minrathous, and even Neve has a hard time keeping herself together after that one.

Lucanis is in no place to offer comfort. Without Rook’s leadership and steadfast optimism, the lighthouse has gone dark, leaving them all ships to smash into a rocky coast. He won’t soon forget the way Viago’s eyes widened when he told him what had happened to Rook, nor the look of horror that flashed across his face before his expression settled into stony devastation.

Strangely, it’s Spite that keeps him from falling apart completely. He refuses to accept that Rook is gone. Every time that Lucanis’ mind whispers to him that this happened because he wasn’t good enough, and that he’ll never see Rook smile at him again- Spite cuts him off with an angry, defiant hiss of NO.

Rook is strong. Rook is smart! Rook will not allow herself to die in a prison. She would not let you die in prison, either. We will not let her. We will find her. We will find her!

He repeats the words in his own head, holding onto them like a buoy. Right, yeah. She’s good at prison breaks. It’s enough to make it through the day.

Sometimes- although Lucanis would never admit it to the others- he realizes that Spite is the one who has been moving his body, keeping him working while he’s been stuck in his mind, ruminating and aching with missing her. It’s been Spite that’s forcing him to eat, to bathe, to sleep. Spite is keeping him alive.

Will not let you do this to us. Rook needs us.

It’s that thought that ultimately gets Lucanis to snap out of his despair.

It’s not over yet. He agrees, finally. Rook needs us.

Finally! Spite snaps back.

---

First, they try to make a copy of the dagger. Something that will be able to slice through the fade prison, so that they can cut Rook out of it. That’s how Solas left, after all- by tricking her, and stealing the dagger to cut himself free.

But a dagger of pure lyrium isn’t exactly easy to replicate. Brilliant as they are, Emmrich and Neve can only do so much. So after days of meticulous work, they end up with a dagger that looks identical to the real thing, but doesn’t actually work. Great.

Next, Emmrich hypothesizes that in order to get to Rook in the fade, they’ll not only need to figure out how to access the fade prison, but also to figure out where the prison actually is, physically within the fade.

It is, apparently, not as simple as yelling out “ROOK? CAN YOU HEAR US?” from the top of the Lighthouse, which has been Taash’s strategy. Spite, too, is ready to start just travelling through the fade, for as long and as far as he needs to until he finds her. Lucanis is doing what he can to support the group, cooking the meals and making sure Emmrich and Neve are able to stay on their feet.

Word gets to them that Solas is in Minrathous, keeping the rebellion alive. The news poisons Lucanis so thoroughly with hate that he nearly can’t stomach it. Spite has been so determined to save Rook that Lucanis almost forgot how it felt when he was really, truly spiteful.

Hearing Solas is pretending to be a hero in Tevinter, after consigning Rook to take his place in a prison? Yeah. That’ll do it. The things he’d wanted to do to Illario after his betrayal had left him conflicted. He is not remotely conflicted about what he wants to do about Solas.

What they want to do. Spite agrees with him on this one. He hurt our Rook.

Finally, Emmrich and Neve work out a real plan, with the help of the Veil Jumpers. It’s based largely on luck, but it’s something. It’s a sliver of hope. It’s enough to keep them all going.

First, they need to find a spot where the veil is particularly thin, where the fade peaks through the seams of reality. Then, they need to use an artifact of the Veil Jumper’s to do… magical, fade, location-y… stuff. Emmrich actually uses a bit of Rook’s blood for this part, located on some stained clothes that Assan had dug out in her room.

Blood magic. Ordinarily, Lucanis would be opposed. But no one says a word against it. They are all desperate for this to work.

The first day they try it, it doesn’t work. They make some adjustments, and try again.

The second day, it doesn’t work. They make some more adjustments, and they try again.

On the fifth day, Spite says it in his ear, voice sharp with excitement.

I can smell her- I can smell Rook!

Lucanis’ heart feels like it’s about to burst from his chest. He’s yelling, “Rook?” into the rift before he can stop himself, but the team’s caught on already that this isn't like the other times they’ve failed to make their plan work. The rift is spitting and spasming sparks of magic, and they can see through it in a way they’d never been able to before. They can see a light in the rift.

Emmrich seems to throw caution entirely to the wind, rolling up his sleeve and plunging his arm into the rift. The energy is wild, unrestrained, and they’re all calling out to Rook, reaching and trying to get to her.

“I’ve- I’ve got her!” Emmrich yells out, and Lucanis swears he can see Rook’s wavy form on the other side of the rift. Like looking through a fishbowl, or the walls of the Ossuary.

He reaches in too and grabs her hand with Emmrich, and they yank. Rook stumbles out, collapsing onto the ground.

“Varric’s dead,” she says, voice hollow and wobbly.

Neve shoots Lucanis a confused, concerned look, but he’s too relieved to care. He’s grabbing at her shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace, and his throat feels like it’s closing up on him. Tears prick at his vision. She’s safe. She’s alive, she’s free, and she’s safe. She’s back with them.

They all want to hug her, and make sure she’s actually, really okay. But Lucanis gets to first.

Told you. Told you, told you! Spite repeats, ecstatic, She’s back!

“Are you okay?” He murmurs, pulling back and looking her over critically, trying to see if she’s been hurt or if anything has changed. But no. It’s just her. Like not a day has passed.

Rook nods slowly, and Lucanis smooths a hand down her hair, before cupping her cheek in his hand. All he wants to do is hold her, but he can’t be that selfish and drag her away from the others. Not yet, anyway.

Pulling back, the others take the moment to rush in, making similar careful assessments and doting over Rook. The last few weeks have been almost unbearably difficult. There’s been little to celebrate. But this is joy again. Hope. With Rook back, not everything is completely fucked.

Davrin pulls her into a crushing hug, and Taash joins in, and they’re all hugging and crying a little. The trip back to the Lighthouse is a blur, with Rook thanking the Veil Jumpers and swearing to them she’ll get Bellara back.

How she can already be so determined, so ready to act, Lucanis will never know. He is, as he has so often found himself, in awe of her ability to forge forward, the light cutting through the swathes of dark that seem to surround them.

Spite is just about ready to try to crawl out of their skin in impatience, but they have work to do first. They all brief Rook on what has happened in her absence, and learn- horrifically- that she’s somehow been brainwashed into believing Varric has been alive, for months, by Solas.

Not for the first time, Lucanis feels anger and spite bubbling in his veins and vows to himself that he will not let Solas get away with hurting Rook. God or not. He finds it hard to fathom why he would mess with her head like that, if he wanted her to succeed in at least stopping Ghilan’nain. It reminds him too much of the mind games that his captors would play on him when he was in the Ossuary, tormenting and confusing him for no other reason than to break him down. Was that what Solas had tried to do to Rook, too? To break her down mentally, so she’d be easier to manipulate and trick?

It seems to take forever, but finally, Lucanis gets to see her alone. She’s lying down when he enters her quarters, her eyes closed, but the words spill out of him before he can even consider leaving her to rest.

“I cannot believe we found you,” he says, voice soft. All of the fear he’s felt for weeks, the doubt and the despair that Spite had helped him just barely keep at bay… the relief, now, is making him lightheaded.

“I’m a little surprised too, honestly.” It’s a testament to the gravity of the situation that she’s not trying to make light of things. The words aren’t meant as a joke.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he admits.

“And I didn’t think I’d ever get out of there,” Rook tells him in turn. It leaves him cold, to think of her there, alone and believing she might never be found. “How do I know if I really did? This could be... more of the fade.”

Lucanis realizes then, that he’s never seen her vulnerable like this before. Emotional, yes, but lost? Frightened? Rook has always been the solid centre of the group. Unmoving, unyielding, steady. Utterly dependable.

It’s almost surprising that she’s not actually invincible. She’s so consistently been their guiding light. But more than shock, more than anything else-

He wants to protect her. He wants to hold her until her worries melt away, to chase away the horrible memories of the last several weeks and see her smile at him. He wants her to know that he won’t let anything hurt her. He wants to kiss her until she feels safe and warm again.

So he does. Kneeling down in front of her, holding her hands in his own, Lucanis reassures her she is real. There’s so much he wants to tell her, that he’s been praying he’ll get the chance to say. But now that Rook’s in front of him again, he can’t seem to find the words for everything he’s been feeling.

So he kisses her. So, so gently. And when he keeps kissing her, pressing her back against the chaise as she wraps her arms around his neck? It seems Spite is right there with him, because the wings unfurl right in that moment, curling around them both protectively, like he wants to help shield them from anyone in the world who might try to hurt them.

#lucanis dellamorte #spite dragon age #lucanis x rook #rookanis #spite x rook #antivan crows #dragon age #dav spoilers #dragon age spoilers #dragon age the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #dragon age rook #maybe i'll write a smutty p2. but not tonight!#have i mentioned i love lucanis and spite #my writing

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godmadeaterribleerror · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter 6 - Everything I Do

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), light fluff, mutual pining, light angst, love confession, smut (handjob, fingering, p in v sex), Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: The Mark reaches a breaking point. Usual Warnings, little angst, lotta smut.

Author's Note: I am of the firm belief Rowena would’ve said cunt religiously if the CW wasn’t full of a bunch of pussies.

Chapter title from Video Games by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 8.7k

Read on A03!

Chapter 5

Dean can breathe. Not easily, but he can. He can feel the weight of something airy and thin wrapped around him, stuck to his skin and far too heavy. There’s a hand on his brow, and it’s not the right one. Dean’s not sure what the right one would even be, but he knows it’s not this one. This one feels a little wrinkled, and the nails are too long, and it doesn’t satiate the betterlust. It’s just there, pressed to his skin like it’s looking for something and not all too pleased with what it finds.

The longer it’s there, the more the betterlust pounds and stabs and scrapes at him. Rots his guts and carves open his skull and rips through his chest. It’s searching for something that’s not there, and Dean’s head is too clouded with pain and ache and sickness to figure out where he should even be looking. Not in the hand. Not in the thing around him like a shroud–hot and clinging to him like a plague—but maybe somewhere close. Because wherever Dean is—he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have enough of a brain to guess right now—it’s unfamiliar, but feels right. He’s lying on something soft, and it smells good, and when his fingers flex, they’re tracing over an impression left on the area next to him. An indent left on the space by something that could curve and press into Dean exactly like he wants. Craves. Needs.

The betterlust starts to flare and bellow, almost drowning out the low voices around him, and Dean knows he might die if he doesn’t find what fits into that impression and take it.

“How long has he been like this?”

“I’m not sure, a few hours?”

“Well can you try to be sure, Samuel?”

“I got here the same time you did, how am I supposed to be sure-“

“Ask our resident Dean Expert, the poor girl has been stuck with him all week-“

“No, I’m not going to make her do more. And, uh,” there’s a long sigh, and Dean still isn’t really sure what’s going on, or who these people are, or why they’re talking about him. “I don’t think it’s safe for her right now. To be around him. He said he didn’t want her-“

“He obviously lied, you idiotic boy-“

“He didn’t want her to know, Rowena. And it’s not my place to tell her-“

“She’s a big girl, she’ll survive a little bit of emotions.”

“He’d, he’d fucking kill me-“

“And he will kill himself if he does not accept what he needs! It’s quite honestly a miracle he was a stubborn enough arse to resist the Mark’s demands this long.”

Dean’s really fucking confused. There are two voices, one that sounds a little like his and one that very much doesn’t, and they’re both talking about him like he’s important. He doesn’t feel important. He mostly just feels tired, and bad, and sick. Sweaty and hungry and desperate for something he can’t name, but they say he needs to name or he’ll die, and he doesn’t even really know what names are right now-

“If I tell her, this becomes her responsibility-“

“Well, Dearie, I wasn’t aware you were stupid and blind-“

“Hey-“

“You cannot look me in the eyes and say that she would not welcome the responsibility, boy. She is so pathetically obsessed with him it makes me feel ill.”

Dean felt his mouth try to frown—he can’t figure out how to move, so it more of a twisted grimace—as he racked his mush of a brain to figure out who they could possibly be referring to. He couldn’t remember names, but he could remember presences. Remember that the voice like his was good, and he was supposed to protect it. The voice that wasn’t like his was bad, and kind of a bitch, but helpful when they ran out of options. There wasn’t a third voice, but there was a smell that he really liked. Loved. Craved. Needed-

That was the imprint. And it wasn’t here right now, but the betterlust and already spiraling around it and constricting his lungs as he tried to find it. He needed it, and it didn’t need him, and he was going to die-

“I know,” the familiar voice sighed. “Believe me, I know, but I can’t ask that of her-“

“She’ll shred your sorry arse apart if you don’t-“

“And Dean will put a bullet through my brain if I do!”

“He will die before he gets the chance. Have I not made it clear that, unless Dean receives the help our lovely, pretty, lovesick-“

Then the voice that wasn’t like Dean’s said a name, and the betterlust exploded inside him. He knew that name. He’d die and kill and cut himself to pieces for that name. He wanted it. He couldn’t have it. He needed it, more than he needs air or water or food or music. The betterlust demanded it, and was shredding apart his insides because he refused to take it, but was also lending him the strength to find it. To find Her. Dean needed to fucking find Her, or nothing would ever be good again-

His eyes fly open, and for a long movement everything is only a blinding blur of color. There’s noise around him—both voices shouting words that sound like they’re for him but he can’t understand—and Dean’s brain kicks into a vigilant, borderline feral function as he hauls himself up, something pushes him back down, and the betterlust grew feral.

“Rowena, grab the other arm-“

“I am not meant for brute labor, Samuel-“

“Are you fucking kidding me-“

Dean roars Her name clawing and grabbing at the air to try and go, try to get to Her, because he was going to fucking die, and the betterlust told him She could fix this, make this better, make Dean better-

“Oh for- Fine.”

The voice not like Dean’s says something he can’t understand, his whole body tightens. Like a weight has been dropped on his chest, and ropes have been wrapped around his limbs, forcing him to collapse back onto the bed with a noise that might have been a whine.

“Dean.” Rowena appears in his vision, her face drawn in annoyance. “Blink twice if you understand me.”

Dean scowls, but blinked twice.

“Good. Are you going to try and kill us again?”

Dean glowers at Rowena, keeping his eyes wide open in a gesture of no, and she sighs.

“Good boy. I’ll let you up, but if you ever try and grab my hair again, I’ll make you regret having hands, aye?”

The tension vanishes from Dean’s body, and he sits up slowly, pinch the bridge of his nose to try and curb the pounding ache behind his eyes, taking deep, mechanical breathes to get some fucking control over his body. Over the betterlust. Over himself.

“Dean, are you feeling okay?“

Sam looks worried. He’s frowning and scanning over Dean with concern, like there will be wound on his skin they can patch up to fix this.

But only one thing can fix this. And Dean still isn’t strong enough to not know where She is, not when all he can remember is dragging himself to Her room, and hearing her voice, and seeing her pretty face before it all went dark.

Dean mutters Her name, his voice low and gruff, and Sam and Rowena freeze. “Where is she.”

“She’s eating.” Sam mutters, bracing his hands on his hips. “I told her to get some rest. You freaked her out, dude, she-“ Sam shakes his head, giving Dean a look he doesn’t understand, and doesn’t have the energy to try and decipher. “She was really shaken, when we got back. She needs-“

“She needs you.” Rowena interrupts Sam, and he shoots her a venomous glare. “You’re too much of a meat-headed dolt to see it, but that darling girl looked as if she’d been devastated over you.”

“Rowena.” Sam hisses. “We agreed-“

“You agreed. I made no promises-“

Dean raises his hands—they both need to shut up, or his skin will fly off his body—and their argument stutters off.

“How bad is it.” He looks to Rowena, the moment alone an act of labor. “And don’t try to lie or sugarcoat it. How long I got.”

Rowena sighs. “If you insist on keeping your head up your own arse, a day. Maybe two.”

“But we’re going to try to reverse it.” Sam jumps in, his voice desperate. “And Rowena gave you something to keep you going-“

“But, as I told your brother,” Rowena’s words are harsh, and Dean appreciates it. This really isn’t the fucking time for dancing around anything. “It is a very temporary solution, and the reversal will take time you no longer have. There is an obvious fix to your little problem-“

Dean lets out a dry chuckled. “My problem? Last I checked, Rowena, you were the one who fucked this up-“

“I did not fuck anything up, you petulant man child-“

“Rowena-“

“No!” Rowena cuts off Sam with sharp words, holding Dean’s glare. “I did my job, Dean Winchester, but you are too much of an arrogant, brooding little cunt to do yours.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Watch it, bitch-“

“I did not have to help you,” Rowena hisses. “But that poor, desperate, lovesick woman begged me to. You know exactly what you need, and you are too cruel and stupid to do it.”

Dean’s hands curl into fists on the sheets. “I said fucking watch it-“

“She’s right.” Sam mutters, and Dean’s gaze whips to him, his mouth falling open at Sam’s pitying, exhausted expression.

“I’m sorry, I must be going insane, because there’s no fucking way you just sided with Rowena-“

“I didn’t side with her.” Sam snaps, running a hand over his face as he shakes his head. “I’m just trying to get you to think for five seconds. I’m trying not to lose my brother because he can’t see what’s right in front of him-“

Dean scoffs. “There’s nothing in front of me, Sam. Rowena botched the spell, and now I can’t do anything but-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, a stab of pain twisting over his ribs, and Sam throws his hands in the air.

