#but she was sick with grief over her for ages

[blujayonthewing]

🤔 juniper wondering if it was possessive of her to break up with isabelle after being told no, you silly thing, of course I won't marry you, but I can assure you that my eventual husband won't mind that I have you, everyone has mistresses after all

was it selfish, then, to want her all to herself? was it only that she couldn't stand to share, like a petulant child? would it not have been enough just to be allowed to stay near her...?

[barkingangelbaby]

listening to 311 and smelling N's weed (bc I can't smoke anymore </3)... yeah I am my parents daughter (but not a girl)...

[ffsg0jo]

tw: grief, death, illness, and angst - i wrote this in like half an hour and i was really in my feels, so pls excuse me if it's bad

uncle sukuna, who's been in and out of jail, is always seemingly in trouble with the law and couldn't give two shits about it. ever since leaving home and his twin brother behind, he's only lived for himself and himself only. he'd be damned if he lets anyone change that.

he receives a voicemail from his brother one day, telling him he's had a little baby boy called yuuji. jin wants to put everything in the past behind them and would love for his brother to meet his precious son. sukuna only scoffs and deletes the voicemail almost immediately.

it's only when jin texts him a video of yuuji (who he's surprised to see almost looks exactly like him, minus all the tattoos) 8 months later babbling what could be interpreted as "papa", does he falter. the kid's adorable, but sukuna isn't ready to face his brother just yet.

many more months go by, and jin seems to have taken the hint. except he gets sent another video, this time on his birthday. he clicks on the video, unable to resist and its yuuji, wobbling on two legs, clapping his hands, and singing his own version of happy birthday (??). he's gotten so much bigger and looks so much like his father.

the only word sukuna recognises from yuujis incoherent nonsense is 'kuna', and his heart softens. he messages back a "cute." and leaves it at that. jin sees the message and doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the day.

jin messages him again a week later, only this time sukuna's heart drops. kaori's dead, and her funeral's next week. he's only met her twice, but she was good for his brother, and she was always good to him too.

he sees his brother for the first time in years at the funeral. jin's hair is a mess, his face unshaven and sunken in; grief seemed to have aged him 10 more years. sukuna's many things, a bad brother included, but something in him breaks when he sees yuuji screaming in his father's arms, not understanding where his mum's gone.

he doesn't know why, but he walks up to jin and offers to take yuuji instead. the toddler immediately calms down in his hold, now more confused as to why there's a man that looks exactly like his dad but with sharpie all over him. jin breaks down, stammering out a thank you, and excuses himself, leaving sukuna alone with his nephew. he'll hunt down his brother later, but for now, he'll keep the brat occupied so his dad can grieve.

sukuna hears from his dad that jin's fallen ill months later. he's speaks to his brother more often now and has even met up with both him and yuuji a couple of times. but jin's never mentioned being sick. he's been looking worse, for sure, but he just put it down to being a single father to an energetic toddler.

he moves in with them the next week. jin keeps getting worse and even little yuuji's noticed.

sukuna tries his best. he really does. he's not been there for jin previously, but he makes sure he's there now when it matters. it's all new to him, caring for people. he tries to cook the most nutritious meals for jin, making sure they're yuuji friendly too. he makes sure the house is always clean, even though yuuji's making a mess every 10 minutes. he changes diapers (both yuuji's and jin's), bathes them both, and tucks them both into bed. he even reads yuuji a bedtime story just to maintain normacly even though he hasnt read since he was a child.

he checks up on jin, constantly seeing if he's feeling okay and gives him his medicine. he holds onto jin with the utmost care (almost carrying him) when they go to visit kaori's grave or when yuuji insists on both of them coming to the park with him. when jin can't sleep at night due to being in excruciating pain, he's there. by his side and holding him. he's never been this affectionate, but he's also never had a dying brother before.

it's still not enough, though. the last couple of days were the hardest, and even yuuji knew enough to be on his best behaviour.

sukuna silently sobs into his pillow at night, when the whole world's asleep. he's filled with regret and hatred for himself, but he knows it's too late now. he tells his brother he loves him and that he promises to take care of yuuji no matter what. jin only smiles, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and tries to kiss his cheek as a thank you, and i love you too.

jin died with one arm holding yuuji, the other holding sukuna's, and his wife's name on his tongue.

sukuna was left all alone, once again. except this time, he had no brother to give yuuji back to. as he promised jin, the stars as his witness, he'd do anything for yuuji and to keep him safe.

his life was no longer his own. he had his nephew to think about.

© ffsg0jo 2024 — do not plagiarise, repost, modify, or translate any of my work, in any way shape or form; i will piss in your cereal if you do. all work belongs to me and me only.

[yonch]

it's been 15 years and you can see better than ever

(design notes under the cut) (there are spoilers)

ok this got really long. here you go

sif:

ditched the cloak. it was collecting dust in their closet until recently, but they realized they don't need to cling to their grief so much anymore. someone else will need it more soon.

ditched the eyepatch. the prosthetic eye is a labor of love designed by isa, as is literally everything else they're wearing.

they cut their bangs finally and started braiding their hair back so it wouldn't obscure their vision as much anymore.

they like darker/tighter clothing and prefer function over form but unfortunately their gay ass boyfriend keeps treating them like a dress up doll so they're stuck wearing waistcoats and a fancy cloak. (they don't mind. it's designed to look like loop.) they keep flowers in their many pockets to give to people.

they're a woodworker in their free time. they don't usually talk about being any sort of savior so he just becomes sif the guy who's really good at carving birthday presents for people and also tags along with isa to charity parties and fundraisers

41 year old 5'1" they/he absolutely zero intention of Changing. bonded to isabeau. they adopted a kid who leo or i might post about some other time i think. her name is estelle.

isa: i'm not taking credit for the design that's by my friend @fembard /@leoweooo. i'll include his design notes

isa dresses mostly for comfort, he doesn't like wearing stuff that might get stained or ruined when he's dyeing clothes or chasing stelle around in the mud or something, all his fashion sense goes into his handiwork

he Changed a few more times over the 15yrs, eventually settled. picked up she/her pronouns again on the side but was never really able to ditch the name isabeau and he kinda ran out of names anyways...

kept the long hair, kept a few inches in height, very happy to fulfill the role of male (space) wife

can't ditch the kimono jacket it's the piece de resistance. odile influence and Wisening Of Age means its made with a little more knowledge of ka buan technique but still very clearly an Isa Design. the fabric is imported silk sif!!!!!!

39 year old Tall with a capital T he/she "i swear i'm not a weeaboo i'm just really into ka buan fashion" vaugardian indie clothing designer in your area help support this man in his attempts to use his family members as living advertisements for his brand

mira: with design input from @jastertown thank you my friend

i took a lot of inspiration for the sparkly, sheer fabric on her dress from euphrasie. she's not head housemaiden yet because she doesn't feel like she's ready but everybody knows it'll be her

speaking of inspiration. she's been taking a lot of fashion cues from a certain lady in dormont that she thought was kind of scary, but it turns out she's very nice? they're besties now.

she got rid of the earrings for a little bit but then she realized she just liked how they look on her. so now they go ding ding! it's for her and nobody else, and that's how she likes it.

moved her ornaments to her skirt because they ding ding more often there. her necklace also jingles with merriment.

38 year old she/her advanced cisgender+ legend who's realizing that people are trying to get her to be the pope but all she really wants to do is write yaoibait fiction that looks like it came straight off of ao3

odile:

my glorious hag. she started shrinking about 3 years ago. all those years of bending over books has finally caught up to her. her hips are fuuuuuucked. but she has a sick cane that sif carved for her so everything's okay

she was already pretty comfortable and settled in her sense of style when she was nearing 50 so i don't think she would change much. darker clothing maybe. ditched the high-waisted pants for some looser slacks.

she's started writing a familytale of her own. the only person she's told about it is bonbon, who caught her up way past their bedtime, and scribbled all over one of the pages. she'll pass it on to sif when the time's right, after she's written down everything she can remember about their family.

64 year old she/her wasian researcher recovering from hernia surgery who's getting really into things like "political activism" and "body craft law reformation in ka bue" and "making sure people aren't sourcing their hrt from back alleys"

bonnie:

prefers to go by boniface these days. it's cooler. more mature. please stop calling me bonbon that's a nickname from when i was 10 guys c'mon guys ugh fine frin you can still call me bonbon but not around my girlfriends ok (nobody calls them boniface except for odile)

speaking of which they have 3 butch lesbian girlfriends. this got established as a joke but i think they have it in them. they're still young!!!!!!! they should be at the club!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

they traveled for a while with everybody but eventually settled down back in bambouche to start a little family owned restaurant with nille featuring dishes from all over the globe. people travel from all over to get a taste of boniface's good eats... bambouche is bustling. (they have a few recipes that are sourced from the country. they meet people every once in a while who find something achingly familiar about it, and they usually direct those people to jouvente to get in contact with frin.)

26 year old they/them "i dont know how tall i am but i'm taller than za" chef cooker whose restaurant keeps lighting on fire because this time i swear nille i can figure out how to do cooking craft i swear i wont explode the kitchen this time please i promise

loop:

ok. this is where lozy gets to just talk about what he thinks happens post game. i think they stick around for way longer than they really should and follow the crew around on their travels (mostly invisibly) because they're sooo fucking scared of change they're sooo scared and they're so scared of their wish fucking up beyond belief. they're kind of incapable of aging or dying in this body and theyre like permanently 26 which is what spurs them to finally move on.

i think they go back to their timeline eventually after making a Brand New Wish to "go back to their real family." alas the universe leads and we can only follow. and it turns out loop has actually made a real family in stardust's world also. this is my justification for why they can pop in between sasasap and isat worlds without much repercussion. i think they're always permanently loop shaped in isat but i imagine they can probably go back to their original body in their home timeline... might design that later. who knows. i'm fucked like that

i just think they deserve a chance for their own happy ending you know. isat's a game about how it's never too late to communicate and how you shouldn't punish yourself forever and ever. and i think theyve punished themself enough you know.

ok tank you for reading if you read this far. it's really big and long so i would understand if you didn't. but i hope you liked it. thoughts appreciated. here's a little something for the people who read all the way through.

[thewritetofreespeech]

pairing: Gwayne x fiancé reader

summary: Gwayne may have lost the tourney, but he gained a better prize.

tags: female reader, reader is from the Reach, heterosexual relationship, hand job, mentions of injury, subtle Gwayne daddy issues (not sexy, just Gwayne being Gwayne), Gwayne being a simp for his lady

-----------------------------♟️----------------------------------

When Gwayne told his father one day, at about the age of six, that he was going to take up the sword and learn to be a knight, all his father said was, “are you sure?”

His opinion on the announcement did not seem to sway one way or another, much like his opinion on the actual son. Their lady mother had given him an heir, a spare, a daughter, and Gwayne. His brothers would be learned men like their father, so Gwayne thought he could be useful by being a marshal man for his family. He was actually quite good at it too. All of his instructors said so. His training partners. The men of their House bannermen.

But no one would know that now as Gwayne was quickly unseated in the first round of the tournament. A lucky shot. Luckier still as it could have been fatal, but instead just a wound to his left side and pride. To fall in front of his father and beloved sister wounded him still.

Gwayne had taken what was left of his pride and limped off the tourney grounds. Making it to an awaiting sick bay as injuries in tournaments were more common than not. He had to be stripped out of his armor like a pleb. Been tended to like an invalid while he grit his teeth and let the maester wrap his broken ribs. Just the one, actually. But it was enough to knock him out of the tournament for the rest of the week.

He sighed and rested his head against the headboard. All he wanted was to show his family that his efforts had not been in vain. To show them what he was working so hard for while they were in the Capital. Now he would have to wait for the next tournament. If his father even bothered to show up.

“Gwayne?” The knight looked up from his self-pity musing at the door and found his fiancé there. In his pain and grief over his disappointing show, he had completely forgotten she had been in the crowd too. Wonderful. Another beloved to witness his failure. “Are you alright? That fall…it looked rather nasty…”

“It wasn’t ideal.” He winced as he tried to move his arm to pull his shirt on. Finding it immodest to be in just bandages in front of a lady. She came to his side instantly, helping him pull his arm through with as little discomfort as possible. “Sorry you came all this way to witness such a poor showing. Or waste your favor.”

“It is not a waste Gwayne. Do not say such things.”

Gwayne reached in his pocket and pulled her ribbon from his trousers. She had given it to him the night before, in private, wishing him good fortune & safety in the events to come. He had had it in his breastplate when the games started, and squirrel it away into his pocket after he was injured so it wouldn’t be thrown away. “You should give it to a better knight then I. I’m done for.”

“You fell off a horse Gwayne, not the edge of the world.” She told him. “And, there is no better knight than you for me.” She pushed her offered ribbon back at him with a stern look. “If you keep speaking this way, I shall have to give back your favor and return to the Reach.”

His eyes lit up in alarm. Knowing that she meant his ring, and he could not have that. “Alright. I’m sorry.” To lose the tournament was one thing, but to lose her. Gwayne couldn’t stand it.

She smiled at him. Seeming pleased that he had gotten the hint on not being so hard on himself, and looked around quickly before she leaned in for a kiss. “I know you’re disappointed. But you’re alive and relatively unscathed.”

“And handsome.” He quipped back as he was starting to feel in good spirits. “Do not forget that.”

“Oh, how could I.” His beguiling fiancé leaned in to kiss him again. Longer this time. “Thank the Gods for fine helmets.”

It took Gwayne’s brain a bit to catch on that her hands were moving around his waist band. Perhaps it was the loss of air from their kissing. Or that his bell got run pretty hard in the fall and he was still recovering. Or perhaps still it was simply just her. But he caught on just about the time the cool air brushed against his nether regions, and he sprung up. “What are you doing?” He asked. His back teeth setting against the pain of his sudden movement as he fretfully looked over towards the door.

“Helping you relax.” She replied with some cheek. “I heard the maesters say you needed to do that and rest if you were to heal.”

“And you think undressing me in a room where just anyone could walk in is going to help me relax??”

“Well, no. Perhaps not that part.” Gwayne wheezed in a breath, as much as his battered ribs would allow, when she reached in and took hold of him. “But this part might.”

Gwayne knew not the touch of another, save his own hand. Though he took no vow like the King’s Guard when he became a knight, he had made a personal vow that he would be stalwart in his honor & practice. Dutiful to his House as to not sully it by laying Flowers at their doors. He does not ask how his future wife knew of such things. In all honesty, he did not want to know. All he could think about in that moment, after the shock and panic of getting caught, was how good her soft hand felt around his cock.

His member hardened quickly under her touch. Gwayne was still a young, virile man, with adrenaline still lingering in his veins, a strong breeze could get him up. He moaned quietly as his lady’s hand stroked him. Long steady pulls of her hand up & down. Watching as he was transfixed by this surreal experience that was happening to him.

“Does it feel good my love?” Gwayne nodded. His lord’s education failing him as he could not articulate in this moment how good it felt. “Good. I want to know how you like it, so I can prepare for our wedding night.” He moaned, or perhaps whimpered, at the thought. Just another 3 months. Just another 3 months and she would be his wife, and he would have her all to himself. Her body, her mind, her heart; though she had been clear that he already had the latter two. His hips bucked up at the thought of her beneath him and Gwayne let out a sharp cry that was crossed between one of pleasure & pain as his ribs were jostled again. Then he heard a flurry of scurried motion behind the door.

Panick set in, the fear of getting caught welling up inside him. Not just for himself but her as well. How would they explain such lewd behavior if they were caught? Her reputation would be besmirched. His father might call off the engagement in the face of such scandal!

Luckily his wife to be was not only beautiful but clever. Like all fine roses of the Reach. She quickly pulled a blanket over his midsection and placed their hands together over the spot where the obvious tenting would be. “Forgive me, my lady. I thought I heard his lordship call for help.”

“Such a steward of care you are, Maester Callen.” Her voice was sweet, complimentary, and hypnotic to Gwayne. “Just a twinge of the ribs from a sudden movement. The injury is new. Our silly Ser must have forgotten he had it for a moment.” Gwayne swallowed as her little finger brushed against the outline of him through the blankets. His jaw having to set as to not moan in a very indiscrete way in from of the maester.

“Are you sure he is alright?” Maester Callen asked. A curious look all men of learning seemed to get when they asked questions. “Your lordship looks feverish. There could be an underlying infection from the trauma—“I’m fine.” Gwayne barked quickly. His noble resolve hanging on by a thread thinner than this blanket. “I just need rest, as you said. Please,” ‘oh Gods, please, please, please!’ he thought as his lady continued to stroke him with just the finest touch to the point of madness this whole time, “leave us so I might finish my conversation with my lady and be about that.”

The maester seemed still curious, but asked no further questions. He bowed his head, then closed the door behind him as he left. “Good Gods….!” Gwayne hissed through his teeth as he writhed freely now that they were alone again.

“That was a close one.”

“You insufferable minx!” He hissed at her. That cheeky grin on her face was infuriating but also the vision from his dreams. “You nearly got us caught!”

“I’m not the one who inadvertently called him in here, now did I my love?” Gwayne had a few more sharp words for her but they all vanished as her hand pulled back the blanket again and stroked him fully.

His head tilted back with a moan. The fear of almost being caught, damning though it would be, had only heightened the sensation. He warned her that he was close, not sure if she knew what that meant, and let her swallow his final moans in a kiss as he came all over her hand and his linen dressings. She let him go, a soft kiss on his lips like a seal before she pulled away, and he slumped back against the bed like a witless fool.

“There. Now you can relax & rest completely, my love.” Gwayne nodded. Not sure what she was talking about right now, but rest sounded nice right now. “I shall come to see you tomorrow once they move you back to your quarters. We’ll have the whole afternoon to ourselves, since everyone will at the tournament.” Oh right. The tournament. He was supposed to apart of that. Showing his family & father how much he had trained for them. It suddenly didn’t seem all that important anymore. “Get better, my love.”

She kissed him one last time and then saw herself out. The picture of civility and the dutiful fiancé come to shower well wishes on her mate to be. No one knew, or would know, what had happened between them. Gwayne felt his spent cock twitch a little as he watched her walk away. Just 3 more months. Just 3 more months felt like an eternity all of a sudden.

[777heavengirl]

the one with Pobol y cwm

sirius black x reader ! - 1,091 words masterlist bags masterlist A/N: HAPPY BDAY SIRIUS BLACK MY BELOVED- SURPRISE UPDATE IN HONOR OF HIM TODAY- oh dear pls dont look at this too in detail i am very sick and exhausted but i wanted to put something out for his bday...

Sirius had never been a crier. Yet as his nimble fingers dug into the soft material of your sweater, and his body shook with sobs— it became clear to you that he had just been holding it in. 

He hadn’t said much after he walked through his door, red-eyed and ready to crumble. 

But you knew. 

You had always been this way. Just knowing, him. Knowing somehow, what he was thinking, what he was feeling. You could tell, most of the time anyway.

You knew he felt sorry, and you knew he felt frustratingly heartbroken. Angry and furious, but deeply blue. The little boy inside of him had lost his mother, and there was nothing he could say to himself that would make it better. 

 Because through all her faults, her disgusting vile words, and even worse behavior. Through her hexes and unforgivable curses, through every bit of torture that Walburga had subjected Sirius through, it was still his mother.

She would always be his mother.

Disowned or not, abuser or not, the owner of his nightmares, the person he hated most. Nothing could ever erase the fact that for at least the first sixteen years of his life, she had been his mother, and in a way, in a deeply hurtful, and grief-ridden way, she would always be. 

So he cried. For the mother he had until age ten, for the mother he had been subjected to until sixteen, for the mother he never had in the first place. 

It didn’t matter how many times Sirius told himself to not cry over her, it didn’t matter that he truly hated her. It didn’t matter he once had half a mind to kill her himself. He realized that he’d never get the good relationship he had always secretly wanted. As long as she was alive, even though Sirius would rather die himself than admit it, the stupidest goddamn part of him was still holding on to that chance. 

He had never realized he was still clutching onto that.

Until the chance got ripped away.

So you sat, with his face buried in your stomach as he kneeled in front of his bed, in front of you. Sobbing. His arms around your torso and clutching at the material of your jumper with white-hot fists. 

You didn't know what else to do besides hug him back, trying not to cry. Your hands pet his hair, strong and steady, because you knew that was what he needed the most right now. 

Your reliability, your care, your unconditional love for him. 

And you did, love him that is. 

From the bottom of your heart, you loved Sirius Orion Black.

Even if you hadn’t talked in weeks, even if you felt like a ghost in the house, even if you had been planning your move out no less than thirty minutes ago in a fit of anxious desperation.

“I’m sorry Sirius” you didn’t think he heard you over his earth-shattering sobs, but he shook his head slightly, almost as if wanting to say no, don’t be. “I am sorry, I know she was horrid-”

“I hate her-” his words were hoarse and raw, he didn’t look up. “I still hate her, I need her to wake up so I can tell her- god I can’t tell her-” You could feel his words reverberating through his throat, 

“I hate her so much, I hoped she’d die in some- in some disgusting gruesome death, I just-” he took a deep breath, his breath ragged and shaky “I hoped it would be something ironic and karmic like getting hit by a muggle bus but that goddamn bitch had the audacity to go in peace- in her sleep no less merlin- I- I- just keep hoping that I’m dreaming and that she’s… there and rotting alive in that awful house” 

“I’m sorry-”

His voice was calmer now, still buried in your sweater, still embracing you. “I hate her and I am glad she’s dead, she doesn’t deserve to be alive and well after everything she put me and my brother through- but the stupidest part of me- is still mourning”

He loosened his hold on you, and he slumped between your legs, his face now only half-buried in your torso. You could see the red splotches that had bloomed on his porcelain skin.

“I don't know what I feel any more love, I feel out of control”

“I know”

“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you”

“I’m sorry too-”

“Please don’t leave me… don’t leave me alone”

“I don’t think I could leave even if I wanted to Sirius- not that I do… don’t worry-” Your fingers carded through his hair “I will always be here”

“I’m sorry-”

“You don’t have to apologize- we can talk about that later… do you want to go for a walk?”

He lifted his head up slightly, enough to steal glances of your face as he wiped his face with his fingers. 

“Can we just watch Pobol y cwm-” his voice was low and gloomy, it broke your heart.

“Yeah, we can watch Pobol…” You tried smiling at him, it was a sad one, but he mirrored it nonetheless. It was hard not to get emotional while seeing him this way. 

Shattered and somber. 

Irrevocably burdened with the knowledge that while yes he mourned his mother, just some idolized version of her he buried deep within the confines of his mind— he would never get justice either. 

Sirius Black was relieved, he realized, as he laid his head on your shoulder and watched the advertisements on TV. His abuser was dead, it was more than he could ask for. Yes, he’d have to talk to you eventually, tell you how he feels, even simply explain why he got so upset. He’d have to write to his brother and not repeat the cycle of anger that was embedded deep within their veins. He’d eventually have to face his father. He’d have to face the fact that he, did indeed, have grief over the death of Walburga. 

But all of that could wait for tonight, he had you right now. 

With your arm around him, tucking his much larger form into your side, with his legs over your thighs and Pobol y cwm playing in the back. The soft of your sweater, and the sweet soft scent of your hair, the warmth from your hand drawing circles on his back. It was all that mattered right now.

It was just you and Pobol y cwm.

taglist ; @thatlittlered @giuli-in-earth

let me know if you wanna be added ! or if i missed you

[neil-gaiman]

Dear Mr. Gaiman,

This isn’t a question, but it is a thank you. I carry a lot of existential dread and anxiety about my future--and as a result I have a constant undercurrent of terror about dying. (Sometimes I’ll be so convinced I’m going to die that day that I do some very silly things.) I don’t know when I’m going to die, how I’ll die, how it’ll feel, what’ll happen after…etc etc. And the uncertainty over It All is like a giant terrible wave of Sick Feelings and Hopelessness and Rawrgh Insert More Bad Adjectives Here. 

That’s not my point, my point is: Sandman—The Sound of Her Wings. Watching the characters come to terms with their death is fascinatingly emotional. I felt a sting of the age-old existential crisis, and gosh, seeing some of the panic and grief was heavy. But besides it all, I really wanted to know more about Death. She seemed like a very cool entity, I’d want to talk to her for hours about everything. 

I felt a little sad, sitting there and thinking that that won’t happen when I die, but then I realize, wait, the best part about believing in nebulous concepts such as life after death is that I can believe whatever I want to. I don’t think Kirby Howell-Baptiste is actually going to lead me into the afterlife, but I can think that when I die, Death will meet me and be as kind and understanding as your portrayal of her. It makes me feel a little bit better about the whole ordeal if I can talk to someone comforting at the end.

So yes, thank you for such beautiful writing and for making me feel a little less ill and uncertain. You have a very good day/night, and I’m hoping this strike will yield a satisfactory ending soon enough.

Thank you. So do I.

[steviewashere]

Make a Home Out of Hurt

Rating: General CW: Death of a Grandparent, Mourning Tags: Post-Season 4, Post Canon, Grief/Mourning, Established Relationship, Alternate Universe — Future Fic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Sad Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Steve Harrington Mom is Okay, Steve Harrington's Dad is an Asshole, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Moving in Together

Had an evil little thought. Also, all these Fenton bunnies I mention are real! My nana collects Fenton. (She's alive, don't worry, but I thought about her the other day and it spiraled into this.)

🏡—————🏡 We’ve already seen this neighborhood, Eddie thinks, but won’t say.

Even though they have. They’ve driven by the same three houses. Yellow, pastel pink, and navy blue. White door, white door, brown door. Bushes and bushes and a bushel of red roses. One garage, no garage, no garage but large driveway. He’s seen them. Over and over and over.

And each time they pass the last one, the leather of the steering wheel squeaks. And each time, Steve makes a muffled sort of noise. And each time, Eddie wonders if resting his hand on Steve’s shaking shoulders would anger him or mellow him. And each time, the car gets just a little slower as Steve loses his control more and more.

We’ve already seen this neighborhood, Eddie continues to think, but knows he’ll sit here with those words. He’ll sit in the passenger seat. Window cranked as far down as it’ll go—half-way since Dustin busted the actual mechanism. Beemer’s been through a lot, so it’ll be here for Steve’s end all breakdown, too. With the radio volume low, playing the same double-sided tape on repeat, flipped by Eddie because Steve’s hands have been shaking: The World We Knew by Frank Sinatra. Because it was her favorite. Nana’s favorite. Nana Harrington’s favorite.

On the fifth drive through, Steve finally parks the car. At the end of the long, slow winding driveway. He looks out the windshield, hollowed and not quite here. With limp hands in his lap. Messy, greasy hair he couldn’t bother to style. Eye bags so heavy, Eddie barely believes he can hold them on his face.

Eddie can follow his line of sight. To the edge of the white picket fence, worn down a little with age, scratched up from the curled nails of an old brown dog, carved with her son and daughter-in-law’s initials, and eventually stained with yellow handprints from baby Steve. Yellow because, as Steve has echoed, “Lello, Nana. Lello like your dress. Your favorite!” Well, Steve’s favorite too, he just won’t acknowledge it’s because of his nana. Eddie knows that the paint has faded a bit since then, given that it’s been fifteen years since Steve’s had hands that small, but Eddie can see him. In his little white and red striped t-shirt, hidden by a pair of nicely pressed denim overalls, white sneakers, and his mom’s bobby pins in his hair—something she did because it just wouldn’t stop growing so fast and thick. Or so Eddie’s been told.

He’s been told a lot in the last week. Since the call came through the landline of their apartment. Since Steve had gone silent and collapsed to his knees and wailed, screamed even. Since he dressed himself in a suit that fit well, but looked out of place on his curled in body. Since…since the obituary was finally in his hands at the funeral, and he got so sick in the church’s restroom, Eddie had to drive them home in a daze—a quarter worried, a quarter tired, and half hanging by a thread. He thinks he’s heard everything, but what is love if not more than everything? If not all the words in every language, all known objects and unknown, every species and race and sexuality and identities combined?

He’ll hear everything. Until their old and grey and forgetting everything.

“There used to be a tire swing on that tree,” Steve states flatly, pointing at the weeping oak in his nana’s front yard. It’s crooked like it’s been kissed by the wind. A lot withering because the weather’s been harsh on her. Grey against the navy blue of the house’s siding.

I know, sweetheart, Eddie wants to say, so soft it gets lost between them. Instead, “Yeah? Bet it was a good tire, too,” he coaxes, still soft, all sweet. Even if he’s heard it each time they’ve passed by.

Steve nods once in his peripheral. Sniffs. “Yeah,” he states wetly, “one of the expensive ones. She didn’t want it to pop under me. Didn’t…She didn’t want me to stop using it.” His head dips down, looking at his fingers, where they’ve begun to absently trace the seams of his jeans. “I stopped,” he whispers shamefully. “You think she got mad because I stopped?”