“For crying out loud, Dean, you’re dying because of this self-righteous, sacrificial bullshit you always pull! Rowena didn’t botch the spell, you’re just refusing to give the Mark what it wants, and until you do-“

“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Dean roars, slamming a hand down on the mattress. “Fuck, Sam, I’m not going to force myself onto her just because-“

“Because you think she’ll say no?” Sam rolls his eyes. “Dude, you can’t be stupid enough to really believe that-“

Dean scowls. They don’t fucking get it. Sam and Rowena don’t know Her like Dean does. They don’t understand that She would say yes, but she wouldn’t really want it, and Dean would stain and mark Her in a way that they’d never come back from. She’d never smile at him the same, and he’d have to die alone in the dirt when she finally got the memo that he wasn’t worth helping. When She left him, her soul more tainted than when she’d found him. When his poison sunk into Her skin, and she would still be so pretty and amazing, but ruined and marred from Dean’s touch. From how weak and pathetic and toxic he was.

He couldn’t do that. He’d rather fucking die.

“Just drop it, Sammy.” Dean mutters, his gaze falling to that imprint of Her on the bed. Her bed. Dean was finally in Her bed, and he didn’t even get to enjoy it. “It’s not happening. And you’re not going to convince me, so either fix this, or let me die without goddamn yelling at me.”

There’s a moment of wired silence, Rowena silent in the corner of the room as Sam and Dean glare at each other, and Sam shakes his head like he can’t believe Dean’s nerve. Like Dean isn’t saving the only good thing they both have. Protecting the only person that’s stayed with them, that they both love, even if Dean’s love is made of undying, animalistic, grime and dirt covered devotion, and Sam’s is purer, softer affection that could never cut and scar Her like Dean’s.

“She was crying.” Sam finally says, his tone colder than Dean’s heard it in a long time. “When we got back, she was sobbing, Dean. Have you ever seen her cry? Ever?”

He hasn’t. Dean has seen Her grit her teeth and bite back sounds of agony from injuries, seen Her scream and flail when they’ve lost people, and seen Her so angry it scared him a little, but he’s never seen Her cry. She didn’t cry. Her eyes got glossy, and her voice grew tight and choked, but she didn’t cry. Sam has to be lying, and he doesn’t look or sound like he is, but he has to be. She doesn’t cry, so why the hell would that be the truth? But why would Sam lie, and why has She stayed this long, and fuck, everything hurts and Dean’s too damn tired to figure out what the hell Sam is trying to tell him but the betterlust is scratching at his heart to know-

“Sam,” Dean swallows, watching his brother carefully. “I-“

There’s a knock at the door, and everything in Dean flies to the sound. It’s Her. Before Sam’s hand is even on the doorknob, Dean somehow knows it’s Her. Here. Maybe for him, maybe not, but the betterlust doesn’t seem to care because it’s Her-

She looks horrible. Still so fucking pretty, but horrible. There’s a slump to Her posture as she stands in the door—hair tangled and shirt wrinkled—and Her gorgeous face is slightly puffed. Her lips pouting. Her eyes lined with red.

Like She’s been crying.

Sam says Her name in question, and when She speaks her voice is hoarse.

“Look, I know you to told me to rest, but-“ Her mouth falls open as her eyes land on Dean, and Her sharp inhale feels like it shoots adrenaline right into his blood.

He tries to offer Her a winning, I’d be happy to see me too smile, but it doesn’t feel right on his face. It feels too vulnerable, where it’s always been like a shield. It feels like it’s a lie, or trick, or act of cruelty when Dean’s rarely met a woman who doesn’t flush and giggle under that attention. It’s supposed to make him feel good from their happy, hopeful eyes. It’s supposed to make them feel good from Dean’s well-crafted, carefully wielded charm.

But right now he still just feels like shit. Bottom of the gutter, horrible, flea-ridden and matted shit. A fucking piece of shit that might have made Her cry, and isn’t even smart enough to know why.

He tries again, making the smile wider, adding his most casual drawl. “Hey, Sweetheart-“

She makes a strangled sound—loud and pained, making the betterlust start to snap at Dean’s brittle spine—and all but runs to the bed, almost falling to Dean’s side as Her hands begin to grab at his face and run over his skin. Angling him for Her to examine with frantic eyes and words, igniting little paths of insatiable fire wherever She touches.

“Are you okay?!” She turns his head to the side, her fingers tracing his jaw and cheek like boils or scars might have just appeared. “Your fever is gone,” the back of Her hand presses to his brow, flipping to touch it with Her palm. “But shit, you’re covered in sweat-“ Her glare whips around to Sam, Her grip still tight on Dean’s face. He doesn’t really mind. The betterlust is still trying to climb out of his throat, but he can fight it—for Her—and this can be enough. It’s all he’ll get before he’s gone anyway. Her touch, and loud almost furious shout at Sam. “Why didn’t you change the sheets like I told you to-“

“He was dead weight,” Sam says Her name, his voice a hell of a lot kinder than when he’d been talking to Dean. “And you also told us to make sure he got some rest. Rowena said the fever broke, and he’s lucid again-“

“But this is gross Sam, and you could’ve moved him if you tried-“

“Moved him where? He started freaking whimpering when we took away your comforter-“

Dean scowls. “Can you guys stop talkin’ about me like I’m not right fucking here-“

Her gaze turns back to Dean, the odd, aggressively mind-numbing panic and care returning to her eyes as she begins to examine him once more.

“You seem better, but you’re redder than you should be, and, shit, was that scar always there-“

Her finger’s trial over Dean’s chin, dangerously close to his mouth, and he has to bite down a groan as he says Her name. “That’s been there at least a decade-“

“What about this one-“

“Three years, you were there when I got it-“

“Fuck, you’re right.” She shakes her head, Her eyes suddenly boaring into Dean’s and settling warmth in his gut. “Well, are you feeling okay? Does anything hurt, or feel sick, or feel numb-“

“Sweetheart.” He catches Her hand, and she falls silent with wide eyes. “I’m-“

“And,” She moves his gaze onto Her’s, and fuck She’s always so pretty. Even when She’s pissed at him. Especially when She’s pissed at him. “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, Winchester, I’ll stab you-“

He chuckles, and it’s dry and low, but maybe the realest sound he’s made since he woke up. “I don’t doubt that, Sweetheart.” He drawls, and she lets his guide Her hands away from his face. “But I promise, I’m feelin’ better.”

She nods slowly, and Dean pretends he can’t see Sam’s eye roll in the background.

“Oh. Okay.” She turns at Sam and Rowena, her voice slightly unsteady and weak. “Have you, um, have you both been in here? The whole time I was eating?”

Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” She swallows, and Dean notices Her body go slightly rigid. Sam must notice too, because he tilts his head and frowns at her.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just…” She trails off, staring at her nails as her voice drop to a mumble. “There’s a lot of people in here. Makes me nervous.”

“Shit, sorry.” Sam says Her name, his voice apologetic. “Didn’t know that. We can go, if you want.”

There’s a long moment where She’s just staring at Sam, Her mouth slightly open, and her body curled in on itself like she’d been punched. Sam repeats Her name, his voice cautious, and when She snaps out of it, her voice is still soft and anxious.

“That would be good.” She whispers. “Thank you.”

Sam nods. “No problem. Me and Rowena,” he shoots the witch a glare, and she rolls her eyes. “Are gonna go try to fix this. Text me if you need anything, either of you.”

She hums an acknowledgment, Her attention never leaving Dean as Sam and Rowena close the door, and Dean’s whole existence begins to curve into only the feeling of Her as her fingers trace over the back of his hand.

After a long moment of silence—only the sound of Dean’s heart in his ears and the shifting of blankets under their bodies—she swallows, her voice barely a breath. “They can’t fix it, can they.”

He blinks at Her. “They’re gonna get it-“

“Don’t lie to me, Dean.” She gives him a soft smile that makes her look like she’s already grieving, and something in him lights up and withers away in the same second. “Please.”

He swallows. He is really tired of lying to Her. And he can say something closer to the truth and still hold his ground. He’s not quite that weak. Not yet.

“It’ll be close.” He grunts. “But I’ve survived worse. I just gotta pull through-“

“You don’t, though.” She whispers. “Rowena said you just have to-“

“Rowena can eat me.” Dean mutters, glaring at the door. “I’m not doin’ whatever the hell the Mark tells me to, that was the fucking point of this.”

“The point was to help you, Dean.” She sounds so freaking sad, and it’s pulling Dean apart. His will and mind all being reduced to Her. Too good and pretty to be sad. And it’s just Dean. She shouldn’t be this sad over only Dean.

“Sweetheart-“

“I don’t,” She swallows, speaking over Dean with quiet, soft words. “I don’t know why you’re being such an ass, Dean. Why can’t you just do what the betterlust wants? Isn’t it what you want-“

“It is.” Dean has to push the words through his teeth, because She so close and it’s not close enough and everything fucking hurts. “But I can’t have it, so we’re dead in the water. But Sammy and Rowena-“

“Dean.”

He can’t look Her in the eyes. Her voice is so gentle and nervous, and he’s not strong enough to look Her in the eyes and see all that worry and pity in them. He can barely even grunt an acknowledgment for her to continue.

“What do you want?”

“I’m not gonna-“

“Is it me?” She whispers, and Dean’s eyes shoot to Her’s. He can’t breathe. He can’t do anything but stare at Her and try not to die as he realizes this is it. This is how he loses Her. Forever. This is the last time he gets to look at Her and bask in her beauty and kindness, the last time he gets to drown in the smell of cherries and feel a little more alive under Her touch.

But She doesn’t look afraid, or disgusted. She just looks urgent. Desperate. As confused and hopelessly hopeful as Dean feels.

And he can’t speak, or think, or do anything but stare at Her as she speaks again.

“Dean, do you,” She takes a shaking breath, and Dean needs to touch Her. “Do you love me?”

——————

He’s not saying anything. Dean’s looking at you like you’ve shot him right through his heart, ripped it out, and taken a bite. Gaping like he’s trying to ask you for it back but can’t find the breath to, blinking like he’s trying to test if you’re really there. He reaches a hand up to run over his own face, reaches out to touch you—trace broad, calloused fingers over your cheekbones and jaw, over your chin like he’s wiping something you can’t see away—and jerks back suddenly, like you’d hurt him. Burned him. Branded him.

He’s branded you. You’re never going to forget his voice in your head, sounding like he’s overdosed on something awful, and doesn’t think he’ll come back down. Like he’s trying to cleanse himself of something by whispering words that will either haunt you past the grave or feed you for the rest of your life. Your heart will never forget the way it stopped for only a second before kicking into a pace that was all too fast when Dean’s eyes closed, and your hands will always remember the cold fever of his skin.

“Dean.” You have to make your voice strong. Steady, like you’re demanding something from him and not praying to him. “Please-“

“Why-“ His voice is hoarse, almost strangled, and it makes your every muscle feel a little weaker. “Why would you ask that.”

“I’m, I can’t tell you, just please answer me-“

“Did Sam tell you-“

“Sam?” You frown, shaking your head slightly. “No, I just, this has nothing to do with Sam-“

“Then why the hell are you-“

“What would Sam have told me?”

Dean falls silent, opening and closing his mouth as he goes red, his eyes looking almost feral. He looks like a cornered animal, something starved and needy, unsure if it should bite the hand reaching for it or grab it and never let go.

You want to hold him and never let go. You want him to grab your hand, and hold it, and never think to drop it again. You want to hear him say those words again, and have his voice be certain. You want to touch him, no matter if he’s like this or breaking or furious or—in those rare, priceless moments—happy. And you need to know. Dean’s never owed you anything, and he never will, but if there’s only one thing that he can offer you in universe, it would be really nice if it was this. If Dean ever gives you anything, please, dear God, let it be this.

“Dean,” you whisper, moving your hand to his knee and holding his almost fearful, rabid gaze. “Please answer me. Tell me what Sam-“

“He,” Dean swallows, voice gruff. “He wasn’t supposed to say anything. He fucking swore he’d never-“

“He didn’t.” You repeat, unsure if he’s even understanding the words out of your mouth. “All I’ve talked to Sam about is the spell. But why-“

“Rowena.” He mutters, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “Rowena must’ve open her bitch mouth-“

“I haven’t really talked to Rowena at all-“

“Must’ve been some fucking spell-“

“Dean!” You scream, your nails digging into his leg like you can hold him with you forever. “It was you! You told me you loved me! You had a fever and you told me you loved me, you said my name, and I just,” Your voice cracks, desperation starting to break through your blood, out of your mouth in spit. “I need to know, please, you need to tell me if you meant it-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Please.” You refuse to look him in the eyes. The moment you look in Dean’s deep, pretty eyes you’ll know what he’s thinking, and you’ll lose him forever. Everything in you is screaming to know, but you’re still not able to just look into Dean’s eyes. “Dean, please tell me.”

“Why.”

For a second you’re not sure if you heard him right. The question startles you enough to make you look up, and the moment you see him something snaps inside of you. He looks wounded. Nervous. Almost as afraid of you—of your words, and what they might be capable of doing to him if you use them wrong—as you are of him.

“Why would you need to know.” He rasps, staring at his own hands. Flexing in his lap, seemingly against his will. “You’re not- It’s not somethin’ you’re-“ He looks up to you, his eyes almost pleading. “Why would you give a shit about-“

“About you?”

Dean’s throat bobs, his nod short, and you summon more bravery than you’ve ever been capable of before. Enough to reach out, over the space between your bodies that so small—but still feels like miles—and place your hand on his cheek. Keeping his gaze on yours.

“I always care about you. I-” You take a shaking breath, the last words falling off your tongue. “I love you.”

Dean’s hand shoots up to cover yours. To hold you against him, with a grip that tells you he might be trying to sear his skin into yours.

“You-“ His voice is so soft. His hand over yours is like iron, but everything else about him seems to be dreamlike. Hazy and uncertain, both of you watching each other like you’re sure the other will vanish if you look away. “You love me?”

“Yeah,” you try to smile at him, and it’s not charismatic. It’s pleading and tragic and so fucking delicate. “I do. I mean, I have. For a while.”

“How-“

“Four years.“

He blinks at you. “No, I, I meant-“ He swallows, shaking his head. “I meant how. How did that happen.”

It’s your turn to frown at him. “How did that happen?”

“You shouldn’t love me.” He mutters, his hand over yours flexing. Like he’s trying to pull it away but doesn’t know how. “It’ll get you hurt.”

You raise your brows slightly, running your thumb over his cheek. “Are you going to hurt me?”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “That’s not what I-“

“Are you?”

“Of course not, I’d never-“

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why-“

“It does.” You whisper, folding your legs under you to rise on your knees, dropping your brow to his. Holding his gaze the whole time. “It matters to me, Dean.“

He makes a choked sound, but doesn’t move away. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” You whisper. “And it would be really cool if you loved me.”

Dean’s only staring at you, his eyes flicking between your own, slightly blurred gaze that can still see him so well, and your lips.

“And it happened,” you push on, your voice growing a little weak when he still doesn’t respond. “Because it’s really easy to love you, Dean Winchester. You’re a good man.” You offer him a smile, and his own mouth falls open just a little. “And even if you don’t love me, I wouldn’t have you any other-“

Something in Dean’s eyes flickers, and he moves before you’re sure what’s happening. Yanking you into his lap with his hand—fingers now tangled in yours—catching you with an arm around your waist, and kissing you.

Kissing you. Dean’s kissing you.

Your body sparks into action—even as your brain becomes fogged with a hazy, Dean-shaped lust—and you fist a hand into his shirt, pulling him as close as the world will allow. He’s holding you so carefully, leaning down in a slight dip, and there could be a storm raging around you instead of the soft, romantic rain this feels like it belongs to, but you wouldn’t know. Because this is a kiss people wage wars over.

It’s louder than music in your ears and electric in your blood, but sparks isn’t a strong enough word. It’s like lightning. Shooting through your spine and lighting up every nerve in your body to Dean. Soft lips molding perfectly into yours, warm and calloused hands skillfully mapping over your skin, a groan down your throat that you can feel settle in your lower gut and start a wildfire. You’ve been hungry and you’ve never dared to eat, but Dean is here now and you’ll either be starved for the rest of your life or never want for anything again.

When Dean tries to pull away, you just follow him. Chase after his lips with yours, trying to get just a little more before this all comes tumbling down. Before the thought can even dare to cross Dean’s mind—that he’s not good for you, and he should go—because this is all you’ve ever wanted and you’ll be damned if you don’t cling to it for as long as he’ll allow. You’ll fall all the way down, until your body is only supported by Dean below you, and you’ll forsake oxygen until your body demands it. Maybe a little while after, too.

And Dean doesn’t seem to care to let you go. Every time he tries to pull back it’s a jerked movement, and every time you collide again he grows more and more feral. His groans turn into deep, animalistic growls, and his touch on your skin becomes rough. Not painful, never painful, but urgent. Uncontrolled. Pulling at your skin like he’s trying to meld it into his, kissing you with bruising force, bucking up into you with his hard cock brushing your inner thighs.

You grind down onto him once—when he hits closer to where you’re beginning to ache for him, and your own need grows stronger than you’re desire to let Dean control this—and he bites you. Dean catches your lip between his teeth, sucks in into his mouth, and grins like he’s won a prize when you whine a plea of his name.

“Holy shit,” he mutters your name, pressing his brow to yours as you both catch your breath, grabbing your waist to stop the next roll of your hips. “I’m not- I can’t do this to you-“

“You’re not doing anything to me,” you whisper. “I love you. I want this.”

Dean catches your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles and staring at the movement, his voice so low you almost don’t hear it. “Say you’re lying.”

You blink at him, and shake your head. “No.”

His eyes flash, shooting back to yours as he grunts your name. “You need to say you’re lyin’ right now, or I’ll-“

“You’ll what?” You lower your face back down, until you’re sharing Dean’s every breath. “Fuck me? Actually say you want me?”

His throat bobs, voice rough with lust. “You, I can’t fucking control it, sweetheart, if you’re fuckin’ with me you need to take it back now-“

“Dean.” You grab his face between your hand, forcing his darkened gaze back to yours. “Answer my fucking question.”

He shakes his head weakly. “You don’t-“

“I love you.” You hiss. You need to make sure he feels it, in the slightly spit on his face, that still tastes a little like him because it’s pushed through lips that are swollen from Dean, and Dean alone. You glide a hand down his chest, the kiss apparently fueling something bold inside you that hadn’t been there before. Your fingers trace down, over his abdomen—hardened from work but still soft in all the best places—and Dean takes in a sharp breath, his hands on your hips tightening enough to leave a mark, and you lean back. Just enough to open space between your bodies, just enough for you to palm him through his sweatpants.

He’s huge, and twitching under your careful, light fingers, and God, you need him inside of you in any fucking way—between your hands or filling your mouth or buried deep into your cunt—but Dean’s still just staring at you. His chest heaving, eyes so dark and wanting you might cum just from his attention, and nostrils flaring as you move your hand up, resting right over the hem of his pants.

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, the rush of confidence barreling down as you wait for him to do anything. “And you need to tell me now that you don’t love me, or-“ you take a long breath, dragging up the last bit of your nerve. “You need to say you love me, and do something about it.”

Something shatters in Dean’s gaze for the last time, and whatever war he’s been waging with himself reaches a brutal end as he surges back up, kissing you with all spit and bloody need. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever dared to have on his tongue, and he might be trying to chew off a bit of you to keep.

He won’t need to. He has you. He’s had you for a while, and when he leans back to watch you with glazed, hungry eyes, his words seal some deep, fragile part of you to him forever.

“I love you,” Dean grunts your name, scanning over your face like he’s afraid the words will yank you from his hands. They won’t. “I need you. I gotta have you, but I’m- I’m not in control of it right now-“

“I can take it.” You push your hand into Dean’s sweats, taking his cock in your hand. He groans, eyelids fluttering, and when you run your thumb over the head of him—pressing into the weeping slit and squeezing just so lightly—he hisses your name like a prayer. “Please, Dean. I want it. Please.”

You pull down his pants with your free hand, taking his boxers with them, and start to slowly pump your hand up and down his impressive length. There will be bruising marks of Dean’s hands of your hips for a while, but you’ll survive. It’s worth it, to watch him unravel below you, to see Dean’s pretty eyes grow glazed with lust for you, feel his dick throb and hips jerk under your touch, hear his low growls and grunts as his jaw clenches and he doesn’t pull you away.

“God,” he moans your name, and you start to squirm above him, desperate for a bit of your own relief. “I wanna- Wanna taste you. Fuck you. Ruin you-“

“So do it,” you slip your other hand down—trusting Dean’s hold to keep you upright—and squeeze his balls. “You say you love me, Dean, but you haven’t proved it-“

The words do exactly what you’d wanted them to. Dean yanks your hand from around him, crashes his lips into yours with a fervor that might have been dangerous if it didn’t taste and sound and feel like Dean, and lets go.

His every movement is rough and uncontrolled, because his tether over every bit of will that had seemed to keep him restrained is gone, and in its wake is only the Mark. All its lust and fury and hunger, primal and focused on you. On taking what it wants.

And you’d give it to him, even if it left a few marks on your skin and bruising on your heart, but you realize that the Mark doesn’t seem to just want to use you. If it did, Dean wouldn’t be sucking on your neck and moaning at the taste of your skin, all while tracing big, warms hands around your body to palm your breasts. He wouldn’t allow you to grind onto him, or whimper his name, or scratch at his skin as he pulls you apart with barely anything at all. When he flips your over without any effort—only a low grunt and flex of his muscles—you feel like the most priceless bag of flour in the word. Perfect to be tossed around like that forever, but worth more to him—more the Mark—than just another body.

And you can’t see him anymore, but you don’t need to. You hear the sounds of him shuffling behind you, the muffled noise of his shirt being tossed onto the floor, and then his voice. Low and feral and saying your name in a way that makes your knees weak.

“Up.” He grunts, and you whine when he angles your hips up and pulls down your shorts, you already wet cunt being hit by the cold air. “So fuckin’ pretty, gonna ruin you, baby. You’re never gonna even think about a cock that’s not mine again-“

You nod a little stupidly, wiggling your ass back into him and moaning when his still-clothed erection presses right into you. “Fuck, Dean, please-“

He spanks your pussy—just once the stinging pleasure shooing up your spine—and you bury your face in the sheets to stifles your desperate moan.

“Need ya’ to listen.” He mutters. “You’re gonna have to talk to me, baby, lemme know what feels good, what you’re likin’, what you need more of-“

“You,” you gasp, and Dean chuckles, running a taunting finger between your folds. “God, I need you, Dean, need you so bad-“

“You need me?” He pushes the finger into your cunt, his body moving to covers yours as he whispers in your ear. “Need me to fuck this tight little pussy until you scream? Goddamn prove you how much I’ve wanted you, how much I’ve always wanted you-“

“Yes.” You nod frantically, grinding your ass up into him. “Show me, please show me-“

Dean moves your head to the side, capturing your lips in a long, slow kiss, and hums in satisfaction when he crooks that finger right up against that deep, sensitive spot inside of you, and your hands start to claw at the sheets.

Then he’s gone. Without warning Dean draws back, yanks his finger out without warning, spanks your pussy again—chuckling at the high, needy sound that escapes your lips—and presses one hand to your lower back to still your writhing as he shuffles behind you

“Tell me whatcha want, baby.” He mutters, moving his hand to rub up and down your thigh. “And I’ll get it for ‘ya. But you have,“ He slaps your pussy one last time for emphasis, and you can only moan. “To say what you-“

“Your cock.” You whisper, spreading your legs wider for his to see. To look at your wet pussy—need dripping down to your knee—and take whatever the Mark is asking of him. “Want your cock Dean. Want you to fuck me, no holding back, please-“

He slams into you without warning. Burying himself at the hilt in one brutal movement, groaning above you as you go limp under him, trying only to twist and touch him, only to push back and somehow get him deeper. You feel so full, so fucking high on the stretch of Dean inside you, but it’s not enough-

“God, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good.” Dean starts to massage your ass, with one hand, the other holding you up in the air for him to use. “Better than I dreamed, feel like heaven, gonna fuck you so good like you deserve-“

“Dean, fuck-” you clench around him, the praise feeding right into your cockdrunk daze of Dean, and he groans.

“Don’t do that,” he grunts your name, and it sounds like an order. “I ain’t gonna last if you-“ He moans as you squeeze around his massive cock again, and pulls all the way out before slamming back into you with a growl.

Your mouth falls open, a sound like a mewl escaping your mouth, and Dean starts to fuck you. Really, properly fuck you into the mattress, with low groans and an unforgiving pace, bumping your cervix and snaking a hand around your stomach to pull you up to his chest, rubbing your clit until you’re wrecked and seeing stars, thrusting up into you like a jackhammer and keeping you so blissfully pleasured and warm.

“So fuckin’ good,” he growls your name in your ear, and you squeak. “Takin’ this cock so fuckin’ well, all warm and tight, made for me. You were fuckin’ made for me-“

Dean’s thumb and fore finger roll your clit in a tight circle, and you cum with a scream. Light and color lining your vision, the far-off sound of Dean’s filthy praise making your orgasm ride out and out and out until you’re sure you’ve reached something like heaven. Your vision is still blurred when the satisfaction has washed fully through you, and you realize Dean’s stopped moving.

His hand tangles in your hair, angling your face back for him to see, and fuck he’s so handsome. Breathing heavy in your ear, lips puffed from sucking and kiss your skin, eyes glazed but still focused on you.

You must look like an idiot. Your expression is slack and needy, your eyes glazed a lips parted, but Dean looks at you like you’re a diamond and his cock twitches inside you as your eyes meet.

“Shit, baby,” he mutters. “You gotta say somethin’-“

“That-“ You let out another moan, your pussy still fluttering around him. “Good.”

He chuckles, kiss the very corner of your mouth with a smirk. “You got full words, Sweetheart?”

You swallow, the full feeling of Dean—throbbing inside you, still rock hard, pushing against that heavenly spot but with just too little pressure to send you over once more—crashing into you, and you say the only thing you can think of.

“Keep going?”

He stares at you for a second, then shakes his head. “No, I- I’ll be fine, I can take care of myself-“

“Want you to use me.” You’re practically whining, and you’d be more embarrassed if the words didn’t make Dean jerk up into you. “Please-“

He groans your name, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. “I’m not- you’re-“

“I said don’t hold back.” You whisper, rolling your hips against him and feeling pride glow in your chest at his moan. “Fuck me, Dean. I’m yours.”

And there it is again. You say the exact right thing, the thing you knew would work, and Dean gives in. He shoves you down, flips you onto your back—pulling out for only a second as he adjusts you under him—and starts to fuck you like an animal. Rutting into you at a near inhuman speed, hitting your cervix with every thrust, every word a low growl that coils release tighter and tighter in your lower gut.

“So fuckin’ greedy,” he grunts, slamming a little rougher. “Wantin’ more, begging me to fuck you, so fucking pretty comin’ apart on my cock, tell me how good it feels, baby-“

“Good,” you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders as the bed creaks around you, your whole body overwhelmed with pleasure. “Feel so full, Dean, feels so good, you’re so fucking big-“

He groans, and you start to babble. You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, because every word feels like it’s spilling from your mouth. But every inch of your brain trapped in Dean’s skin slapping against yours, his muscles flexing around you, the low and primal sounds rumbling out of his chest as his movements grow sloppy and his cock starts to throb inside of you, and you couldn’t think about anything else if you tried.

“You feel so good, Dean, please don’t stop, want you to cum, I-“ You gasp as he starts to kill up your neck, your hands shooting into his hair. “Fuck, Dean, please, so good, God, I love you-“

His mouth slams into yours, and your orgasm rushes through you like a tidal wave. Longer and powerful, leaving you so fucked out you can only whine under Dean’s body, toes curling and eyes rolling back in your head as your pussy flutters around him.

Dean pulls out, keeping one hand gently on your knee as he pumps himself with an almost blurring fist, and cums over your abdomen and thighs. It’s hot and sticky, and part of you wishes you’d had enough of a brain to ask him to let you taste it, but you’re so completely spent that when Dean collapses over you—a heavy, comfortable weight you’re more than happy to be trapped beneath—your brain wipes every other thought but Dean away, and you decide to just stay here. Where Dean’s face in buried in your neck, and your sore from all of it but there will never be a better pain to experience.

“I-“ Dean breaks the silence, words muffled in your skin. “I feel better.”

“Oh.” You huff a soft laugh. “Good.”

“What, uh, what should we tell Sammy?”

You tug on his hair, just enough to move his gaze back to yours. “That we had sex?”

“No,” Dean groans your name, a smile pulling at his lips. “About the Mark. But we should tell him that-“

You make a mock, dramatic gasp. “Dean Winchester, are you going to brag about sex to your brother-“

“It’s sex with you, Sweetheart.” He winks, rolling you both over and caging you comfortably against his chest. “And Sammy’ll be thrilled to hear it, he’s been on my ass for years-“

“Years?” You squeak. “How many years?”

He shrugs. “I dunno, all of them?”

“All of them?! What do you mean all of them-“

“I mean since I met you.” Dean starts to rub soothing circles on your back, his mouth curling in smug amusement. “Deep breathes, baby, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You flush, still not really use to the baby thing. Or Dean’s hands on your skin, every touch lingering like an imprint that will never even try to fade. “Shut up-“

He shakes his head. “Nah. You love it.” A boyish, wide smile splits over his face. “You love me.”

You might die. You might explode into a million, tiny pieces of confetti and shimmering glass, because Dean looks so happy. There are no ghosts in his beautiful eyes, no loathing or dread stained over his perfect face. He’s happy, here, with you, and you’re not cruel enough to stop yourself from crawling up his chest and pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.

“I do love you,” you mumble against him, straddling his torso as you push yourself up flat palms. “But I’m still gonna tell you to shut up.”

He chuckles, the sound rolling and humming right into your blood. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dean reaches up to tuck a little hair behind your ears, and freezes, his eyes trained on his forearm. On the Mark.

“We, uh,” he clears his throat, watching you carefully. “We do need to figure out what we’re gonna do about this.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “We do. But I, I think-“

You cut yourself off, taking his hand in yours and running light fingers over the Mark in thought. Dean stares up at you with a slight awe in his gaze that makes you feel almost important, and your words fall to a soft breath.

“If you want.” You whisper. “We can turn it back-“

“No.” He shakes his head, sounding almost panicked. “I’m not goin’ back to that shit, not now-“

“Dean.” Your fingers still on his arm. “Was it me? That the Mark wanted?”

He swallows, but nods, and you sigh.

“We’re going to have separate sometimes. And we can figure out the bloodlust-“

“We should have to figure it out though, you don’t gotta put up with that-“

“I know.” You smile at him, and it’s not hard. Smiling at Dean is never hard. “But I will.”

“Do you-“ He stares at you, tangling his fingers in yours. “Do you not want me to keep the betterlust? You can tell me, I don’t want you to feel like you have to, for me-“

“God, no.” You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “I’m just, I’m worried about what might happen when the betterlust decides I’m not enough. Or when this, um, when you-“

Dean says your name, slow and firm, and you swallow. “This is it for me. It’s you, and the Mark knows that. You’re gonna be more than enough, hell, you’re more than I deserve-“

“That’s not true.” You mumble. “You deserve the world.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand. “It’s adorable that you really believe that, baby, but-“

You scowl at him. “It’s the truth, Dean. You’re a good man, I meant what I said-“

“I know you did.” His charming, cowboy grins falters slightly. Not falling, but twisting into one you’ve never seen before. Still roguish, still well designed and stealing your breath, but with a slight crack that allows you to see deeper. To see the lonely part of him, that really thinks you don’t belong here with him. That’s trying to drag you into him, because he’s certain you’ll start running if he doesn’t. “But this,” he nods to the Mark. “Is still gonna be a problem. I’m still gonna be a problem-“

“You’re not a problem-“

He says your name, the word careful and tender and holy from his lips. It’s the best way you’ve ever heard it. The only way you want to hear it again. “Do you want me to keep the betterlust.”

You purse your lips, and nod.

“Words, baby-“

“Yes.” You whisper. “But I need you to promise me that if it stops working-“

“It won’t.” He shrugs, his voice flat, as if he’s speaking in fact. “And we’re gonna keep looking for a way to get this son of a bitch off. But we’re doin’ it together.” He pauses, scanning over your open features. “If that’s what you-“

You lean down, silencing him with a long, easy kiss. It’s not desperate anymore, but careful. Like you’re making art, or starting to spin a web that could unravel with a single tug, but neither of you will let it. You’ll never let this—whatever this becomes—fall apart. You’ll put your whole life into keeping Dean, fighting for him and helping him and reminding him that he’s not really a burden. Letting him remind you that he really does want you, and he’s never going to allow you to doubt that again.

“Together.” You speak against his lips, letting your content breath fall into his mouth. “I’d like to stay together.”

He nods, mouth curving into a grin. “Alright then. Together.”

End Note: Thank you so so much for reading!!! I've had a lot of fun with this one, and I'm so happy y'all have as well! I hope to see some of you soon for the next one, and if not, thank you. no matter what!!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @brtodd @panicking-outside-the-disco @megara0224

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @spacecowgirl126 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @lovewolfspirit

@lordofthunderthr @nightxcreature @underground-secrets @amberlthomas @kamisobsessed

@tcedenslash

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neckromantics · 1 year ago

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You find that now Astarion’s able to feed regularly on “quality” blood, the stronger he becomes, and with that strength comes certain abilities he didn’t know he could possess.

In 5e, vampire spawn are supposed to be pretty strong and fast. (As well as possessing regenerative powers, and spider climb among a few other things.) So, what if Astarion’s lack of super strength and other such things is due to the way he was kept weakened under Cazador’s control?

Like maybe he’s recently fed and he feels especially great this time. Neither of you really think much of it. (You’re just happy he feels good. Happy to see the flush of pink at the tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks.) Maybe you’re in the middle of a fight and you get careless. You hear the swish of a blade at your back, but never feel an impact. You turn to see that Astarion’s saved your ass the only way vampire instinct knew how in that moment, which was to just reach out and grab your attacker’s sword before it could spill any of your precious blood. By the blade.

If he wasn’t wearing those special armored gloves you’d found a few days before he’d probably have lost a few fingers. The steel bends back in his grip as if it’s made of rubber, and there’s a very comical split second where your heads snap toward one another to share matching looks of “what the fuck??” Before the fighting continues.