“No, baby,” Eddie answers honestly. “I think that she was happy you used it at all. Think she was always just happy to see you, Steve.”

A sharp intake of breath next to him. “I used to come over here when my parents were gone. Or when they’d scream at each other. Or when…when they’d forget I existed,” he relays, quiet as a mouse. “When they’d forget, Nana would open the door and kiss my cheek and make me something to eat. I was always too skinny. So she made me casseroles,” he explains, a wisp of a smile. Gone in the blink of an eye. “She’ll never make ‘em again, though. She won’t—”

“Steve,” Eddie calls gently, a small warning. A siren before the tsunami. 

“—Love me again,” Steve sobs, “Nana won’t love me again.”

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. Eddie steps out of the car, rounds over to the driver’s side, and yanks the door open. Carefully, he unbuckles Steve, scoots him so that his legs dangle over the side, and pulls him down into a gentle hug. “Baby,” he coos. “Just get it out, honey. I’m right here. We’re right here. I’ve got you.”

And Steve cries. Again; though Eddie’s lost count. He squirms against Eddie’s chest. Head nestled to his neck. Crying big sounds that sound too large, even for his adult body. Sounds that carry boats, that poison with oil spills, that home orcas. He slobbers onto Eddie’s skin, grand globs of hot spit that gargle in his throat before launching from his mouth. His unshaved stubble scratching at the side of Eddie’s face—where his skin is sensitive and smooth and will most definitely be raw with Steve’s aching.

He sobs until there’s no more tears. Until he’s a whimpering, shivering mess on Eddie’s chest. Bunched up and small and fisting Eddie’s t-shirt like a lifeline. Squeezing the fabric in his hands like two lemons.

Eddie runs his hands up and down Steve’s spine. From the small of his back to his hunched shoulders, squishing him. He sways them ever so gently like the rustle of the old oak tree. Hums something incoherent and unrecognizable. If only to get Steve to stop shaking.

“Eds?”

“Hm?”

He takes a long, slow breath. Breathes out, “Why’d she give me the house?”

Eddie pulls them apart. One hand on the middle of Steve’s back, the other cupping his left cheek. Swiping at the tacky tracks from his tears. “I’m not sure, baby. Maybe she loved you so much that she wanted you to have it? To always be safe there?”

“Shouldn’t she have given it to my dad? I don’t…” Steve’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, his mouth frowning. “I don’t deserve her house?”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie sighs. “She chose you for a reason. You, Stevie. Not anybody else. Just you. If she wanted to give it to her son, she would’ve. But she didn’t. She thought of you, put you in the will, and now it’s yours.” When Steve doesn’t respond, Eddie gives him his moment of silence. Running his palm up to Steve’s shoulders. Pressing his thumb into his supple skin. “You may never know her intent, but she probably had a reason. It was a home you came running to, where you felt safest, where you felt…loved. Grandmothers always have this air to them, like they just know things about you before you say ‘em. Maybe she just knew you needed her and her space before you even realized.”

Steve sniffles. His eyes are still wet. Bloodshot and tired. Rumpled all the way around, exhausted and quiet. “She used to play with me in the yard.”

I know, Eddie thinks once more. He goes with the topic change though, if that’s what Steve needs.

“And when we played hide and seek, she always made sure to look until I was found. Because she didn’t want me to feel forgotten, her words.” Steve’s fingers are fidgeting with one another again. Picking at his fingernails, peeling at hangnails. Eddie moves down and takes them, rubbing soothing circles into their backs, just so Steve doesn’t harm himself on top of everything. Steve continues, hushed, “When I’d stay the night, she would sleep with me. Hold me close to her. Scratch my back and scalp and tell me stories…all the way until I fell asleep.”

“Kinda like I do, huh?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Think that’s why I feel so loved and safe with you.”

And Eddie hasn’t cried, not really, not yet. But this may be it. Because he knows, beyond everything, that Nana was special to Steve—so special that just one negative comment, one complaint, one little fuss about her was enough to get you shunned by him. He’s seen it play out with Dustin, he’d been banned from coming over for two weeks. And with El, who didn’t understand quite yet, but had lost conversational abilities with Steve for two whole days—ergo, the Silent Treatment.

This means something. It means everything. Eddie kind of wants to cry about it.

But he reigns himself in for now. Because Steve needs him like water. For somebody to just be there and be present and be patient. Through it all.

“You wanna head inside,” Eddie offers, “I’ve got the key in my pocket.” He gestures loosely to the inside of his vest, the safest pocket near his heart. When Steve nods, Eddie leads them inside silently. Opens the door first, per request made by Steve days prior. Sets his shoes by the front door—not told to, but just out of respect. Hangs up his jacket, his vest. Takes Steve’s jacket, too. Unties his Nike sneakers. Smacks a quick kiss to his cheek. And then he waits by the front door for Steve to say or do something.

The first thing he does is gasp. Eyes roaming the hallway, the living room, and the fireplace that connects the kitchen and living space together. He takes a few tentative steps before stopping in front of a tall, full China cabinet.

“Her Fenton bunnies,” Steve breathes.

Eddie slowly approaches behind him. Wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him into his side a little. “Are these the ones your mom was talking about on the phone?”

“Yeah. I just…Didn’t think my mom was telling the truth,” Steve murmurs. “She told me Dad didn’t want these. Takes up room or whatever. But they’re so pretty here, how could you not want these?” His left hand reaches for the knob of the cabinet. Twisting it gently as to not rattle the glass shelves. With the doors swung open, the bunnies under the cabinet’s lighting are free to touch. And so Steve picks one up, carefully in his hands like it’s alive. Maybe it is, Eddie thinks for a moment, alive with her spirit.

He breathes silently by Steve as he investigates the glass item in his hand. Running his thumbs over the ears. Down the smooth back.

“Satin glass,” Steve states, “It’s like touching the fabric, which is so weird. Nana used to talk about it all the time, but I never believed her. She never let me touch. You wanna?” He holds the bunny up to Eddie’s face. In offering, for him to pet. So he runs a slow thumb down its back. And sure enough, soft as silk, cold to the touch. “All of them are here.” He replaces the silk, purple bunny on the shelf. Picking up a chromatic shifting one next. “Carnival glass,” Steve explains, “it’s heavier than the other one, feels like. But so shiny. Think Nana used to say it was amethyst or something, but that might be what the color shift is called?”

“You sure listened to her well,” Eddie murmurs, “know a lot about this.”

Steve chuckles, a little choked to Eddie’s ears but he makes no comment. “Yeah, I guess I did. Mom used to say that I had selective hearing. That I listened when it was something I cared about.”

“And you cared a lot about Nana,” Eddie concludes.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, “cared a lot about Nana.” He sets the carnival glass bunny back on the shelf. Standing idle in front of it all, taking it all in. “She has one upstairs, in a different glass cabinet. It glows green under the special blacklight upstairs. Said it was radioactive.” He chuckles again. “I gave her that one. As a gift for Mother’s Day in…I think ’77? Mom helped me pick it out—she was nice about the bunnies, about finding this stuff. She loved Nana, too. And she…” He laughs low in his chest and Eddie blossoms a little at the sound, unheard in so long. “Mom would pull out the long box of tissue paper and gift bags from the crawlspace. She’d unfold the prettiest gift bag—this one was a little brown one, covered in peach colored peonies. Stuffed some off-white tissue paper in that one. Wrapped the little yellow—well, it was supposed to be yellow—Fenton bunny in bubble wrap, covered it up with a bunch of caramels. Gave it to Nana, and she squealed! Apparently, she already knew it was radioactive? Thought it was the best gift ever. Which, ouch Nana, I gave you other bunnies for Mother’s Day, c’mon.”

Eddie snorts. “Maybe that’s what earned you the house? That radioactive bunny was probably the key to her heart,” he jokes. Though his stomach turns at the possibility it wasn’t appropriate to make.

Steve laughs loudly, though. Shaking his entire body with it. He slips his hand into Eddie’s back right pocket, sighs, and leans against him relaxed. “Dad should’a tried harder if he wanted Nana’s heart,” he comments, “all it took was a damn bunny.”

“Among other things, I’m sure.”

“Probably,” Steve sighs. “I think she was just excited to have a grandkid. She had a weird relationship with my dad. They didn’t get along very well. So maybe she was sorta…trying again?”

“Stevie, I think she just loved you. There doesn’t have to be some grand, deep meaning behind it. I think she just loved your company. How your laugh fills a room and your smile is seen from across the yard. And how you’re always polite, despite having reasons to not be. Maybe because of your terrible puns and how awful you are at quoting Shakespeare? You charm everybody, Steve,” Eddie monologues. “There’s not a reason to not love you.”

For a moment, the room falls completely silent. Distantly, there’s the slow tick of a wall clock. A few birds singing out in the backyard, where the bird bath probably is—only known through Steve’s memories. A slight hum from the radiator. The cars passing by on the main road just around the corner. Hawkins is quiet when there’s mourning; maybe it’s felt through the whole town, through the soles of Steve’s socked feet, from the beating of his ever love absorbent heart.

She died November 7th, 1993. Just a few days ago. Maybe it’s the anniversary of Will Byers going missing that Hawkins is feeling. Maybe it’s just tragedy. It’s love persevering—even in the most dire of situations. Where Joyce Byers was screaming about where her son may be, all those mismatched theories, and the ways in which the town thought she was crazy—even when they believed her and cried over her son’s body being pulled from the water. Where Will is actually thriving now. Where Sandra Harrington no longer is, though she was a fixture in several communities and families, Steve’s own being included.

“How’s your boy doing?” Wayne asked the day after her funeral. Eddie had shrugged, admitting he wasn’t sure because Steve had gone terribly quiet and sick. “Tell him I’m sorry. That he has a home with us. That he can come over and cry and I’ll make him hot cocoa. Alright, Ed?”

God, even Wayne knew. And there was silence after his condolences.

There is so much silence.

Until, finally, Steve asks, “Will you live with me here?”

“Wh—What?” Because surely he didn’t hear that right.

“Live with me here,” Steve repeats, a little more urgent. “I don’t think I can handle this place alone. And…I know how to use her gas stove. I can make you the spaghetti dish she used to make. And the casseroles she used to bake. We can open up her recipe box and I’ll teach you how to make her apple pie—the one she gave me for your birthday two years ago?

“And we can read your Lord of The Rings books on the porch on the bench she has out there? Grill in the backyard when we have everybody over. Robin can have the room that used to be my nursery. We can…We can live our lives here.”

Stunned, Eddie gapes momentarily. Before gripping harder at Steve’s waist, drawing him closer even when there’s no more room. Two solid bodies connected from shoulder to foot. “Are you sure, Steve? You don’t wanna—“

“You’re my family, Eds. I have loved you since that bullshit in ’86. We have seen each other through our absolute worst. Of course I’m sure. Of course I want you here,” Steve swears. “I know what I’m getting into. Even if it hurts to look around here right now. But you’ve been here by me through one of the worst heartbreaks I’ve ever experienced. I want you here—preferably always.”

“Stevie,” Eddie breathes. He reaches out with his free hand and cups the right side of Steve’s face. Swipes over his glistening cheekbone. Under his shadow beaten eye. The tickling brush of Steve’s bottom eyelashes on the tip of his thumb. And he kisses him tenderly, with every word he could ever imagine to say, all emotion he could ever feel, with an intensity seen in atomic bombs. He pulls back to see Steve’s eyes closed. Flushed and bright in the cabinet’s full white lighting, doors still open, and fragile glass bunnies as witnesses. Promises, “I want to, Steve. I want to be here with you. Through it. All of it. As long as I get to love you.”

And on his thumb there are fresh tears, gone cold but skin scalding. Steve’s lips trembling with silent cries. His eyelashes fluttering. Him and him and him. Beautiful and raw and open. Gentle like flowers and strong like wind. Aching and romantic and with a heart the size of the universe itself. Because Steve Harrington is everything—

Or so his nana has said. But Steve doesn’t know. And that’s Eddie’s own secret.

“Okay,” Steve mutters, “make a home with me, Ed.”

🏡—————🏡

[satorusugurugurl]

Til’ the Day that I Die (Chapter Four)

Summary: You’re a popstar in need of a bodyguard when you find yourself with a stalker. That’s how you meet Fushiguro Toji, you’re insanely hot bodyguard. Who knows how to push your buttons, and get you feeling flustered. Just how far is he willing to go to protect you? And how far would you go to protect him?

Pairing: Fushiguro Toji x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: mentions of death, grief, language, anxiety, stalking, some slight fluff

Word Count: 3.2K

A/N: fun fact—this was supposed to be five parts, its gonna be a bit long because this has taken a life of its own 😅💚

Part One Part Two Part Three

“Oh—” You whispered, stepping forward closer to the shrine. Incense was burning in front of a picture of a beautiful woman with black hair. A small mochi and vase with wildflowers sat beside her photo. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

”Thank you—”

Toji exhaled through his nose, ruffling the top of Megumi’s head as you approached the shrine, kneeling before it, closing your eyes as you bowed your head. Seeing you move so fast, dropping before his late wife's shrine, left Toji feeling both appreciative and sick to his stomach at the same time. Maybe part of It was because he still missed his sweet wife, or perhaps it was because he’s been so wrong about you.

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home, Mrs. Fushiguro.”

The sincerity behind your words felt like a knife in his stomach. Yeah, he had definitely misjudged you. He wished he could take back what he had told you earlier this night. But time didn't work like that. Toji assumed you were a spoiled rotten brat and blatantly said that to your face. There was no taking back those shitty assumptions.

But what he could do was make up for what he had said.

“She would have loved to have you. Wouldn't she squirt?” He asked, ruffling Megumi’s hair.

You glanced over your shoulder, watching Megumi grip his father's pants, nodding his head. A slight flush dusted his cheeks as you smiled sympathetically at him. It must have been hard losing his mother at such a young age; you couldn't even imagine what that must have been like. But Toji, you were in actual awe of him.

Not only did he work for a well-renowned security company, but he was also a single father. Balancing work, raising a child, and caring for a house must be hard as hell. A sudden respect for the mountain of the man blossomed in your chest as he stared at his son, lovingly stroking his hair back.

”I should probably get him to bed, then we can get you settled in, okay?”

You nodded in agreement, watching as he placed his hand on Megumi’s head, turning him to head down a hall. “Goodnight, Miss.” The little tyke said, waving at you, which had your heart squeezing in your chest as you waved back.

When they disappeared into a room, you pushed yourself off the ground, looking around the living; despite being a bit dusty, it was surprisingly well organized. You admired the different photos on bookcases, from Toji and Megumi to pictures of his late wife. As you looked at each photo, you grounded yourself, swallowing at a sadness lumping in your throat. In each photo of his wife, Megumi was a baby. There were no photos of her with him as a toddler or a child, meaning she probably passed before she could watch him grow. That sadness tugged at your heart, making breathing almost hard as you felt nothing but empathy for the family who’d so selflessly taken you in.

“She’s staying for a while?” Megumi asked softly as Toji lifted the sheets for him.

“Yep, you good with that kiddo? If you're not, I could call Shiu.”

“I don't mind—” Toji cocked a dark brow watching Megumi grab his white wolf plushie hugging it. “She’s pretty.”

Those words nearly sent Toji reeling back as he gawked at his son. “Pretty?” Megumi nodded, pursing his lips together as he shot his father a quick, curious glance. Thanks to Toji’s profession, he was a professional at reading people, and that talent extended to his son. “Yeah, she is. But Megumi, this is strictly professional, you know that, right?” When his son just stared at him, he signed. “There’s nothing between us, and I assure you there won't be.” The dismissive tone of Toji’s words left Megumi blinking.

“Why?”

“Because it’s unprofessional. It's my job to protect her.”

He pulled the sheets up to Megumi’s chin, tucking him in. “You know you don't have to worry about me.” Megumi rubbed his face into the plushie fur. “I wouldn't mind you seeing her.” Toji rolled his eyes, pushing Megumi’s bangs off his forehead and pressing a kiss there.

“She’s a client, kid.”

“So?”

How was it possible for a kid to be this intrusive? “Okay, that’s enough questions, go to sleep.” The floorboards creaked under Toji’s weight as he headed for the hall. “Night Megumi.”

“Night, Dad.”

Shutting the door to his son’s room, Toji was left alone in the hall's silence with his thoughts. He knew there would be a day when Megumi would ask him about his dating life. He was sure how he would react, whether he didn't like the idea or was indifferent. But this was a reaction he hadn't been expecting. For Megumi to basically give Toji his blessing to date you was literally unfathomable. And he had said it with such a straight face!

Megumi didn't know you; he'd barely met you, hardly said less than twenty words to you, and was giving His father permission. Your presence had that much of an impact on him? The same woman he had deemed a spoiled brat had won his son over merely by smiling and being kind.

He'd have to make sure Megumi knew you weren't staying forever. This arrangement was a temporary deal. One designed to keep you safe and out of harm's way.

As he headed into the living room, rubbing the back of his neck, thinking of how he could word it, he saw you standing in front of the bookcases, staring at the photos that lined the shelves. He'd been expecting to see an unreadable, almost bored face as you waited for him. What he was met with had him frozen in his spot.

Tears, literal tears welled in your eyes. You were crying while looking at pictures of his wife. The woman who’s impacted him in so many ways. Who had blessed him with a son who was so much like her? The same woman he had mourned for the last five years. Seeing you like that only made Toji regret his earlier words even more. With a sigh, Toji cleared his throat as he entered the living room, stomping his feet a little too loud to give you time to wipe the stray tears off your face.

“Sorry about the wait.”

“Oh, you’re fine; I’m the one imposing on your family.”

Toji wanted to argue and tell you to shut up, but he let it go. You weren’t a burden. He was happy to help you because it was the right thing to do.

So, instead of yelling or starting another argument, Toji stepped forward, ruffling the top of your head. “Come on, I’ll give ya’ a tour.” The apartment was lovely, with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, and a balcony overlooking the city. It was a pleasant, quiet home perfect for the two of them. It was also the place that you would call home for an indefinite future. “It’s a little cramped, but it’s still home.”

You both made your way back out to the living room. Where you were fiddling with your thumbs and anxiously looking around. Toji was watching you closely as he had been doing the entire night. You have been through so much in the last few hours he didn’t wanna push you further than you had been so far. Right now, the best thing he could do was get in bed and sleep this terrible night off.

He cleared his throat around the living room before moving the cushions off the couch. Upon seeing him moving, you jumped to help him take the cushions from him and place them off to the side—something his previous clients wouldn’t be caught dead. Then again, you weren’t like his other clients. The more time he spent with you, the more evident that became.

“You realize you don’t have to help me do this right.”

“What kind of house would I be if I didn’t help?”

Toji shook his head as he moved the coffee table to the side. “Ya’ know, I think you’re the only houseguest that has ever done this with me.” you shook your head this time, giving him an almost smug smile.

“Well, I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

You laughed, and God, it was sweet and light as air. A sound that ceased all of Toji’s movements as he looked up at you. After everything you had gone through tonight, you were still able to laugh and smile. And it wasn’t that fake laugh for the smile he watched you put on when you were at the stadium. You'd been through hell and back this evening, but you were grinning despite everything that you had gone through. Knowing that someone had gotten into your home, you were staying in a stranger's house, yet you were laughing a carefree giggle. For you to still be able to smile like everything was fine when he knew it took resilience and guts.

You hummed, rubbing at the back of your neck. Unaware of the watchful gaze that Toji was shooting in your direction. “I bet you have a lot of interesting stories to tell.” Your words pull him out of the stupor he found himself in while staring at your delicate features and pretty face.

“Uhm, yeah, yeah, I do have a lot of stories I could tell. But let’s put a pin in that; you had a long day. You need to get some rest.” Toji stretched his arms above his head before stretching the arms across his chest. “If you give me a few minutes, I can change the sheets on my bed, and you can shower.”

“Your bed?”

Toji blinked, looking away before looking back and meeting your confused gaze. “Yeah, I’m taking the couch; you can stay in my bed.” From the way you crossed your arms and fed your brows, Toji knew you didn’t approve of this idea.

“I’m not the type to kick you out of your bed because I’m staying with you. I am perfectly capable of sleeping on a pull-out bed.”

“No one said you weren’t, Doll Face.” The mere annoyance etched into his voice didn't faze you in the slightest. “Anyways, I'm sleeping here. So I'm going to go change my sheets, get you a towel, and then you can rest.”

“Just grab me a towel; I really don't mind sleeping out here.”

A vein in Toji’s forehead throbbed as he slowly turned to glare down at you, putting on the fakest smile he could muster. “You’re a brat, you know that? I'm trying to be nice and offer you my bed so you can get a good night’s sleep.” Navy eyes watched as you shrugged, fucking shrugged at his words.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but I would prefer you to be on your A-Game tomorrow. You are my bodyguard, after all. If anyone should get a good night's sleep, it should be you.”

With pure satisfaction, you watched Toji open his mouth to argue before slowly closing it. A cocky smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as your tall; muscular bodyguard couldn't bring himself to argue or disagree with you. Seeing that expression on your face, Toji’s eyes were twitching; maybe you were a brat.

“Ooh, you sure Miss Pop-Princess won’t mind sleeping on the couch? I wouldn't want it ruining your back~”

Instead of snapping or giving him attitude, Toji watched as you slowly tilted your head to the side. “You do realize I have slept on my fair share of couches before I was famous and after the fact.” Toji blinked, watching you run your hands over the mattress. “When I was staying with my friends, I slept on their sofa, and they didn't even have a pull-out mattress, so this is a step up.” Damn, you were just—normal.

“Fuck, you aren't like other clients I've had in the past.”

“Is that a good thing?”

You watched as Toji’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Eh, I don't know yet.” You glared at him, but your glare was cut short as he threw a pillow at your face. “Relax, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. You're just different. But sometimes different is good.”

Sometimes different was good?

Toji’s words had you tossing and turning on the pull-out bed. You sighed, staring at the ceiling as you tossed and turned, and his words echoed in your mind. After everything that had happened to you in the last few hours, you weren't sure if you agreed with him.

In fact, ever since you had gone viral, things have been incredibly different for you. And you weren't sure if it was a good thing. Your fame had its perks, of course. You made good money, more than enough to give back to the community and help those who couldn't help themselves. But, the downsides were turning out to be—worse than you ever imagined.

Your anxiety was at an all-time high; you had a stalker who had been watching you for god knows how long, and you were staying with your bodyguard, whom you knew practically nothing about. Well, that last part wasn't as bad as the other two drastic changes you were experiencing. Did that fact make it any less nerve-wracking and anxiety-inducing? No, it didn't.

Those thoughts plagued your mind all night; from the time Toji left you to shower until then, the blue velvet sky outside began turning a light shade of orange with the promise of morning. There was no way you were going to be able to sleep. You had come to terms with that fact before you even stepped foot into Toji's apartment building. The anxiety had dug its claws into you. Its talons seep into your skin like a poison meant to keep you up for all night hours.

Hopefully, this won't be a permanent change in your life.

The orange hue shifted to a lilac shade with pink clouds. At that point, you had given up on sleeping altogether, opting to sit on the fold-out bed and stare at the different shapes forming in the clouds. Just as you watched a rabbit shift into an elephant, a soft creaking sound pulled your attention away from the window.

Megumi wandered out of his room, rubbing his eyes as he looked around. Navy blue eyes met yours, and he stared at you for a second before continuing his way into the living room. He was silent as he plopped down on the end of the mattress, looking at the black screen of the television.

“You wanna watch television?” You questioned in a soft, almost motherly tone.

“No, I’m okay.” His timid voice melted your heart, but you could tell from how he stole glances at you that he had something to say.

“You sure about that.”

Another silence spread before he turned to look over his shoulder at you. “Yeah.” Little fingers picked at the thick blanket Toji had given you. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you for asking. How about you?”

He shrugged his shoulders, pulling a piece of lint to the blanket. “I slept okay.” Nodding your head, you sighed, looking out at the sky.

“Well, from the sounds of it, we both didn't sleep very well, and there's only one cure for a rough night.”

Your words had Megumi’s head snapping in your direction, curiosity gleaming in his big doe-eyed. “There’s a cure?” With a wide bobcat grin, you picked the blankets off yourself.

“Yes, and thankfully, I know the only cure out there. Wanna help me?” Megumi took your hand without hesitation, giving it a squeeze as you both headed beaded into the kitchen. “I can assure you that this cure will be the tastiest cure of them all.”

The smell of bacon pulled Toji out of dreamland. He groaned, running his hands down his face, and sat up, glancing at the clock. It was seven thirty, and Megumi was already up and about, staring at his day, much like his mother used to do. This would come in handy in the future, but for a six-year-old to be up cooking seemed unlikely, so it had to be you. At least Toji hoped it was you.

As tempting as it was to stay in bed and fall back asleep, the soft clattering from the kitchen urged Toji to investigate. Slipping on his grey sweats with a sigh, Toji headed out to the kitchen, where he found his son eating breakfast on one of the barstools. He was seconds away from scolding his son to wake him up the next time he was hungry when he heard the soft singing resonating from the stove.

There he saw you. You were swaying your hips to music softly playing on your phone. You were completely oblivious to him watching you as you flipped a pancake over in the frying pan you used. Normally, he'd be slightly irritated if someone he didn't know was using his kitchen and groceries without asking.

But you looked so pretty, mindlessly singing as you cooked breakfast. Not only his son, but for him too from the second plate sitting off to the side, and the third you were plating must be for you. It had been so long since Toji’s kitchen was filled with warmth, singing, and life. It was so strange, different.

But then again, different was sometimes good.

It was so good that Toji crept over to stand behind you, watching you flip the pancake to cook it perfectly. You still were unaware of his presence, which was slightly concerning, seeing that you were being stalked by a crazed maniac right now. That was something you both would have to work on in the future. For now, Toji was going to have a bit of fun.

He leaned as close as he could to your ear before chuckling. “I didn't know the Pop-Princess could cook.” When it came to startling you, Toji had expected a few things to happen. You’d likely react with a fight-or-flight. He imagined you trying to take a swing at him, which he could easily avoid. It made sense; you'd be on high alert, ready to fight for your life if needed.

Instead, a warm pancake smacked him in the face. He just stood there as the pancake slowly slid down his face, revealing your startled face and staring up at him in fear. Out of everything you could have used to your advantage, you threw a pancake at him. A flat, soft, warm breakfast treat had been the only line of defense you'd choose to use—when you were holding a frying pan. As the pancake fell to the floor with a soft thump, you and Toju stared into each other's eyes.

Toji had his work cut out for him.

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[travelerpoetry]

Of Atlantean descent Maddie Fenton

I've been thinking about a few things specifically Maddie being of Atlantean descent the line she comes from was minor royalty that specialises specifically in protection (Family, People, Land etc.)

Her great-great-great-grandfather was estranged from his family due to falling in love with a human woman who showed such passion in wanting to help get rid of pollution and help sea and on-land wildlife that were seriously hurt by man-made machines recover and be released into the wild once more and after a whirlwind romance with adventure and soft touches years later they had a child and they couldn't be happier.

But due to a complicated family matter her great- great-great-grandfather's Father called him back home to Atlantis, her great-great-great-grandfather did not expand on the issue any further. He claimed in one of the old letters Maddie found that he'd be back soon and not to worry about him

But in his absence, her great-great-great-grandmother fell sick with a deathly Illness that killed her before her great-great-great-grandfather could return and it was in fact her Great-great-great-grandmother's neighbour who found her dead and her child (Maddie's great-great-grandfather) in the crib next to her bed crying for his dead mother's attention.

The neighbour of course called the police who in return came with child protective services that placed her great-great-grandfather in a foster Family due to not finding her great-great-grandfather's Father.

Her great-great-great-grandfather came back only to find everything he knew gone his Wife? Nowhere to be found, his Son? Can't be found. Maddie's great-great-great-grandfather stricken with grief over the Family he lost soon died from Heartbreak.

But her great-great-grandfather had kept photos of himself as a baby with his Mother and a Ring.. a Ring that was as he was told placed next to him in the crib he was lying in as he was found that fateful night by his Mother's neighbour.

The Ring became an Heirloom passed from generation to generation. until Maddie finally got her curious little hands on it on her tenth Birthday and Maddie knew.. she knew that there was something special about that Ring that was so beautiful with shells and fish-shaped crystals that were littered across the ring in a pattern and little ten-year-old Maddie was right the artefact as she had realised it wasn't just a ring had helped her breath underwater she had gills! And scales! But sadly no tail... but little Maddie was ecstatic!

and Maddie kept the ring well into her adulthood and as she finally started a Family with the man she loved Jack and furthered her research into the ecto-entities she grew happier, happier than she had ever been happier than when she was in the water free to explore and relax.