MAYBE one day you watch the guy get stabbed. Like, impaled in a way that should have meant Withers is about to be dragged out here by his dusty ass robes to perform some quick resurrecting or else. It takes longer than you’d like to get free enough to make a break for him, but when you do you nearly knock poor Shadowheart on her ass in your hurry to pass. Every millisecond feels like an hour. Your heart pounds in your ears so loudly that you can’t hear the scream of the creature before him as you take it down with a single blow.

In hindsight, you must have looked ridiculous. Overdramatic, even, considering you don’t have time to fuss over him as he lie bleeding like you assumed he would be. Your hands tremble in front of you as you watch him stand up from his crouched position. His pretty face is screwed up in a way that you first assumed meant great pain, but now you realize he’s just ? Surprised? Well, that makes two of you at least.

Astarion’s leather armor hits the dirt with a dull thud. With pursed lips and a bit of a hum, he’s lifting up the hem of his bloodied tunic. Pale fingers swipe thick crimson away from his belly to reveal the soft, unmarred skin that lay beneath. You nearly faint right then and there, and that asshole just laughs. Positively elated.

After a moment, a long moment, you start to laugh alongside him. It’s shaky with relief. Disbelief.

He plants a quick, cheeky kiss to the side of your head for your heroic efforts, anyway. You just learn to roll with it.

Maybe one day you walk into your room at the Elfsong, and nearly jump out of your skin when you find him sitting cross-legged on the ceiling. Just full on chilling, looking pleased as punch to have found something else he didn’t know was possible for him. You obviously just stand there and stare at him like ??? for a while. It’s endearing how happy he looks with that smug little smirk, pale curls wild and clothes sitting odd on his frame from the change in gravity.

When you ask, all he can really say is that it just kind of happened? That he very suddenly felt like being up, and logically that meant he should try crawling up the wall to satisfy that craving. He’d been up there for a couple hours before you showed up- even took a little bit of a rest to pass the time. You wish you were there to see his face when he found out- to hear the mad little giggles that spilled from his lips when he stood up from his scuttling and just hung upside down in disbelief because why in the hells didn’t he find out about this one sooner?

(Maybe if you ask nicely, he’ll bring you up there with him on his back just so you can see how strange everything looks from high up on the ceiling. Maybe you’ll use it as an opportunity to scare the ((figurative)) pants off of Gale when he eventually comes looking for you. Endless entertainment.)

Anyway, you feed the guy regular enough and I imagine there is so much to discover about him that the two of you will be entertained for years to come. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll wake up to a fluffy white bat flying circles around the ceiling of your bedroom, and at that point it won’t even be a real surprise to you.

#bg3 #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion headcanons #bg3 tav #astarion blurb #astarion fluff #astarion fic

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sp1der-wid0w · 5 months ago

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⛧°。 ⋆༺living dead girl༻⋆。 °⛧

﹒⌗﹒characters with a vampire s/o﹒౨ৎ˚₊‧

.⋆♱ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐬. ✮: hobie brown, jennifer check, maddy perez, billy loomis, johnny cage

.⋆♱ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. ✮: saw my girl meg, and couldn’t get over miguel and damon soo.. enjoy these small drabbles of my baes meeting their vampire hottie 😘

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟhobie brown ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟhe honestly is ok with the fact that you’re a vampire. he thinks that’s it hardcore and such an anachronist move. whenever you feel a bit thirsty and needs your patch of blood, he’ll simply web you down to the local streets of london, and let you have it at criminals and bad guys. of course, the sex is ten times more intense, with you wanting to bite him, but choosing not to. but he insists, telling you to let your inner rebel out, and let the fangs reign over him. you promised him that you’re the only man that you won’t bite or kill, and you also agreed with him that you want hurt any of his friends (miles, pav, peter b, miguel..) you’re so happy that you’re dating such a supercool and awesome spiderman, and he’s so against the rules. and he’s so happy that he’s dating such a hot ass vampire chick, that eats whoever she wants, and doesn’t care of what comes in her way. you two are such a perfect match <3.

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟjennifer check ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟjennifer thinks you’re hot. she thinks that she found her perfect match, with her being a succubus, and she wants you to and join her on her killing spree sometimes. it’s so fun seeing two girlfriends kill unsuspecting boys using their fangs and super strength. she’ll take you back to her place, whenever you both are done, and things escalate from there. even if you can do this, she’ll always try and protect you from any harm that comes your way. she already lost herself, she doesn’t want to love another thing that she loves in her life. arguments over who’s the better supernatural tend to happen, and it often ends with one of you sleeping on the couch, but she’s quick to make amends and ask for cuddles. you both go for midnight flys, chasing after each other in the clouds, and playing hide and seek. you also talk about your traumas on how you died, and then reassure each other that you’re loved and here for one another, and jennifer promises you that she’ll never leave you.

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟmaddy perez ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟmaddy is lowkey terrified of you, but she still tries to manage with you anyways. move over nate, you’re the person that’s worth defending from anybody. but you’re not letting her be your pushover, you vowed to protect maddy from any toxic ex boyfriends, back stabbing best friends, harsh and strict mothers, and just anyone that tries to do her the wrong way. even thought dating a vampire has its advantages, you two do get into arguments. she doesn’t want you coming to parties, because she’s scared that you might go after her friends, especially you trying to go after cassie or rue. and, she’s also afraid for your wellbeing if you get a hangover. she believe the whole vampire myth of sunlight, and tries to keep you away from any alcohol as possible. you also get mad her, telling her that she’s not your mom, and often leave her place in the middle of the night. but you came crawling back and beg for her forgiveness. she forgives you<3

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟbilly loomis ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟhe thinks you’re a dream come true. he was quick to believe the whole vampire myths about sunlight, garlic, and steaks and stuff. but you just tell him that you’re not dracula or from twilight, and tell him the realities of being a vampire. billy is so sweet with you, whenever you’re feeling hungry, he goes out as ghostface and lures them to you, basically bringing you a midnight snack <33 you both go out your way to make anyone deadmeat, if they try and talk bad about each of you. he tells stu about you, and stu is always making a vampire type of pun, even in front of people, almost blowing your cover. billy had to smack him a few times for that. billy’s blood kink with you, goes a thousand times higher up in bed. always telling you to dig your fangs deeper, so deep.. so deep that it’ll cause some blood. he knows you like blood. he’ll go out his way to gut anyone like a fish for you, just so you can have blood.

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟjohnny cage ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟjohnny cage lives in a world, where can throw hands with the ruler of the sun, and flirt with the beautiful yet equally terrifying nitara. if you not being a vampire isn’t any different, then he’s not sure what else is. he’s your golden retriever type of boyfriend, always wanting your attention, even when you’re out for a snack. you just deadass look at this man, trying to flex his muscles and wiggle his eyebrows at you, when your face is literally covered in an innocent person’s blood. he’s also being so affectionate with you, suffocating you with hugs and kisses, posting you on his social media the minute you breathe, and always talking about you to his friends. sure, he may be suffocating and annoying, but deep down you love your movie star boyfriend. but of course, you wear the pants in this relationship. the second he steps out of line, you bring the fangs and scary eyes out, and he backs up and apologizes immediately.

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gay-dorito-dust · 6 months ago

Note

After request the kiss on the cheek and gotmany likes, its too joyful for me. Im craving angst

Stans brothers reaction when Bill told them that y/n will and always died in every universe and dimensions like stuck forever as zombie/wood statue/etc, which y/n will die in their own dimension too in matter of time or months, time is ticking, they can’t change destiny (can they?)

Ford

Didn’t like those odds at all.

He and bill had history and who’s to say that this wasn’t just Bill trying another method to get inside his head once more by using you, his beloved, as a cheap tactic to do so.

‘I thought a being would have more tact than this Bill.’ Ford would say as the dream demon only chuckled.

‘Oh Stanford, do you really think I’d bluff about this? You should know me better by now that I do not bluff, I’ll show you instead seeing as how stubborn you are into believing me nowadays.’ Bill said as he then showed Ford of all the infinite ways you died throughout the multiverse:

Drowned

Stabbed

Possessed

Lost in the multiverse

Body snatched

Turned to stone

Went through a curse doorway unknowingly and never returned, etc, etc.

Bill took immense pleasure in the horrified look upon Ford’s face as he gingerly traced your face as though you turned into porcelain and not stone.

‘Sucks doesn’t it knowing they your loved one is bound to die in every single timeline, it’s enough to suck the joy out of everything.’ Bill said as Ford only glares at him. You don’t deserve these fates, none of your alternate selves did and he could only imagine what you could’ve possibly felt before dying alone.

‘Oh and your beloved y/n is on route to die in like five months.’ Bill casually mentions and Ford immediately looks to him again.

‘What do you mean by that? How do they die! How can I stop it!’ Ford exclaimed as he felt his heart race and his blood run cold at the sheer helplessness he felt in the moment, but it only proved to humour bill all the more. ‘Oh you can’t prevent this one Stanford Pines, they’ll die regardless of what you do to try and prevent it they’ll die regardless and you’ll have to live with it.’ Bill says before leaving Ford alone with his rampaging thoughts.

He could send you away to Dimension 52 to stay with Jheselbraum for the time being, just until he figured something out, but what if Bill foresees this move being made and goes after you himself? Ford didn’t know what he could do to protect you and it was driving him mad with Bill’s vague nonsense not helping him in the slightest. He’ll become paranoid of every little thing you did from that point onward to the point that even if you got a paper cut Ford was expecting something unfortunate to happen, but it never did.

Shit like this kept him awake at night as he holds you tightly against his chest, staring at the ceiling as though daring it to try and take you from him, which it didn’t but Ford grew skeptical of everyone you came across in case they were the catalyst for your death and kept himself near you at all times, hand on his gun in the instance he need to use it to keep you safe.

Ford would busy himself down in his lab to the point of exhaustion looking and theorising methods on how he could prevent your death, so much so that you’d have to come down and practically dragging him out because he was worrying you and the rest of the family. But Ford was stubborn as stubborn could be when it came to you and your safety that he tends to drown out your concerns for him, much to your dismay.

Ford believed that Bill was tempting him into making a deal to keep you safe but he knew that even as powerful as Bill was, even he couldn’t prevent something that he himself and told him happened across the entirety of the Multiverse. So Ford stuck to his guns and buried himself in work to keep you safe because he couldn’t and wouldn’t loose you if he could help it.

Stan

Doesn’t believe a thing Bill is saying in the slightest and thinks it’s all a pile of horseshit, up until the triangle demon shows him of all the infinite universes of which you did indeed die did Stan actually start to believe that Bill was actually telling the truth for once.

Zombies made you one of them.

Got turned to stone by a gorgon like creature and wasn’t saved in time.

Possessed by bill and had multiple stab wounds, bruises, scratches and lacerations from his misuse.

Submerged in amber/tree sap, face permanently stuck in horror.

Eaten by the Summerween Trickster.

Replaced by the shapeshifter after you were killed for being the imposter.

So many timelines where you’ve died cruelly or unfairly and it broke Stan’s heart knowing that in all of these universes his other selves might’ve been either too late, or made the wrong choices that he probably regrets as he downs each and every bottle of the hardest liquor in hopes he’d numb the pain.

He was destined to loose you no matter what and things weren’t made any better when Bill tells him that you were on route to die really soon, taunting him with the fact that there was nothing he, Ford or even the Pine Twins and their stupid pet pig could do to stop it; you’re death was an inevitability across the entire multiverse.

Stan hated being told that there was nothing he could do to prevent you from dying, he hated being told what he can’t do in general! So he’ll much rather take his odds with trying any and everything in his power to keep you safe and sound, even if it means dying himself he’ll do it gladly knowing you were okay.

He was already protective of you to begin with but with the added fact that you were bound to die sooner or later had Stan become even more protective of you. So much so that he doesn’t leave the shack without a crossbow or even his brass knuckles to fight off whoever or whatever was going to try and take you from him; hell he might even teach you how to fight should you get into trouble and he’s not there to protect you.

He keeps you by his side almost 24/7 at this point and would shower you in affection as though he was going to run out of time to do so, even going so far as to keep you away from walking under any ladders, tripping over anything and or crossing the street when you shouldn’t. However it got concerning to the point where you’d have to sit him down and ask what was wrong. Stan isn’t one to talk about his emotions nor how he felt about certain things but this was something he knew he had to share with you sooner or later, regardless of whether you believed him or not.

Stan still thought Bill was full of shit and even acted like he didn’t believe him about you dying and everything, but deep down Stan was scared that his best attempts to keep you safe wouldn’t be enough and that you’ll be taken away, regardless of how hard he fought back but Stan wasn’t one to easily give up not when his loved ones are involved.

#gravity falls x reader #gravity falls imagine #gravity falls imagines #gravity falls #stanford pines x you #stanley pines imagines #stanford pines imagines #stanford pines imagine #stanley pines imagine #stan pines imagines #stan pines imagine #stanford pines x reader #stanley pines x reader #stan pines x reader #ford pines x you #ford pines imagines #ford pines imagine #ford pines x reader

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mizading · 2 years ago

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Upper Moon Yandere Headcanons

Characters: Douma, Akaza, Aizetsu, Kokushibo.

Description: If I’m being honest, I suppose this is how some of the upper moons would express their love normally, but a lot of it is unhealthy. For that sake, I’ll classify this as yandere headcanons for the upper moons with a female reader.

Warnings: Verbal abuse, death, forced affection, unstable behavior, paranoia, etc.

Douma..

Once Douma declares something his, it belongs to him until he says otherwise.

Douma’s love is sincere but expressed in a twisted way.

As a cult leader does, Douma provides a facade of a perfect life with him if you stick by his side.

The lack of love and nurturing from Doumas parents causes an insatiable desire for the foreign feelings within him.

Douma uses you to replace the love he never received as a child.

His affection begins in a controlled manner. Consisting of little things such as random hugs, quick kisses, or asking you to hold him for a little while.

Over time, Douma would get a bit possessive. You were lucky if you managed to go more than five minutes without Douma forcing you into hour-long cuddle sessions.

One of his favorite things to do is cling to your body and nuzzle his head into your chest.

The feeling of your body's warmth is the only thing that calms his nerves.

Denying Douma’s love is like stabbing him in the heart from his perspective.

"You don’t really love me, do you..? You're just like my parents."

Denying Douma only makes your situation worse.

In Douma’s world, if he forces enough of his affection on you, you’ll eventually love him.

There are periods when Douma is severely mentally unstable.

During these periods, Douma made it clear that you could not and would not leave his side.

You're extra careful when he’s unstable. Any wrong move, and Douma’s threatening to end everyone close to you.

It’s hard for Douma to understand human emotion. Due to his lack of feelings, he can’t possibly understand why you would want to ever leave his side after he’s provided you with a perfect life.

Regardless of how you feel, Douma needs you too much to ever let you go.

Over time, Douma may possibly turn you into a demon to trap you with him for eternity.

He can’t risk losing something that he may never find again. Your love.

Akaza..

Akaza would kill for you in a heartbeat if it came to it.

The word love itself isn’t nearly enough to convey how much he loves you.

He would love to buy you little things, such as hair pins, just to see your face light up a bit.

Every time you leave, Akaza must be accompanying you.

Akaza always keeps at least one hand on you.

He wouldn’t mind if you didn’t have much physical strength; that’s what he’s there for.

Akaza would rather die than ever see you hurt.

He has a tendency to hurt anyone who causes you just the slightest bit of inconvenience.

Nobody should ever dare gaze upon you with any ill intent.

The other upper moons avoid interacting with you; they know how Akaza can get when it comes to you.

You're sacred in Akaza’s eyes; he’s practically on his knees for you.

Akaza can become delusional about your love for him. If you don’t hold the same feelings for him, he’ll convince himself otherwise.

Akaza will literally spend hours kissing every inch of your body to prove himself to you.

With night comes Akaza’s paranoia.

There's much more danger for you once the sun sets.

He won’t leave your side for a single second.

In bed, you're always in Akaza’s arms; he’ll refuse to sleep any other way.

Once the sun rises once more, his nerves calm just a bit.

He simply can’t bear the thought of a life without you.

Akaza will pursue your love until the end of time.

Aizetsu..

Aizetsu is pretty sensitive. Please don’t be too harsh on him.

He craves your affection constantly; it’s the one thing he needs to keep going.

Aizetsu can get aggressive when you refuse to show affection.

He won’t hurt you, but he might get verbally abusive.

Once he’s calmed down, he’ll cry at your feet, wrapping his arms around your waist begging for forgiveness.

He always regrets his behavior once he’s rational again.

Aizetsu sees the world as a depressing place, and you are the only light in his dull life.

One of his many nicknames for you is Sun.

When Aizetsu gets deeply depressed, he tends to get distant.

He’s running back into your arms soon enough.

His favorite thing to do is hug you from behind and follow you around.

Aizetsu is excessively clingy on a normal day.

If he is not all over you, something is wrong.

He’ll ask you to hold him when his anxiety gets hard to bear; you're the only one who can get him to calm down.

He struggles immensely with his mental health.

You happen to be the one to handle Aizetsu when he’s at his lowest.

A lot of it is taken out on you, and he hates himself for it.

A few hours of being in your arms is usually enough for him to be able to function again.

Aizetsu will always do anything he can to make it up to you the next day, starting off with flowers in the morning.

If you don’t forgive him immediately, he’s on his knees once again choking on his own sobs.

He can’t sleep without you next to him, helping him keep his depressive thoughts away.