Her oldest Jasmine showed no signs of being as drawn to the ocean as she was as a child but Jazz still could hold her breath at a minimum of 17 minutes! Jazz also seemed to not particularly care for the ring though commenting multiple times that she finds the ring to be beautiful .

Her second oldest Danny had been drawn to the Ring, he constantly begged to have it when he was younger until Maddie had given him the ring permanently. Danny loved the ocean and went to visit it a few times a month and after her Son had revealed the fact he had died due to the machine that Maddie and Jack built and that the ocean was the only place he was truly at peace? Well, she and Jack made sure to tell him how much they loved him how he would always be their son no matter what and that they promised to go to the beach more often with the family if he truly felt that much better there.

After She and Jack found out about Dan and Eliie? Well, they welcomed both with a big bear hug courtesy of Jack and his Joy of finally being able to pamper younger children again. Both were apparently de-aged due to them not being very stable in this timeline but Maddie and Jack couldn't careless they were just so happy that there were no more secrets between all of them and that they could finally be a truly Happy family but ofcourse before that She and Jack had forced Vlad into therapy and he's slowly redeeming himself.

Now nothing could surprise the Fenton Family anymore!

That was what they thought before an Atlantean King came knocking on their door claiming that Maddie was related to him.. oh well what is a new Family member to this already chaotic but loving Family?

Sender : The Traveler

Addressed to: You my dear reader

[moonieandi]

snapshots pt. 10 | stanley pines x f!reader 

Summary: pictures paint a thousand words, and it’s time you take some of your own

warnings (TW): swearing, discussions of death, grief, familial-loss 

tags: mutual-pining, character background, familial bonds

notes: HELLO ALL! I am doing much better and settled into my new apartment :) ive had a rather hectic couple of weeks and it may take me a couple more to really transition into my new space and job so there may be some breaths between updates for now!! Does this chapter reflect some of my own experiences? Of course, it does. Was I always gonna write this chapter? YES- this chapter is a reflective/background for our beautiful reader/doc’! The formulative next chapter is BIG BIG BIG (unless i think something is missing in which it will be thrown into said plot between this ch and the next “formed” one) but okay! I missed u all! Apologies for the lack of actual… well STAN in this ch lol

word count: 4.5k 

| masterlist | 

Her childhood home’s walls’ were scattered with differing picture frames. If you were to ask her what she remembers most distinctly about her abandoned corn-field house she would recount the countless pictures her grandmother collected and stretched across every inch of the hallways between closed doorways. She’d recount most distinct the presence of her mother, only ever in picture form, and the bearing weight of her grandmother's ire. 

Not to say the older woman hated her. No, she constantly breathed everlasting love at her. But when she tilted her head in certain lights her grandmother would remember that she was not actually her daughter. She had existed in the shadow of a dead woman for a long time, in that home. Her grandmother didn't have a waning memory though, only a waning heart. Forget herself in between her blame and love for the young child she was to take care of. 

As she grew with age she began to sympathize with her grandmother more and more. To lose a daughter so young, to have to raise the thing that tore her apart. It made her grandmother sick at times, and she didn’t have the heart to fault the woman for open palms and harsh words.

Her grandfather was quite a pillar in her memories though, a lasting good memory of the house and her childhood. He’d come home with dirty hands from fields and fold her into his arms every day, anyway. Some of her favorite memories are shucking corn on the porch with him, the sun cresting over the skyline, and crickets chirping between. She’d talk, and he’d listen. He was a quiet man, a content one, but he also carried a certain grief in his eyes when he’d look at her at times. Something she blamed herself for entirely. 

Reasonably she could compartmentalize that the death of her mother was not her fault, even without a therapist. Her mother was young when she fell pregnant with her, still in high school, had just gotten her driver's license. She knew, could reason, that she held no fault in this. In the entire situation. Besides her looks, she blamed herself plenty for that, she blamed herself for not doing more to distance herself from those picture frames. 

It’s why her grandmother forgot at times, why her grandfather looked most grieved when the sun set just right over the dinner table. She looked remarkably like her mother, a perfect picture replica in just the right shadows, just the right cadences. 

It’s why her grandmother didn’t take down the pictures, truly. Pictures of her mother in her prom dress, of her first and last Christmas under the tree. Of her mother in the backseat of her grandfather's old Buick, of her mother in the golden-crested corn fields just outside their back door. Because there was no point in forgetting because she haunted them every day. Her face was proof enough of that. 

She didn’t have any pictures of her own, any hung up anyways. She had the official ones done, of course, the yearbook photos and the prom pictures her friends’ mother took for them. But that’s where it stopped and ended. It was her own secret grief, but wasn’t comparable to the glint in her grandparents' eyes. So it stayed that, a secret. 

She dreamed of a simpler life at times. That she was her mother. That the pictures were her own, that her (grand)mother kissed her goodnight, and that her (grand)father didn’t hesitate when he hugged her. Dreamt of a life with her very own lover, dreamt of a life filled with children and apple pie and Christmases at her (grand)parents' house. She dreamed about that fantastical American dream, of wrap-around porches and pastures full of fireflies. But this too stayed a secret, until her junior year of high school. 

School came easy to her, and it usually served as a much-needed reprieve from her mirrored hallways. Come five years old she most looked forward to early mornings and car rides with her grandfather. Her caregivers were always drowsy in the morning and forgot themselves in the darkness of early September. Her grandmother would kiss her goodbye, and fold a packed sack lunch into her small hands. Her grandfather would lean in closer, and read blurry newspaper headlines off to her, like she cared to be known and be seen. Soon though, these mornings disappeared, with age. 

From the ages of fourteen to almost eighteen years old she did everything and anything to impress them, to distress them, and to upset them. She wanted them to capture her achievements in scrapbooks, and laugh over misadventures she would get into, much like they did with her mother's memory. She figured that’s how one lived, in shadows and stories. 

She joined every school club, then quickly quit them. She excelled in writing and sciences alike, and then quickly failed them. She earned enough money to buy her first beat-up car, then quickly veered it into the nearest ditch. She snuck off, broke locks on doors and off windows, ran through fields, and came home late with mayhem in her wake. Prayed that the back porch light would be on, that her grandfather would be back there, on the porch, smoking his cigars. That he’d have that awful look on his brow, that he’d look at her different, speak to her like she wasn’t a shadow, carry a cadence in remembering her name in his anger. She hated when he didn’t remember her the most, even if the memory wasn’t a good one. 

For the longest time, her grandfather was her favorite person, even if he stumbled over his words, and misspoke her name at times. It almost didn’t matter as much to her, because he had a predisposition to always apologize, unlike her grandmother. 

She could always count on him being on the back porch, during the fall and summer and spring months. He had a favorite wooden chair, no cushion in site. Most would have called him a rather stiff man. Stiff in his gait, stiff in his politics, and he usually had a stiff drink on him. But he was a warmth that she didn’t wish to forget, she was his only granddaughter, the last line of his family. 

Her grandfather, while quiet, was an amazing listener, and had a plethora of solid advice to usually dish out most nights. But he was only open for certain hours and seasons, only ever when he was outside and only ever when the sun hung low in the sky. 

Most of her actual problems she never had the guts to voice to the stoic man, she mostly spoke of school, of subjects and passing friends and any gossip she could get her hands on. Her grandfather was a nosey man, funnily enough, and enjoyed listening to whatever she could sparse from the school halls that day.                                                                                 

Their topic that night, though, had her grandfather sitting in a longer silence than she was comfortable with, a stiff drink balanced in his left hand. Her grandmother had scolded her during dinner, for not having looked into colleges to attend as of yet. She was in her eleventh year and hadn’t even considered truly attending. She knew a handful of other female students who didn’t even plan to go, she figured she fell into that category also. Figured she’d wind up much like her grandmother was now, doing the dishes while her husband lounged. Something her grandmother claimed she didn’t mind but something she was still having a hard time wrapping her head around. 

Truly she did not know what she wanted to do after graduation. It still felt like she had so much time, but in all honestly that illusion was fading. She knew something for sure though, that she didn’t have a desire to go to college. She wouldn’t even know what for, and she wanted to be close to home. Closer to the shadow she lived in and in suffocating hallways. She didn’t know anything else. 

Perhaps that’s what her grandmother meant, that she didn’t mind, because she had no mind in it at all. She didn’t know anything else, anything other than this house and her husband and the child that had torn her own apart. It wasn’t a comfort it just was. 

She liked routine, despised change, and preferred her adventures in corn and soybean fields. Preferred late nights with friends with windows rolled all the way down in convertible cars, and preferred stiff drinks with her grandfather on the shaded porch. So she would stay. She said as such at the dinner table too, something her grandmother didn’t take too kindly to. Having her (grand)daughter speak back to her. 

She didn’t break the quiet tension between them that night on the porch. She’d love to forget what happened over the dinner table entirely. The heat in her grandmother's eyes, the ire behind her twisted words. That she would leave, would seek better for herself out there in the world. Educate herself and move on from this home, from suffocating walls, and from them. That's what she figured her grandmother really meant, that in some twisted way, she wished to be rid of her. Hated living with a mirror of her daughter around every corner. The old woman could take down sun-stained pictures and be rid of the image of her forever, rest peacefully knowing she’s finally pushed her so far away. Fold what was left of her mother into boxes and ship it all away for once. 

It made her bitter, at the time. She resented the older woman on and off for years. When she was younger she didn’t understand it all, couldn’t quantify her grandmother's grief, tucked herself into corners, and disappeared into nooks of fields and sheds to distance herself from heated looks. At seventeen it had transformed into an equal distaste. Nothing she did seemed to shape up to the image her caregiver had of her, and she grew tired of attempting to evoke even the slightest of positive emotions from the woman now. The only time she was ever at ease is when she forgets who she even truly is. How was she to pretend to be someone she didn’t even know? She couldn’t even compartmentalize the depth of her own self. She was still a little girl in her mind, still six and begging her grandmother to hang their family portrait that she had drawn on the fridge. She didn’t have it in her to beg anymore and didn’t have it in her to even define who she was. 

Looking back at it all, she realized she was never supposed to know. People change all the time, she had changed. It all just depended on who you surrounded yourself with. In that home, in those fields, and on those gravel roads she had no one. No one but a fading grandmother and a tired grandfather, and perhaps it wasn’t even fair to continuously implore that she stay. She wouldn’t be who she is now, wouldn’t recognize herself even now if she hadn’t left. And if her grandfather hadn’t convinced her of such. 

Her grandfather broke that tension between them that night. She remembers distinctly his words that he spoke between them that night. 

“You can live here sure, but could you die here?” He spoke abruptly, nursing his cup along the wooden edge of his chair. 

She scoffed, shaking her head, fixing her eyes to the fields beyond. “Now that’s just dramatic as hell.” 

“I’m being serious.” He sips his drink, humming along the rim of his cup. “You can see yourself living here because you do now, but can you see yourself dying here? Would you be happy to die here?” 

“What are you even talking about? Happy? To die?” She shifts her eyes back to him, his own eyes glassy. 

“Your mother never made it out of here. Never so much as had a life beyond this plot of land. I dreamed of her being free of it one day.” He sighs like it choked his throat and was too heavy on his chest to admit. They didn’t speak of her often, at least not when he was as sober as he was now. “ Happy, out there somewhere.” 

“Was mama not happy, grandpa?” She implores, figuring he may be being the most honest he’s ever been in this moment

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Your mother was the brightest thing in the room. But people grow up, get older, and sometimes those bright things die. I wanted her to get out, explore new bright things, things to push off the dying parts of you.” 

“So you think I should go?” 

“I think one day, when they put people to rest, that the dirt matters. I think you should find new dirt, kiddo.” 

She shakes her head, burying it in her palms. She can feel the pent-up tears, feel the shake of her shoulders before it makes its way from her stomach to her lungs. “I’m scared though, pa’.” 

“Good.” He hums, a comfort to his deep voice. “Humans are scared of things they don’t yet know. Soon, new dirt won’t be so scary.” 

She leaves that discussion on the back porch, and her grandfather does not discuss it again in her presence. He really only needed one conversation to sway her, make her consider. She kept it to herself though, felt too private to consider out loud across dinner tables and porches. She was afraid to admit that it… scared her. The thought of leaving the only thing she’d ever known, leave behind the firefly fields and the four corners of her bedroom. Perhaps she’d even miss the four corners of the picture frames, and the call of her name from the room over. 

Her grandfather's health waned that last year of high school. He soon forgot where simple things were. Forgot where the utensils drawer was in the kitchen, and wondered where the lamp in the corner of the living room was when he turned his back. She learned that memories fade in waves and that there are acts and paragraphs and distances between forgetfulness. That when he’d turn and forget to take his shoes off when he got home from the fields it would evolve into him forgetting where their gravel driveway was. That’d he’d forget numbers and words to describe things. That he’d forget soon, how to spell his name, and how to properly hold a pen. That soon he’d forget how to climb the stairs, and then forget how to put one foot in front of the other. 

Forgetting who people were always seemed to come last because categorically it was the most painful to forget. She suffered through being called by her mother’s name for months, she never had the strength to correct her wilting grandfather. But watching the man forget his own daughter was different, and she grieved differently for her and her own mother that last month of his life. 

After he forgot for good and faded from this plane into the next, it upset her, even more, to watch her grandmother do much of nothing about it. She waited in anticipation, for the rage and denial that came with death. She recounted the stages of them in her head for weeks, but never witnessed her grandmother falter in all that time. It angered her beyond anything she knew up until then. It exploded in her face one day when she came home to her grandmother folding away picture frames into boxes in the living room. 

It took her only a moment to find it was exclusively her grandfather’s pictures she’d plucked bare from the walls. Holes were left empty along the living room, nails protruding from the blank white walls behind the many portraits. How could she fold him away into boxes, remove him from walls and from corners of the house, like he wasn’t still here, in every room they passed through? 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Her grandmother turned, her usual quirk in her brow and downturned look in her eyes. “Language, girl.” 

“No.” She stomped forward, ripping the frame from her caregiver's grasp. “Why the fuck are you putting him away.” 

“Enough.” She scoffed. “I’m not putting him away.” She waves her hands around the living room, to his recliner chair and the lamp he would turn on each night to read his newspaper. Points to his books of sudoku on the coffee table and his empty T.V. dinner tray he’d set his late-night hot coco on. “He’s still here. He’s right here.” 

“No.” She pushed back and away from her grandmother. “Why would you put his portraits away? Why would you take them down?” 

Her grandmother shakes her head, hands on her hips, a weird look of defeat on her face for once. “I won’t be interrogated about my interior design skills.” She moves around her, back through the open doorway into the kitchen light. 

She runs after her, picture gripped in her left hand, her right continuously running over her chest, self-soothing. “No!” 

“Yes!” Came her grandmother's reply from her position bent over the kitchen sink, going back to washing sudsy dishes that she left to soak. 

“Why?” She begged, stepping closer to her grandmother's back. “Why the pictures? Why the fucking pictures, ma’?” 

Her grandmother doesn’t wilt, twisting her head to look back at the girl she had raised, the girl she had raised twice now. “What?” 

“You know what I’m talking about ma’ don’t play dumb!” She never would have ever called her matriarch that in her right mind, but the disrespect felt inconsequential in the visage of her anger. “Why the pictures?” She held up the portrait in her left hand, facing it towards her grandmother. 

Only then did she melt in front of her, suddenly looking younger than she’d ever remembered her grandmother. Eyes teary and hands soaked from the kitchen sink she reached for the frame, holding it in weathered hands, tracing the portrait with slight fingers. 

It struck her, that she could not drum up a memory of her grandmother ever crying in front of her. Her caregiver had always been headstrong, stubborn at her worst, and mellow yet firm at her best. But never a wavered figure. She remembers now, the woman’s age. 

It has her moving forward, has her reaching for her grandmother's shoulders for the first time in forever, shuffling the smaller woman to the dinner table. Pulling the chair out and allowing her grandmother to compose herself while sitting at the unset table. 

It’s her grandmother that breaks that hanging tension, breathing out around her tears and stuffed nose. Chuckling at the image now held in her hands. 

“It rained right after this picture.” She couldn’t stop laughing now, bent over, and holding the image between them. “He took me out for a picnic, set up the stand for the photograph and everything. Then boom, ten minutes later we were caught in a thunderstorm! We were a good mile away from his car.” 

It was unlike her meticulous grandfather to not have checked the weather. Something she questioned out loud to her grandmother. 

She sighed, a tilt of her head that still spoke of her love for the man that haunted them both now. “He was so nervous that day, he forgot to check. He was going to propose that day, he told me later. Had it all planned out, but then forgot to check the weather.” The first thing he’d ever truly forgotten.

They both laughed, staring back at the framed photo of her grandfather and grandmother sprawled out on a checkered picnic blanket. 

She looked back at her grandmother, finding the older woman was already staring back at her. Her frail hand reached out, tucking frazzled hair behind her ear. Moving her hand back over her cheek to her chin, tilted her head up to face the older woman's head on. 

“I’m sorry.” A break in her grandmother's voice. “I kept them up because I thought it best. I thought you would want to know her.” To know her mother. “But it was selfish of me. To keep her up on all these walls.” Her thumb was firm on her chin now, tears leaking down her own face now, too. “I didn’t make any room, for you here.” 

“I’m not her, ma’.” 

She sighs a smile on her face suddenly. “You aren’t my daughter.” Moved her hand back, to cup her cheek again, palm warm against her. “But you are not nothing to me.” 

“I know, ma’.” Her grandmother moved, wiping tears from her cheeks. 

“But you need your own space now.” 

She nods, understanding what her grandmother finally meant. She needed her own walls and space and dirt. She needed to leave, and find her own four corners and hang her own pictures, and she knew her grandmother would help her get there too. 

“Do you want it?” 

“Huh?” She startles, turning her gaze to Stanley beside her. The camera in front of her was brand new, and a stupid turquoise blue. Turquoise like her mother's bike, in that one picture, hung along the wall right before her grandparents' room. Turquoise still, that bike was, rusty around the chains, when she found it stuffed in the back of one of the many sheds on her grandparents' farm one summer when she was but thirteen. Turquoise, which she loved to hate but secretly adored. Perhaps it was her favorite color, her mother's, that is. 

He’s waiting beside her, his arms full of odds and ends he found in the thrift store. Things he would tear apart and resew into new things- weird attractions to entice customers into their homes to pay the bills. 

She laughs, struck by his ridiculous tactic of not grabbing a shopping basket in favor of stuffing his broad arms full of odds and ends. Easier to steal, he claimed, when you don’t have a shopping basket. 

“Nah.” She lies. “Color just reminded me of something.” 

He shrugs, goofily dropping something from his arms. He bends over to pick it up, narrating out loud to get a smile back on her face. Anything but that deep contemplative look on her face and that scrunch in her brow. 

“I’m bending over now. Definitely didn’t just spot something on the bottom shelf that I want… definitely didn’t just get that also.” He stands again, shuffling things around in his arms. “That thing may or may not still be on the bottom shelf.” 

She laughs, taking some things from his arms and heading up. “Come on, you don’t need much else here. Let's get some dinner already.” Already thinking of the order she’d get at Greasy’s. 

They check out without a hitch, mainly because the teen at the register barely looks up from their magazine to take their money. Stan jokes about the potential to have just left the shop with their arms full without having paid a dime.

“They didn’t even look up! We could have just booked it, hun!” 

“No, we couldn’t have!” She laughs. “Plus I don’t wanna get some poor kid fired, Stan.” 

He huffs, pulling her door open, then putting their bags in the back seat of the car. He doesn’t make another comment until he gets to his own side, sighing slightly in the front seat while pulling something out of his inner coat pocket. 

“Now-” 

“Stan don’t tell me you took that dumb salt shaker from the bottom shelf for real.” 

“No, hun.” He laughs, handing over a flash of turquoise. “Just this.” 

She smiles unconsciously, holding the ugly camera in both her hands. Bringing it up to her eye to see out the camera, checking the back of it for the film. She can’t help but tear up, about something as stupid as the potential to finally take her own pictures. Something she forgot about even wanting between everything else. Next, she’d have to get out of the car and roll around this new dirt she found herself on. 

His doc’ was a terrible liar. He knew she wanted that camera as soon as she stopped in front of it. She kept passing it in the store, kept wandering back in front of it, but never reached out for it. Just… stared. He didn’t wanna figure on the significance of her fascination (unless she supplied it readily), only wanted to figure how she’d brighten up the room if she had it. So he took it. 

It was the best thing he’d ever stolen her. Between her snatched spoons and stolen diner crayons, this felt more significant. More purposeful, more solid between them. He knew she wanted it, so he got it for her. It felt significant, and it made her heart ache for the young girl surrounded by all those pictures that acted as twisted mirrors. He didn’t even know, what it meant to her. 

“Thank you, Stanley.” She smiles at him, all bright like he predicted. The edge of a tear along her eye, so he reaches and folds her into his broad shoulder. He grazes his lips along her hairline, humming close to her ear like he knows she enjoyed. Perhaps it was like that thing she did, soothing her hand over her heart and chest. Maybe the warmth of him and the vibration reminded her of four corners and hallways and home. At least he hoped, stupidly. 

He brings her back out, reaching over her and buckling her in as she smiles stupidly at him and then back at the camera back in her lap. 

“To dinner!” He exclaims, turning the cars’ keys to begin their journey to Greasy’s for their yearly anniversary dinner. 

She’d have to get some picture frames, for them.

[yourheart-inmyhands]

Hiya! I'm happy that You enjoyed my idea! And I realy liked how you wrote it! Especialy the Furina part :D

I'm not sure if you are okay with writing this, but if you are: Which of the Genshin characters would handled their lovers death the worst?

- 🐶 anon

oooo this one was really good! i couldn't pick just one so i did five little short ones! I hope you enjoy :D

Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including lots of talk about death, delusional behavior, childish temper tantrums, making puppets of reader, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

Yandere!Furina would throw an absolute fit, upset at the idea of you dying on her, of you leaving her. She has to be pulled away from your corpse by Neuvillette because she’s screaming as she shakes it in a panicked manner. She’s desperate for you to wake up, screaming and crying as she tries to convince herself that you aren’t really dead. That you haven’t left her. She has to take a leave of absence from the court for a while, grief is a difficult thing and she doesn’t handle it well. 

Yandere!Raiden would be enraged. You promised to spend eternity with her, and now you were trying to back out of it? She won’t let you. She does everything in her power to bring you back, from creating a puppet of you to trapping your soul in the Plane of Euthymia. Nothing is right though, the puppet doesn’t feel the way you used to, it doesn’t behave like it should. Your soul isn’t any better, it can only replay strong memories from when you were alive, leaving Raiden feeling like she’s talking to a movie. She destroys the puppet and hides your soul away in a far corner of the Plane, though she feels equally as awful afterwards. 

Yandere!Wanderer is distraught when he loses you, he had lost so many before and yet, this one hurt the most. He sits on the outskirts of Sumeru City for a while, remaining stock still on a bench as he just feels. While he seems composed on the outside, on the inside he’s in pure agony. He doesn’t want to think or feel or move or do anything at all because everything just reminds him of you. It takes months for him to move from the bench, sitting there day in and day out despite the weather, and when he does move it’s only to sit in front of your grave. There he sits for another month, just staring at the name that once belonged to his loved one, now passed. The lover who left him, just like everyone else did.

Yandere!Xiao blames himself for your death, whether it's an accident, intentional, or simply of something you couldn’t stop like aging or sickness, Xiao will think it’s his fault. It’s always his fault, everything was because he wasn’t strong enough to protect you. The next year is spent with Xiao hardly being seen by anyone, not even food could lure him out. He spends all his time fighting, killing anything and everything in sight that deserves it as he tries to let the burn of his karmic debt distract from the ache in his heart. He refuses to visit your grave, making Zhongli bury you and not even attending your funeral. Not because he doesn’t love you, but because he can’t bring himself to attend. He thinks he’s the reason you’re dead and he didn’t think you’d want him in attendance. He spends the rest of his life span thinking you died hating him, blaming him.

Yandere!Diluc is unsure of how to feel when you pass. He’d felt the pain of losing his father, and while he’s not dead, Diluc had lost his brother for many years in a way. But your death was different, it didn’t make him so upset he was driven to violence like his father, but rather made him want to simply lay there and cry. He spent a week straight just in bed after your funeral, hands idly tracing over the side of the bed you once slept on. He keeps everything exactly how you left it, never touching a thing incase one day, somehow, you came back to him. He wanted you to know that he loved you so much that he left everything just how you liked it.

[mrs-kmikaelson]

Our Song and Dance⁵

Pairing: Finnick Odair x reader, Katniss Everdeen x platonic!reader Summary: You'd grown used to dancing the same dance over and over again, the victor's dance, but then you start dancing with Finnick Odair and you feel things you never thought you'd feel. So you let yourself enjoy the dance, even though you knew that every song inevitably came to an end. Warnings: LONG, brief descriptions of torture, mentions of forced prostitution, exploitation of minors, suicidal thoughts and tendencies, violence, murder, sick games, very complicated relationships, complex mental health issues, death, grief, and unhealthy coping mechanisms Words: 24K

Masterlist | Part 6

a/n: so here it is! 5 days later than i said, but it's here! and um, had the same problem w my hotch fic, but tumblr only allows 1000 blocks per post, so i had to cut this short. i'll be posting the rest w the ending shortly, but for now, enjoy! ly!

As far as you knew, love and pain were one and the same. You weren't sure exactly when this fact had been established in your mind; maybe it was with your mother, when she hugged you as she cried. Maybe it was with Finnick as you stood from the sidelines and watched him be in love with another woman. Maybe it was that love, the love Finnick and Annie had, that made you realize it, a love between two people who could never be together. Maybe it was the star-crossed lovers on TV, having no choice but to fake a love that they were too young to know.

You were too young to know it, too.

But the pain aged you, made you into a person you didn't know, a person you didn't like. That's how you knew that Finnick would never love you. 

How could he love you if you didn't even love yourself?

How could he love you if no one else did?

You knew that—oh, you knew that so well. But your heart couldn't handle that right now, to accept what your brain already knew. That's why you were avoiding Finnick at all costs, why you turned him away the other night. He had the power to turn you into putty in his hands, and you had to be stronger than that right now.

You had a nation to save. You didn't have time to save yourself from drowning. 

As far as you knew, the revolution was going along smoothly. It'd been about two weeks since you all went to 2, and in that time, Coin and Plutarch had been strategizing, planning out their next moves. For now, you were recuperating, adjusting to life in 13, which was easier said than done. 

You barely slept, often ending up in the training room late at night when it was supposed to be closed. The guard knew, you think, but he never came out to stop you. Sometimes, Katniss was already there by the time you arrived. Neither of you questioned it.

Something told you she couldn't sleep, either.

Couldn't. 

Wouldn't.

You avoided common areas during the day, doing everything in your power to steer clear of the beautiful blue eyes you once adored- still adored. You didn't want to see Finnick Odair. You didn't want to see the victor of The 65th Hunger Games. You didn't want to see the charming playboy. You didn't want to see the convincing actor. You didn't want to see that boy who loved to swim as a child. You didn't want to see the hopeful soldier. And most of all, you did not want to see Finnick, your Finnick.

Because he wasn't yours.

And he never was.

You didn't say it out loud to her, but a part of you thought that maybe Katniss knew this. Maybe she was learning to read you just as you were learning to read her. So you'd end up eating in one of your rooms together, away from everyone else. Sometimes Johanna would join you, only sometimes. Things were different now.

You could tell that she wasn't used to this, and she didn't want to get used to it. It was always you, her, and Finn. And now, you couldn't stand to be around him for reasons you couldn't tell her.

But you think maybe she knew, too.

Maybe a part of her always did.

Sometimes Prim would join you. Katniss' cold exterior would melt and she'd smile larger than you'd ever seen just with her sister's presence. Primrose was innocent and sweet, too sweet for this world. She didn't know it—you didn't talk about these things—but she gave you a little bit of faith in humanity, day by day.

And seeing her and Katniss together gave you a lot more than just a little bit of faith. Seeing the way they were with each other made you wonder how things would've played out if you had a sister, a sibling to care after, a sibling that could've grown up with you, been there with you through your childhood before you stopped being a child.

In a way, you were glad that it was only you, that there wasn't another person who had to share in your pain. But sometimes, you thought, maybe it wouldn't have been so painful if you weren't alone.

Katniss was lucky. And so, you told her that. But unlike that day in the training centre, you didn't tell her out of spite or to taunt her. You told her because she was lucky, and she deserved to know that.

"You know, I used to be jealous of you," you said. The brunette looked up from her food, brows furrowed while your eyes were still trained on the door that Prim had just left from.

"Jealous of me?" She echoed, confusion lacing her voice. A ghost of a smile grew on your face.

You're lucky, you know.

How so?

"You have a family that really loves you, that beautiful sister of yours. At the time, I would've killed to feel a love like that, a love so unconditional." You thought of their mother and your smile widened ever so slightly. She may not have been mother of the year, but she was there. And, really, that's all you ever wanted. That's all anyone could ever ask for. "My mom was, uh... she was never really like that, I guess." You chuckled a bit. "And you already know how our relationship ended up."

The room was silent. The sound of the vent lightly thudding in the background was the only thing you could hear, accompanied by your song. Sometimes, around Katniss, the song got quieter.

And sometimes, around her, it got louder.

After a moment, she spoke. "You have that, Y/N."

Not expecting her to have responded, you turned to her, meeting her eyes staring at you intently. "Hm?"

"An unconditional love," she repeated, her eyes soft as if she were afraid of setting you off. "You have that."

At her words, the smile on your face dimmed. Finnick.

You're my world, Y/N.

You blinked the memories away, trying your best to ignore his face flashing beneath your eyes every time you did so. It was surreal, almost, to think that it was his eyes were what kept you anchored while you were in the Capitol.

And now his eyes kept you anchored as you tried to swim away.

You sighed. Katniss was still so young. She didn't live the victor's life long enough to understand, and you were glad she didn't. There were some things that she never had to experience, things she never had to know, things about you that she couldn't conceptualize, so you tried to put it all into words.

Even though you knew that no words could ever convey what you'd been through.

"I can see why you'd think that, Girl on Fire, but Finnick and I were never... fireworks."

"He told me."

Your head shot up at her reply. You waited for her to add something more, to say she was joking, but the punchline never came. Your breath got caught in your throat. "He told you?"

She hesitated, looking half like she regretting saying anything. "He told me about how you guys started." She paused, letting your thoughts run wild, memories swimming through your brain the same way you used to swim through district 4 waters. 

Can we- can we just be together tonight?

"He loves you, Y/N."

What do you mean? We are together.

No, I mean- can I- I want to hold you.

A small, humourless laugh left you, the same laugh you held back when you met young kids, telling you they wished they could have a love like that. You held back the laugh and the tears and didn't tell them that they should be saving their wishes for something better.

The Prince and Princess of Panem.

If only the kingdom knew that this story didn't end in happily ever after.

If only they knew this wasn't a love story at all.

"No." You looked back up at her, smiling bitterly. "No, he doesn't, Katniss. I'm sorry our act was so good that it actually fooled you." It almost fooled me, too, you thought. But you'd been dancing long enough now to know better.

Y/N, I swear to you on everything I believe in that I'm telling you the truth.

It's impossible.

I l-

"It wasn't an act," Katniss cut your thoughts off, latching onto your hand tightly. You resisted the flinch. "I could tell you loved each other—anyone could."

Her eyes were desperate, and you couldn't figure out why. For some reason, she believed in what she was saying. She believed in this love, this love that did not exist, but why wouldn't she? Nobody knew what happened behind closed doors. Nobody knew that you and Finnick only started dating to try and save yourselves from the something that was something bigger than you. Nobody knew that he called out to Annie when he had nightmares.

You weren't even sure that he knew it himself. 

"You underestimate Finnick's acting capabilities," you said, suddenly wishing you had a drink in your hand.

She was quick to reply. "You underestimate how much he cares about you." 

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The look on her face... she almost looked offended, appalled that you didn't agree with her. At the same time, she looked like she knew something you didn't.

But you knew a mountain of things that she didn't, that nobody knew.

So you didn't respond, opting to continue eating your food, pretending that this conversation never started. Pretending, pretending, pretending...

Katniss looked at you for a few seconds, maybe a few minutes, before she looked back down at her food, too.

Eventually, you got up and headed for the training centre, conversation forgotten.

And she never mentioned it again.

You were walking down the halls when you saw her. You had just been to see Coin; she told you no, that you and Katniss wouldn't be going to the Capitol.

Part of you was angry. How dare she tell you that you couldn't do this? How dare she say no after all you'd been through? This was your fight. It was your right.

But the other part of you was amused.

Maybe it was going through The Hunger Games twice, or maybe it was just every other fucked up thing that'd happened to you in life, but you found her funny. It was laughable that she thought she could tell you what to do; you'd respect her for everything else, but not this. She couldn't tell you what to do about this.

You were going to kill President Snow with your own sword.

And nobody was going to be able to stop you.

That was the thought running through your head when you turned a corner, and suddenly you were face to face with a redhead you hadn't seen in what felt like a lifetime ago.

Why would you do that for me? It was supposed to be me. Supposed to be me, supposed to me, supposed to be me.

Annie.

She stopped in her tracks, eyes going wide. She looked like she hadn't aged a day.

So why did it feel like you hadn't seen her in years?

Why did it feel like you were avoiding her?

Before you could answer your own questions, you felt arms wrapping around you, holding you tightly. Your body went stiff. It's Annie, you told yourself. So, after a few seconds, you hugged her back just as tightly. 

This was your friend. This was the woman you volunteered for. And more importantly, this was your soulmate's other half. 

This was Annie.

You heard her sniffling as she pulled back, voice cracking. "I've missed you so much. We've missed you so much, Y/N." We.

We.

You didn't know how to respond, so you did what you did best. You didn't say anything, just pulling her in for another hug. You blinked away the tears threatening to well in your eyes.

And Annie didn't know this. You may never grow the courage to say it out loud. But even though seeing her broke something in you, right now, she was helping you more than you're sure you ever helped her.

After seeing Annie, you spent the rest of the day together. For a day, you forgot about Coin, and Snow, and the revolution all together. You forgot you were the Princess. You forgot that this was the woman Finnick was in love with. For a day, you were just with your old friend.

You shared memories of district 4 together, ignoring the fact that it was all rubble now. You talked about her art, how she'd had so much time to create in 13. Part of you envied that, but the other part was just proud and happy for her.

She'd come a long way from the girl crying in your living room, inconsolable and repeating the same words over and over again. Her cheeks looked fuller and there was this light in her eyes that you never thought you'd see again.

You were enjoying yourselves.

Until she said it, and your bubble broke.

"I met someone."

At first, it didn't really register, and then your breath suddenly halted, but Annie was none the wiser to your state of shock, smiling and staring off.

"He's- he's perfect. He's everything." She looked back at you, her eyes twinkling. "I'm in love. Oh, I'm so in love with him."

In love.

With someone else.

You half-composed yourself, stuttering, "W-with who?"

"His name's Julian," she told you. "He's from 12. And I know I haven't known him that long, but Y/N, he's the one." She brought her hand out in front of you, letting you see a ring you hadn't seen before. And now, you were sure that your heart stopped. "He proposed. And I said yes!" she squealed.

You couldn't breathe.

Music filled your ears.

Annie was getting married.

And it wasn't to Finnick.

You realized you'd been quiet too long and mustered up some sort of smile. "Annie, that's- that's incredible. I'm-" shocked "so happy for you."

She was so delighted that she didn't notice your demeanour, grabbing onto your hand. "Y/N, I want you to be my maid of honour." What? She continued, "And Finnick's gonna be Julian's best man. I want both of my best friends up there with me."

You couldn't breathe.

But you responded, nonetheless, because your problems didn't matter. What you felt didn't matter. This was about Annie.

You plastered on a smile and lied, "Of course. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

Annie clapped and then went on and on about the wedding as the music just got louder and louder.

You're my world, Y/N, echoed in your ears.

Little did Annie know, your world just came crashing down.

You paced through the halls of 13 aimlessly, even though a part of you knew where you were going. Music thumped loudly in your ears, and even if you had no destination, your mind was only dancing to that music.

Dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing-

You ran a hand through your hair, heart rate speeding up. You didn't know what to think. 

There was a perfectly crafted image of what you and Finnick were in your head—and that image was nothing. You were nothing. You were "together" out of obligation, to protect your families. And now that your mother was dead and his family was safe, none of that mattered anymore. The picture was ripped to shreds and the frame had shattered to pieces. 

This image was sometimes foggy, and sometimes you may have gotten confused, but through all the smoke and confusion, you still knew what this was. It was all a part of the game, a game with no referees but a guarantee in death if you didn't play right.

And if your punishment wasn't death, then you'd wish it was.

You knew that better than anyone else.

But now, now Annie had taken all those shredded pieces and put them together without even knowing it, creating a picture that you didn't know how to interpret.

You didn't understand.

You saw the way he looked at Annie—you saw it the moment you met her.

Rapid knocks hit your door as you were fixing up boxes upstairs. You'd just moved in with Finnick and were organizing your things. You raised a brow, putting a box down and heading downstairs.

The knocks continued up until you opened the door. A girl with red hair and porcelain white skin stood on the other side, a pretty smile on her face. Your confusion only grew. This girl looked like she couldn't be any older than 16.

What was a pretty teenager doing at your door?

She spoke like she was reading your thoughts. "Hi! I'm Annie." You were taken aback by her bubbliness as she held her hand out for you to shake it. You looked down, scanning it before deciding on taking it just to be polite.

"I'm-"

"Y/N." She cut you off, then sheepishly pulled her hand back. "I- sorry, I just- everybody knows who you are."

You intook a sharp breath, doing your best to smile and thwart her comment. Everybody did know who you were—you needed no reminder about that.

She kept talking. "And you're, uh, you're Finnick's-"

"Annie?"

You turned to see Finnick walking up to the door, wiping his hands with a towel. He must've been in the kitchen, you thought.

Her nervous ramblings stopped as her smile widened. "Hey." She glanced back at you, brows wiggling. "I just met the girl." 

"Oh, uh- yeah." He awkwardly cut himself off, coming to stand next to you. And your confusion just heightened.

Annie held something out in her other hand that you hadn't noticed before. "Your watch," she explained. "You left it the other day."

His watch?

"Oh, thanks." He took it from her grasp, and you watched as their fingers brushed. And then you looked up at his face and saw a sparkle in his eyes.

It was almost unrecognizable. No one had ever looked at you that way.

But you knew what it was.

And that's because you were starting to look at him that way.

They continued talking but you had tuned them out by that point, dull music ringing in your ears.

You should've known better.

Of course, there was a girl. A girl who was sweet, kind, and pretty. A girl who was nothing like you. 

The girl Finnick loved.

He said something to you, asking if he could walk her home. You just nodded. It wasn't a question, no matter how he phrased it.

Annie said goodbye to you and then you watched as they walked out the door, almost forgetting to shut it behind them.

You put a hand on your chest, something akin to a laugh leaving you.

Someone had told you that you were heartless once.

That was funny.

Because, at that moment, you felt your heart hurting just fine.

The memory made your eyes foggy and your breathing irregular. You were hyperventilating.

If Annie was getting married, then what was that? What was that memory? What were all the looks, smiles, and sleepless nights? What were the past eight years for?

What the fuck did any of that mean? What was that supposed to mean to you?

Was he letting her get away— after everything?

Another part of your brain whispered, what if he never had her in the first place?

No. No.

You changed course, walking to the training room. You weren't going to think about this anymore. Thinking about this only made your head spin, spinning the record faster.

If that record spun any faster, it just might break. 

And you had no idea what'd happen then.

Soldiers filed out of the room you stood in front of, each saluting you as they went. You gave a nod back, resisting the urge to say something. You knew that, no matter what you said, they were still going to treat you like royalty.

It was better than your treatment in the Capitol, you supposed.

But, to the better part of you, this treatment was just a stain reminding you of the blood shed.

Plutarch stood at the end of the soldiers' line, ushering you inside. "Princess," he greeted, putting his hand on your back.

You ignored the disgusted shiver that went down your spine, greeting him back. "Heavensbee." You glanced at the greying woman seated at the long table. "Madam President."

"Y/N." She got up, shaking your hand. "Lovely to see that you're doing well."

You gave her somewhat of a smile, or at least hoped that you did, but didn't say anything.

The three of you sat down after the unpleasant exchange of pleasantries. You would ask where Katniss was, but she already told you that she'd be going to see Peeta. You didn't ask to come with her.

Not yet.

Besides, you knew that she needed this. They needed to talk.

You didn't know what happened when you guys came back, what happened between them, nor did you fully know what they did to him in the Capitol, but if it was anything like what they did to you, then it was bad.

Coin's voice broke through your thoughts. "I think the only thing left to say... is thank you."

You looked up at her, spotting the look on her face and realizing that you weren't going to like the rest of this conversation. "I need to be in the Capitol," you stated, adding, "Katniss and I."

Coin was shaking her head before you even finished your sentence. "No, you have done your job. You've been very successf-"

"There is no such thing as success until Snow is dead." At my hands.

Alma pursed her lips, no doubt at the fact that you interrupted her. You'd apologize, but you really didn't have the time or energy to care about that right now. You'd been apologizing for your presence for years, respecting every Alma Coin or Capitol resident that came along. 

You were done.

"And that will happen," she affirmed. "But you need not worry about any of it." You opened your mouth, but she kept going. "You've helped unify the districts in a very short amount of time, for which I thank you, but now we just want you to rest. And to heal."

Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She was pushing you aside.

"The last the rebels saw me, I was lying on the ground with a bullet in my chest."

Plutarch took your attention. "Y/N, we won't let this momentum go to waste. We'll shoot more propos, right here in 13, showing them that you're alive."

"No, I should be down with the troops-"

"It'll be like being on the front lines-"

Coin interjected, "As far as the soldiers know, you survived a bullet to the heart." Her voice was earnest, but if you knew any better, which you did, then you knew to look past her voice to the calculation in her eyes. "I think they'll understand why you're not with them."

You held back a scoff. "And Katniss? What's the excuse for her?"

Coin's resolve only hardened, a smile appearing on her face, a smile you didn't like. "Look, Y/N, when we win this war, we'll fly you both in for the surrender. We'll need you for the ceremony." She paused, nodding to herself. "You're very valuable to us."

Valuable.

Like an artifact.

You thought of saying something but thought better of it, hiding your true thoughts like it was second nature to you—and it was. You nodded, smiling back at her. "Well, whatever it is you need me to do, I'll do it." The lies flowed from your lips smooth as honey.

You got up, shaking her hand once more and bidding your farewell to the both of them. As you left the room, the thousands of things that'd been on your mind left and only one thought remained.

You were gonna watch Snow take his last breath, and you'd be the one to have taken it from him.

No matter what.

Annie's wedding came faster than light, making you break your promise to yourself not to think about it. With Finnick across from you on the stage, it was impossible not to think about it.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, but you ignored it—at least, that's what it looked like to him. To you, you weren't ignoring anything. To you, he was at the forefront of your mind.

Hell, even as Annie walked down the aisle, Finnick was all you could think about. Your relationship, or lack thereof, was all you could think about. The day you met, the nights in the Capitol together, the days when you lost a tribute, the dinners, the nights you slept together, the times he'd kiss you without a camera in sight, the way he calmed you down during the Quell— your whole life together.

SImultaneously, the stolen glances at Annie flashed through your mind, too. The way he'd call her name as he slept, the way he fell apart when her name was called in the Reaping, the way he broke down with her in your living room, the way he'd kiss you for the cameras and then go to see her later that day.

What were you supposed to make of that?

A part of you thought it was comical. There was an entire revolution happening, the weight of the crown and Panem on your shoulders, but with just the simplest thought of Finnick, all of that dissipated into thin air and got magnified at the same time.

He had the type of power over you that a shepherd had over his sheep.

Did he know that?

Annie's voice sounded, breaking you from your trance. "From this day forth, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer. I promise to love and cherish you each day."

You looked towards them, seeing her hands intertwined with the boy's, sincere smiles on both of their faces and love-crazed looks in their eyes. They looked at each other like it was just them in the room. "I, Julian Cinder, take you, Annie Cresta, as my wife from this day forth," he proclaimed, quiet resolution in his voice. "Whatever happens from this point onward, together or apart, we will always be united. One life, one purpose, one destiny."

"You may kiss the bride," the officiator told him. Julian didn't need to be told twice, reaching downward for Annie's lips immediately, kissing her gently. 

Applause overtook the room. You wiped at a tear underneath your eye before joining them, clapping and forcing a smile. 

You were happy, you were so happy that Annie was in love and that the boy she was in love with loved her just as much. But you'd be lying to yourself if you said you were crying out of happiness.

Your tears weren't happy tears. 

Julian's vows were beautiful. The love that they shared was more beautiful than any painting you had ever seen, any song you had ever heard, any place you'd ever been to. And it was real.

It was beautiful.

But it was more beautiful and real than anything you'd ever get to experience.

As the reception started, you didn't stay long to watch the newlyweds' first dance. Music started playing, but it did nothing to silence the music already playing in your head.

Unbeknownst to you, you weren't the only one leaving the wedding early.

Your heels clicked rapidly against the floors, silent footsteps following you. You had just made it to the hallway your room was in when you were spun around.

Like a reflex, you automatically brought your fists up without even thinking, about to swing when you saw the perpetrator.

Finnick.

You lowered your fists, bringing one hand to your chest and breathing heavy. You couldn't tell if your reaction was from being touched or from being touched by him.

He held his hands up in surrender, opening his mouth, but you weren't letting this happen again. Not during these times, not today, not now. Maybe not ever.

You couldn't.

You went to turn, but this time, as if he'd learned from last time, his hand latched onto your arm. Your heart rate sped up, and suddenly, there was a pit in your stomach.

Was it butterflies?

Or was it fear?

You tried pulling away your arm, but his hold was like steel, unrelenting. "Y/N, we need to talk-"

"No." You refused to meet his eyes, pulling your arm harder, seemingly for no reason.

"I need to talk to you."

You shook your head. "No. We-" Fuck. "We have nothing to talk about."

"Yes, we do-"

"No, we don't." Water built in your eyes. "I have nothing to say to you." Liar.

"Y/N-"

"Stop it."

"We need to-"

You exploded. "You let her get away!" You looked up at him, and just like that, the dam in your eyes broke. Because the look on his face split your heart in two. "You-" your voice cracked "you let her get away."

Finnick went silent. His hold loosened, but you didn't notice. You didn't even notice the tears in his eyes. 

His voice was no louder than a whisper. "Y/N-"

You cut him off. He wanted to talk, so you would talk. You had enough things to talk about that it'd make your voice go hoarse, enough words stuck inside to you to fill scrolls and still have something left to say. "A-After everything, you just let her go- just like that."

"Y/N, baby, please-"

"Why," you asked, but your words sounded nothing like a question—and they weren't. You were demanding the truth, not asking for it. You wanted to know why. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I love you."

Your breath was knocked out of your chest. 

And for the first time since the Quell, the first time since you met Finnick—the first time since when you won The Hunger Games, the music stopped entirely.

And then it picked back up like it never did before. 

The music was loud, swirling around you like mist, like you could feel it, like it was pushing you to dance as your feet were glued to the floor. Finnick just stood there, staring at you helplessly. He said it so quickly that you almost thought he didn't think about it—did he? Did he think about his words before he said them? Did he think about the words that had the power to break you and build you up?

Did he think about the words that made you feel like you were alive and dying all at the same time?

Three months ago, you would've been overjoyed to hear him say that—to hear him say anything like that. But now it just felt cruel.

So your response was like nothing you would've ever imagined.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Finnick's face dropped. A part of you, the part of you that got butterflies when he said what he said, felt bad. That part of you felt terrible. That part of you wanted nothing more than for him to be happy and for him to love you.

But the other part of you had learned that Finnick being happy and loving you did not exist in the same universe. The other part of you wanted to make him happy but had already accepted that love was not in the picture. This other part of you would go to great lengths to make him happy, like volunteering for deadly games and adding gasoline to the fire that was this revolution. But this part of you refused to pretend anymore.

You weren't going to play anyone's games anymore.

Nothing like the Finnick you once knew, he stammered, "I- I said I love you."

You scoffed. "Love? You think you love me?" 

His eyes narrowed, like he was getting angry. "Yes, Y/N, I love you."

Your eyes hardened, tears no longer falling. "Oh, is that what this is? Are we in love now?" He opened his mouth to speak but your sudden laughter cut him off.

Someone told you that you were heartless once.

Wasn't that funny?

You went on, "So, the sleepless nights I had, waiting for you to get home—was that love?" You stepped closer to him. "The nights when I knew you were with her, the nights you'd hold onto me and I could still smell her, the nights when you called. out. for her in your fucking. sleep.—is that love, Finnick?" You paused, laughing again like you were crazy, and maybe you were. "I didn't even know that we were in a relationship, let alone in love."

He shook his head rapidly with conviction, looking like you had just stabbed him. "No- no, I was never with her, not like that-"

"Oh, of course not-"

"You're talking about it like it was all bad! It- it wasn't, I- I fell in love with you, Y/N." He moved his hand up from your wrist to grasp your hand, picking up the other one and holding it, too. And for some reason, you let him. "What about the nights we spent together, the days in, the dinners, the last eight years-" he cut himself off, breathing heavily and staring into your eyes. "You can't tell me that we weren't in love."

Finnick's blue eyes were like a whirpool, sucking you in yet again. He looked like he truly believed in what he saying, so much so that you almost believed it, too. You wanted to. You wanted nothing more than to believe that your time together meant something, that he felt the same way you did. 

If you were still that same woman, you would've believed it. But even she was a swimmer.

You were not going to be sucked into his whirlpool. Not again.

Not after it tore you apart last time.

You snapped, "It was fake! All of it was fake!" You held back onto his hands, tightening your grip. Finnick's eyes may have been a whirlpool, but yours were a storm. "I remember that; it was my idea. And I am sorry- I am so sorry for the years I have stolen from you, but I had people to protect back then" mom "and I don't anymore." You stepped closer to him, if that was even physically possible. "Don't you get it? I have lost everything. But I never lost you." You shook off his hands, and even as such anger coursed through you, a tear raced down your cheek. "You can't lose something you never had in the first place."

Finnick recoiled. For a moment, he looked sick until he regained composure, reaching for your hands again but you quickly stepped back. "Y/N-"

"You know, you're half right, though." A humourless smile came to your face. "We may have never been in love, but I know that I was." And I still am.

Without waiting for him to respond or giving him the opportunity to suck you in again, you turned and quickly went into your room, locking the door as soon as it closed.

You ran for the toilet, expecting vomit to rise. You sat there, waiting for it come, but nothing came up. Suddenly, you errupted into laughter, the kind of laugh that made your stomach hurt, and then those laughs slowly turned into loud sobs, tears running down your cheeks.

You're fuckin' heartless, 4.

Oh, how funny that was.

Maybe they were finally right. Maybe you were heartless now.

Because your heart had just been ripped out of your chest.

You didn't leave your room the rest of the day, except to congratulate Annie and go to the training room later at night. Katniss met you there, dull. You didn't ask her what happened, and she didn't ask you, either. You sparred and pretended that the last few hours didn't happen, that Finnick didn't let the woman he loved get away, that he didn't say what he said.

You already cried to yourself for hours. You didn't need to reflect on it anymore.

You were fine.

"No, you hold it with both pointers facing outward, like a bat." You corrected the position of Katniss' hands on the sword. She may have had a gift for the bow, but anyone with eyes could see that, that wasn't the case for swordsmanship. My God, she's helpless.

She scoffed, "You're acting like I'm inept. I can wield a sword just as well as you can shoot an arrow."

"Sureeee."

Katniss rolled her eyes but continued doing what you were telling her to do. She said she was curious. Little did you know, curious meant terrible.

Once her hands were in position and she was holding properly, she took a swing. You held back the urge to wince. She wasn't that bad, but it was pretty damn bad. "No, see- you can't swing like that. Way too slow, not enough force—have you seriously never wielded a sword before?" You grabbed one, holding up it and demonstrating. "You swing like this. If you swing the way you're swinging, then you're not gonna be able to slice anything."

"C'mon, this'd knock someone down."

"Well, the goal isn't to knock someone down; it's to kill them on impact."

"What, so you went into your Games with the mindset that you'd just kill immediately?"

You intook a breath, your bubble of pretend breaking. No, that wasn't what you went into your Games thinking at all. After a moment, you responded, "No." Pause. "I actually didn't think I stood a chance." Katniss went silent, but for some reason, you kept talking, eyes on the wall. "I would've been the youngest that year, but um... Bay was younger than me. And he wanted a longer life, a better life, so I fought for him. It was him and my mom." And now they're both dead. You cleared your throat, turning back to look at her and faking a smile. "So I decided ruthlessness was the only way to survive in there. And then when I got out, it wasn't ruthlessness that kept me alive; it was being royalty." You chuckled.

Never would you have ever imagined this being your life when you were younger, that you'd be Princess. But here you were, alive and well.

Or at least as well as you could be in your position.

Some had it worse.

You were fine.

You turned, about to move on and keep going when Katniss' voice broke the silence. "Aren't you tired?" You turned your head back to her to see the sword hanging from her hands, a look of exhaustion hiding behind her seemingly empty eyes, despair in her undertone. "'Cause I am. I don't know about much anymore, but I know that I am tired."

You stared at her, this time really looking at her. It was so easy to forget how young she was, that she was practically still a child. You supposed that a victor just grew into their role.

You did.

You were just fifteen.

After a moment, you lifted the corners of your lips as best as you could, trying to genuinely give her a smile, even if you could barely bring yourself to. "I am tired, Katniss," you affirmed. Despite the contrasting look on your face and the feeling in your heart, you didn't feel tears form, not for this; you had accepted this by now, and as wrong as it was, she needed to, too. "But it is not ours to be tired."

You turned around, not turning back this time until you'd replaced your sword for a bow. You turned back, switching Katniss', too. "Here," you said. "Let's switch back to the archery since you're shit with the swords."

She looked at you for what felt like forever but was really only a few seconds. And in those few seconds, the illegible book that was Katniss Everdeen became crystal clear, scibbled writing turning to print. A million emotions ran through her eyes: exhaustion, anger, devastation. But a single emotion rose above all, and you knew this because you lived it: the thirst for blood—a thirst that could only be quenched once you accepted that you were thirsty at all.

Finally, she looked away, nodding. "Okay." She looked back up. "But I'm not shit at anything."

A breath left you, like a weight that'd been lifted off your shoulders. You were back to normal. "Whatever you say, Everdeen."

And then, just like that, you resumed, and everything was fine again.

Or maybe it wasn't.

Maybe it never was.

But that wasn't the point.

In this reality, if you said something was nothing, then it was. If you were supposed to be the Princess and lead a revolution, then that's what you were going to do. If you said you were fine, then you were fine.

Weren't you?

Whatever you say.

You and Katniss retired to your rooms after a few rounds of shooting and one round of sparring. You made it all the way to your door, but never opened it. Your feet kept moving, moving past your room and all the others until you made it to the nuclear weaponry.

You weren't going back to your tonight.

Or ever.

They were shipping supplies to the Capitol tonight from hangar 2. This was your window. Coin didn't want you in the Capitol on the frontlines, but that was exactly where you needed to be. You couldn't let someone else fight your fight. You needed to do this.

You'd said your goodbyes. You just saw Katniss, and though Johanna may not have directly said it, she knew you were leaving, too. She was the one who even told you they were leaving tonight. Peeta was getting better; he wasn't totally there yet, but he was getting there. Annie was happy, finally happy, living the life of her dreams amongst the nightmare you all lived in. Everyone was accounted for.

And Finnick... well, you'd said goodbye to him, too.

It was time.

You crept past any guards with ease, only stopping to pick up your go bag. Like a snake, you made your way through the many bombs and missiles, ignoring the fact that there was a metaphor in there somewhere. Just as the hovercraft opening was closing, you jumped in, rolling on impact.

Once the door closed, your eyes scanned your surroundings. Boxes and cargo filled the room, but it was otherwise empty. You let go of a breath you didn't even know you were holding. You were in the clear.

Might as well settle down, you thought. It was a long way from 13 to the Capitol.

You sat down in a corner, despite having the place to yourself, and brought your knees up to your chest, momentarily closing your eyes. You weren't gonna get much rest in the next few days, but you couldn't sleep now and risk not waking up. Yes, you were tired.

But tired was not a possession that someone like you could own.

You opened your eyes, opting to distract yourself by looking through your bag. 

You were lucky Katniss didn't question the absence of your sword in the training room earlier, nor did she notice that some of your shared arrows were missing along with your crossbow. That was because everything you needed was in the bag: weapons, gadgets, and clothing. But none of that was of any real importance to you.

What you pulled out wasn't one of the many pristine articles in the bag. It was damaged. The paper felt delicate in your hands, fragile. It was peeling, ripped around the edges, but maybe that was just because you brought it with you everywhere.

A photograph.

A photograph of yourself when you were younger. Before your father died. Beforen your mother went crazy. Before your name was pulled in the Reaping. Before you killed ruthlessly to survive just to end up wanting to die, anyway. Before you met a boy that made you want to live.

You were still a child here. Your smile was real, tugging at your full cheeks. You don't remember the exact day this was taken, but you remember that you were happy.

Tears threatened to reach your eyes, but you blinked them away. You used to pull out this photo to make yourself feel better, but now it seemed to have the opposite effect. Now, it just reminded you of everything that you'd lost.