At night, he’ll often rest his head in your lap and ask for you to play with his hair.

The feeling of your hands touching his scalp takes his mind off of the billions of things running through his head.

Aizetsu depends on you, don't fail him.

Kokushibo..

Kokushibo is always lurking in a corner, watching your every move.

He prefers to watch you in silence rather than interact with you.

Kokushibo is aware of his unhealthy attraction to you.

Small gifts, such as earrings or handwritten notes, would be left by Kokushibo on most mornings.

He manages to find something to give you each time he goes out.

Kokushibo secretly has a soft spot for you; you're the only one who knows this, of course.

Any affection coming from you stays on his mind for at least a day or two.

Don't upset him. Kokushibo is quick to completely disappear for a few days to teach you a lesson.

Leaving without Kokushibo by your side is forbidden. Once night falls, you can’t leave at all.

His rules may be harsh, but they're for your own good.

On nights that he’s feeling extra stressed, he may ask you to play with his hair.

There's not too much physical contact between you and Kokushibo, despite his hidden obsession.

He has to have a lot going on within himself to flat-out ask for your touch.

Kokushibo will die protecting you. He vowed to keep you protected, always.

You’ll be kept secret from everyone except Muzan. He won’t have you around the upper moons, especially Douma.

If you're feeling particularly stressed, Kokushibo will sit you down and tell you stories from all throughout his 480 years of living.

Kokushibo deeply appreciates your simple presence since he’s been alone for so long. Knowing that you're there is enough for him.

He spends hours watching you sleep at night; he doesn’t sleep much at all himself.

It brings him a sense of peace to watch your sleeping face, knowing that you're at ease.

Kokushibo can live in some type of peace knowing that you're safe and his.

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uhohdad · 8 months ago

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THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE VICTOR I

You don’t run.

A sharp inhale tightens every muscle in your body. Bloody, wounded hands shoot out in front of you in a brace of pure instinct, chin tilting down and pinning to your chest. You’re hoping he’ll make it quick and as painless as possible. Maybe it’ll be a snap of a neck, just as he did with the boy from District Eleven. Dead before you even know what hit you.

Your brace tightens, teeth clenching when the heavy boot steps are only a few feet away, not breaking their strides. Strong, powerful arms wrap around your core and yank you off your feet with ease. You hold your tense for only a moment before relaxing into his restraint.

You don’t fight it.

You’re giving yourself to him, letting him do what needs to be done to get his win.

He stills, a moment passes, and you must be in shock. The knife he pierced through your gut must be too sharp or maybe your adrenaline is coursing so effectively you can’t yet feel the stab in the back. You’re just waiting to feel the impact, waiting for the unimaginable pain to tear through you, waiting for death.

After a moment you open your eyes, met with his chunky, coarse vest loaded with supplies scraping against your cheek.

You give a frantic brush with trembling hands over your front and back, blindly searching for the embedded blade.

He pulls away, keeping his hands on your upper shoulders as he looks you over with wide eyes brimmed with tears. You take the opportunity to examine your body, smoothing over your core to search for his puncture wound, but you come up empty, only managing to smear blood all over your clothes.

Scratchy gloves take your wrist and gently extends it to examine your flayed arm, soaking his gloves with your blood. You wince as he moves the shredded fabric of your jacket out of the way to get a good look at the evidence of your fight with District One. You watch with pinched eyes as he stares down the inflamed, deep gash she left on you, still oozing steadily.

“What happened?” He says, voice too soft for a man with a harsh voice who’s just killed a boy with his fists.

You look to him, confusion and fear stitched into every feature. When he sees your bewildered expression he quickly retracts his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He brings his hand to his hooded head and lets out a deep sigh that ends on a breathy croak, “I’m just glad you’re alive. I thought I lost you.”

You blink hard, pushing your jaw forward.

“What?” You say sharply, demanding explanation.

“Every time the cannon went off ich- I thought it was you,” He lets out another heavy, relieved sigh.

“You wanted to be the one to kill me?”

His eyes pinch, “Wh- No! I- I-”

“Spit it out.”

His eyes widen from their confused position, he fumbles his words as he sputters out an answer, “I- I just didn’t want you to die.”

You swallow, and look to your boots. Your forehead wrinkles, your head shaking.

“No,” You say in complete invalidation of his statements. You don’t believe his words, you don’t believe that he hasn’t killed you yet.

“You ran away from me,” He lets out another sigh, “At the beginning.”

You take a step back, throwing out your blood-soaked arms, flicking droplets of blood on the grass, “You tried to kill me!”

He eyes scrunch in a way that suggests you’ve just said the most offensive statement in the world.

“I was trying to get you out of there!” He shoots back.

“You-“

That pulls you up short.

You make a quarter turn, staring to the stained grass as you run over the events of the bloodbath, “You killed that boy, and then-“

“He was going to kill you,” He says with an urgent tone that steals your attention.

“You-“

Your eyes narrow at him, brows pinched and teeth bared, “You said you would only kill if you needed to!”

His eyes crinkle at your spit accusatory words, his muscles tensing for a moment before his shoulders relax, his voice taking on a gentle but insistent tone.

“I did need to.”

You watch him carefully, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth by staring into the only exposed part of him. His eyes are too soft, too pained to be dismissed.

“You don’t need to trick me. You’ve already won.”

Your voice doesn’t exactly convey confidence.

“I’m not tricking you,” He takes a careful step towards you, palms up, “That boy was going to kill you.”

He finishes on your name, spoken so soft and sweet it makes you want to believe his words.

You mull over it for a moment, chewing on his words, the look in his eye, and still you are convinced he’s hiding something, manipulating you. His actions don’t make sense.

The questions come out rapid fire, finding yourself as frustrated as you normally do when the answer doesn't come easy to you, “Why? Why did you kill Eleven? Why didn’t you kill me with Titan? Why aren’t you killing me now?!” Your urgent questions are pointed, offensive more than curious.

His hand pulls up to his chest, and he freezes.

You throw out your arms again, “Why, Konig?!”

“This is what you wanted,” He whispers after another pause, his voice unsteady.

“It’s what everyone wants! What is this?!” You gesture aggressively in the space between you both, splattering his shirt with your own blood, “What was Two talking about?!”

His horrified eyes flick between either of yours, stammering through various unintelligible syllables before cutting himself off with a close of his eyes and a deep breath.

He finds your face again and lands on a response. When he speaks, he sounds like a child, even through that scratchy, intense voice.

“You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

The muscles in your face relax as you process his sentence.

You swallow and stare down at the lush grass, ashamed, because the first thought that comes to mind is -

‘We’re friends?’

Friends.

That -

You hadn’t considered.

This entire time you’ve been so caught up in trying to decipher Konig’s strategy, the intentions and manipulations motivating his actions, but you never stopped to consider that the two of you actually had something. Well, no - you knew there was something, but all of the actions could have been explained away simply because you were two tributes who were terrified in their final days of life - a bond formed in mutual trauma, or perhaps a strategy to lure you in with his comfort.

Friends.

When did this happen?

Had he thought of you as one this whole time?

How stupid can you be?

The glass of water, the coffee, the handholding, the token, the pleas for allyship, keeping each other warm, and making each other feel better after a hard day.

How stupid can he be?

Making friends with someone only for it to end a week later in this arena, becoming attached to someone destined to die.

You look up to him again, brows pinched and forehead wrinkled as you reframe everything. When you speak, your voice is a broken wisp of air in his direction.

“How did we let this happen?”

You know he understands, the way he looks at you without words, nothing but pain and uncertainty in his sloped eyes. He understands that making friends with someone who is destined to die was a recipe for heartbreak, and he understands that the bittersweet final meal has been served.

As slim as the odds, you two ending up face-to-face at the end was always a possibility.

You were sure you were going to die before you’d have to face him.

Now here you both are, two tributes, two friends, and only one of you can leave this arena alive.

Maybe this wasn’t the way. Maybe it would have been best if he’d gutted you as soon as he was finished with Two.

The laugh starts small, just a scoff. It turns to a snicker, then a chuckle, which snowballs into a fit of hysterical cackling.

It’s not the poison gas this time.

This is raw, genuine laughter. Billowing from deep inside you and echoing boisterously through the four quadrants.

It’s not funny.

But you have to laugh - because of course.

Of course you would do this. Let your emotions bleed where they shouldn’t.

It’s your signature move.

Of course you both were going to make it to the finale.

Of course you now have to be killed by Konig, by a friend.

Wasn’t this the ending all along?

Konig looks alarmed, and then his eyes relax, and he gives a soft, three-note laugh, and shortly after he succumbs fully to the contagion. A song you’ve never heard, it’s hearty and warm, intertwining with yours to make a chorus of snorts and guffaws.

Your core doubles over your crossed arms, still generously bleeding and painting the blades of grass by your feet a deep crimson.

Tears well in your eyes and quickly trail down your cheeks as you gasp for air.

This is a full detox.

An expelling of every pent up, overwhelming emotion you’ve felt the past two weeks. The mistrust, the jealousy, the anger, the fear, the pain. Subjected to the heinous, brutal slaughters of children. It’s all flowing from you, and soon you’re not sure if you’re laughing or sobbing. Konig’s laughter dies down before yours, worried when he notices the hysterical tears streaming down your cheeks.

A hand extends in your direction, but he quickly withdraws it, helplessly staring on as you break down.

You can’t stop it, the dam has bursted. The whirlpool of thoughts that have been steadily rising since the reaping have spilled over and is pouring from you uncontrollably.

You have reached your absolute limit.

A genuine, broken wail leaves you, fully transitioned from a laughing fit to cries of pain.

When you pinch off your vision, heavy tears thrusted from your waterline, you’re met with the bounce of Eleven off his platform, narrowing in on his lifeless eyes.

His neck is already broken but the echoes of bones snapping against metal still rattle in your ears.

It’s followed immediately by the horrific image of the girl from District Eight. Her maimed wails and flooded eyes and exposed, moving muscle. The squelch of One’s eye, the haunting rip of her optic nerve, the feeling of her plunging herself on the spear - reverberating through the staff of the spear and up your slashed arms. The sound of Titan’s face being caved in, repeated blows that crack bones, countless razors tearing through his flesh on his dissent.

It’s on replay, the crunching of bone deafening you with its escalating grinds, the moans of the maimed, the rip of an eye from its socket, the sound of a thousands razors ripping through a faceless, limp body.

Your fists race to cover your ears, to stave off Eight’s moans of unimaginable pain, your eyes pinched tighter to rid the sight of Eleven’s brutal death, digging your nails into flayed palms to rid the feeling of an eye being gouged by your hand.

All of them cycle, ripping through you one after another.

You drop to your knees in the grass, core doubling over. Konig follows you down on one knee, one of his gentle hands finding your uninjured shoulder. When you raise your face again, it’s streaked with tears.

“I keep hearing it! I can’t stop hearing it!” You yell through a sob, followed by broken gasps as you curl toward your lap again.

“I know, I know,” He whispers.

“It won’t stop!” The tears are flowing relentlessly now, and you don’t even have the mind to wipe them away.

“Mein sieger, look at me,” His other hand lets a finger under your chin, gently guiding your jaw up.

Through the blur of welled tears you find him, those eyes peeking through the holes in his hood.

“It’s okay, it’s- it’s going to be okay,” He doesn’t seem too sure of this himself, his eyes darting around for a solution that doesn’t exist, but he pushes on, “I’m going to fix your cuts.”

You sniff, arms too soaked in blood to wipe away your snot.

“Just listen to me. Don’t listen to it. Just listen to my voice.”

He swallows, searching frantically on the spot for his next words.

His eyes widen in the presence of an idea, “Do you remember that day? In District Nine?”

You groan at the memory, an involuntary hiccup following.

“That boy,” He takes a breath while he pulls out a water bottle and a cloth from his pack, setting them on the grass,

“Spewing names at me. Blocking my path.”

His eyes find yours again, brows pinched as if he’s worried that he’s somehow making it worse, “And you, you just came out of nowhere. You let out the,” He looks to the grass again, and gives a quick, breathy laugh, “You let out the angriest noise I’ve ever heard.”

Konig helps you peel off your jacket as gently as he can, patiently sliding it off as he works around your wincing. He pulls the sleeves away from your gash so the fabric doesn’t swipe against it.

“You couldn’t see it, I’m sure, but the look on his face when you grabbed him by the back of the shirt-“ He cuts himself off, “I had never seen anything like it.”

He uses the water bottle to wash the blood away, letting you squeeze his hand with your good palm as you endure the pain brought forward by the water.

“For a second it looked like you were trying to dance with him, spinning him around.”

You remember it clearly, using your weight and pivoting on your heels to jerk him in a near complete circle, grip tight on the back of his shirt before you let go to slam him into the wall of the dingy hall.

“You got him against the wall - I thought for sure you broke his collar bones.”

The boy had looked genuinely afraid, entirely taken by surprise. Your forearm had dug into him, pinning him to the wall with enough force to portray threat. He had the look of a boy who had never expected any consequences to his behavior.

Konig moves down your arm, washing away the blood from shoulder to hand.

“I still remember what you said, word for word. You said,” He lifts his voice in a faint imitation of your spitting words, “‘I am so sick of you all picking on him. It’s more than obvious you do it because you’re ashamed of yourselves. If I catch you doing it again I’m going to show you what it’s like to pick on someone your own size!’”

He shakes his head and looks to the sky, “He had six inches and at least 40 pounds on you.”

You laugh with him this time, yours nasal from crying, following with a sniffle.

“And then you threw him away,” His hand lifts to briefly imitate the movement, “Shoved his back. He almost tripped flat on his face.”

He retrieves a second water bottle from his pack and a small tin canister he sits in the grass before he uses his teeth to remove his glove.

He continues, “He never did mess with me again. I think a few of his friends stopped too.”

“He’s scurried off at the sight of me ever since,” You sniff and your lips warp, “I always felt bad about that. Like I went too hard on the poor guy.”

When the boy had ran off, you met Konig’s eyes, your chest heaving as huffs left your parted lips, fists tight at your side. Pointed features softened when you saw his face, his wide eyes, sprung brows, and a slack jaw. You sucked in a sharp inhale and froze for just a moment before you got out of there, running from the shame that had begun to burn your skin as soon as you saw his expression.

He uses his gloveless fingertips to scoop up some sort of clear gel from the tin.

“He certainly got the message.”

He uses his free hand and a bit more water to wash out the wounds on your shoulder, gently pats the mutilated flesh with a washcloth, and then smears the gel on your skin.

Immediately you feel relief. The burning pain of the hedge’s slices completely dissipates, and you can’t help but sigh in content.

He gently rubs the medicine across your wounds, turning pink as the clear gel mixes with the blood rushing to replace what Konig wiped away.

“Sorry I freaked out,” You say quietly, a little embarrassed of your breakdown.

His brows lower, “It’s okay. I hear it too.”

“Why are you helping me?” You ask softly, “Why go through the trouble of nursing my wounds if you’re just going to kill me anyway?”

You wince as another stream of water splashes against the deep gash One left behind.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ignoring your question and dabbing the cloth against the deep wound. He quickly scoops up more medicine and slides it over the surface of the inflamed skin before too much more blood can flow out.

“Ever since that day I wanted to thank you. To talk to you. I just,” He cuts himself off, eyes darting around for a moment, “I didn’t know how.”

He gently wraps his gloved hand around your good forearm, bringing forward the slashes on your palm.

“I thought I scared you off.”

He laughs, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

He pours water over your palm, another dab of the cloth, and a generous smearing of medicine.

All of your pain is gone. The medicine has completely numbed your wounds, cooling the unrelenting burn of the slashes and almost immediately staunches the flow of blood.

“It feels so much better,” you say with a sigh.

“Good,” he says.

Your voice drops softer, a curious hint to it, “Why didn’t you ever, y’know,” You pause, shoulders pulling up, “Defend yourself? You could have scared them off easy.”

He swallows, a gentle hand reaching for the bandages. He’s quiet for a moment, avoiding your eyes.

When he speaks his words are strained, “I’ve misjudged my strength before.”

Your brows shoot up at the implication. You so desperately want to probe further, but it’s clear from his tone this is a sore spot for him. You stay quiet instead, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve never gotten physical since, until,” He trails off again, abandoning his sentence.

“Yeah,” You say on a breathy exhale, letting him know he didn’t need to say it.

Lifeless eyes, crunching bones.

He unrolls the bandage and begins to loop it around the gash on your arm. He makes sure the bandages are firm on your wounds, slices it from the roll, and tucks the end into itself.

You get out a sheepish, “Thank you,”

He nods, his voice low, “Of course.”

He guides your arm out again, starting a new loop around with the bandage around your palm.

When he’s done, he packs the supplies into his backpack as you look down to your wrapped hand, rubbing over the nude-colored bandage with your thumb.

Konig grabs a clean cloth and pours a little water on it, extending it carefully towards your face.

“Here,” He says, his gloved fingertip just barely grazing you as he tilts your chin up. You obediently close your eyes, letting him run small circles with the wet cloth to wash away a mixture of dirt, One’s blood, and your own.

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper, low and gentle, but he doesn’t respond. When you open your eyes to meet his stare, his masked face reveals nothing to you, other than his unwavering focus on cleaning your face. Carefully massaging the damp cloth in circles over your skin, taking care not to apply too much pressure. He even wipes away your snot.