But that was the point.

You didn't pull it out to cheer yourself up anymore. You pulled it out for that reminder, to remind yourself what you were fighting for. 

Your childhood was stolen from you. Every good thing you could've possibly ever had was ripped away from you, all because of who you happened to become, all because of the world you happened to live in.

You'd be damned if you'd let another child go through what you went through.

If you had your way, no child would ever go through that again.

And you would have your way.

No matter what.

It wasn't long enough before you felt the hovercraft lowering, the pop in your ears telling you that you were landing. It wasn't really noticeable. You'd felt worse pains in your life.

You peeked your head out as the door opened, quickly turning back and intaking a shaky breath. It was a full crowd out there, and you could bet your ass there'd be cameras.

"It's okay," you murmured. "You can do this." You'd been through two Games, forced sex work, and President Snow's personal torture. A crowd was the least of your worries. 

However, this time was different. This time, you weren't gonna walk out there with a smile. You weren't gonna twirl or make your sleeves go up in flames. You weren't gonna dazzle anybody.

No.

This was real.

This wasn't a show anymore. It was still a game—a different game, but a game, nonetheless, and you were nothing if not a great player.

You could remember your first Games like they were yesterday.

"You're fuckin' heartless, 4."

You laughed. "Oh, am I?" You swung at the boy's torso with your sword as he narrowly dodged it. "That's not what the papers are saying," swing, "are they?"

The boy and you danced around each other in a circle, danced, and danced, and danced, but only one of you would walk away singing. 

"You killed her," he spat at you, anger and desire shining in his eyes—the desire for revenge. "You killed Myrto."

You scoffed, "What, was that 6's female tribute? Be glad I made it quick." You swung again, this time cutting flesh, resulting in a hiss.

You were acting. Dancing. You knew Myrto's name and you knew she was from 6. You knew the names of everyone in the arena, but pretending not to made it easier. Pretending you didn't see Myrto hug the boy in front of you when you were at the Capitol made it easier when you snapped her neck.

Myrto and Spyros, 6's promising tributes. They were close. But he shouldn't have let her go off alone. He shouldn't have let you do that, even if you were doing her a service. Nobody in here would've given her as quick of a death as you did; many wouldn't have cared about the light in her eyes. Despite Spyros' words, there were many that were more heartless than you.

Or so you told yourself.

He swung back at you as you sidestepped, countering with a swing of your own, metal hitting metal. He looked you dead in the eye. "She was scared of you. She saw you kill that guy with your bare hands and was terrified the same would happen to her."

You leaned in, sneering in his face, "That guy came at me first, and then he touched Bay. You don't touch what's mine."

"And what? The crown is yours now, too?"

"Yes." Without another second to waste, you lifted your sword and plunged it into Spyros' stomach before he could blink. His sword slipped through this fingers in shock. A flicker of remorse flashed through your eyes. "No hard feelings, but I need to go home."

You ripped your sword from his skin, looking away andletting him fall to the ground. A few moments later, the cannon sounded ,and you knew he was dead. 

A sigh left your lips. Twenty-two down.

One to go.

You shook yourself out of your reverie, shaking your head as if you could still feel the blood on your skin. Blood seemed to consume your thoughts. Theirs. Yours.

No more.

"No more innocent blood," you whispered to yourself. It was funny, almost. You could remember wanting to win so badly, and then as soon as you got out, you wished you let Spyros kill you. If you did, you wouldn't be living with this guilt. You would've never been sold, you would've never gone through what you went through at the Capitol. And you would've never met Finnick, either.

But you couldn't decide if that's really what you wanted.

With one more deep breath, you walked out of the hovercraft, dragging your feet that felt like boulders and forcing yourself to go forward. The cold air of the Capitol hit you like nothing else, as if knives were biting into your skin, but you'd felt worse.

No one recognized you immediately, but soon, murmurs followed. You kept your eyes on the ground. "That's her," someone whispered. "That's the Princess."

Eventually, the crowd went silent and so you looked up, being met with every face in the area. All eyes were on you.

They were rigid, like statues, until one person got down on one knee. Your eyes darted over to him. Even from so far away, you could see his eyes. You saw admiration, respect, and gratitude, but most of all, you saw hope. He bent his head down, bowing. Suddenly, everyone followed. Men, women, and children collectively got down and bowed.

For you.

Your breath was taken away. You didn't know how to respond, but whatever words you were going to say died on your tongue when Boggs came into your line of sight. 

"Y/N," he greeted, the slightest bit of surprise lacing his stoic voice. "President Coin didn't tell me you'd be meeting us."

"I know," you said, and you said nothing further than that.

You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but after a second, Boggs nodded, softly telling you, "Come on." You followed him wordlessly, meeting Commander Paylor again before she went up on stage.

She was a good speaker, that you could tell, but you weren't truly listening. The crowd clapped and cheered but you were motionless. You could feel Boggs' eyes burning into the side of your head. He must've thought you were crazy, and maybe you were. 

You were fixated on the one thing you'd wanted more than anything else, so it was a bit difficult to pay attention to speeches, no matter how good they were.

After Paylor's speech, you followed Boggs out of the area to where you were stationed. Now that he found you, it only made sense that you'd work together. You could use the ammo, anyway.

You got to your post, still not really focused on anything, but then all of your distraction flew out the window when you saw a head of brown hair, not in a braid but in a ponytail just as similar.

Katniss.

So you weren't the only one with the idea of sneaking out.

"Great minds really do think alike, don't they?"

At the sound of your voice, Katniss turned around and a smile graced her face, and this was one of the few times you'd ever seen the sight. "Y/N," she breathed, and in three strides, she was embracing you in her arms.

You tensed but soon reciprocated the hug, basking in the irony that you once thought you'd never befriend this girl. Yet, now, she was the only one who stood by your side.

You hugged for a few seconds before letting go—both of you could only handle so much affection—but she held onto your shoulders. The smile was still there, but it had dissipated. It wasn't so bright anymore. 

She nodded towards a tent, and you nodded in response.

You needed to talk.

Katniss led you into an empty tent and you both sat down. The time for pleasantries had passed—the gun on your hip and the sword hitting your leg had reminded you of that.

Out of habit, you glanced around the small tent. There wasn't much except for the little she'd laid out, along with her bag, stuffed with food. You nodded to it. "That's more food than I've ever seen you eat before."

She barely looked up. "Tryin' to be prepared-"

You cut her off, humming. "C'mon, Katniss." You shook your head. "Don't insult me."

Finnick was hard to get a read on these days. Johanna wasn't the same, and Peeta barely showed emotion. But if you knew anyone, it was Katniss. You were Katniss. So you already knew what she was planning.

After all, it was the same plan you had.

She finally looked up at you. "I'm gonna be fine, Y/N."

"Of course, you are," you affirmed. "'Cause I'm coming with you."

She sighed, "Y/N-"

"Be smart, Katniss. If you're going off alone, you need backup." You left out the fact that your plan involved no backup, either. "Besides," you added, "you know I want this just as bad as you."��Maybe even more.

She stared at you for a few seconds after that, maybe a minute, before she eventually nodded. A sigh of relief left you, but before you could get anything else out, your names were being called.

"Y/L/N, Everdeen." Your eyes went to the woman outside of your tent. "Come meet your new unit."

You got up, crouching under the tiny tent opening and walking out until you were with everyone else, the woman who called you right in front of you. She sized you up with a stony expression.

"I'm Lieutenant Jackson," she introduced herself. Her voice was as emotionless as her face, though you recognized a hint of irritation in her eyes. "And I want to introduce you to your squad." She pointed to each person as she went. "This is Second Lieutenant Mitchell, best sharpshooter in Panem. These are the Leeg sisters, first combat division. And this is Corporal Homes."

You nodded to each of them in greeting, even though Homes and you had already met. Jackson introduced all of them to you, but not you to them; though, you supposed it was unnecessary. By now, everyone in Panem knew your face.

You went to say something, but as a familiar face came into view, you forgot whatever it was in a heartbeat.

Finnick.

Katniss' words echoed your thoughts. She left your side and made her way over to him, but you were frozen in your spot. "Are you with us?" she questioned, her back turned to you but her smile audible in her voice. 

"Looks like it," he responded, wrapping his arms around her. You looked away, feeling the phantom sensation of his arms around you, your feet stepping synchronously with the song that was back playing in your ears.

Love? You think you love me?

Yes, Y/N, I love you.

Involuntarily, your eyes travelled back to them only to see blue eyes already pointed your way. Your mind shouted at you to look away, but your eyes couldn't follow the instruction. This was your first time looking at him without tears filling your eyes.

And, God, was he beautiful.

Was it his face that shocked you or was it his presence? Was it your history or the chapter you were in right now? Did it matter?

All of the questions you had went unanswered as Boggs entered the canopy. "Gather round," he ordered, forcing you to peel your eyes away. Your unfortunate love affair would have to wait.

If you could even call it that.

"Squad 451, you're my unit." He looked around at you, the so-called 'best of the best.' And while you were the best, in many ways, you weren't truly put together because of your skills. Katniss had a way with a bow, and you and Gale were next in line in that area. Finnick and you had both mastered close combat. Mitchell was a sharpshooter, and everyone else had miles of experience. But that still wasn't why you were chosen.

He continued, voicing what you already knew. "Each one of you is elite in some form of combat. But we are a non-combat unit, so we'll be following days behind the frontline troops." Katniss and you shared a brief glance.

"You're to be the onscreen faces of invasion. The Star Squad," a woman declared, arms crossed. Cressida, you think her name was. You met her in the Capitol once. She was almost gonna direct a show for you and Finnick, and you thank the heavens every day that it never happened. "It's been decided that you're the most effective when seen by the masses."

It appeared that you and Everdeen weren't the only ones with qualms about this regime. "So we're not gonna fight?" Gale spoke up.

Boggs' reply was swift and prepared. "You'll do whatever you're ordered to do, soldier. It's not your job to ask questions."

He held his tongue and nodded, an affirmation leaving his lips, respectful but clearly reluctant. And why wouldn't he be? You were fighters—all of you. Kids thrown into the arena or the streets. This wasn't about pride, though, so you understood the establishment's point of view on this one.

But it wasn't about pride for you.

It was about revenge.

"Our instructions are to shoot propaganda footage on the battle-scarred streets of the Capitol." Boggs went on to explain that, even though you were a propo team, you were still in the middle of a war zone. "It is likely that we'll encounter both active pods and Peacekeepers." He paused. "You're considered high-value targets to the Capitol." His eyes momentarily darted over to you, making you stiffen. "In the event of capture, you'll be given a nightlock pill." Another pause. "A poison that acts immediately."

You felt Katniss' eyes on you as Jackson passed the pills around, the glare of scissors flashing through your mind, beautiful scissors that never got to kiss your skin.

My hair. It's- I want to cut my hair.

I'll help you.

You took the pill and stowed it away, ignoring her stare. You were thankful for her interruption that day in the bathroom, but you'd gone this far without mentioning it and you'd go a lot farther in the same state. 

As far as you were concerned, that day never happened.

You're not suicidal, your brain whispered, and you vehemently agreed. But if things ended the way you wanted them to, the way the way they were supposed to, then dying wouldn't be too bad.

That nightlock could go a long way.

"Our unit has been given a Holo, a database that contains a detailed map of the Capitol and a list of every known pod." That caught your attention, making you look up at the device he placed on a container, a hologram of the Capitol shooting out with little orange indicators everywhere. "These pods can trigger anything from bombs to traps to mutts. We cannot move without this device. There's no guarantee that our database is complete; there could be new pods that we're not aware of. Because we don't want the Gamemakers to know we have this intel, it has a self-destruct on it. You flip this switch, say nightlock three times, and it blows itself and anything within a ten-foot radius." He paused, making eye contact with each of you and enunciating slowly. "Stay within our unit. Even with the Holo, it is likely that new pods have been set. Whatever they contain, they are meant to kill you."

Fuck. 

You glanced at Katniss to see her already looking your way, clearly thinking the same thing that you were. If you wanted to stay alive long enough to kill President Snow, then you needed that Holo.

Without meaning to, you consequently glanced at Finnick, seeing that childlike glint in his eye that you hadn't seen in ages; albeit, it had no place in war.

But that didn't mean that you didn't miss it.

He leaned towards Katniss and you like nothing had ever happened, making you tense. It was almost like he was playing a game, and you suppose that's exactly what it was because, not a second later, he spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The 76th Hunger Games."

Explosions went off in the distance that you tried not to be affected by, smoke and rubble surrounding the once pristine Capitol. It almost looked the footage you'd seen of 12—you imagined the other districts were the same. As you stood there and filmed propos, it almost looked like home.

Almost.

You stopped in an abandoned restaurant, sitting down to rest. You didn't really feel like resting, but it was nice to stop and strategize.

Katniss and you sat off to the side, away from everyone else, but you could feel eyes burning into the side of your head, eyes that were likely blue. It took everything in you not to look his way.

"We're not getting across this minefield," you remarked.

Without missing a beat, she replied, "Not without that Holo. And we're not gonna get it off him while he's awake."

You nodded, repressing the urge to glance over at Boggs to avoid suspicion. "Let's make sure we're on the same watch tonight, then."

Allies until you weren't. Same team until the time came.

Just like The Games.

The sound of wheels on rubble made you stand up simultaneously, hand on your weapon in quick succession. "Is that Peacekeepers?" someone said.

Jackson radioed something into base before putting her walkie talkie away and ordering, "Stand down, everyone. It's friendly."

You snorted. Friendly was a nice choice of words. But it made you wonder who could possibly be there that hadn't already shown up. Johanna, maybe, you thought. Then the door opened and the person that walked out wasn't Johanna at all.

Peeta.

Katniss drew an arrow from her quiver automatically, making you press a hand to her shoulder. She held the bow down but kept the arrow; you think that if you hadn't stopped her, she would've shot that arrow instantly—and you didn't know if you could blame her.

That Golden Boy that walked into the Quell never came out, nor did Panem's troublemaker from 7 or the Princess. You were changed. And you were fucked up, you knew that—you didn't need a therapist to tell you that. But you were broken before; Peeta wasn't. 

You could still hear his screams when you closed your eyes, entangling with the beat of the music. You danced to those screams in the Capitol for weeks on end. 

And then they hijacked him. President Snow was the Devil, and he collected Peeta's soul like it was pocket change, turning him against the love of his life. 

You saw what he did to her. She never talked to you about it, but the rings around her neck and red in her eyes were impossible to miss when you came back. 

So, no, you didn't know if you could blame Katniss for wanting to shoot him, but none of you could let her do that. Because, if she shot hijacked Peeta, she'd be shooting the Peeta with a heart of gold, too.

He walked towards you slowly, soldiers behind and around him as you all stood with baited breath. He mumbled something to himself quietly that you couldn't make out, eyes trained on the ground as if wishing it'd swallow him whole.

He walked until he got too close and Katniss pulled back her bowstring. You widened your eyes, whispering, "Katniss-"

"Okay, stop," Gale warned, holding up one hand like he wanted to keep the peace but the other was on his gun, finger on the trigger. How convenient would it be if he finally got a reason to shoot the only other competitor he had? It nearly made you scoff.

"Hold up, everyone relax." You froze at the voice, seeing Finnick walk forward with his arm held out to the rest of you, like he was holding you off. You couldn't spot even the slightest hint of hesitation in his actions.

He continued to walk towards him, even as Boggs ordered Jackson to cuff him. Only then did Katniss lower her bow. You gave her a cautionary glance but didn't say anything more, following her back inside. She kept quiet about you and Finn; the least you could do was offer her the same luxury.

Back in the restaurant, Boggs explained that they wanted to add Peeta to the propo, show Panem that he was on your side now. 

But he wasn't.

You knew that. Katniss knew that. And President Coin certainly knew that, too.

A message to The Mockingjay.

"He's not in control of himself," Gale said, a blank look on his face.

"I say we schedule an around-the-clock watch on him," Jackson proposed, as if Peeta wasn't ten feet away, in perfect earshot of the conversation. "The Leegs 'til 1700, Homes and Mitchell 'til 1900."

Katniss startled you by her quick intrusion. "Give me a watch."

Clearly, the others weren't expecting that either, judging by Jackson's head tilt or the brief flash of emotion in Boggs' impassive demeanour. "And if it really came down to it, you think you could shoot him?"

"I wouldn't be shooting Peeta," she replied, her voice cold as ice. "'Be killing a Capitol mutt."

She didn't mean that. She really didn't. You could still remember how hysterical she was when she thought Peeta died in The Games. She loved him. But he didn't know that. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Peeta's eyes fall to the ground. "I'm not sure that kind of comment recommends you for the job either, soldier."

Boggs cut in, "Put her in the rotation." Jackson looked up at him, then he walked away. There, said and done. Katniss wouldn't have been Katniss if she hadn't followed him outside, but you didn't tag along for the questioning.

You stayed inside, walking away from where you sat with Gale to another area in the building. His thoughts were loud, too loud for your own. Peeta was here now, and that changed a lot for him. It changed a lot for Katniss, too, and you.

Because, now, you were stuck here.

There was no way you'd be leaving now.

You were on your own in a secluded part of the restaurant, thoughts filling your head the way water filled district 4 one summer in your childhood, an unstoppable flood. That flood didn't leave any part of the district unaffected, and now you could feel this flood taking hold of your brain—and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

"C'mon, Y/N. We all know this is a sham. I mean, I've never even seen you speak to Finnick Odair, and now you're dating?"

You rolled your eyes at the Capitol's 'Favourite Son,' your disinterest doing nothing to deter him. Augustus Braun was nothing if not persistent, especially when it involved you. He won the year before you and thus made it his mission to pursue you ever since, so when revealed that you were dating Finnick, it clearly caused a stir.

You tried to brush him off. "I don't know what you want me to say, Augustus. I didn't see it coming either; it just happened."

"It just happened?" he echoed.

"Yeah. I mean, you can't control love." The words sounded so faux coming out of your mouth, even to you. It was times like these when you wished Finnick was here; he was a much better actor.

"That is so bull-"

Another voice interrupted. "Augustus."  You both turned to see Cashmere, one of his mentors, walking toward you, a feline smile on her face. "Leave the lady alone. You know we only fight when The Games are going on."

When The Games are going on, she said. You could be friends all year round, but as soon Reaping Day hit, that camraderie ceased to exist. Regardless, you were never close with victors from 1 and 2. You couldn't really trust anyone that would volunteer for those games just to bring glory to their name.

You had that glory. 

And you would do anyhing to give it back.

"Aw, Cash, I was just talking our princess here," he nudged your shoulder, "about her make-believe relationship." You wanted to punch him.

She laughed. "Oh, but the Princess wouldn't dare lie, Aug. She's too good for that." Some would call the look in her eyes a star's twinkle. You called it a malicious glint hiding in plain-sight. She turned to you. "It's the truth, isn't it, Y/N/N?"

You plastered on a fake smile that looked more annoyed than anything. "Of course, it is. What could I possibly gain from lying?" There it is.

The glint in Cashmere's eyes disappeared. She looked to Braun, but he didn't share her glance. He didn't look any different, but you knew that she got it. Because she knew what you could gain from lying.

All the same things she could gain, too.

So you watched as she put on a smile and defended you. "I believe her." Augustus' groan was loud, but it was inaudible to you as you silently thanked her with your eyes. "Now tell us how you and your prince met."

"Could I get a penny for your thoughts?" A voice broke you out of your trance, a voice you recognized all too soon.

Finnick.

Here he was, trying to talk to you, as if he didn't just let Annie walk away. As if he didn't tell you he loved you. As if he didn't just upend your entire world.

You didn't want to speak to him. You thought you made that clear already, and you did, but he was ignoring that. He wanted to talk to you, so he was gonna talk to you, regardless of your feelings.

You didn't look at him as he walked up to stand next to you, continuing to stare out the window. The destruction outside matched your mental state, grey and ruined, but it was still the Capitol, the same way you were still the Princess.

And he was still the Prince.

The words came tumbling out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. "Do you remember how we said we met?"

You were met with silence, not because he didn't remember but because he did. After a beat, he responded, "I do." You felt his gaze burn into the side of your head.

A humourless chuckle left you, false memories lighting up behind your eyelids as you blinked. Of course, he remembered. He had it memorized just as well as you did—he was the one who came up with the story.

You might've been the storyteller, but Finnick was a better liar than you could ever dream of being. He lied so well for years. So when he goes and tells you something like he loves you, that's all you can remember.

That he was a liar.

"We said that we met in the Capitol," you recalled. You had a reminiscent smile, but your eyes that were trained ahead of you betrayed the façade; you were bitter. "I wasn't watching where I was going; I was nearly hit by a bus, but you pulled me back last minute, saved me." Another laugh. "I was oh so grateful. You told me that you already knew me, that you'd seen me around before and you'd been working up the courage to come speak to me." You shook your head. "And then there: screen fades to black, and the rest was history, right? Love at first sight—God, they loved that, didn't they?"

"Y/N-"

"But it wasn't love at first sight," you cut him off. "It wasn't really love at all."

Finnick went to put his hand on your shoulder but you jolted away, finally turning to look at him. For a moment, it was like looking into a mirror: his eyes were sad, too.

But why? This was his story. Were his own lies getting the best of him?

Yes. They were.

With that realization, your eyes hardened. "We didn't meet that way. We were not in love—there was no love story. This is not a love story, Finnick," you emphasized, stressing every syllable of every word, your voice nearly cracking on his name. You averted your eyes, composing yourself and taking a step back. "So I don't want to speak to you for the rest of the time we're here."

"What? Y/N, I just-"

"Please respect that." Whether he was gonna abide by your wishes or not, you didn't want be stick around to find out.

So you walked away, leaving him there just like every other time it was just the two of you. It was funny, almost—it was always just the two of you, but now you couldn't handle it to be alone with him.

Perhaps that was because you knew you were right. This wasn't a love story. 

It was a tragedy.

And this tragedy wouldn't have a happy ending.

You wondered what it was like to live in the Capitol, to be born into a life where food and shelter was always guaranteed, a life where you could raise children knowing that they wouldn't be taken from you by a slaughter that rich people would call a game.

A normal life.

Those kids went to school and made friends, they fell in love because they wanted to, not for survival. 

You wondered where those kids were now, as their home was turned into a warzone. What were they thinking? Were you the bad guys in their mind? Did they even understand what you were fighting for?

You heard Snow had a granddaughter. You wondered about her, about how she must've felt. And then that caused you to wonder... was evil an inherent trait? Was it like a disease that somebody had to be born with, or was it something that bred over time?

Suddenly, the sound of somebody sitting across from you at the table cut off your train of thought. When you looked up and saw Panem's Golden Boy, you found your answer.

Maybe evil wasn't an inherent trait, but good had to be. Because Peeta Mellark had the most pure heart you'd ever seen, so pure that Snow had to work twice as hard just to taint it, that his love for Katniss was so strong that it persisted—even if he didn't realize it yet.

Good had to be natural.

You had to believe that.

You greeted him softly, but not too soft. "Peeta."

He took a minute before responding, seeming to take in your appearance. "Y/N." Pause. "You look different."

That nearly wrestled a laugh out of you. "So do you," you replied, followed by a quirk of your brow. "But that's not why you're here to talk to me, is it?"

It wasn't.

You had a feeling he'd be coming soon. It was only a matter of time since he arrived. When you got out, the first thing you wanted was to talk to him, too. The only thing that stopped you was the white, locked room that kept him detained.

His room and yours were right next to each other in the Capitol.

That changed things.

You didn't expect him to speak so soon—you certainly couldn't find the words—but before you knew it, he was asking, "How do you do it?" He didn't need to explain further.

How you do this. That's what he was asking.

Peeta had trouble with eye contact since he arrived, but right now, he was looking you right in the eye, awaiting an answer you weren't sure you had—pleading for it. How did you do it? Were you doing it at all?

You wanted to give him the perfect answer, the same answer you were still seeking, but that wouldn't be fair. You didn't want to lie to him.

You were sick of lying.

"Honestly?" you questioned. "I don't know if I even know what I'm doing. Haymitch, uh, he told me I was still standing because I had to fight for the people that couldn't, show that them that they could." You paused, pondering over it. "And that's true. But there's more to it than that. It's not just about them anymore. It's about me, about us. I want-" you intook a deep breath, looking down momentarily. When you looked back up, it was with a new resolution shining in your eyes. "I want to show Snow that he didn't knock me down. And I want to make sure that no other pawn gets knocked down by a king and his crooked version of a game."

You didn't know if that was the answer he was looking for. You didn't know if that would help him—you didn't know if anything would.

But then you saw a look in his eyes, a new light that hadn't been there before, dim but present. It was accompanied by fear, but you could see it. A light shining through all the darkness. 

His voice was quiet. "Do you think we'll ever be free?"

You knew he wasn't talking about the war or the Capitol. He wasn't talking about Snow's hold on all of you. He was talking about the shackles of your own minds.

That took you back to the other blond boy you were accustomed to, his words reverberating through your head. We will never be free, Y/N.

Not long ago, you believed that wholeheartedly. The thought crushed you. You had accepted it as reality, that you were trapped and had nowhere to go, that this was your forever.

But maybe it wasn't.

"Yeah," you replied. "I think so."

You couldn't sleep that night. It would've been better if you had a shift taking watch—that way, you would've at least felt useful, but you didn't. 

You weren't sure if it was a matter of if you couldn't sleep or wouldn't. Every time you tried to close your eyes, you were brought back to places you didn't wanna be, saw things you didn't wanna see.

That's why you were lying on your side, facing the wall instead of the ceiling. It was harder to sleep that way. And it also meant you didn't have to look at Finnick Odair.

You told him you didn't want to speak to him. Meanwhile, you loved him an unimaginable amount, so much so that he consumed your thoughts, even as you were in the middle of a war, hiding out in an abandoned restaurant as the enemy wanted your heads on a platter.

The enemy.

You thought of Coin then, how she sent Peeta here knowing it'd cause chaos, knowing it'd just bring both of the lovers grief.

Wolves liked to masquerade as sheep.

Maybe the enemy was closer than you thought.

In your own thoughts, you didn't even notice the stirring of limbs until a raspy and hushed voice sounded. "Katniss?"

Your immediate reaction was to stiffen, but you quickly stopped yourself from doing anything to give up the fact that you were awake. Because that was Finnick's voice.

He sounded just like that whenever he woke up.

You didn't see the brunette, but you already knew she wasn't sleeping either—though, chances were, she wasn't hiding it. "Yeah?" she muttered.

There was a beat of silence. You wished you could lift your head to see what was going on. It wasn't like Finnick not cut to the chase. Then again, you supposed it also wasn't like him to give spontaneous admissions of love.

Eventually, he got to it. "Do you and Y/N have a plan?" It almost sounded like his voice was filled with genuine curiosity.

Now it was her turn to respond. The turning of her gears was nearly audible to you. She couldn't tell him the truth, that you were really here to kill Snow and not to shoot propos. "Yeah, it's this plan."

There was no pause this time. "That's not what I'm talking about."

"Well, it's what I'm talking about," she bit back.

You knew she had more questions than this. You knew she was wondering why he was asking her and not you, wondering whatever it was that happened between you earlier or even back in 13. 

She had questions.

But out of respect, she would never ask them.

"I'm worried about her." Oh.

Whatever you were expecting, it wasn't that. It seemed that Finnick continued to surprise you with every encounter, even though this wasn't an encounter with you at all. His voice got quieter, but he still spoke with purpose, the same purpose you watched from a video out of a box where he exposed Snow for the monster that he is.

He always did have a way with words.

You just weren't used to hearing those words about you. Not without a camera shoved in his face or eyes glued to your forms.

"Y/N?" she asked, even though she knew who it was. "Don't be. She's the strongest person I've ever met." Oh.

Katniss defended you without a second thought, and for some reason, that was surprising. It shouldn't have been, but it was. You weren't used to friends or people to coming to your defense. Johanna was one of your closest friends, but you weren't with her enough to ever get used to it. Katniss, on the other hand, was someone you felt like you'd known your whole life.

Maybe because you had.

"I know that," he responded, almost offended she'd think he didn't. "Her strength is incredible- enviable, even." Pause. "But I still worry about her." Another pause. "If anything happened to her, I- I don't know what I'd do." 

Your breath hitched.

I said I love you.

Katniss must've been thinking of what to respond but Finnick barely gave her a chance. "Just- look out for her for me, okay- and I'll do the same for you." There was another pause, and then a shuffle, and then silence. "I have your guy. And you have mine."

It was a wonder you didn't make a sound.

A few seconds passed by, then she agreed. "Deal."

And when you got up a couple hours later after no sleep, you pretended the conversation never happened.

The team was walking around looking for a good spot to film when your first pod was found. 

"Split. Take cover," Boggs ordered. You did as he said, retreating to the right pillar with Katniss, Gale, and Cressida as he threw a random rock into the walkway. Immediately, shots went off, loud and repeated.

You ducked your head into your knees, covering your ear with one hand while clutching onto your bow tightly. They're not people; they're just guns wired to go off, you reassured yourself. Somehow the thought of real people was scarier.

And that thought was scary in and of itself.

The guns went off until they knocked down a structure ahead of you yet you were still wary, even when Boggs gave the okay. "All clear. Gale, Homes, with me. Leegs, take the wings."

You slowly stood up, now holding onto the arrow with both hands just so your hands wouldn't shake. Katniss shot you a look, not needing to speak. You okay?

You nodded, sending her one of the same nature. What about you?

She nodded back. And even though neither of you were entirely convinced, you both still dropped it.

When you turned to your left, you saw Peeta still on the ground, empty rifle in hand, hitting his head against the butt and mumbling to himself under his breath. He sounded like a madman. That's when you turned to Katniss again.

For a second, she almost looked like she was gonna go over there.

And then a bomb went off.

You jumped, nearly losing your grip on your weapon. Katniss went running despite Jackson's call of her name. You wanted to follow her but it was like you her cemented to your spot. Your eyes were stuck on the floor, ears ringing.

Please, please- no- no!

You harshly shook your head as if it'd shake the thoughts out of your head, and then you booked it in the same direction, ignoring Jackson's protest. 

Turned out that you'd only spent a few seconds losing it. You crouched down next to Katniss while Gale went straight to look at his legs. You didn't look get a good look at them—you tried not to—but you didn't think they were even there anymore.

"It's okay," Katniss muttered, even though she knew it wasn't the truth.

He's gonna die, you realized.

Boggs realized this, too. "The Holo," he croaked. "The Holo."

You widened your eyes, going to grab it while Katniss held his hand. He pressed some buttons and used all of his strength to tilt himself upward, panting, "Unfit for command. Transfer- primary security clearance-" He looked to you, eyes wild yet resolved. "Say your name."

If you thought your eyes couldn't get any wider, you were wrong. But you didn't have time to question this decision or get him to explain his choice, so you spoke without realizing what was happening. "Y/N Y/L/N." Your breathing got faster. "What did you just do?"

He didn't answer you, just looked at you with the strongest stare a dying man could muster. "Y/N, don't trust them-" his eyes darted to Katniss, "n-neither of you. Kill Peeta if you have to. Do what you have to do." He stopped talking then, but his eyes were still open.

"Boggs?" No response. 

You tried. "Boggs?" No response, either.

He was dead.

Katniss gently set his head down. You just stared at him, taking shallow breaths.

He was dead.

Homes was still trying to triage his wounds—he didn't even realize it until Gale said the words out loud. "He's gone." It was almost compulsive of him to repeat it. "He's gone."

There was a collective moment of silence. Boggs was willing to put his life on the line for this revolution, and he did it. Now he was dead.

Weren't you all just dead people walking? Soldiers, just waiting to fall into your own carefully curated traps. And perhaps that was exactly why you were so okay with it.

A part of you knew you were already dead.

In the silence, groaning suddenly became audible to you. With a slight turn, you saw it was one of the Leegs. The blast hit her, too. When the other Leeg saw, she immediately got up and went to tend to her sister, but on her way, she stepped on a tile that sunk down on her weight. Her eyes went wide, but it was too late. 

Immediately, large gates that you didn't even know were there started to close in on the areas between buildings, effectively encasing you in the courtyard. In the blink of an eye, oily black tar was flooding down, billowing between the buildings.

Someone screamed. "Go, go, go!"

You took off running, the others not far behind you. Gamemakers were creative. You didn't know what that was, but you knew that if it didn't obliterate you first, it'd drown you.

You were running to higher ground, Katniss right next to you when you saw her being yanked away out of your periphery. You spun around to see her on the ground, just barely rolling out of the way as Peeta slammed his rifle down on the ground in a flurry of rage.

"Finnick!" she yelled, but someone else got there first, tackling Peeta to the ground before he could try hitting her again. You were there right after, pulling her off the ground and then holding her back from running into the sludge when Peeta pushed Mitchell in.

A net shot out of the ground with his body in it. Finnick came rushing before Peeta could come back to finish his task, holding him back.

"Come on, come on, Katniss, we gotta go!" You pulled her out of the way before the tar came crashing into you, running for the closest building.

Homes shot down the door. "Everybody, inside! Go! Upstairs! Go! Hurry up!"

You all went running up either flight of stairs, stopping in the middle just to see that the lower and upper half had been disconnected. You were stuck. And tar was filling downstairs at a speedy rate.

"Shit," you cursed.

You ran a stressed hand through your hair. On your right, one of the Leegs was moaning in pain, and on your left, Finnick was trying to calm Peeta down, holding him tightly. You looked away when he ended up pressing a needle into his neck, swallowing.

Now's not the time for memories, Y/N.

The tar continued to fill the building, making a bubbly sound that made you feel nauseous. "It's slowing down," Cressida noted. 

And she was right. It stopped just before hitting your landing, rippling at the stairs. You let out a sigh.

"Gamemakers are still putting on quite a show," she remarked.

"That they are," you mumbled—though, you were unsure it was loud enough for her to hear you.

Meanwhile, Jackson radioed in. "451 to base. Over."

"Hey, we better move," Homes cut in. "If Peacekeepers didn't know where we were, they do now. Those surveillance cameras caught us."

She just radioed again while you looked down at the Holo in your hand. "451 to base. Come in."

It was Gale speaking up now. "This is a bad spot. We need to move now."

"451 to base. Over." Jackson got frustrated, flipping her radio shut. "I can't get a signal," she said. "But I can get us back to base. Y/L/N, give me the Holo."

For a second, you didn't even know she was talking to you. Whether it be the shock or just the fact that she had barely spoken to you this entire time, it didn't register. When it did, you met her eyes looking at you expectantly. "Y/L/N, what did I just say? The Holo. Come on, let's go."

Boggs' words resounded in your head as all eyes turned to you. Don't trust them.

Your grip on the Holo got tighter. You didn't break eye contact as you told her, "Boggs gave it to me."

Jackson paused her movements, stopping to give you her full attention. "What are you talking about?"

Katniss backed you up, stepping forward and closer to you at the same time. "He did. He transferred Y/L/N his security clearance. Homes, Gale, and I saw it."

Jackson's gaze was unwavering, her voice colder. "And why would he do that?"

You were a great liar. When you were younger, you wanted to be a storyteller, so it made sense when you grew up to spin lies like clockwork. A liar, an actor, a victor, a dancer. You came up with a lie quickly. "I'm on special orders from Coin."

You maintained her stare as she questioned, "To do what?"

"To assassinate President Snow for all of Panem to see." 

It wasn't too far-fetched of a lie, but you had a feeling that no matter what lie you gave, Jackson wouldn't have believed it anyway. 

"I don't believe that for one second," she deadpanned. "As your new unit commander, I order you to transfer security clearance to me. Now."

Allies could only last so long before survival and power came into play, and you were in the Capitol. Power was the only thing that was important here. But this wasn't about power. 

This was about the people.

You weren't gonna let anything or anyone get in your way.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The 76th Hunger Games.

You kept your voice soft as you asserted, "I apologize, Lieutenant Jackson, but I cannot and will not do that."

Jackson stared at you for a second, almost like she was challenging you to redact your statement. When you didn't, she reached for her side. Guns were immediately drawn before she even pulled hers.

You were staring down a barrel as Katniss, Finnick, and Gale had their weapons pointed at her. One of the Leegs had a gun pointed their way, too, while everyone else just stayed still, glancing between you.

It almost surprised you when Finnick was the first to speak, and you didn't know why. "Woah, now," he warned. You could hear the smirk on his face in his words, so similar to that dangerous boy in The Games who laughed at any obstacle. "Let's not be too hasty."

Jackson ignored him, doubling down. "I'm not asking you again, Y/L/N." Her glare was menacing. "Give me that Holo."

She may have shot you then and there when she saw you weren't gonna cooperate, but before you could find out, Cressida was stepping in front of you. "She's telling the truth." What? 

She continued, "Plutarch wants it televised. He thinks if we could film the Princess assassinating Snow, it'll make the Capitol surrender before the casualties get too high."

"Look, while we're in here pointlessly arguing, there's 100 Peacekeepers on their way here right now to confirm that we're dead." Finnick's voice was rugged as he cut in, impatient. But only you could detect the undertone of worry.

Jackson seemed swayed but not swayed enough. Her grip on her gun didn't falter. You had to say something before there was a bullet in your skull and this was all for nothing. This couldn't all be for nothing.

"Boggs wanted this," you pressed. "And he wanted to help me."

You saw the waver in her eyes despite the gun still raised for your head, and you knew you got to her. You maintained her stare, silently pleading that she'd put it down. Eventually, she did.

You let out a short breath you didn't know you were holding. Jackson looked down, and then she nodded. "Alright, soldier." She looked back up at you. "Holo's yours."

You nodded back to her in thanks. The tension in the air didn't fully dissipate, but the guns had all now been lowered. Gale went for the stairs, cautiously stepping down on the first step to see nothing happen. In the time you were arguing, it appeared that the sludge had dried.

He turned back to the rest of you. "I don't think we're gonna leave any footprints. We should move now. And those cameras outside should be covered up the oil."

From next to the Leeg in the corner, Castor interjected, "She can't move forward like this. Her leg is too bad. We have to evacuate her." She hissed and whimpered as he spoke. Then he realized what words lingered in the air, the conclusion you all had reached but didn't want to voice. 

You had to leave her here.

At the realization, an apology was tumbling out of his mouth, but the girl's sister cut him off. "I'll stay with her."

Jackson reassured her, "As soon as we make contact, we will send somebody back. I promise you." Katniss' stare was so intense you could almost feel her thoughts.

If we make contact.

"Alright, everybody move out. Let's go!"

Any guilt you had for leaving the Leegs there had to be diminished; you had to focus. You and Katniss moved out side by side. In the background, you heard Finnick asking Peeta if he could walk.

Gale was right; the cameras outside were completely shielded by the tar. It had dried up everywhere like frozen ice—your own little winter wonderland. Except, in this wonderland, you had nightlock instead of potions that made you grew taller, guns instead of playing cards, and the mad hatter was a ruthless dictator trying to kill you all.

What odd music you had in wonderland.

But you danced anyway.

The net with Mitchell's body hung over you like a cloud, but none of you had time to pause and pay your respects. Gale and Jackson led the flock. You got far enough away from the building you were in to another in the same vicinity.

He shattered the glass with the butt off his crossbow. He and Jackson went running in first, checking the place to see if it was empty. Your immediate task was closing the curtains, but once you turned around you were stunned by the house's sheer beauty.

It wasn't a family home—you could tell, but it was so big for one person. Holographic walls, a decor mirror, a lavish velvet couch and matching armchairs surrounding a block television protruding out of the ceiling.

Not even your house in Victor's Village had been so luxurious. Even the curtains looked like they cost a year's salary from back home.

"Wow," a voice drawled. "Well, didn't we get lucky?"

Finnick's sarcasm was so familiar you went to roll your eyes, but the sound of tires on the ground cut you off in motion. Your guard flew back up as you discreetly peeked out the window.

Peacekeepers. Dozens of them. Big cars, too. All of them armed, and all of them going for the building you were just in.

You didn't have time to make the connection. They just started firing.

Oh, God.

Finnick's voice was now devoid of anything unserious. "It's the Leegs."

Oh, God.

Those shots might've been enough to kill them. But if they weren't, then the missile they launched certainly was.

The building came tumbling down, falling to pieces as you all simultaneously fell, too, crouching down. You felt your heartbeat strong, rattling against your ribcage, hearing it beat in your ears, mingling with the beat of the music.

As soon as we make contact, we will send somebody back.

That was a lie.

They were dead.

You weren't even sitting with information for a minute before a beep sounded, followed by the fanfare. Slowly, your head lifted. 

MANDATORY VIEWING. ATTENTION ALL PANEM RESIDENTS, the screen read. Soon, the blue sreen faded into Caesar Flickerman, and you were clenching your jaw, white hot anger running through your veins and electrifying every part of your body.

"You've got to be fu-"

"Good afternoon, I'm Caesar Flickerman," he cut Finnick off, resulting in a scoff. You could imagine him rolling his eyes, too. "Here with our continuing coverage of the defense of the Capitol." Now you rolled your eyes.

Every single word Caesar spoke was complete and utter propaganda bullshit. You wished now that you would've decked him when you had the chance, given him the finger and told him to go poke and prod in someone else's life.

He was nothing more than a mutt at Snow's disposal.

"Today, as our Peacekeepers valiantly hold off the rebels, our story... takes a surprising twist."

Following his statement, footage of all of you played from when you were running away from the oil. "Y/N Y/L/N, the girl we once deemed our Princess, and Katniss Everdeen, our once favourite daughter, have now infiltrated the city with some of the victors, whose names are all too familiar." You rolled your eyes again at Caesar's deliberate pacing and dramatic word choice. 

This was the man who once nearly praised you on a daily basis. He's the one that made that God awful nickname stick. Yet here he was now, turning his back on a group of people he once claimed to cherish.

Had you become too human for his liking?

"Finnick Odair and Peeta Mellark." He emphasized Peeta's name with careful precision, just as he came on screen, pushing Katniss to the side and trying to bludgeon her to death. You intook a sharp breath, glancing to Katniss first; she was already looking at Peeta. Her eyes were now more betrayed, like seeing it on TV was different, and his eyes were still glued to the screen, like he couldn't even believe he did it.

"Hm. Clearly, some alliances don't last forever."

Katniss' eyes slowly flickered away, and without really thinking about it, you grabbed onto her hand, squeezing it tightly just to show her you were there. She surprised you by squeezing back with the same force.

Caesar's voice suddenly got more smug. "Take a look at what happened just a moment ago, when our Peacekeepers cornered the former Princess and her band of foolish rebels. Whatever arrogance brought this treacherous girl back to us, you are about to witness a great victory, not only for the Capitol, but for Panem."

Video of the destruction from across the street played onscreen. You watched yourselves supposedly go up in flames.

Supposedly, you were dead.

"So there you have it. Y/N Y/L/N, Panem's Princess, a girl who inspired so much violence, seems to have met a violent end herself." A light chuckle escaped you against your will. You were dead? "Stay tuned for more information. Caesar Flickerman. Thank you."

Caesar ended with a smile that was so creepy it was comical. You felt like laughing again, but decided that propbably wasn't appropriate. Jackson didn't like you very much as it was, likely because of the title Caesar so eloquently gave you.

Royalty. You didn't feel so royal lying in sheets with men old enough to father you, men that were fathers.

Somehow, you didn't feel so royal lying on a cold metal slab, either

"So now that we're dead, what are we gonna do?" Gale questioned.

Peeta spoke up. "Isn't it obvious?" All eyes turned to him. No one had expected him to speak—it was his first attempt since nearly killing Katniss and actually killing Mitchell. "The next move is to kill me."

Katniss took a step forward, but you don't think it was concious. You don't think anything about what she felt toward that boy was conscious.

His voice was wrought with guilt. "I murdered one of our squad members." He paused as if trying to come to terms with it. It was the first time any of you had even acknowledged it. "Katniss is right. I'm a mutt. And it's only a matter of time before I snap again." They made eye contact for a second until he broke it, looking away. "I'm not in control. I need a nightlock pill, so I can die when I need to."

Gale's interruption was sharp and honest. "If it gets to that point, I'll kill you myself." You got the feeling he'd do it regardless.

His admission sliced through the room. He got up moments after, walking to somewhere else in the large townhouse. It was really so big that you didn't understand how it could still be called a townhouse. Kids back home would call this mansion.

You didn't let Gale get lost in it, though, standing up and following him to the kitchen. He entered the pantry; you were right behind him, closing the door.

You narrowed your eyes. His face was impassive but you could see the slighest bit of surprise in his eyes. That just pissed you off even more.

From the moment you met Gale Hawthorne, something didn't feel right. It wasn't that he was a bad man, just that you knew he'd be willing to do bad things for a chance of the right outcome. And you could understand that—you understood him most of the time, but that was out of line.

So you told him that. "You didn't need to say that to Peeta. Not like that." 

He scoffed. "I said what needed to be said. No one else would-"

"You twisted the knife, Gale!" you loudly whispered, eyes now narrowing into slits. "It's called compassion—try it."

"You heard him, Y/N—he's a mutt," he argued, not bothering to match your low volume and throwing his arm out, nearly knocking over a box of cereal in the process. "What kind of compassion does he deserve?"

At that, you took a step closer to him. "You have no idea what it's like." You pointed your finger in his face, consumed by anger. Anger for Peeta, for that boy you saw on TV with Finnick who was willing to kill himself for The Girl on Fire. For the boy who was nervous to meet you. For the boy whose screams you heard for nights on end. A fire burned in your eyes, a fuse now lit that couldn't be contained. "It was hell here. Peeta, Johanna, and I went through hell. You can't expect him to be all fine and dandy after that. And I know how you feel about Katniss, I do. I care about her, too, Gale—she's my person, and so as her person, I am telling you that knocking out the competition won't score you any points with her. Let her come to the decision herself." You went to turn but then added, "And leave Peeta alone."

You didn't want to see the guilt painted all over his face after that, opening the door and leaving him in the pantry by himself.

You weren't excusing what Peeta did, but you knew that he needed time. He needed the time to find himself again. He wasn't the same person. And neither you were you.

You may not have known it, but you needed to find yourself again, too.

The lot of you sat in the living room of the house for some time, waiting it out until it was safe to move. Until then, you ate marshmallows and other little treats stashed in this person's home.

You eat like this, you'll believe anything, Gale had said, and you thought he was right. If you lived like this, grew up like this and were born into this life of opportunity and opulence, then you were sure that you'd believe almost anything, too.

But genocide? you wondered. Perhaps the sun shines brighter here.

Perhaps it blinded them.

Suddenly, the fanfare started, making you all look up to the TV to see the Capitol logo fade into faces—your faces. A showcase of your deaths, like you were fallen tributes.

Finnick's face came onscreen. You heard his snicker from somewhere in the room. Then came you. You shook your head at the ridiculousness of it all.

Didn't they know? You were still dancing.

You'd be dancing until your song ended with Snow's dying breath.

After Peeta and Katniss' pictures played, the montage transitioned into Snow's face. An involuntary shiver overtook your body.

You heard his voice before he even started speaking.

Oh, sweet girl. I will make you wish that you died in that arena.

"So, Y/N Y/L/N, a girl we gave the world, a disgrace to our nation, is now dead. And Katniss Everdeen, a poor unstable girl with nothing but a small talent with a bow and arrow, joins her in the ground." He sounded pleased of himself. "Neither of them thinkers, nor leaders. Simply faces, plucked from the masses—a silly girl with a crown and a deranged one with a song."

You scoffed at the smugness in his tone. A silly girl with a crown. It was funny that you weren't laughing.

"Were they valuable? They were extremely valuable to your... rebellion. Because you have no vision, no true leader among you," he lectured. "You call yourself an alliance. But we saw what that means. Your soldiers are at each other's throats-"

Snow was cut off from his rant by random glitching. Not random, you realized. Your lips curved upward just the smallest bit. Beetee.

Alma's face graced the screen, replacing Snow. "Good evening," she greeted. "For those of you who don't know me, please allow me to introduce myself. I am President Alma Coin, leader of the rebellion. I have interrupted a broadcast from your president in which he attempted to defame two incredibly brave young women." She paused, collecting herself. "'Faces, picked from masses,' he called them. As if any leader, a true leader, could be anything else."

The emotion and conviction in her voice nearly made you believe she actually liked you. "I had the privilege of knowing a small-town girl from the Seam in district 12, and a girl from the water in district 4, both of whom survived the Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell—and rose up and turned a nation of slaves into an army." Her voice raised at the end; she sounded like she might cry. "Dead or alive, Y/N Y/L/N and Katniss Everdeen will remain the faces of this revolution. They will not have died for nothing."

From the seat beside you, Katniss muttered under her breath, "I had no idea I meant so much to her."

You huffed a barely-there chuckle. "Me neither."

Coin continued, "Their vision and ours will be realized. A free Panem, with self-determination for all. And in their memory, we will all find the strength to rid Panem of its oppressors." She took a breath. "Thank you. And be safe."

The screen then faded to pictures of you and Katniss, a whistle playing in the background. It was from The 74th Games—it belonged to a girl named Rue, you think. You could remember watching her hide away from everyone in training, knowing that she wouldn't last.

A 12-year-old girl, sent into the arena to die.

That thought spurred you into drive. You got up. "Snow is in his mansion," you said. "Where is that?" You placed the Holo down on the coffee table, pressing a button and watching it illuminate with the Capitol's hologram.

The others gathered around you. Cressida pointed to spots on the map, informing you, "That's us. That's the City Circle. It's at least, 70- 75 blocks north."

That appeared to catch Finnick's attention. "75 blocks?"

Without thinking about it, you responded, "Nobody knows we're alive. This is our chance." Your eyes met his, and just then did you realize that you were talking to him. You quickly averted your gaze, switching the topic. "These buildings," you pointed, "Do these look over Snow's gardens?"

Cressida was unsure. "I..."

"They do," Castor replied.

"Well, if he goes outside at all, we could get a clear shot." You glanced to Katniss who nodded back to you. It was undecided between the two of you who'd get to deliver the final blow. You wanted to, so badly, but if there was anyone who deserved it just as much, it was her.

When the time came, you'd decide.

"We're getting ahead of ourselves here. Whether they're looking for us or not, we are pinned down," Jackson cut in, subsequently instructing you to hit the middle button to scan for pods.

When the map lit up, you sighed. "That's just about every ten steps."

"Yeah, and that doesn't even show the new ones," Gale reminded you.

Finnick's voice was tired. "So we can't go anywhere in the streets."

"And the rooftops are just as bad," Jackson added.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Pollux tap Castor, pointing his finger down. Realization dawned upon his face. "There might be another way."

Tunnels.

Unanimously, it was decided that you'd take Pollux's suggestion. He said he knew the tunnels well, and it was a good way for you guys to go undetected.

So you packed up what little you had, strapping yourself with weapons, and grabbing the Holo. And just as quickly as you all were there, you were gone, slipping into the night.

The tunnels were huge and spacious. It was surprising that you'd never been down there once, that there were still so many parts of the Capitol you hadn't seen. It didn't feel that way after sleeping in so many Capitol beds.

If that could be called sleeping.

You walked with the Holo in hand, navigating your way through. Everything was fine until you heard the sound of a train's engine. 

Like lightning, you all ran to the side, hiding behind the wall and out of the train's sight. You exhaled once it passed. You could only pray it didn't catch a glimpse of you.

But prayers couldn't be enough. You turned to Pollux. "We're too exposed here."

He nodded then gestured forward with his hand. You let him take lead, following him to a door. The door opened to another ladder that you went down without further question.

It was darker, and there was half-dried up liquid all over the floor, but one quick check of the Holo told you that this place was clear. For the time being, at least.

Smoke went off in one of the hallways that spooked you, but it was fine once you realized that it was just normal smoke. You could still remember that smoke from the Quell, how it felt as it licked your skin.

But you're fine, Y/N. You're not there anymore.

You willed yourself to believe this was a war, not a game. 

You refused to be someone's chess piece any longer.

You eventually came across a little tunnel where Jackson suggested you rest, electing herself to take first watch.

You sat down, glancing at Finnick and looking away before he could notice. Your eyelids got heavier. It'd been nearly two days since you last slept.

You were tired.

No, you were exhausted.

Unknowingly, your eyelids started to droop shut. It wouldn't hurt to get a few hours of shut-eye, you reasoned. You needed to be sharp for what lied ahead of you.

So, within a matter of seconds, you drifted into an abyss of nothingness.

"Y/N, my dear, it is so lovely to see you again."

A smile was etched onto your face, like you were a puppet and the puppeteer that stood before you controlled your every move. The puppeteer made you extend your hand and shake his own. He pulled at your strings and got you to sit at the chair in front of his bureau.

Then he forced your mouth to open, spilling rehearsed pleasantries that you didn't actually mean. "President Snow, it is always a pleasure."

It wasn't. Nothing about meeting Snow in his office was pleasurable to you.

He sat in his red chair that was akin to a throne, higher than you. It was a reminder—a reminder that, even though you had won your Games, and even though you now basked in riches and fame, you were still beneath him. You were still beneath every person in the Capitol you would ever meet, and he sought to make sure you'd never forget it.

"Pleasure," he repeated. "That's an interesting word, isn't it?"

You furrowed your brows, unsure of what he was getting at. "I... I suppose so."

He hummed and just took to staring at you. Was his goal to make you squirm under his gaze? You were certain it was, but you didn't. You kept your cool and maintained his stare. Whatever President Snow called you in for, you were determined to show you could handle it.

You wanted him to like you.

And what a mistake that was.

"Y/N, I am sure that, by now, you've been made aware of the... infatuation people have with you," he started, tilting his head like it was a question. It wasn't, but he did expect a response.

"Yes, I've heard chatter."

He tilted his head again, feigning interest. "What kind of chatter, dear?"

You swallowed. What did he want you to say? Somehow, it felt like no matter what your answer was, this was a trap. "I- people liked my performance, they like my personality. They think... they think that I'm-"

He cut you off, "Captivating? Note-worthy? Attractive?" His last adjective elicited another swallow from you. The word sounded slimy coming out of his mouth. "All-encompassing, Y/N, you are desirable."

Trap. This was a trap. Still, you questioned, "Desirable? What does- what does that mean?"

He didn't answer you, going back to his stare from earlier, but this time it spoke to you. You know what it means, his eyes read. But you didn't. You didn't want to.

You were regretting coming here. You wanted to go back home to lie in your bed, curl yourself up in the covers you never had as a child and sleep. You had a doctor now, one you could afford, that prescribed you medication just to sleep; you wanted to use it right about now.

Then Snow made you wish you had just downed the whole bottle when you had the chance.

"I have a deal for you."

A deal with the devil.

And soon enough, you were stuck dancing his dance 'til the end of time.

"Y/N." 

You were shaken out of your dream by someone tapping your knee. Your eyes fluttered open to see Jackson crouched down in front of you. "It's your watch," she informed you.

You nodded, masking how thrown off you were by standing up, moving to go sit toward the opening. Your legs felt shaky against the ground, but you willed them to move.

You ended up sitting across from Peeta. Finnick was right next to him, his head lulled forward, eyes closed. Good, you thought, they both deserved the sleep.

Finnick always had trouble sleeping in high-stress situations. He had trouble sleeping regardless, sometimes more than you. You caught him awake more times that you could count, nursing a glass of something strong and staring at nothing instead of trying to sleep.

You should've known this time would be no different.

You were staring at the opening when you heard his voice. "Y/N?"

Instantly, your head snapped toward his. His head was upright now, no longer lulled over, and his eyes weren't closed—they were trained on you. A shaky breath left you, from being either startled or frustrated.

Why can't he ever leave well enough alone?

You opened your mouth to reiterate what you already told him, but he was faster. "I know." He paused, staring at you in that way you hated. His voice was quieter now. "I know. You don't wanna talk to me."

"So then why?" you asked, pleading for him to tell you the truth. "Why do you keep doing it?" Why did he insist on continually hurting you?

You were already in love with him. He already had your heart in the palm of his hand, so why did he feel the need to crush it?

It was already broken.

There was something about Finnick's expression you couldn't decipher, something that almost looked pained, and that pained you, too. For a moment, you almost thought you were spared, that he'd pretend to go back to sleep and you'd pretend to believe it, just like old times.

But when was the universe ever so kind to you?

"I do remember the night we met," he revealed. His eyes were sincere; you wanted to look away, but yours were locked on his. The two of you had never talked about this before. "The- the real night. But that wasn't the first time I saw you." He paused, swallowing. "I saw you win. I saw you back home. I saw you in the Capitol dozens of times, but- that night... I don't know what changed. You always looked beautiful, but that night you looked like an angel, Y/N." Your throat tightened, water welling up in your eyes. And then he went in a different direction. "But you were drinking. You looked... sad. And I- I wondered to myself, how could such a beautiful girl be so sad?"

You had to cut him off. "Finnick-"

"So I went up to you," he continued, ignoring your protest. "I had to. Something pulled me to you like a- like a magnet. And up close, you didn't just look like an angel anymore—I saw a goddess. A goddess whose voice dripped of all things sweet and bitter at the same time." He sounded breathless, his eyes glazed over like he was reliving the memory just as you were. "You enchanted me, Y/N."

You were speechless. You didn't know if you could speak even if you had the words. It was almost certain that, if you spoke, you'd cry.

Not once did he look away. Not once. God, he looked like he meant it. And that just made it hurt all the more.