“Thank you,” You whisper, “For saving my life.”

There’s a pause before you add, “And for letting me come to terms with my death.”

He nods, looking down, “I guess we’re even now.”

You laugh, your voice regaining some of its strength, “I think yours might blow mine out of the water.”

He shrugs, “Well, I have to repay with interest. Took me long enough.”

He pauses for a beat, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He starts to dig in his pack, but stops when the ground begins to shake. His arms dart out of the pack to wrap around you and in return your hands claw at the collar of his vest to pull him close. You cling to each other to keep steady on your knees, sharing a wide-eyed, worried look through the vibration that shakes your bodies and blurs your vision.

The gamemakers must be angry at you both, not giving them the showdown they were owed. You can see the hedge walls parting, its previous entrances reappearing in their normal spot.

When the ground stops shaking, neither of you let go, clinging to each other as you stare frozen at the entrance. Shallow breaths leave parted lips as you tighten your grip on each other, waiting for the threat that’s soon to be released.

It doesn’t come.

Minutes pass before you turn to him.

“They might just want us to leave so they can take the bodies,” you whisper.

He gives a shaky nod, but you still stay frozen in your spot, holding onto each other and staring deeply at the entrance.

When both of your hearts slow, when fearful breaths ease, you decide to do what the gamemakers want you to do.

What choice do you have?

He stands first, his hand extended to help you up. When you get to your feet, though, you linger on his gloved hand and give him a squeeze before you let go.

He leads as you both creep towards the exit, still wary of the possibility of a cruel trap.

Konig wordlessly insists you wait for him to make sure the coast is clear using the same gesture he did when the careers approached you both in training, an arm shooting out in front of you as if to hold you back. He pokes his head out, careful not to make contact with the walls as he swivels his head to scan for threat.

“It looks safe,” He says, but you both stand for a bit longer before inching outside of the maze.

You’re surprised to find the arena entirely restored. The fall quadrant has reappeared, its trees as brilliant and colorful as ever. There’s no evidence of the avalanche, the snow returned to its original height and perfect pine trees retain their snow-dusted caps. The desert’s sandstorm has settled, the dunes not disturbed in the slightest.

Nothing attacks you as you leave the maze, careful steps in the direction of the cornucopia.

The gamemakers must have simply wanted to collect the bodies, because you both standby as the hovercraft appears.

When the claw descends, you turn away together. You can’t bear to watch the corpses of the girl from one and the boy from two be lifted into the air.

Without thinking, your hand reaches up to take a hand that sits much higher than yours. He accepts immediately, intertwining his large, calloused hand with yours. He gives you a gentle squeeze, and you know what it means. That he shares the pain you feel, that he is just as unsure, and just as lost as you.

You keep your fingers laced with his until you near the spot where the four quadrants meet, stopping about twenty feet away.

He sets his bag down, and you follow his lead when he sits in the plush grass.

The food just keeps coming.

Bread, cheese, apples, dried meat, stew, an orange, a weird, large brown nut of some kind?

With wide eyes and mouth already watering you ask, “Where did you get all this?”

He hesitates for a moment, “Some came with the backpack - the apples, the bread and the meat. The rest I got from sponsors.”

Your brows furrow, “You got sponsors?”

Of course he did. If you were a sponsor you’d pick him too.

“Yeah, what did you get?” He asks, picking up the apple and handing it to you.

“Well-“

Guttural moans, exposed muscle.

“District Eight sent me some things,” You say with a wince.

His head tilts, “They did?”

“Uh, yeah, I-” You clear your throat, the echoes of her pain on your ears, “I helped them- with something.”

He tilts his head again, and looks at you expectantly.

“The girl,” You start, “She- I helped her.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and his voice is soft when he speaks, “You allied with her?”

You shake your head and pull your knees to your chest. You touch your ribbon bracelet, soaked with blood.

“It was mercy. I - I - didn’t-“

“Sorry,” He says, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Price didn’t, though,” You say after a moment, almost embarrassed, “Send me anything, I mean.”

It hurts to know Price showered Konig with gifts while you got nothing.

You look to the sky and make a vague gesture that reads as annoyed. As if you were saying to the sponsors, to Price, ‘What, I wasn’t good enough? Well look, I made it this far!’

You don’t show it, but it stings. Logically you knew Konig was the smart bet. That if you were District Nine’s mentor, that if you were a Capitol better, you would have prioritized Konig’s survival over yours any day.

It still hurts having it confirmed, knowing that you were not good enough for Price’s attention.

Konig laughs as you raise the apple to your lips, “They just knew you were smart enough to make it without their help.”

You roll your eyes as your teeth pierce through the apple’s skin, sucking out its tart insides.

“I don’t know about that,” You say under your breath, but you appreciate him trying to ease the blow.

“It’s true,” He insists with an accompanying point, “Look, you’re here. You did it without anyone’s help. I surely would have died without it.”

“Plucky got lucky,” You say definitively, “And everyone knows it.”

Underneath it, though, you wonder if he’s right. The truth is, you really didn’t need help in the arena. You didn’t have to put that girl out of her misery - well, you did, but if your plea had gone unanswered you would have made it work regardless. Other than that, you haven’t really needed anything.

He shrugs, his voice a bit gruff as he puts his attention to spreading cheese on bread with his knife, “I don’t.”

You roll your eyes again, “You sound like Price. Even you were surprised to see me at the end.”

He shrugs, “I was just worried about you, is all.”

“Because you knew that I was probably going to die.”

“Because the arena is dangerous.”

“Exactly! It’s all,” You huff, “There’s a big luck element.”

He cuts you off with a nudge, offering a handful of cheese smothered bread, “Even your arguments are too smart for me.”

Your laugh makes your fingers brush against his when you take the bread from him.

You’re eager to sink your teeth into its crust, creamy cheese over soft perfect Capitol bread, you can’t help but groan into it.

“So good,” You say with a mouthful, not bothering to swallow, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

When you finish your slice of bread, he starts on another for you at once.

“Where have you been?” He asks, smearing the soft cheese over the golden brown crust, “I tried to look for you.”

You stare into the brightly colored leaves of the fall landscape before gesturing in the direction of the red maple and yellow ginkgo trees, “Over there.”

Konig nods, “That’s where I thought you went at the beginning. I tried to follow but I lost you, and when I went searching you were too clever for me to find.”

Your eyes are starting to ache from rolling at his compliments.

Just then, a silver parachute floats down to the sky.

You both look to each other with raised brows. When it lands on the grass a few feet from you, he stands to retrieve the canister before handing it over to you.

You struggle to pop it open, and inside you reveal a bundle of blackberries, a tin of juice, and a cookie.

“There’s a lot.”

“Price is making it up to you,” Judging solely by the crinkle in his eye, he grins as he sits in the soft grass, “With interest.”

You look to the sky again, squinting from the sun and giving a wave of thanks. You share the smile before you spread the food out with the others.

“Where have you been?” You ask, popping a berry into your mouth.

“The desert.”

“The desert?” You ask with an almost disgusted inflection, snapping your head in his direction, “How did you survive in the heat?”

Konig lifts his chin, pulling up his hood as he swipes along his neck, nails catching on a clear, razor thin mesh fabric that appears out of nowhere.

He stands to strip it from the outside of his clothes, handing you a long crumbled fabric of transparent mesh.

“Woah,” You get out, thinking back to his embrace, pushed right up to the snake-skin like fabric but never feeling it or noticing it. You roll the fabric between your fingers, “I didn’t even see it before. What is it?”

You stick a hand in one of the sleeves as he answers, and immediately your arm is hit with a cool breeze that chills your skin and raises goosebumps.

“I couldn’t even feel the heat,” he says, “And I figured it would be safest, since no one else should have been able to survive there without a pair.”

“What’s out there?” You ask with a tilt of your head, letting the body suit rest in your lap.

“Mostly sand and spiky plants,” He starts to peel the orange. “You probably would have figured out there was water in them long before I did.”

He flicks away part of the peel.

You find the fabric of the suit again. “Can I try it?”

He nods, and you stand, slipping into the mesh suit. It melds instantly to your clothes, disappearing into the fabric as you pull it over your body.

“This is so weird,” You say with a laugh at the breeze that hits your skin, “I’m gonna try the desert.”

He stands to follow in your wake, and you practically run to test it out, ignoring your sore ankles.

When your boots hobble unsteadily on sand, Konig stops close to the border, arms crossed as he watches you run around, “You’re right! I can’t even feel it.”

You stop and even do a few weak jumping jacks to work up a sweat, but your feet can’t make it far off the ground with the sand swallowing your feet.

“Try these,” He says, popping off a thin, undetectable shoe attachment from his boots and leaning forward to hand the pair to you.

You lift up one foot, brushing off grains of sand from the soles before you snap on the attachment. It shrinks from Konig’s incredibly large shoe size to yours, and when you put your foot down, instead of sinking into the sand, your boots conform to the uneven dips and grooves.

“Feels like I’m on solid ground,” You say before snapping the other attachment on. You test them out by jogging in circles.

You come to a stop once you’ve had enough, walking with ease back into the spring quadrant.

“No wonder you did well in the desert,” You pop off the attachments to return them to him, but he waves like he doesn’t need them, and you just toss them to the side.

You peel off the skin tight suit as well, the cool breeze now chilling you beyond comfort in the spring air.

“Oh!” Your face lights up, “There was another thing I wanted to try.”

You move to the spot where the four quadrants meet, in the mouth of the cornucopia, and look for just a moment before stepping on it.

You can feel all four temperatures at once, the heat of the desert, the freeze of the snow, a light spring and chill fall air. Overstimulating and causing your body to fire contradicting temperature responses.

You step back into the grass, “Weird.”

You turn to Konig, just steps behind, and he gives it a try too.

He gives a soft laugh once he’s had his turn.

“Very,” He says.

You return and settle on the grass near his pack, already eyeing up the food waiting for you.

You take a sip of juice and pass it to Konig, and he takes your offer and sets it down on the grass before continuing to peel the orange. You actually close your eyes to breathe in the scent of fresh citrus, sighing on your exhale.

“I missed food. I’ve been living on corn and seeds.”

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice soft and full of regret as he looks up from the half-peeled orange, “I wish I could have been there for you. I would have shared it all.”

“It’s my own fault,” You say, shifting as you settle on the grass, “I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

You stare off into the fall forest until Konig extends some orange slices to you. When you bite down, it bursts in your mouth and coats your tongue in its delicious insides. It actually sends a shudder down your spine at the overwhelming refreshment.

You both eat silently for a while, and your eyes eventually find the weird large brown seed he had set to the side.

You stick a hand out to feel it, its outside coated in thick coarse hairs, “What is this?”

Konig shrugs, “Not sure, it’s good though. Found it on a tree in the desert. He takes a spoonful of stew and speaks around a mouthful, “There’s this place I found. I think you’d like it.”

“You ate it without knowing what it was?”

He shrugs again, “I’m still alive.”

You snort, and he asks, “Do you want to see it? It’s very pretty.”

“The nut?” You ask.

“No,” he says with a breathy laugh, “The desert.”

“I thought it was just sand?”

“Mostly,” He picks up the large nut and holds it out, “There’s a place out there, though. There’s this big pool of water with a waterfall, you can see all the way to the bottom. It wasn’t hot there. Ach, and there’s these tall trees out there too.”

You give him a look like he’s speaking gibberish, your voice taught with disbelief to match, “In the desert?”

“Yes!” He says, ending on a laugh, “I’m not lying. It’s perfect there. We can wash off, too.”

He digs into his pack, pulling out a second temperature controlled suit, “I kept this just in case,” he trails off for a moment, abandoning the rest of his sentence, “It didn’t take up much room, anyway.”

He extends the wrinkled fabric out to you and gives it a little shake when you don’t take it, “Trust me.”

You look into those eyes that have shared so many unsure glances with you, and you can’t help but fold at how sure they look now.

“Okay,” you say, taking the suit from him. He grabs the discarded suit before tucking the food away in his pack.

At the border you both put them on, watching with fascination as they melt into your clothes and skin. He leads you through the sand, and while he doesn’t have an extra pair of shoe attachments, he insists you be the one who wears them.

“To help you keep balance,” You say, offering your unbandaged hand.

He graciously takes it in yours, and you both move through the sand side by side. He doesn’t seem to take your offer to support himself with you, but he keeps your hand in his. The mesh of the suit doesn’t interfere with the feeling of his hand pressed against yours, you can still feel the softness of his palm, the callouses just below the start of his fingers, the gentle squeezes as he navigates the dips in the sand.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch for a little bit?”

“You have shorter strides anyway,” He says.

You walk in silence for a bit more, locked by the hands and aside from tired ankles, perfectly comfortable in the desert conditions.

“What do you think everyone thinks of this?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“The final two not,” You pause for a moment, “Fighting.”

“I don’t know.” He says, “Probably a little disappointed.”

“You think? I thought maybe it’s interesting, at the very least. It’s never happened before as far as I know of.”

He shrugs, “Not sure they need help making it interesting.”

“I guess you’re right.”

A few more paces and another silver parachute floats down from the sky.

You both still as it comes to a graceful stop in the sand just in front of your shoes.

You look at Konig, and he gestures to it, suggesting it’s yours. You carefully pick it up and pop open the canister to unsheathe a second pair of shoe attachments.

You give him a sly smile and hand them over, “Maybe they don’t mind after all.”

He waves a thanks into the sky and lets you steady him as he snaps them onto his shoes. You travel much quicker as you both glide over the sand that’s eager to swallow your feet.

“There’s those plants,” He says as he points to tall, cylindrical looking plants, some of them stretching ten feet in the air. It almost looks like they have arms, thick dusty green branches of itself splitting at the middles and reaching for the sky.

“Don’t touch them,” He warns.

“No?” You ask.

“Covered in spikes,” He says.

“Learn that the hard way?” You ask.

He huffs air out of his nose, rolling his eyes slightly, “It’s possible.”

You give a laugh, and he gives a glare at you from the corner of his half-lidded eyes. He follows it up with a soft squeeze of your hand, just to make sure you know he’s teasing.

There’s a roar in the distance, the sound of a steady, consistent rumble.

“What is that noise?” You ask, a bit frantic.

“No, no,” He reassures, “It’s okay. It’s the waterfall.”

You raise a brow, still skeptical.

As you approach, your face falls as you take in the oasis before you, “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you,” He says with a squeeze.

Wedged in the height of a large sand dune are large, slick slabs of rock that water spews over, a cascade of thousands of gallons pouring down into a crystal blue lake of water. The pool is ringed by tall, slender trees that shoot straight up into the sky, leaves only in a puff at the very top, those large brown seeds clustered together under the leaves. It doesn’t look like any tree you’ve ever seen in District Nine.

The roar of the waterfall is so loud, you have to raise your voices to talk to each other.

“Is it safe?” You ask. You don’t trust something that’s this pretty in the arena, the same way you didn’t trust the trees or the vegetables in the fall quadrant.

He nods, “I spent a lot of time here. It’s safe.”

You near the edge of the lake, where you break your hold on each other so he can kneel in the sand and dig in his pack. He pulls out both of your jackets, heavily stained with a tapestry of various tributes’ blood.

He begins to wash them in the pool as you scrutinize the water, hesitantly poking your finger in.

It’s clear all the way down, easily seeing the sea plants at the bottom that dance under the warp of the water. There’s a few fish swimming in the pool, enjoying a spot of splotchy shade the leaves of a tall tree casts. They don’t look like any fish you’ve ever seen, brilliant colors and striped designs.

“Thank you,” You say, shaking away your wet hand, “For bringing me here.”

“Of course,” He doesn’t look up from his scrubbing.

You sit back from your squat, and you try to unlace your boots before you’re stopped.

“Oh, right,” You say, remembering the mesh bodysuit.

“You can take it off now,” He says, “It’s comfortable here.”

You hesitate before stripping off your suit, tucking it into Konig’s backpack to avoid sand. You unlace your shoes, peel off your socks and stash them neatly in the mouths of your boots. After, you roll your pant legs up and dip a foot in carefully.

“What happened to your ankles?” Konig says, horrified when he sees the deep pink bruises you’ve revealed.

“Ugh,” You groan as you step both your feet in the water, “So embarrassing. I got caught in someone’s snare.”

“A snare?”

“Yeah,” You nod, watching your toes wiggle into the sand, “I figured it out though. They had me strung up by my feet upside down.

“How did you get out?” He says, amazed.

“Used my belt to hoist me up to my boots. It hurt so bad.”

“Did they find you?”

You shake your head, “Well, I don’t know if it was his trap but the boy from District Eight heard me.”

He goes silent, staring at you with wide eyes.

You shrug, “He didn’t hurt me, he just kept asking about the girl from his district.”

You swallow hard, and look down to the wrist dawning your bracelet.

Your voice is strained when you speak, “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“What he did to her?”

His expression drops, taking on a sudden serious tone at the haunted look on your face.

“What?”

He studies your face intensely, and your eyes pinch in a hard blink.

“What happened?” He asks.

“I think he volunteered just so he could be the one to,” you hesitate, “Kill her.”

You were way off. About the boy from District Eight and his companion.

About Konig.

You hate being wrong.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” You say, “I don’t understand why he would risk his life just to end someone’s else’s, when she was probably going to die anyway?”

“Hate can’t be reasoned with,” He says without much thought, and you pause your wading, digesting his words.