"That was the night we met," he affirmed. "I remember the pretend, but the pretend isn't what I thought about while you were gone. What I remember best isn't the pretend." His gaze got heavier. "It's everything real that we had."

Real.

This felt real. And the tear that raced down your cheek felt real. The hoarseness in his voice felt real. The weight on your chest felt so real that you almost thought you were suffocating.

Do you want this to be real, Y/N?

Yes, of course, you did. A part of you did.

But did you really?

If this was real, would that make the pain easier to manage?

You didn't get to finish that thought. You didn't get to respond. There was a thud far off, something dropping in the water that caught your attention.

Simultaneously, both yours and Finnick's heads turned to the opening. It was complete and utter darkness—there was nothing there.

Then another drop. That made you brace your bow, your other hand going to wipe your cheek. Your eyes suddenly felt much drier.

Finnick got up before you could, going to the opening. You shot upward right after. "Finnick."

He held back two fingers without turning around. "Hold on. Just let me check it out."

You didn't listen, following him into the cavelike tunnel with the Holo turned on. It began chiming immediately, but the light you shined everywhere didn't pick anything up but dirty walls.

If you listened hard enough, it was almost as if you could hear your own name being whispered and bounced off the walls, drawn out purposefully.

You tilted your head and closed your eyes, focusing on the sounds entirely. Water droplets and Finnick's footsteps could be heard, your own breathing, and then you heard it again.

Y-Y-Y/N.

Your eyes flew wide open. "Do you hear that?"

Finnick turned to you but then a shuffle from back inside the tunnel interrupted whatever he was going to say. 

"Katniss."

Both of you turned back to see Peeta waking up, the others not very far behind him.

Jackson, who you couldn't see, questioned, "What is that?

Peeta came to the answer faster than either of you, rushing, "We gotta go. We gotta get outta here now."

"Keep your voice down-"

"Mutts! They released mutts!"

Shit. You quickly re-entered the tunnel. "Pollux, what's the fastest way out?"

Without another word, Pollux was up and leading the way. Gale stood next to him, shooting an incendiary down the path before you went down. 

Fire. Clear. It was safe to continue. You walked slowly, Jackson covering the back.

There was another tunnel on your left. Fire. Clear. Nothing.

On your right was a much more narrow tunnel, ending in a very small opening. The rest of you lit up the way while Pollux crawled in. Nobody spoke as he checked the area. It was silent except for your laboured breaths.

Then you couldn't even hear that. Your breath hitched as he went out of your view. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10-

Ten seconds. Ten seconds and then he was back. You exhaled as he came back into sight, signalling that it was clear to come in. 

Gale and Katniss went first. Then you, then Finnick, Peeta, and the others. Jackson was the last to come in. She shined her flashlight on the path you came from until she decided it was okay to enter.

As soon as she put her flashlight down, your stomach dropped.

No-

Jackson spun around, revealing dozens of mutts with pale, slimy skin and grizzly teeth. They didn't have eyes, but you saw their claws as they took her to the ground.

You gasped. Katniss immediately drew an arrow and shot at the opening, launching an explosion that sent you both backward into the water.

"Go! Go! Go! It's mutts!"

You took the hand that was outstretched to you without even looking at who it belonged to, and in a flash, you were up and running. Peeta screamed, "Pollux, lead us out of here!"

You ran like hell, but the mutts caught up to you. Briefly, it registered to you that there could've been tens and tens more.

One knocked Castor into the water behind you, leaving Cressida to scream his name. You barely noticed Finnick shooting one at your side as you knelt down, drawing an arrow and shooting, lighting them up like candles.

But Castor was still there. He was screaming. 

"Y/N, come on, move!" 

Finnick shook you out of your stupor, grabbing you and practically dragging you upward. That removed you from your trance, sending you running.

You were going straight until another horde of mutts came your direction, forcing you to turn to the tunnel on the left. They're coming from all sides.

You stopped as you ran into a larger area, spinning around and firing another explosive arrow into the tunnel you just came through. There was a ladder here—you just had to fend them off long enough to get there.

Katniss and you stayed on the ground, firing arrows left and right, trying to stop them from getting inside. She turned and one jumped down at her, leading you to shoot at it. She shot one coming from behind you; you shot one from the front.

But they were fast. You didn't see one coming until it was coming right at you, too close for you to fire. Your eyes widened as it pushed you against the wall; the only thing stopping it from mauling was your bow cushioned between it and your body.

Reflexively, your free hand went to the sword on your side. You raised it into the air and brought it down right on its neck, simultaneously kicking it away from you. Just as that one was gone, another came running from your right. You stabbed without a second thought.

Another got too close from your left. You hit it over the head with your bow, backing it with enough force to snap its neck. 

Too slow, you realized, quickly sheathing your sword and hanging the bow on your back, replacing it with the 9mm strapped to your thigh, promptly shooting the mutt in front of you.

You spun, seeing Katniss trying to fight off a mutt on top of her. You shot it with precise aim, killing it immediately.

Before you could even go to help her up, you were being knocked to the ground, your gun flying out of your hands.

You shuffled backward on the platform using the heels of your hands, eyes wild with the realization that it was right in front of you, but then just as it was about to come down on you, it was impaled from behind, a familiar trident glinting in the light.

A sigh of relief escaped you as Finnick threw the mutt to the ground, swinging at the next one like clockwork. That gave you the second you needed to get your bearings. You unsheathed your sword a second time, running up and covering him, slashing away at mutts on auto-pilot.

Your feet moved with a mind of their own, dancing with relentless determination. Finnick and you stood back to back, killing mutts like it was nothing.

The area was almost empty; just about everyone had gone up the ladder already, everyone but you, Finnick, and Katniss. She was on the ground, a mutt in front of her. You ran to her, sinking your sword into it and tossing it away before pulling her up. "Go, go, go!"

She followed your direction, running for the ladder. You hacked away at another one just as you heard Finnick scream, "Katniss!"

Immediately, you spun around, watching him throw his trident at a mutt trying to pull her down. Shit. He was weaponless.

A mutt crashed into him, and you wasted no time to pull out your second gun, shooting it in its centre. You ran to him, shooting two more on your way, and pulled him up. "Come on! Let's go!"

He rapidly nodded back to you, and you booked it, him running behind you. You made it to the ladder, climbing up like your life depended on it because it did. You were almost there when you heard Finnick scream, a mutt biting into his shoulder, but he stabbed it and pushed it to the ground.

You made it up to the top, looking down to see him up two-thirds of the way when a mutt jumped up and grabbed his shoulder. Your eyes went wide. "FINNICK!" 

He lost his grip, and your hand shot down at the speed of light, grabbing his. You surprised yourself at your own strength, pulling him up. Katniss quickly reached down to help you.

You don't know what the sound left you was; it was like a sob. He's okay. He's okay.

But if you were one second later, he wouldn't have been.

Without thinking about, you threw your arms around him. He reciprocated immediately, hugging you just as tight. Another sob left you. He's okay. He's okay.

I love him, and he's okay.

"Come on, come on, come on, come on! Let's go!" That brought you back to your senses, making you let go of him despite every bone in your body that said not to. "Keep moving! Keep moving!"

Katniss shot an arrow down the ladder just to slow down any mutts that'd follow you, and then the three of you were off once more.

You ran into the train station, and immediately, you were met with bullets flying your way. Not mutts this time. Peacekeepers.

Katniss pulled you behind a pole with her, soon realizing there were Peacekeepers attacking from the side, too. She shot an arrow at them, causing them and the escalator they were on to explode.

We have to run. It was either run or stay there to die. You pulled at her sleeve; she got the memo, running with you to the side.

One of the lights flickered before shining even brighter, like a spotlight. You soon realized its purpose when Messalla ran underneath it and was instantly vapourized, becoming nothing more than ashes.

Cressida stopped, her mouth falling open. You had to force yourself to yell at her. "Keep going! Keep going!" She got out of her shock and then started running again.

You didn't have time to stop and mourn over the life lost.

You raced through the station, shooting behind yourself periodically and dodging the light traps as you went.

But that wasn't enough. Not enough to satisfy the sick fantasies of a Gamemaker.

The ground behind you broke, and then it was coming at you like wave of rubble, forcing you to run faster than you ever had.

With all of your might, you jumped onto the platform, breaking your fall with a roll. Panting, you got back up, and you would've kept running had you not heard Cressida scream Peeta's name.

You turned around, seeing Katniss already running toward him. He was knelt forward, hands covering his ears. She crouched down next to him. "Peeta, we have to keep going!"

"I'm a mutt-"

"We have to keep going!"

 "I can't keep control!"

"Yes, you can-"

"Leave me, I'm a mutt!"

Katniss kept wrestling against him. "Look at me!" She grabbed his face into her hands. "Look at me." Within a split-second, her lips crashed into his, kissing him like he wasn't breathing and needed CPR.

Anyone watching could feel the love she had for that boy.

You glanced at Finnick to see him already looking at you, then you promptly looked away. This wasn't about you.

When she finally pulled away, she was nearly begging him. "Stay with me." And when you saw the look on his face, you knew that she got to him.

"Always," he whispered.

Katniss nodded, and then she pulled him up and you were running out. It was snowing when you got outside, a thin layer covering the ground. 

"I know where we are!" Cressida shouted, turning back to you. "I know a place. Up those stairs!"

You followed her, running up the stairs and passing a portrait of Finnick on the way, the words WANTED written on it in bold. There were likely similar ones all around the city. Your theory was proven correct when you ran past another post, this time with your own face.

Cressida ran forward to some dress shop, banging on the door. It almost looked like it was empty until you saw someone's figure behind the pixelated glass.

A woman opened the door and you all immediately ran inside, Cressida exclaiming, "Shut the door, shut the door!"

Katniss immediately raised her bow at the woman, drawing an arrow until Cressida assured her it was okay. While Finnick and Gale went to secure the perimeter, you stayed and examined the woman, getting a good look at her.

She had a tiger pattern tatted, framing her face and going down all the way to her neck, with whiskers. The orange, furry coat she wore completed her appearance. She looked familiar; you just couldn't pinpoint from where.

Cressida walked up to her. "Tigris, do you remember me? I'm with Plutarch's underground." Tigris just stared at her blankly. "We need your help."

In the background, someone shouted that it was clear. You watched as Tigris' eyes then locked on you. She didn't stare long before she acquiesced, leading you to another part of the shop. The boys met you on your way there.

She lifted a quilt off the ground, revealing a hidden trap door. It opened to a flight of stairs, and then the puzzle pieces suddenly clicked.

"I- I know you," you said. "You were a stylist in the Games."

She paused, removing her hood. "Until Snow decided I wasn't pretty enough anymore." Her hands ended up on her hips.

Pretty enough. That was all shades of ironic to you. How could such an ugly man decide what was beautiful?

Your mouth moved on its own accord. "We're here to kill him."

Tigris was impassive, but if you looked hard enough, you could see the slight curve of her lips.

You went down the stairs. She closed the door once the last of you was down. You were cemented to your spot by the stairs, listening to the sound of Pollux cry. His brother was dead.

The Leegs. Jackson. Castor. Messalla. Even Finnick almost died, and you don't know what you would've done if that happened, if he died due to decisions that you made.

This was your fault. This wasn't a game, but you played it like one. Now everyone that was dead was dead because of you.

Cressida said something about Gale needing stitches, along with Finnick. Slowly, you turned around, swallowing. This is my fault.

The words came tumbling out of your mouth. "I made it up." All eyes went to you. No take-backs now. "Everything." Your voice cracked. "There- there is no special mission from Coin, it's just- it was just my plan." Don't cry, Y/N. Don't cry. You don't deserve to cry. "Everyone that's dead is dead because of me—I lied."

"We know," Cressida said. "We all knew."

Your brows knitted together. They knew? "Wh- the soldiers from 13?"

"They did, too." They knew. "Do you really believe that Jackson thought you had orders from Coin?" Her voice wasn't accusatory, nor was it intended to be hurtful. It was genuine. She looked down. "She trusted Boggs and he clearly wanted you to go on."

But why? Why did Boggs trust you? Why did she lie for you, and why did any of them go with your plan?

"We had your back, Y/N." Your eyes darted to the new voice, meeting Finnick's blue eyes from across the room. His voice was soft, just as soft as it was earlier before the mutts came. "Always have. Always will."

Tears came to your eyes. Don't cry, Y/N. You sniffled. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I-" you cut yourself off. Don't cry, Y/N. You turned to Pollux. "I'm so sorry, Pollux. I'm so sorry."

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry-

"Glimmer. Marvel. Mags." You looked to the side, seeing Peeta with his eyes trained on the ground, reciting, "Clove. Wiress. Rue." He looked up at you. "Bay." Your breath hitched. Bay. "What do all those deaths mean?" 

You couldn't answer—because you didn't know. That was a question you'd been asking yourself since you were thrown into the arena at 15.

"They mean that our lives were never ours," Peeta said. "There was no real life, because we didn't have any choice. Our lives... belong to Snow, and our deaths do, too." 

Finnick's voice echoed in your head, words playing in your head that you had thought about a thousand times before. We will never be free, Y/N.

"But if you kill him—if you end all of this... all those deaths, they mean something." 

Your will was broken, a tear falling down your cheek against all your best restraint. Meaning. Every death since you were reaped for The Hunger Games and every death that came before it, they could all have meaning.

"Cinna. Boggs. Castor. Jackson. They chose this."

Katniss spoke up from beside you. "They chose you, Y/N." You turned to her, seeing the silent words that lied in her eyes. She nodded, as if confirming it for you. She was giving it to you.

Snow's death. It was yours.

So it was decided. You would kill President Snow. You would put an end to this, and you would give those deaths meaning. 

No matter what, even if it killed you. That didn't matter.

Your death would have meaning, too.

You were dressing Finnick's wound, wincing every time he hissed like you could feel the pain yourself. He didn't deny you when you sat next to him, a first aid kit in your hands.

You stitched him up like it was muscle memory, which it was. Your father taught you. I'm not always gonna be here, Y/N, he said, so there are some things I need to teach you so you can take of yourself. And your mother.

And you did. You took care of yourself and her for six years. Then you took care of yourself out in the wilderness in The Games, going as far as to kill people just to stay alive. When you got out, you continued to care of your mother, even as she refused to look at you. You sold your body and gave up your innocence so she would stay safe; you gave her your home.

Now where was she? She was dead.

But Finnick wasn't. He was still alive. He could've died right before your eyes, but he didn't. You couldn't let him die.

Your mother, she died without the two of you ever reconciling. You refused to let that be the case for you and Finnick. All of the grief and trauma between the two of you, it would be resolved. It had to be. Or, at least, it'd be as resolved as could be possible. 

Maybe there was too much too broken to be fixed. Maybe Finnick Odair and Y/N Y/L/N were doomed from the start.

But at least you had this. You had goodbye.

All of a sudden, he spoke up. "The plan was always to pull you out." You stopped what you were doing, your hands freezing in their place. "You were never supposed to be in The Games, Y/N. The Reaping was rigged."

"What?" Shock laced through your voice.

"You were supposed to stay in 4," he told you. "You were supposed to stay home, and then people from 13 would come pick you up." A breathless chuckle left him, one that you were sure hurt his ribs. "You were never supposed to volunteer."

Memories flooded your head.

Why would you do that?

Finn-

Why would you volunteer?

You intook a sharp breath, realization hitting you like a truck. The hiding away at the gala, talking to Plutarch, the way he wasn't surprised when the Quell was announced, the sheer anger he had when you volunteered. And then the insistence that you would be fine, that you were both gonna make it out of that arena.

Except you didn't.

"So that plan changed. Johanna was supposed to cut your tracker, but she didn't get the chance. Then Katniss shot the force field, and I-" his voice cracked, "I wanted to find you, but I couldn't move."

Stop. "Finnick-"

"I was gonna tell you." He turned around, facing you. "After The Games, I was gonna tell you that I loved you. But then they had you and I couldn't. But I do, Y/N." He grabbed onto your cheeks, and you let him. His eyes begged you to believe him. "I love you."

A shaky breath left you, the words reverberating through your head. I love you.

He loved you.

And this time, you believed him.

You rested your forehead against his. "God, I-" say it. "I love you, too."

In a heartbeat, Finnick's lips collided with yours. You didn't even have to think about before you kissed him back, your lips moving together in unison, dancing to the song you'd danced to for years. You realized this was your first time kissing him since the Quell, and you realized just how much you missed this.

Whenever Finnick kissed you, you felt loved, even if you knew he didn't love you.

Except this time, you knew he did.

When you pulled away, you couldn't help the smile that came across your face. When you opened your eyes, you saw that his face was no different.

This. This was what home felt like.

Even if you might not feel it again, it was nice to visit just one last time.

"When, um," you paused, running a hand through his hair. God, I missed this. "When all this is over, we can talk about everything."

His grin got wider when you thought that wasn't possible. "Okay. I can wait—I'd do anything for you." Your smile got a little hollow. I hope you let me die.

You were lying. You knew you wouldn't be here to talk about everything—you'd be dead by then. But you wanted to just have this, this one last moment. You wanted one last moment with Finnick, doing what the two of you did best. Pretending.

So you pretended everything was okay, and you made promises you couldn't keep.

"I love you, Y/N Y/L/N."

You smiled. "I love you, Finnick Odair." You'd love him to the end of time. You loved him to death. Soon, he'd realize that.

Goodbye, Finnick.

I love you.

Taglist: @avoxrising @mxacegrey @littleshadow17 @lovelyteenagebeard @nasyanastya @catastrxblues @zodiyack @zulpix-blog @mushroomelephant @muggies @lantsovheiress @hobiebrowns-wife @notplutos @faeriepigeons @hnslchw @unholyhuntress @aclmagic @gloryekaterina @ayme301 @lem0ns77 @kisskittenn @onlyangel-444 @moonagedaydream505 @spderm4nnnn @satellitespeirs @glitzcute @iammirrorball @corpsebasil @forever-sleepy-sloth @omwtkydttfym @divinelovers @maggiecc @i-am-a-simp1 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @nelliereadsstuff @how2besalty @dreaminglandsworld @eilaharmonia @catvader101 @lexa138 @h0neylemon @dakotali @hermionelove @theseerbetweenus @whosscruffylooking @yourdailymemedelivery @emma-andrea1 @s1lngwns @meenyminymoes-blog @roxi-reid @rattertatter @sunnybunnyy2 @just-levyy @amaranth-writing @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @joshhutchersonisdaddy @my-name-is-baby @hehehe13356 @quazsz @chloecharms23 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @thehairington86 @imaegonstargaryenswife0 @ment1tavoid @hereliesme @tayrae515 @mottergirl99 @blackdxggr

additional a/n: ru happy i didn't kill finnick?! it was very tempting, guys, but i had this planned out from the beginning. ALSO, bc i am skeptical that every tag on this taglist works, here is an additional taglist of everyone new that has asked to be on it.

[thelastofhyde]

ii. santorini.

pairing. tourguide!joel miller x fem!reader. series synopsis. on the brink of undergoing a life-altering change, you runaway from your problems in the only way any sane person can: embarking on a mediterranean cruise. there you meet joel miller, a grumpy, private tour-guide, who just so happens to be tasked with touring you through each stop on your cruise. from greek goddesses to roman ruins, you have ten days to avoid your fate. maybe a frowning, southern, sex-on-legs of a man is just what the doctor ordered. chapter summary. tensions are high as you and joel spend your first day together exploring the popular island of santorini. back on the boat, joel gets a glimpse at more than he bargained for. series warnings. no use of y/n, set in 2015, no apocalypse au, cruise!au, rom-com, enemies-ish to lovers, tour-guide!joel, unspecified age gap, depictions/discussions of grief, angst, fluff, a whole load of smut, a lot of cheesy stereotypical romance tropes bc i just wanna see joel not suffer ( too much ) <3 chapter warnings. mild smut ( female masturbation, mentions of oral sex + piv sex ), bickering, alcohol, mild angst, so much cheese it'll turn you lactose intolerant!! btw joel hates santorini and he makes that known, but none of his opinions reflect my own ( please don't be mean to me over things characters say <33 ) word count. 7.9k hyde’s input. the majority of this chapter was written with a mixture of medicine flowing through my veins, it's a miracle it's even intelligible. apologies for the wait, the holidays and health issues got in the way <3 as always, i hope you enjoy, comments an dreblogs are always appreciated !! previous chapter - next chapter - series masterlist

It is a known fact that your name and late rarely exist within the same sentence.

The mere thought of being late fills you with a sickness you cannot cure. The extremes you’ll go to avoid it know no bounds. From arriving four hours before a flight, to waiting in your car a whole hour before entering a lecture hall, adulthood is a phase in which you’d sworn to repair the damage of a childhood worth of not arriving late.

Late to school, late to birthday parties, late to dentist appointments.

It wasn’t that you were a particularly difficult child, running rampant around the house as your mother tried to dress you, or your father tried to feed you. Quite the contrary, really. Often, it was little-you who chased around after them, and who waited by the door, school bag in hand, tapping your foot with every second that ticked by on the clock. You were too young and hadn’t the ability nor the empathy to understand that your parents were held up with sorting through things directly influenced by your existence, like cleaning up the messes you left at the breakfast table, or fixing the doorknob you and your sister broke in an intense game of hide and seek.

Nowadays, you can count on one hand the times you’ve been late.

First, you were late to your own surprise birthday party, but that was down to you getting stuck an extra hour at work. It was out of your control.

Then, there’d been your graduation ceremony. Your father missed an exit and ended up taking you on a mystery tour of the city, trying to find the next turn that led to your campus. Again, out of your control.

The third time is the one you remember panicking over the most, knee bouncing uncontrollably with nerves as you sat squeezed between two strangers on a plane. Your sister, barely halfway through her third trimester, had gone into labour, and where were you? Stumbling around drunk on a private beach in Cancún, mumbling along to the lyrics of some early 2000s classic you forget the name of. Your niece, all 4 and a half pounds of her, had decided now was her time to shine and there was nothing, not even the 4 weeks she had yet to grow in utero, that was going to stop her. By the time you arrived, mascara smudged eyes and with the stench of tequila still on your skin, she was laying peacefully in her incubator, the tiniest little fingers clenched into fists and a name tag around her wrist. This too was out of your control.

But the fourth time you’re late, as you stride urgently across the wooden decking of the ship, weaving in and out of lounge chairs and polo-neck wearing crew members, it’s completely within your control.

Yet, it’s not entirely your fault.

An alarm that never went off. A game of hide-and-seek with your purse. An unfortunate slip on bathroom tiles adding another bruise to your knees. An elevator that refused to travel faster than the speed of a snail. It’s as though Lady Luck had set out in favour of being against you, doing her utmost to ensure you arrive exactly seven minutes past your deadline. His deadline.

Best be on the deck by 7 am, darlin’, or I’m dockin’ without ya.

Your head whips from one side to another, eyes finding a familiar figure amongst the few passengers meeting their own private guides. It’s the same man from yesterday, out on the balcony, the memory of him cheering his champagne and shooting a tipsy smile your way replaying. Only now he’s clad in plaid, with a frown etched into his forehead as he stares at his watch. There’s another man, hanging off his arm, fusing with the collar of his shirt.

“She’s late,” you overhear him say, voice firm and leaking with annoyance.

“Maybe she just slept in!” The man next to him is cheerier, tired eyes full of optimism, even as he turns his head and stifles a yawn. “Give her a few minutes.”

“What kind of shitty tour guide sleeps in?” Balcony-Man huffs, and you can’t help but think of your niece and her pouty face whenever she fails to get her own way. “Does she think I’d not rather be asleep too? Lazy c-”

“See? This is why I told you to eat that damn croissant before we left.” The taller of them seems to snap, rolling his eyes. “Brighten up, Bill, or so help me God you’ll be leaving this boat a divorcee.”

Trying to tune their voices out, as the guilt of prying crawls its way into your bones, your gaze points down at your feet. The very same heels you’d worn last night, pretty as they may leave you, have you cursing at the Sun and the Moon. If you’d have just worn your sneakers, maybe you could have ran up the stairs instead of taking the snail-evator.

Joel, tour guide, Signore Miller’s voice- though your imagination can’t quite reach his level of arrogance- rears its irritating head through your mind, recalling his words from last night. Wear somethin’ a little more… practical. That had been enough to awaken that stubborn mule inside of you, hell-bent on proving him wrong.

But now, late, and with him nowhere in sight, your heels seem to have had the opposite effect. They’ve proved him right.

Which leaves you here, moping so pathetically you’re incapable of appreciating the shine of a rising sun over the horizon of aqua blue water.

Five minutes, you decide. That’s how long you’ll allow yourself to dwell in self-pity. Then, you’ll trek your way over to the Excelsior lounge, hit up the breakfast buffet, and await the general disembarking time.

Who knows, maybe you’ll get a call to say there’s a miraculous spot opened up on one of the tour groups.

If not, you’ll be fine! You’ve travelled alone before, you’ve got an all-inclusive data plan on your phone and you’re pretty well-acquainted with the less-than-accommodating features of Google Maps. You don’t need help, or a tour guide, much less one as blood-boiling, skin-prickling, irritating as Joel Mil-

“Wasn’t sure how ya like your coffee, but you look like a milk, two sugars kind of girl to me.”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Or, in this case, think of him.

Turning a little too fast, you stumble a step or two back, and, sure enough, there he is. A tight fitting, dark grey t-shirt stretched over the swell of his biceps, a pair of washed-out denims, and two well-worn running shoes, one on each foot. Trailing up the swell of his tanned neck, you count the freckles up to his eyes, and find there’s bags under them. The growth of hair on his face is just as unkempt as yesterday, yet already it seems to have grown longer, making the litter of greys stand out more. The hair that sits atop his head is damp, and the strands that have managed to dry are being messed around by the morning air. He’s still got that ever-present frown stamped into his forehead, yet his mouth doesn’t seem to curl into a snarl as he calls your name.

You must stare a moment or two past his comfort level, for he clears his throat and nods down at his hand. Two to-go cups, the smallest streams of steam floating out the hole in each lid.

He’s extending one out- the one in his right hand- towards you. “If you’d rather black, you can take min-”

“No!” You snap back into your own body, all too quickly and all too volatile. Clear your throat, and then try again, this time with a little less of that im being held at gunpoint shake in your voice. “No… Thank you. It’s fine- Milk is fine.”

It’s more than fine.

In fact, he’s gotten it spot on. Down to the number of sugars you take.

But, still stubborn, you yearn to not give him the satisfaction of being right so early in the day, and instead settle for accepting the coffee out his hand. You welcome the golden warmth eagerly, eyes unable to resist slipping shut as you take your first sip. When they reopen, you find Joel watching you, intently. Purposefully, as though you’re something to be studied.

Clearing your throat, you glance to the side and spot Balcony-Man and his partner greeting an apologetic woman.

“Thanks for the, uh,” his stare is intimidating your nerves, setting you on edge of something you’re all to eager to jump off. “Coffee. Yeah. You didn’t have to… I mean, I actually thought you’d, you know, uh-”

“You thought I left without ya.” He states. All you can do is nod. “I could’ve. I did warn you not to be late.”

“You did.”

“I also told you to wear somethin’ other than them heels.”

“I know.”

“Yet here you are, late and in heels. You’re not very good at following orders.” He exhales something akin to a chuckle, as devoid of humour as it may be, and you swear he’s suddenly closer than you remember, knuckles brushing against your own as he bumps his paper cup against yours. “Just what am I gonna do with ya, huh?”

For a moment, you swear your heart has leaped from your chest and up to your throat, threatening to choke you with the beat of it. There’s no sense you can make of it, this reaction he rouses, a heat you can’t control creeping down your loins as you drag in a whiff of some manly cologne, the kind you’d usually turn your nose up at for being too overbearing. Yet, on him, it’s not. On him it’s just right, like he was born with pine soaked skin, and a tobacco stained kiss, and-

Before you can think of pulling in another breath, Joel’s stepped back, allowing a cool breeze to pass between you and get a hold of your senses.

“C’mon, we’re slotted in for the first tender that leaves for shore.”

“Oh my God.”

You’re half certain Joel’s growing sick of hearing those three words roll off your tongue. He’s likely felt this way since it first left your mouth, feet struggling to safely step out onto the dock as your mind became enchanted by the picturesque view in front of you. Only the burn of his hand meeting your lower back, nudging you ahead to make space for himself and the other passengers to step off the tender boat, was capable of dragging you back into your own body, the wanderlust that had gripped your soul yearning to be free to explore every building that sits carved into rock, every water-taxi that flows idly on cristaline water, every step that winds up and up and up the island’s cliff where, at the top, civilisation seems to lie.