He’s right. It reminds you of what Price said, about spite getting the best of you.

You couldn’t imagine hating someone so much you’d volunteer just to get the chance to be the one who gets to end someone’s life.

One of your feet wiggles into the sand, the other swirling in the water.

You watch as Konig wrings out the jackets, walking over to a nearby tree to tie the sleeves around its trunk to dry.

When he returns, sitting himself down at the edge of the water, he starts to scrub the mixture of yours and Titan’s blood from his thick gloves.

“Your bandages should be good now,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“Your cuts. They should be good now.”

You wade back out of the shallow pool, brows furrowed as you unwrap the bandages on your palm.

In just a short time, the medicine has reduced the inflamed jagged slashes on your palm to thin, faint pink lines.

You mutter under your breath, your awe drowned out by the waterfall.

You peel the other bandages off, finding all of your cuts to be in the last stages of the healing process. You hadn’t been able to feel their sting since Konig applied the medicine. Even the deep gash on your forearm has sealed, only a baby pink, decently sized scar in its place.

“Okay?” He asks, looking up at you with a squint.

“Perfect,” You say, rubbing over the cuts on your shoulder that has reduced to scars the size of papercuts, “Did you get that from a sponsor? It must have been expensive.”

“No, actually,” He hangs onto an ‘äh,’ for a moment, hesitating before he responds, “Found it with some other supplies.”

You give a slow nod, not quite believing his answer.

He’s a bad liar.

He rests his gloves on his pack, and fills both of your water containers. While he does this, you tuck Konig’s token into a pocket of his pack, strip off your shirt and kick off your pants, careful not to get sand caught in the wrinkles of the cloth. Now down to your sports bra and underwear, you drape your clothes over his pack.

You stare at the bloody ribbon bracelet, giving it a touch.

You gently untie your sloppy knot, and kneel in the sand to gently rinse out the ribbon.

“What’s that?” Konig asks gently, but curiously.

“Uh,” You pull it from the water, smoothing your thumb over the wet fabric, “It came with the bread. From District Eight.”

He nods slow, and doesn’t say anything else.

You lay the wet ribbon carefully over your clothes to dry.

As you wade deeper into the water, you take slow, careful steps through the sand until you’re submerged to your shoulders.

You let out a pleased sigh, shutting your eyes to block out the bright sun as you soak in the soothing pool.

You use your hands to work a week's worth of blood, dirt, and grime from your skin.

When you’re satisfied, you rinse your hair, giving it a wash in the still part of the pool, combing your fingers through wet strands and rinsing out the collection of dirt and dried blood.

You hum yourself a little tune as you do, only loud enough for you to hear.

The waterfall, while noisy, is relaxing. It reminds you of the sound a cool room makes, or a really strong steady wind. The steady rumble gives your ears something to focus on and keeps the obsessive, intrusive even, thoughts at bay.

When you check on Konig, he’s working stains off your shirt & pants, his attention locked on to the soiled fabric.

You flip to your front and swim back to the edge of the pool. When the bank gets shallow, you keep your body submerged, using your hands in the sand to pull yourself closer to his disturbance in the water. Only the top half of your head peeks out, much like an alligator does as he waits for prey to come along.

“Hello, little fish,” He says, not taking his eyes off the clothes.

You can’t help but giggle before you take in a small gulp of water, lift your head, and squirt a stream in his direction.

“Huch!” He pulls your shirt and pants closer to him in reflex, as if somehow the water was going to soil them more than the blood and dirt. He only looks in your direction a brief moment before he smiles at the sand and returns to his scrubbing.

You give a pleased, mischievous giggle.

“Not very nice, little fish,” He scolds, but you can tell he’s not really annoyed, just amused.

It feels good to be silly. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this relaxed.

Surprisingly, the impending death is not weighing on you. The thought that you will have nothing to worry about tomorrow actually makes it incredibly easy to not care about today. You have been prey these last few days, craning your neck at every noise, fleeing at trouble, and always wondering when and where and how you’ll be slain.

Now you know.

It will happen tonight, at a location of your choosing, and at the hands of a friend.

Even with every eye in Panem on you, from here, there’s no one but Konig, and there is no longer a reason to distrust him. Before you had suspected that every move he made was somehow a strategy for his survival. Now that he has his win, and you are to be laid to rest today, there is no need for you to have your guard up.

Only Konig has to worry about holding up appearances now.

On your final day, you are free to be silly, to be weak, to be scared, to be human.

“Come swim,” You coax.

“Almost done,” He says, standing to tuck the rest of your clothes into the taught sleeves of the jackets, letting them dangle to dry in the warm air against the tree. He begins to shed his gear and washes them as well.

You make your way back out to the deep, and when the water is up to your shoulders you idle to watch the waterfall. Gallons and gallons of never ending water cascade over the shelf of rock, free falling forty feet into the pool, and creates white, foam-like bubbles under its downpour.

Hesitantly you swim closer, the roar drowning out more of the world as you approach. The sand disappears from underneath you, kicking your feet and paddling your arms to keep your head above the surface. You have to fight the ripples and current the waterfall creates as you near.

There’s a large, smooth rock just to the left and behind the steady pour. You pull yourself up to perch on it, resting your heels against its curve into the water.

You carefully stick your hand into the stream, and quickly pull it back when you feel the water’s intense pressure.

You find your hand is unscathed by the powerful stream, and stick your hand in again.

Once deciding it’s safe, you slip back into the pool and let yourself be engulfed in the waterfall.

It’s a really, really intense shower.

It feels good, a massage almost. The water is a perfect, comfortable temperature, not too cold or too warm.

When you’re done with the waterfall, muscles noticeably untensed, you emerge from the heavy rain and catch Konig on the other end of the pool. He’s completely shed of his gear and now shirtless, all the clothes washed and drying off.

With just the top of your heading poking above the water, you find you can’t help the way your eyes linger, even from across the pool.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him without his gear obscuring him since the bloodbath, and the first time you’ve ever seen him without a shirt on.

When you remember you’re on screen, you quickly flick your gaze away, pretending to inspect some fish and hope the water conceals the flush of your cheeks.

You’d never had the opportunity to be with a boy back in District Nine. It’s frustrating, in every sense of the word. It also tends to make you feel fuzzy around just about any boy your age. That dizzy, electric heat you felt when he grazed your arm in training, when you snuggled up to him that night before the games.

And this? A shirtless boy who happens to be particularly large and sculpted?

It’s making your throat go tight and your mouth dry.

It’s unfortunate that you’ll never get the chance to be with someone.

You actually have to look up at the cloudless, orange desert sky to avoid lingering on him for an uncomfortable amount of time.

You wade back to where your toes can touch, keeping yourself fully submerged. You deem it appropriate to look at him when you hear him make a half dive into the water.

You can see his body through the warped filter of the water, and you can’t help but let out a laugh when he pops his head up, making a splash as he shakes the drips from his hair.

He catches your eyes for a moment before he looks away, turning slightly so he’s not facing you.

There’s an awkward pause before you clear your throat, extending a finger under the water, “Have you ever seen fish like this before?”

You point to a cluster of pink, purple, and bright orange fish hanging in the shade.

“No,” He answers, “They’re very pretty, though.”

“I’m gonna’ say hi,” You say, creeping up to the shade, before fully submerging yourself. You open your eyes under the water to get a good look at their designs. Almost none of them are mono-colored, and none of them dull. The striped patterns are all different, some of them that go up and down uniformly, some that have wiggled stripes, others zig-zagged.

You reach a hand out in their direction and watch them flee, their fins waving elegantly through the water as they zip away.

You pop your head out of the water with heavy breath.

“Did they say hi back?” Konig asks from behind you.

“I think so,” You take another breath and turn to him, “It was all, ‘blub blub blub.’”

“My fish speak is rusty,” He rubs his chin, looking curiously into the water, “But I’m pretty sure they slighted you.”

You giggle again, not necessarily at his joke, but because he’s playing along with you. You’re thankful he’s being silly too, that he’s humoring you on your final day.

You take another deep inhale and go back under, swimming to the bottom to retrieve a shell you noticed while fish spotting.

It’s a scallop shaped shell, the size of your palm. Mostly a deep pink dotted with splotches of white. You bring it over to Konig, who takes your offer without looking.

He marvels at it for a moment, running his thumb over the ridges in the shell. He blindly hands it back to you, and you frown.

You drop the shell as you plant your feet firmly on the sand, letting the water lap at your shoulders. Your body is still except for the gentle wave of your hands as they glide through the soothing weight of the pool.

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Yes,” He says, still slightly turned away from you. His cupped hands bring water just above the surface, watching it as it drains through his fingers and trickles to the pool, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

You’re worried he might be upset with you, the way he’s been avoiding you since you got to the oasis.

You squint your eyes, lowering yourself in the water until it’s just your eyes and nose peeking out. You take another mouthful of water, and arch it in his direction.

“Oh?”

He does it again, those bright eyes finding you and flicking away as soon as he realizes he’s looking at you. It reminds you of how you had tried to avoid looking at him so many times before, fighting the urge to lean on him.

“That,” You say, pointing at him, “Did I do something?”

“No!” He says quickly, looking to the sky, “I just - you’re, y’know,”

“What?” You ask, more laugh than question.

“Y’know,” He drags the word out a bit, hoping you’ll understand what he’s alluding to without having to say it, but you make him.

His face turns pink, his words mumbled and forced, “In your underwear.”

“So are you!” You say, face warped in a smile and a finger pointing at him.

“Well, yeah, but,” He doesn’t have a defense.

“Should I put my clothes back on?” You ask.

“No!” He says too quickly. He clears his throat, “I want you to be comfortable, I mean. It feels wrong to look at you. I don’t want to, äh, stare.”

“So respectful,” You say with a roll of your eyes.

And then you squirt him with another arch of water.

His nerves shed as he laughs, finally turning towards you and meeting your eyes, “You asked for this, little fish.”

You let out a squeak as he takes his flat palm and slams it down on the surface of the water, sending a splash in all directions. You sneak away with a dive, kicking your feet to make distance before resurfacing.

You’re already laughing before you’re back in the air, having to take deep inhales to catch your breath.

It’s a no-holds-barred-all-out splash war after that.

“Truce! Truce!” You yell, breathless from giggles and squeals, hands up in defense and head turned away from the line of fire.

He stops mid-splash with a big grin, “I accept your surrender.”

“That is not what a truce means!”

He makes a movement with his hand, threatening to skim the surface again.

“Okay, okay! I surrender,” you squeak out.

He hums in approval and gently lowers his hand back into the water.

There’s another pause, and squint eyes flit around the oasis, and land on the top of the waterfall.

“Have you been up there?”

“Not really,” He says, “I think it’s just sand.”

“Where’s the water coming from?” You ask, and he just shrugs.

You wade to the side of the pool, pulling yourself up to the sandy shore.

You’re dripping, hair clinging to your skin, kicking up sand that sticks to your wet feet and calves while you struggle to climb the dune.

At the top of the waterfall, you can see it’s clearly man-made. The water flows from the thin space between the shelf of rock and the sand dune it sticks out from.

With careful feet, you climb onto the slick shelf and scoot towards the edge, peering down at the pool below while the water parts for your feet and rinses the sand from your soles.

Konig’s waving his hands and yelling something at you, but you can’t hear his words over the roar of the waterfall.

There’s no rocks directly below the waterfall, and you know it’s deep enough there.

Even if you did hurt yourself, you were going to die anyway, right?

After working up some courage, you close your eyes, clamp your nose, and jump, kicking off the edge of the rock to push yourself out from the waterfall.

For two or three seconds you are falling with a shriek, limbs flailing before they break the surface of the water and send you plunging deep below.

Before you can surface, Konig has met you underwater, a firm grip on your arm as he yanks you up. When you both break into the air, he grabs your shoulders, letting go once he meets your eyes.

You both speak at the same time, frantic and worried.

“What?! What’s wrong!?” You say, swiveling your head to look for the threat.

“Are you okay?!”

“Oh,” you meet his eyes again when you realize there’s no danger, releasing the hold on the dip of his shoulders you didn’t realize you had.

“It’s fine. You should try it,” You say as you rearrange your wet, messy hair.

He shakes his head, “You could have hurt yourself.”

“Oh no,” You say with a roll of your eyes, “What do I have to lose, a couple hours?”

Konig studies your face, eyes flicking around your features with a frown.

“Okay, sorry,” You give a wave of dismissal, “Didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable by bringing up my imminent death.”

You wag your eyebrows at him, “I’m gonna’ do it again.”

“No,” He says firmly.

“Mm, guess you’ll have to stop me,” You shrug, starting in a swim to the edge of the pool.

A gentle but firm hand wraps around your calf and pulls you back in, “You should stay here, little fish.”

“Hey!” You protest, flipping over in the water and kicking your feet away from him, “You got water up my nose.”

He lets go of your leg and holds his hands up in mock apology, “Sorry, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Sorry,” you mock nasally as you rub out the burn from your nose, “But I want you to jump with me.”

“No way,” He says.

“You’re really going to deny a dead girl’s last request?” You narrow your eyes with a playful grin, “I didn’t realize you were so cold.”

He lets out a defeated huff.

No one can say no to the dead girl card.

He looks around the oasis with a low hum before revelation projects on his features, “What if we played a game instead?”

Your eyebrows perk up, “Like what?”

You can’t remember the last time you played a game. Once you’re old enough to work the fields in District Nine, between work, school, and trying to stay fed, there isn’t much time for games.

“What if,” He says, rubbing a finger along his jaw, clearly making up the rules on the spot. His face flashes with another idea before he takes a deep inhale and goes under, resurfacing with your pink and white shell, “One of us throws it, and the other tries to catch it before it sinks to the bottom?”

“Okay,” You say, with an almost childish eagerness to your voice.

He gives a pleased smile, having successfully redirected you to a less dangerous time-passer.

In your final moments, you want to be carefree, you want to have fun.

You’re grateful Konig is willing to let you have this before your death, because you know he doesn’t have to. He’s entitled to his win whenever he wants. He could have killed you in the finale, and he could have been back in the Capitol by now, indulging in his victory.

“I’ll throw first?” He asks.

You nod, blowing bubbles under the surface of the water while you wait for him to wade to the side of the pool. You can’t help but stare at the strong arms that leave the warp of the water, the glistening muscles of his back tensing as he pulls himself up to the shore. You can see the definition from here. They cast shadows, for fucks sake.

Your bubbles peter out, and you can feel the eyes again.

All of Panem.

You sink further into the water, hair dancing and curling like the sea plants below as you stare at your wrinkled fingertips. It’s the best you can do to hide yourself. To fall through the floor, just as you so often wish to do.

“Ready?” He calls.

You nod with an expectant smile, priming yourself.

It’s ridiculous, the shape of him. But not for the reason the people back home make fun of him for.

He looks like he was chiseled from marble, crafted with millions of flawless strikes to reveal what can only be a higher being’s idea of human excellence. It’s mesmerizing, watching his muscles push and pull against each other with each of his movements. Each moment a unique mosaic made of strong flesh interlocked in perfect puzzle pieces that support his being. The bright sun reflects off water droplets and makes his entire body throw light.

He’s radiant.

You’ve been around shirtless boys in the fields of District Nine, and it’s always been noticed by you, but this, this feels downright erotic. It feels wrong to -

It feels wrong to even look at him.

“Did you forget how to play?” He calls.

“What?”

“You didn’t catch it.”

There’s a beat.

“Oh, oh! Yes,” You have to laugh, because what you really want to do is drown yourself.

You retrieve the shell, staying underwater as long as you can manage. Your cheeks are burning when you surface, holding the shell in the air with a wave.

You toss it back to him, and immediately look away.

Maybe it would be best if he just killed you now, actually.

You keep your gaze to the water, waiting for the splash of the shell before you dive, feet kicking and arms rowing as you aim for the shell.

You catch it just inches from the pool’s sandy floor, displaying it proudly as you surface.

“Your turn!”

Without missing a beat you launch the shell straight up into the air, watching it arc before it makes its dissent from the sky.

There’s a moment of alarm that spreads on his features before he springs into action, an impressive head first dive from the bank into the water, quickly retrieving the shell and resurfacing with a laugh.

“Hey!” He says.

You give him an innocent shrug, a telling smile on your face.

You take turns diving for the shell for a while, he shoots down your idea of trying to catch it after jumping from the falls, and eventually you end up trying to see how long you can hold handstands under the water.

Once you both wind down, you float for what feels like hours, resting your eyes from the desert sun, listening to the crash of water on the surface of the pool. Soft, gentle waves lap at your skin, and at some point you and Konig link the crook of your elbows together to keep from floating away. You try really hard to ignore the feeling of his hard, pronounced, bare bicep wrapped around yours.

“We should make our way back soon,” He says as the sun sinks lower in the sky, “Weird animals in the desert at night.”

You nod in agreement, worn out by the swimming and sunbathing, ankles sore from exertion.

You wade back out to the shore, wringing out your hair and shaking off drops of water as you coat your feet in a generous layer of sand.

He retrieves your now dry clothes, nice and toasty from the sun. Konig offers to rinse your calves off, using the water from the bottles as you teeter on one foot. He gives you a cloth to dry off and lets you use his forearm to steady yourself while you slip your sock and boot back on. You repeat the process for your other foot, and return the favor for him.

You both dress in your clean clothes, Konig’s gear and the haunting mask making a reappearance while you return your token to its temporary home and carefully refasten the ribbon around your wrist.

As you’re both slipping the body suits back on, Konig gestures to your bruised ankles, “Does it hurt? To walk on them?”

“They’re sore, but I’ll manage.”

“I can carry you,” He offers.

“What?” You ask with a puffy exhale, as if he told you a bad taste joke.

“I could carry you back,” He repeats, as casually as one would offer a glass of water.

“Oh, no,” You say with a wave of your hand, averting your gaze, “That’s okay.”

“Are you sure? You probably shouldn’t be walking on it, you might make it worse.”

“Oh no,” you say in the same cadence to his objection to the waterfall, generous sarcasm paired with a roll of your eyes, “Won’t be my problem for long.”

There’s a pause, his eyes twitching before they relax, “Well if the dead girl’s wish to have sore ankles, who am I to deny her?”

You blow air out your nose, another roll of your eyes.

No one can say no to the dead girl card.

“C’mere,” you say with a raise of your arms.

He leans down, letting you wrap your arms tightly around his hooded neck. He cradles your back with one forearm, his other reaching down to scoop you up by your knees, literally sweeping you off your feet.

He hoists you up like you weigh nothing. He keeps your side close to his core, holding you just under his vest. You keep one arm slung around the back of his neck, resting your forearm on his backpack as he carries you along. Your other arm drapes over your torso, fingers threading into a pocket on his vest. There’s a warmth blossoming on your cheeks that you hope the cameras can’t see as you bury yourself into his shoulder, your cheek pressed up against the drape of his hood.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the crook of his neck.

“Of course, little fish,” He says, the low vibration of his words tickling your side. You give him a soft hum in return.

You don’t seem to be holding him back at all, not fazed by the extra weight. You both share a comfortable silence for the rest of the trip, him lulling you as each step rocks you in his arms, your feet swaying and eyes fluttering shut.

When he gives you a gentle squeeze, you open your eyes and find he’s carried you all the way to the border in the spring quadrant.

He lets you down slowly, and you take your time stretching out your limbs.

Konig spreads out your clean jackets side-by-side, a makeshift blanket to separate you both from the grass. After you both strip off the temperature suits, you lay your upper half on your jacket, threading your fingers together and resting them under your ribcage.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, unpacking the food from his backpack.

You hum affirmative.

He removes his hood, and both eat in a comfortable silence, sleepy from the long trek and the day in the sun.

“Is there anything you’ve ever wanted to do, but never got the chance?” You ask after a long silence, having spent it pondering your approaching death.

He nods, finishing a swallow of orange before he speaks.

“Yeah,” He says without clarifying.

“Like what?” You ask.

He gives you a long, drawn-out stare before he shifts his attention to his bread, “I don’t know, there’s a lot of things.”

You let the silence play out, looking at him expectantly.

“Like, äh. I’ve always wanted to have,” He trails off for a moment, flicking his gaze to the snow behind you, “A close friend.”

“You really didn’t have any friends in District Nine?”

You knew he was an outcast, you didn’t realize he was completely isolated.

“No,” He says, ripping a chunk of bread from what remains of the loaf, “Is there anything you wanted to do?”

“I don’t know,” You shrug, ripping a cookie in half and taking a bite. You take a moment to savor it with a hum, “I always thought I’d’ve found love by now, y’know?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“I’ve never had anything romantic, I guess. No boys, or anything.”

“Really?” He asks, genuinely surprised.

“Nope.”

“Did you like anyone?” He asks carefully, a slight squint in his eyes.

“Eh,” You say with a shrug. You quirk a brow at him, a devilish grin spreading on your face as you pop a blackberry between your teeth, “Did you?”

His eyes go wide, tensing in his spot. A faint glow creeps onto his cheeks.

You laugh, “It’s okay, you don’t have to say. Wouldn’t want you to go home and have to face her.”

He swallows, looking down to a chunk of bread he rolls between his fingers.

“Yeah,” He says evenly, with a bit of a strain, “I don’t think I’ll ever have the chance.”

You give a high hum and another shrug, “Well, you never know. You know how they are with the victors. She’ll probably be throwing herself at you with everyone else.”

He gives a slow nod, using his knife to spread cheese over his now smushed bread.

There’s another silence, both of you sharing the cold stew, dipping chunks of bread into it.

“What’d’ya think Price makes of this?” You work your bread to pick up a piece of carrot, “You think he’s proud of us?”

He scoffs, “I’m not sure what else we could do.”

Something comes to mind, and he laughs before continuing, “Do you think you should confess…” He trails off, raising his brow and tilting his head. It takes you a moment to realize he’s alluding to the whiskey incident on the train.

“Oh, absolutely not,” You say, “He can’t know. And you have been sworn to secrecy, and I expect that to be honored in my death.”

He gives a small laugh and holds up a palm as if giving an oath, “Alright, your secret is safe with me.”

You smile in approval, taking another bite of the cookie and savoring the dessert before offering it to Konig, who shakes his head.

“Did you know about his plan?”

He tilts his head, “What plan?”

“About-“ You cut yourself off, trying to word this without giving away you had absolutely no idea you were friends until a couple hours ago, “About tricking the other tributes into thinking we were allies.”

He squints, and shakes his head.

“He-“ You take another pause to carefully select your words, “He paired us up in training, matched our outfits, and the interview?”

Konig looks to the side, still not understanding.

“The other tributes - they thought we were allies. So instead of everyone wanting to hunt you down, they had their focus split on both of us. So,-“ You pause for a moment, “They had incentive to keep me alive. It’s like - You know how Titan didn’t kill me when he had the chance? Because he wanted to use me against you?”

He nods slow.

“Did Price tell you about this?” He asks, playing with his fingers.

“No,” you say with a shake of your head.

“How do you know?”

“Titan- ah, I had a run in with Titan before.”

He stares at you, eyes snapping open, “What? Is that what happened to your arm?”

“No, no. That was District One.”

“The boy?”

“The girl.”

“What happened with Titan?” He asks.

You scoff, “I told him to eat sand. And then he did.”

“You fought him?”

You touch the healed nick Titan made on your neck.

“Sort of,” You shrug, “He pinned me down, and he wanted me to call for you - that’s how I knew. He didn’t kill me right away, so I had a chance to escape.”

“How?”

A smug, sly grin blooms on your face, “I made him eat sand.”

Konig laughs, leaning back, “What?”

“He pinned me to the ground in the desert, so I blinded him with sand,” Your smile widens, eyes squinting mischievously, “I bet it hurt.”

He gives a weak laugh. There’s a pause, and his smile falls, “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head, “No, well he choked me, and gave me a paper cut.”

You touch your cut again.

“But that’s a small price to pay for the satisfaction.”

He nods, not finding it as funny as you. There’s another beat, and he speaks toward the ground.

“I’m sorry.”

You wave your hand and swallow hard, your voice a bit more broken than you would have liked, “I’ve been through worse.”

There’s another pause.

His eyes find yours again, you can feel the burn of his stare, but you don’t meet his stare.

“You want to talk about it?” He asks.

You gnaw on your lower lip, considering it.

You shake your head slowly.

He nods, and whispers, “I get it.”

You both get lost in another silence. A good chunk of time passes, and your mind has drifted back to your impending death. More curious than anxious.

“What’ll you think it’ll be like?” You ask.

“What?”

“Death.”

“Oh,” He looks to the dirt, his hand coming to his chin, “I think it’ll be peaceful. Like,” He thinks for a moment, “Sleeping, or coming home maybe.”

You give a nod.

“I hope so,” You say with wist.

There’s another pause, and then you ask, “How do you want to do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Y’know,” You say, flicking your gaze awkwardly to the side.

“Oh,” He says, as if he hadn’t considered it yet, “I think it should be how you want it to be. We don’t have to do it yet, though.”

“I know,” you say, “But it’s hard not to think about it. Part of coming to terms with it, I guess. I just want to know.”

“What do you want to do?”

You peer out, staring at the yellow and red leaves of the fall forest, taking a sip of juice.

“I don’t know. As long as it’s quick.”

He just nods, looking down to the food spread between you.

“Sunset,” You say.

”Huh?” He asks.

“Sunset, I want to do it at sunset.”

He gives a swallow, his eyes darting around.

“Okay,” He says, low and soft.

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, lowering your back flush in the dirt. One hand cushions your head, the other sliding blades of grass between the gaps of your fingers.

“I think I’m okay with it,” You let out a long, soothing exhale, “With dying. I just hope it’s nice.”

“Me too,” He mumbles.

You hum, nestling further into the jacket and the soft grass.

“Want anymore food?” He asks.

“No, I’m okay,” You say, keeping your eyes closed.

You can hear him shuffling the containers over the whistle of a light spring breeze, setting them in the grass above your head.

He cleans off the knife he used to spread the cheese, lays down beside you on his jacket, and for a while you both lay. Soaking in the sun hung over the desert quadrant, but no more searing than the warmth of a gentle spring sun.

“What would you do different?” You ask with your eyes closed, “If you could do your life over again.”

He thinks on it for a moment, “I’d probably talk to you sooner.”

A smile spreads on your face, “That’s it?”

“Yeah I think that’s the big one,” he says with a smile.

You respond by giving him a light tap on his side, as if telling him to be serious.

“It’s true,” He says, “There are other things. But that one sticks out the most. I would have really liked having a friend in District Nine.”

“What about you?” He asks after another pause.

You intertwine your own fingers together and lay them just below your chest with a hum.

“Lots of things,” You huff, “Probably wouldn’t have chugged that whiskey.”

He laughs, hearty and genuine enough to make your chest flood with warmth.

“I thought we were keeping it a secret.”

“Eh, what do I have to lose?” You throw a defeated hand in the air and talk to Price, “Couldn’t handle my liquor.”

He laughs again, “You’ve always been too brave for your own good.”

You scoff, “I’m not brave.”

“Sure you are,” He says, and begins to rattle off a list as if he had it ready to go, “That boy, the whiskey, the balcony, Titan, the waterfall. Too brave.”

“I’m not brave, I’m just angry.”

“And you don’t think everyone else gets angry too? The only difference between being angry and being brave is doing something about it.”

You open your eyes and tilt your head at him, squinting at the sunlight.

“There’s a lot of things I get angry about that I don’t do something about.”

“Things out of your control?”

“Well,” You trail off, understanding you’re in dangerous territory, bordering along blasphemous criticism of the Capitol, “Yeah but, the things I do get spiteful about is self-destructive. It’s reckless. I don’t think, I just act - and I always regret it.”

“Do you regret what you did to that boy?”

You take a deep breath, eyes darting away momentarily.

“I- I was ashamed of my behavior, yeah. I probably should have went about it a different way but I’m glad they stopped picking on you. Something good that came of it.”

He gives you a ghost of a smile and nods.

Any fear you’ve had about the gamemakers cutting your pact short has dissipated, convinced that the drama and the heartbreak and the tragic nature of it all was certainly some of the best television ever seen. You’re sure they’re eating this up in the Capitol.

Another peaceful silence falls over you, and Konig is the one to break it this time.

“You’ve really never had a boyfriend?”

You let out a snort, “No, really.”

“Kissed a boy?”

“No,” You say through a laugh, “Why?”

He shrugs, “Just hard to believe.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” He looks up to the sky, “Just thought boys would throw themselves at you.”

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

He goes stiff as he stumbles through his words, “Äh, well, you’re - y’know.”

“I don’t,” You say.

“Pretty,” He says, just loud enough to carry.

Another smile creeps on your face.

“You think I’m pretty?” You ask in a smug tone with suspended disbelief, elbows and forearms propping yourself up as your top half twists to face him.

His cheeks flush as he stares at the lush grass. His words come out mumbled and broken, fingers fidgeting, “Well, I- sure, I do.”

You laugh, “Well, thank you.”

Your eyes give him a quick full over scan, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You settle back into your jacket.

“You’re smart too,” He blurts out after a pause.

You look to him again, meeting his eyes before he looks away, landing on his own fidgeting fingers.

“You think so?” You ask with a raise of a brow.

“Oh, yeah,” He says assuredly, with a nod that’s just a bit too fast, “Quick.”

Your hold each other’s stare for a moment.

There’s really no reason for him to lie to you at this point. What he’s sharing with you seems genuine, unless he’s playing an angle with the audience you don’t understand. Brownie points for being nice to the dead girl, maybe?

His eyes are indecipherable, pupils mapping your face as he soaks in the features that furrow as they try to understand his intentions.

He nods again, slight but quick movements.

You both hold each other’s stare - another moment of charged tension - there’s something happening that’s difficult for you to place. It’s as if there’s some big orchestrated plan you’re being left out from, but it’s just you and Konig here.

You and Konig and all of Panem.

Your eyes slightly narrow as you try to figure out what he would stand to gain from lying, why he feels the need to say these things now, and why you are struggling to come up with a retort, an answer, or to even break his stare.

You’re both stuck, caught in this moment weird moment of uncertainty as you have so many times before, but instead of sharing in the unease, it’s directed at each other.

The corner of your lip perks up, your eyebrows lowering in genuine yet hesitant acceptance, “Thanks.”

He nods, breaking the stare. He plays with his fingers and continues, his voice low and soft, “You always say what’s on your mind. I’ve always- I wish I could do that.”

You continue to bore into him as he watches his own fingers lace and unlace.

“Never done me any favors,” You say, combing through every incident your big mouth has gotten you into trouble.

“Worked on me,” he says quietly with a shrug.

You look at him again, confused on where this is coming from.

“Worked on you?” You repeat.

He starts, fumbling for his words, “Wha- äh, I mean, I meant that I just, I admire that, is all.”

He’s tearing fistfuls of grass from the dirt.

“What about you?” You ask.

“Huh?”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend?”

He shakes his head.

“You ever fooled around with anyone?”

His cheeks flush, his eyes darting around, “No. Never had the chance.”

“I think that’s one of the things I’m bummed about the most to be honest. Always wanted to try that before I died,” You laugh, running your fingers over what’s left of your chipped nail polish as you stare out into the distance.

He’s still tearing up handfuls of grass, averting your stare. His next words are whispered, just a wisp of a sentence, “Me too.”

There’s a long pause, filled by the sound of grass uprooting and the light spring breeze.

This pause is charged, awkward, but electric.

You don’t think before you ask what you’re both thinking.

“Should we?” A mischievous smile spreads on your face.

“Wha- What?”

“Fool around,” You say, lips still curled in a devilish grin.

Normally you’d never be so forward. But here, while you have only a few hours left, why not? You’re not going to be shy enough to miss out on your only opportunity to check a few things off the bucket list before you die. You could certainly do a lot worse in terms of losing your virginity. If he rejected your offer, it’s not like you’ll have to deal with the embarrassment for long.

“What?” He says again, almost horrified, his whole face turning red.

“Here?” He asks before you can repeat the question, his head swiveling as he looks around the arena. His palm touches his chest, “With me?”

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug.

“Because everyone’s watching,” He gets out with a stutter. He thinks for a moment and repeats, “With me?”

You laugh and offer a shrug, “If you want. Might as well.”

The pads of his fingers rub together furiously, “But you’ll have to go home and face everyone, and - and they’ll know.”

Maybe you are as quick as Konig thinks you are, because you catch it immediately.

Konig doesn’t.

It rolled off his tongue so casually, as if he’d said it a million times before. You can tell he doesn’t recognize his screw up by the way he responds to your face dropping, your head cocking to the side, your eyes narrowing.

He looks puzzled, flushed, a little scared - but not busted.

“What?” He asks.

Konig leans back instinctively when you prime yourself, hands already bracing the grass for movement.

Your voice is dangerous and taught, each word spoken independently and brought to an icy point.

“I’ll go home.”

Now he’s realized it. His face sinks, his eyes are wide and desperate, lips gaped as he searches for a recovery but his mind is clearly failing him. If it had just been a slip of the tongue, or maybe if he was a better liar, he would have just corrected himself - but the fear in his eyes gives it away.

It was no mistake.

You give a slow, dangerous nod, your tongue running along the front of your teeth as you look away to stare into the distance.

It all makes sense now.

Why he didn’t let Eleven or Titan kill you. Why he didn’t kill you. Why he went through the trouble of nursing your wounds. Why he’s letting you come to terms with your death. Why he’s insistent on you not acting dangerously even though you have no time left.

A jacket on a cold night, pleas to ally, cuddling, handholding, carrying, compliments, blushing.

Murders on your behalf.

These are not the actions of a friend.

This is what Titan meant.

This is what he wanted Konig to confess to you.

The other tributes didn’t think you were allies - they had known of Konig’s affection all along, and they wanted to use you as leverage, bait to take down their toughest opponent.

You were Konig’s weakness all along.

Everyone must have known.

Of course they did.

Holding hands at the opening ceremony, attached at the hip in training, protecting you from confrontation. Price’s knowing stares, stating confidently that you could convince Konig to rebel against the Capitol, forcing Konig to blush at the mention of your name. The careers keeping a careful eye on the boy who cares far too much about the girl, using her against him, and rubbing it in at every opportunity.

It must be obvious to the audience, too.

All of Panem must know, Konig’s intentions were clear from the start, and you were too dense to see what was right in front of your fucking face.

You scoff, voice tightening with betrayal and every word slicing through the tensed air.

Your head slowly turns to face him, jaw cocked and a tented brow.

“You’re planning on sacrificing yourself for me, aren’t you?”

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