The port you’ve docked on is rather small, with naught more than two docking strips and a walkway of shops and confection stands, with boats that find no space along the docking strips tying themselves to any safety they may find over the expanse of the walkway. It is no wonder the cruise floats safely out in deeper waters, alongside several other cruise lines, with no space for such large vessels. And, yet, the port is alive with something. The ground seems to pulse, like a beat of a heart, and the air, as fresh as the grass after heavy rainfall, almost dances its way down your lungs. Voices swim all around you, tourists scrambling past each other, fighting in a race towards something you’ve yet to identify.

“So this is Gialos, also known as the Old Port of Fira.” Somewhere, behind you perhaps, Joel’s voice pipes up, a speech so rehearsed and robotic, a part of your wonders how many times he’s recited it, how many people he’s recited it to. The other part of you, however, is much too fixated on the stairs ahead to pay him true attention, eyes following as two men and several donkeys descend. “That, up there, is Fira, the capital of Santorini. We’re going to need to take a cable- Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes!” You’re quick to react, a defensive rise in your voice. He meets it with a deadpan look and the crossing of his arms over his chest, which quickly becomes something you wish he wouldn’t do as you watch the tight fabric of his shirt stretch itself thin over the bulge of his arms. “No. Sorry, I’m just… Wow.”

You hope he appreciates the restraint you show towards repeating those three dreaded words again.

“You have all day to stare,” his words trip over his own irritated scoff, and you bite back a question of why he’s a guide if he seems to hate it so much, fearful he’s too honest to not tell you a truth that may hurt your fragile feelings. A truth where it is not so much his job he dislikes, but rather, your presence and all that it brings. “Right now, we need to move. Don’t wanna spend all day waitin’ in line now, do ya?”

This need for speed that hooks the other tourists seems to filter over into your guide, who’s forcing you forward, that heat of his palm now hovering inches away from your lower back. It’s enough to lead you where he pleases. As a pair, you weave in and out small clusters of people, till the space between you both and the large gathering crowd slowly diminishes. It is there where his once telepathic leading fails, with Joel turning left towards it as you stray right, over to the ascending pathway of stairs.

“Where are you going?” His tone is offended, almost, as he comes to a halt and watches you fail to do the same, to notice the space between you both and correct it like some puppy who’s been called to heel by its master.

“Where am I going?” The question, at first, is one you mistake as rhetorical. Staring back at him with an equaled confusion, you gesture to the stairway, as though it is the most obvious answer. Because, well, where else could you have been heading? He said so himself, that up there is Fira, the capital of Santorini, and you’ll be damned if you don’t get to see it. “Where are you going?”

“To the cable cars, that’ll take us up the island.”

Above the crowd of people, hanging over doors of small businesses, lay several signs. CABLE CARS - 6€ ! stands out, impossible to miss. Symbols you scarcely recognise sit beneath it, in smaller text, and you assume it’s Greek. In the distance, you spy the movement of the mobile boxes, people being carted up the length of the cliff at a speed that promises them a journey of mere minutes.

“Oh.” So, perhaps his option makes more sense than your own far longer, more tiring one. Still, stubborn as a mule, you double down on your decision to take the scenic route, inching closer towards the first step. Your guide, still in the face, refuses to move, daring eyes willing you to continue. “You want us to take the lazy man’s route? You go ahead, I’ll take the stairs and meet you at the top.”

You press one foot up onto the first step, weary of where you rest the point of your heel.

Glancing a few steps further up, there’s the unmistakable sight of a mound of brown substance, no doubt excreted out of one of the donkeys that walk ahead, tourists mounted on their poor backs.

“I don’t think you understand,” he finally inches closer, if only slightly, hands clenched at his side. “There’s five hundred and eighty-eight steps until you reach the top.”

The number is more daunting than you expect, and you pray he can’t read this on your face. “Only? I’ll be up in no time then!”

You feel more than see the way Joel’s eyes travel down the expanse of you, stuttering almost over the curvature of your chest, the dips at your hips, till they rest at your feet. The question hangs loose between you, unspoken yet evident.

In those heels?

“Listen, Joel,” taking a second, third, and fourth step, you aim for a literal higher ground, staring down below as he continues to drift closer and closer towards the stairway. “If you’re not fit for the task, or the climb’s no good for your knees, you can just say it, there’s no shame. Like I said, I’ll meet you at the top. Promise I won’t even report the fact my private guide abandoned me in favour of his own comfort.”

Defeat has never come easy.

Well, to phrase it better towards the truth, acceptance of defeat has never come easy.

There was always something more to be said, another excuse to be given for any of your shortcomings. When you’d been turned away from the school’s soccer team, you’d told yourself it was because you were a girl- ignoring the fact three girls in your year made the cut. When you’d lost an arduous game of Monopoly, you’d sworn you’d caught your sister sneaking notes out of the banker’s pile into her own. When you’d been beaten, round after round, by your own niece at Mario Kart, you’d stuck your tongue out at her and told her you let her win out of pity.

All that had been before, of course, back when you still roamed school hallways, when your sister sat across from you at the dining table, when your niece still laughed freely, wildly, celebrating her own victories with an over-the-top, uncoordinated dance around the living room.

As changed as things may be, defeat is still your foe.

It is that reason alone that you bite back a complaint.

You’d enjoyed the initial moments of your trek. Maybe it was the salty air in your lungs, or the beautiful views of your surroundings, or the idle grumbling coming from Joel, a few paces behind you, kicking up dirt under his feet with every step he travelled up. Whatever the reason, adrenaline had been flowing, into your heart and through your veins, covering every square inch of your body, a tingling of nerves from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine.

But, by the 10 minute mark, a dull ache forms in your feet. Each step of your heel feels more life threatening than the last, as the stairs grow slippier, dustier, and well-worn the further up you advanced. By stair who-knows-how-may, you take a near fatal tumble backwards, the crunch of crumbling rock threatening to be the last thing you hear. Till he appears behind you, fast as light, huffing out a breath as you smack down against his solid chest.

“Mind your step.” From anyone else, you would mistake it as a sign of care. From Joel, you know better than to think it’s anything beyond a humourless taunt.

You try to keep count of the steps, from then on, an effort to motivate yourself to move faster with each ten-pace you count. By 50, you lose your place and begin counting all over again.

The journey is difficult in other ways, too, with the constant passing of donkeys who obligate you to stand aside and make way for them. And the distant movement of cable cars, firing up and sliding down more times than you can keep track of.

When a particular step proves itself too steep, you can no longer hold back and, finally, a hiss slips out between your clenched teeth as pain shoots up your ankle, the leather of your shoe rubbing even harder into your brittle skin, threatening the promise of a blister yet to fully swell. Pushing the pain down, alongside a complaint, you take another step. Hiss. Then another, hiss. You can fight it no longer, bending at the waist to slip off your heel and examine the irritated skin.

Sure enough, it’s been rubbed raw, broken and spilling a small pool of blood.

Behind you comes an exasperated groan and, before you can straighten yourself to even register what’s happening, Joel barges past you and the figure of him up ahead slowly diminishes the faster he climbs up hill.

“Hey!” You call after him, hobbling to slip your shoe back on, but it’s to no avail.

He’s long gone, growing further and further out of your reach with each passing minute.

Cursing him under your breath, you decide to hell with the no complaints of his preferred regard for his own comfort. He’s abandoned you, injured and hobbling up the steps, all because he has the patience of a toddler who’s been waiting far too long to go potty.

“Wear somethin’ a little more sensible…” You’re bound to seem deranged to any passers by, half hopping up the steps, mumbling to yourself in a mockery of his deep voice “Yeah, right, how bout I shove somethin’ a little more sensible up your ass. Oh, what’s that? There’s no room up there with the massive stick you’re already carryin-”

“A local man warned me bout ya, on my way back down. Said there was some no-good girl casting out bad juju.” You freeze, foot stopped in mid-air. Shifting your gaze up ahead, you find Joel there, skipping a step every so often as he grows closer and closer. At his side, dangling from two fingers, sits a plastic bag. “Told him it ain’t no juju or curses you’re casting, just throwin’ a little tantrum.”

Like a fish out of water, all you can do is stare at him, wide eyes and mouth agape.

Joel pays your silence no mind, almost delighting in it. With a pop and a crack from his knees, he crouches down before you, holding out the palm of his hand.

“C’mon,” he mutters, pointing towards your injured foot. “Lemme see.”

You’re hesitant, at first, but ultimately lift it and let him curl his grip around it, holding you in place as the shoe slips off you. A tut meets your ears as his eyes meet the bloodied mess, and you watch how he contemplates, for a moment or two, before wetting his thumb with his tongue and swiping it over your broken skin.

It stings, like salt in a wound or a bee’s stinger through skin, and you try to flinch back, retract yourself from his hold. But Joel’s strong, resilient, nails biting at the flesh of your ankle to keep you in place. His free hand digs into the plastic bag he’d discarded at his side and pulls out a white box. Fiddling with it for a short period, he manages to open it at last and slips out a bandaid. He rips that open a lot quicker, using his teeth, and slips it over your open wound perfectly, thumb and pointer finger smoothing it around the curve of your heel.

“D’ya see now why I told you to not wear those things?” You feel like a child at his words, reprimanded like you once were for touching your mother’s curling iron. “And why I said we should take the cable car?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you refuse to meet his eyes. But he just won’t let you be, craning his own neck to infiltrate the space you stare off into. There’s a pleased look on his face, smugness pulling at the right corner of his mouth. Alarmingly, you think of how it’s the closest you’ve gotten to seeing him smile.

You continue your pursuit of silence, repeating a mantra of how you don’t care that he’d tried to look out for your comfort, or how he’d then tried to save you the effort of an uphill battle, or how his hand, big and warm and rough at the fingertips, is still holding your foot in place, absentmindedly rubbing your ankle in a circular motion.

“Look at ya, gone all quiet on me,” that corner of his lip curls higher. You register the rustling of the bag, his hand digging back inside it. “Ain’t one for bein’ put in your place, are you?”

Out comes his hand once more, though this time it’s not a box of bandaids. Now, resting firm in his grasp, sits a mixture of navy blue dyed cotton, stitched atop a flat, thick layer of a straw-like material. A slip-on canvas shoe. Joel doesn’t await permission, nor does he even ask for it. He simply takes charge, slipping it onto your foot, mindful as he straightens out the back to lay against your heel.

“Other foot, up.”

Switching feet, you stumble as your weight completely shifts onto your injured side. Your hands, reaching out to stabilise your swaying body, are quickly directed by his own to rest atop his head, curls of brown threading between your fingers. You contemplate asking what products he uses to achieve locks so smooth and shiny, then rethink it as soon as you imagine his reply of a disinterested grunt and a snarky ain’t use anythin’ but dirt water and a splash o’ whiskey.

“How’s it feel?”

Soft, you almost reply, then realise he’s asking about the shoe.

With a wiggle of your toes, you tell him it’s fine, and leave it at that. He doesn’t need to know they’re surprisingly comfortable.

Joel rises with a bit of a struggle, yet refuses the help you offer. Rough hands scoop up your discarded heels, tossing them into the bag, and then he straightens his back, lets out a noise of discomfort, before nodding up ahead.

“C’mon, only got a hundred or so to go. We’ll be up in no time.”

The sun sits high in the sky when you reach the city of Fira.

Crossing over that last step, 588 painted in white across it, you huff out a sigh, exhaustion aching you out of any enjoyment of your victory over the stairway from hell. Before you can even utter a word of your thirst, Joel is already reaching into his bag of wonders, unscrewing the lid off a bottle of water and passing it to you. Grateful, you take a sip, and lament the few drops that spill down your chin.

At least they don’t go to complete waste, cooling your skin ever so slightly.

It’s a shame to see Joel start moving again, moments before you’re even ready to gain back your breath, but you follow after him, nonetheless, mindful to not press your foot too hard down. Through streets he winds, past shopkeepers he walks. Eventually, after a few minutes, you ask him where you’re both heading.

“To catch a coach,” his hand moves quickly, tugging you closer as a bicycle shoots past behind you. Your own find themselves against his chest, and realise it is nothing like his hair. Solid, warm, wide. It’s almost a shame to lower them back down to your side. “Less you think you can walk from here to Oia, too.”

Truth be told, you don’t know where Oia is.

But you do know your walking for the day is over, happy to follow Joel onto the coach. You take the aisle seat, he’s by the window. Across from you both sits a couple, young and giggling into one another’s ears, as though the sounds of their joy is sacred to none but them. A pang of envy thumps your soul, and you quickly turn your face.

Only to find that Joel’s is grey.

Not the hair that lines it but, rather, his whole face, paled and blood-drained. It’s a sickly image, and one that’s quick to get your heart racing.

“Are you okay?” Any thought of keeping your composure becomes mute as you hear your own voice, a treacherous shake to it that gives your panic away. “You look…” There is no word kind enough for you to use to relay the image of him, so you lock your lips.

It takes a few seconds for you to get a reply, as your hand moves up to feel his forehead. It’s sweaty, warm, and you move to pull your hand back when he’s holding it firm in place, eyes slipping shut. “‘S cold. You’re cold,” seems to be his explanation. “I’m fine, it’s just- Carsick.”

“You get carsick, yet you work on a cruise.”

“Not the same. Ship’s big, somethin’ bout the size and my own visibility, ‘s what stops me getting seasick.”

You sit like that the rest of the coach, your hand pressed to his forehead, his eyes slipped shut.

“What’s your favourite stop on the cruise?”

As it turns out, Oia is exactly what you’d pictured Santorini to be.

White washed houses, deep blue domes for rooftops, turquoise waters, all for as far as the eye can see. Joel complains, more than tells you, of the rise in tourism over the years, of how it’s turned the beautiful village into a party-town for idiots abroad, disregarding the clean environment, shamelessly blocking paths to snap a frame-worthy shot, raising prices to the ceiling. When you ask him if he thinks he’s in part to blame, if people like him are to blame- running tours, bringing guests onto the island, earning a wage off the visiting of such a place- he grumbles out something about missing breakfast, needing lunch.

So you find a cafe. Or, more, Joel leads you to one. He greets the doorman, with a wave and a pat on the back, before sauntering his way through to a back terrace, overlooking the whole village, the water perfectly framing it. Stepping out and sitting down, the view robs the very breath out of your lungs.

It’s like sitting inside a postcard.

Joel asks if you like Greek food.

You tell him you’ve never had it.

He orders for you both, a mixture of different plates, and swears he’ll find something you’ll like.

It turns out you’re rather fond of baklava.

“Florence.” Joel’s taken his time to answer, staring at you like a deer caught in headlights. Disbelief more than fear in his eyes, you have to wonder if it’s the first time someone’s thought to ask him, in all his years as a guide. Naturally, this leads you to wondering how many years that is. “It’s a real site. Full of history, a real story to be told.” He tilts a ceramic dish your way, eyes glancing down in an offering. You follow them, and spot olives. Shake your head, no, then smile, thanks. He shrugs, more for me, and pops two into his mouth. “There’s this…” he pauses to chew. “This library.”

“A library?”

“‘S not just a library.” He slips out the olive’s pip and raises another into his mouth. You try not to think about how thick his fingers look, rolling the remaining briny green pebbles around in the pot. “There’s a cinema built inside it. Plays some classic films. I always- or, I try to go whenever we dock.”

It’s hard to picture Joel inside a cinema, something about the setting too busy, too loud to place his scowling face in. Would he be the kind to have a favourite seat, perfectly picked to optimise the sound quality? Does he speak animatedly, excited any time he recognises an actor? Or is he a shusher, the kind to roll his eyes when someone dares to even clear their throat?

A part of you wants to ask him if your tour involves a trip to this library.

Something tells you it’s not a place he likes to share, though. It’s his own little corner, safe to sneak a moment of selfish indulgence amidst a week of catering to another’s needs.

“A cinema inside a library?” A waiter interrupts you, asks if everything’s alright. Joel orders another serving of baklava. “Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?”

“Yeah.” For a moment, you think you see a smile creep across his lips. “Suppose it is.”

Another interruption comes in the form of your ringtone, rippling the water in your glass as your phone vibrates upon the table. You’re well aware of how Joel spots the word Mum displayed across your screen. Just like you’re aware he sees how you swipe down on your screen and switch on aeroplane mode.

Before he can ask any questions, or the sudden silence can become too deafening, you throw out another question. “And your least favourite?”

“Least favourite stop?” You nod, affirmative, and he needs no time to reply. “Here.”

“Here?! How come?”

The baklava arrives, as if on cue, and you point down at it, as though it is reason enough to be enamoured with the island. It seems to do little to convince him, his hand reaching out to push the plate closer to you, inviting you to indulge yourself.

“Compared to the other stops, Santorini’s bland.” He says it when your mouth is too occupied to protest, stuffed full with layer after layer of pastry. “Kind of like a diamond, y’know? Real pretty to look at, empties your wallet, and, at the end of the day, ain’t much you can do with it.”

“People propose with diamonds.” You point out, and cough as a flake of pastry hits the back of your throat.

Joel’s already passing you your glass of water before you even think to reach for it.

“People propose with rings. Diamonds are just custom, not a guarantee.”

Sunset arrives with no warning, a hue of fiery orange melting down into the calm waters on the horizon. It’s Joel who makes the call to head back, one glance at his watch enough to tell you the last chance to catch a coach is nigh. It’s only as you go to call for the bill that he tells you it’s covered and you realise his earlier trip to the bathroom had been a ruse to go pay.

The trip back is calmer, quieter, with the coach full of sunkissed and heat exhausted tourists.

Again, you take the aisle seat, and Joel, the window.

Keeping an eye on him is easy, switching your gaze towards the approaching darkness of the night sky calling upon the street lights anytime he meets your eyes. When you notice the increase in breaths and the paling of his skin, you wordlessly unscrew the cap off a bottle and slot it into his hand, inviting him to finish off the last sips of your water.

Skipping out on a trip down memory stairway, you quietly follow him into the cable car and, when you reach the Old Port, you try your best to block out his smug remark of how easy and fast the ride was. A feat which becomes easier as you stumble halfway up the dock and turn back.

Like hours before, as you first stepped off the tender, your mouth falls agape. Only, this time, wider. The view of the island lit up in all its glory is enough to leave you breathless, hands scrambling to fish out your phone, open the camera and-

“You gettin’ on or what?” Joel calls out from behind, and you find him waiting on board one of the tenders, hand held out towards you.

It’s a demand, more than it is an offer, to hurry up. The collective of other passengers are watching the interaction, and a feeling you’ve come to know all too well crawls its way into your veins.

A burden, holding them all up, that’s what you are.

The feeling follows you back, as you slip into a damp seat and watch as the boat carries you further and further from the island, it’s lights twinkling in a way that chokes you up, drains you out, eyes stinging from more than just the salty air. You’ll love it, I swear! The memory plays out in your head, those words gushed at you. Hands squeezing your cheeks, a smile blinding you under its brightness. Just wait till you see it at night, the lights shine over it like stars!

You blink.

A tear pools at the corner of your eye.

“Here, look,” something nudges you. It’s Joel, inching his phone into your view. Through blurred sight, you glance at it. And find yourself, centre frame, lit only by the moon. In the back lies the whole skyline of Santorini, lights reflecting down onto the waters below. “Best view you can get, the whole island in one shot.”

Afraid to hear your own voice, you smile.

He answers by pointing his phone back at you, snapping another photo.

Back on the cruise, the two of you part ways, with Joel telling you to meet him in the same bar, same time as the night before.

Dinner had been part of your plans. With a glance over the listed restaurants on board, the ache in your tired bones asks you to stay in bed and make use of the room service. You listen, order something light, easy. It arrives in under 10 minutes and your hunger is satisfied sitting out on the balcony, watching the dark waves roll past.

Phoning your mother is the next port o'call.

Unlike with your food, that takes longer than 10 minutes. Much longer, and involves you countlessly reassuring her that yes, you’re okay, and no, you don’t need her to fly out and meet you in Naples.

“I’m a big girl,” you even throw in a laugh, hoping it’ll ease the worry lines you can picture splayed over your mother’s face. “I think I can climb up a mountain without my mum’s help.”

“Honey, you know that’s not what why I’m worri-”

“Did you know you can get carsick but, at the same time, not seasick?”

You hang up shortly after, with a promise to try your best to answer when she calls tomorrow, instead of hours later, when she should be fast asleep.

The time on your phone tells you there’s still forty minutes until you need to meet Joel. The image of that grandiose bathtub flashes before your eyes and, in record timing, you’re sinking into scalding waters, a complimentary bath bomb dumped in and granting you the childish gift of bubbles.

You try to relax, at first.

There’s no need to wet your hair, so you indulge yourself. Lay your head back, close your eyes. Feel your muscles loosen with the warmth, ignore the sting of soap in your blistering heel. Your hands struggle to find a resting place, until they meet your thighs. They sit still, for a moment or two, before one slips down, inching into the crease of where your legs meet.

Something stirs in your core, comes alive as you think of how long it’s been since you last felt someone. A few months, it has to be. A fellow graduate, if you remember correctly, that stupid robe still on his shoulders as he let his mouth come down on you.

Your hand is soon on your core, before you really notice, mind on a mission to recall the hazy encounter. When you think of his tongue, messy yet eager, your finger’s already on your clit, pressing against it with a tease of pleasure. When you think of his cock, uncut and thicker than your ex, splitting you open on his bedroom floor, your hips cant up against yourself, chasing friction. When you rewind how soft Joel’s hair had been between your fingers, your free hand grips one of your breasts, fingers pinching at your nipple.

Your eyes snap open.

Joel’s hair.

Joel.

Something you should not be thinking of right now, hand buried between your thighs.

You wait a few seconds, remind yourself of the graduate’s face.

His blue eyes, your fingers roll over your nipple.

His blonde hair, your legs spread wider.

Joel’s solid chest, your fingers dip inside your cunt.

Your breath is shaky, Joel’s annoyed groan echoes.

The shame of it, of thinking of him, is almost as tantalising as touching yourself, fucking your own hole full with as much of your fingers the angle will allow. It’s a one time thing, you justify. You just need to get it out your system. One and done, cum and done. No more of Joel Miller between your thighs, this is the closest he’ll get.

Someone knocks at your door.

You nearly miss it over the sound of your breathing, the pounding of your heart.

“Who is it?” You don’t like how weak you sound, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Another knock.

“Can I come in?”

A hand still between your thighs, orgasm titering on the edge, body fully submerged in lukewarm water. “No!”

“Ain’t safe to leave your door unlocked. Anybody could walk in- Jesus!”

You’ve never screamed louder.

Joel takes up most of the bathroom doorway, same clothes save for the shirt that’s got two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. You’re pressed right back into the bathtub, as physically far from him as you can get, knees pressed up to your chest, ankles crossed over.

In Joel’s defence, he’s quick to turn away, presenting you with a view of his back. A hand runs through his hair.

“Why are you in my room?!” You inch even further back, the water suddenly dropping several degrees.

“I asked to come in!”

“And I told you not to!”

“Well obviously I didn’t hear that!”

“Why are you in my room?” You’re back to your first question, eyeing up your towel.

It’s across the room, on the bathroom sink. No way for you to reach it without the risk of him seeing you reflected on something.

“You were late. Came to check if ya tripped on them heels and broke your neck.”

“I,” you’re not sure what time it is with your phone sitting by the bed, charging. That's now five times you've been late in adulthood. “Didn’t realise the time. I can meet you at the bar in ten minutes.”

He nods, and you watch him take a step, then immediately pause. “You know, I’ve heard a few things from passengers…” You may not see his face, but you swear there’s that half-smirk, smug look upon it. It’s practically dripping off his words. “The shower head, fourth setting. Seems to get the job done for most ladies on board.”

Grabbing the closest thing in reach- a bar of soap- you launch it and watch it bounce off his irritatingly wide shoulders. “Get OUT!”

You make it to the Tipsy Byson in 15 minutes.

Dressed more appropriately than the night before, your flared jeans and crop top garner less stares. It’s just as busy, if not busier, yet it’s not hard to spot Joel on a barstool, nursing a glass of something syrupy looking. Behind the bar is Luke, head thrown back at something Joel says.

They’re an interesting pair to observe, you realise as you make your way over. With Luke, so tall, so lanky, so bright-face, his energy warm and inviting, and Joel so- well, Joel.

“There she is,” Luke cheers, a little too loudly, calling attention to you as you slip into the stool next to Joel. “My new favourite customer.”

“Thought I was your favourite,” Joel’s yet to look at you, and it’s a relief. He’s looked at you enough for one day, one week, one lifetime.

“Sorry but she smells better than you, Joel,” the barman winks at you, a cheeky grin on his face. “ Plus, she’s a hell of a lot nicer to look at.”

Joel scoffs, you giggle.

“Not sure about the whole smelling better thing,” your response comes minutes later, after Luke’s already served you a glass of wine and turned away your cash, telling you he’ll put it on Joel’s tab. “But thanks!”

Unprompted and uninvited, Luke bends over the bar and takes an exaggerated sniff. “I don’t know, smell alright to me.”

“Really? I’m not even wearing perfume, I forgot to pack any-.”

“Yeah! Go on Joel, give her a whiff, tell her she smells fine!” There’s resistance on his end, but Luke’s adamant, hand clamped on the back of Joel’s head, shoving him face first into your neck. Joel’s nose brushes against you. You hear him inhale. Exhale. Inhale again, then the urge to cross your thighs begins to nag at you. “Well?”

“Yeah, smells nice- Fine. Ya smell fine.”

“Be still my beating heart! Someone alert the press that Texas said something other than-”

Joel interrupts Luke’s dramatics, scowl on his face. “Don’t you have a job to be doin’?”

Only once the bartender is down the other end of the bar, engrossed in a heated discussion over what beer pulls a better head, does Joel speak again, sipping on his drink. Whiskey.

“So I noticed somethin’, when I was checking your bookin’ info.” You nod, urge him to continue, and take a sip of your own drink. Some country song plays over the speakers and you notice a sudden shake in Joel’s knee, his foot tapping to the beat. “Says there should be two of you in my guide team.”

“Oh,” the lump forming in your throat falls safely back into the pit of your stomach as you take another drink of wine. “Must be a printing error. You know how technology can be, always complicating things.”

“Hmm,” it’s easy to write off the awkward energy between you with the excuse of earlier events, and it’s the first bright-side you find to him walking in on your intimate bath. “Well, you know the drill for tomorrow. 7 am on that deck or I’m-”

“Docking without me, I know.”

You finish your drink first. When Joel orders himself another glass, you smile politely and turn it down. Yawn, then tell him you best head to bed.

Before you can slip out the entry, someone calls your last name. Loud enough to turn more than just your own head.

It’s Joel, approaching you, effortlessly parting crowds through the lively bar as though he is knife and, the people, butter. The loud music seems to ring louder in your ear, impeding you from hearing the words that leave his moving lips.

“What?” You call out, hands clasped over your mouth in an attempt to amplify the volume of your voice.

His response is to step closer, hands holding you in place by the waist as he leans down. A hot breath on your neck, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the soft brush of lips against your ear.

“It’s your turn to bring the coffees.”

series taglist. @auteurdelabre

[httpknjoon]

(re)starting over again | kth; 12

plot | Your four-year relationship with Taehyung was going well and strong. Until he was involved in a car accident, resulting to him losing some memories. By some, it means everything that happened five years ago. Things he remember? His friends, his bakeshop, and his ex girlfriend from the past. With that, you tried to keep up, restarting over again.

words | 5.3k

genres | fluff, angst, amnesia au

pairing | taehyung x reader

warning/s | mentions of death, drinking, disease (cancer)

note | surpisingly, i am still alive lol i'm kidding. i apologize for the delay! the bad headaches are now gone and the fever has cooled down. and now, the update's here! to everyone who sent their messages, tysm I appreciate it 🥺 I didn't mean to ghost y'all, I'm so sorry! anw hope u enjoy reading this one :)

main masterlist | series masterlist

Ever since you were young, you liked things to go the way you planned it. When you were younger, you carried a small notebook with you. Your father gave you your first one during the holidays when you were seven. In there, you make your own little bullet journal, listing off the things you would want to do for the upcoming days. With your messy handwriting, you even wrote your far future plans.

As a child, you used to see things with your rose-colored glasses. Everything seemed real and attainable for your small hands. You thought you just had to follow the usual path of your plans and you would be fine. But things do not always go according to plan. You learned it the hard way.

You always dreamt of being a nurse. At age eight, you were a frequent visitor to the hospital. Not because you were sick yourself, but because you and your mom had to go back there from time to time with your dad who was receiving treatment for his disease. You wanted to take care of him. So you did what a little girl could do, listen to your dad’s heartbeat through your plastic toy stethoscope and kiss his pain away. He would always call you his favorite nurse and you would give him your toothy grin. After a year, when you were nine, he lost his battle with cancer. 

Confused and in sorrow, you almost crossed out that dream from your list. You had a hard time understanding why you had to lose your dad at such an early age. Your friends had dads, how come you lost yours before you could even reach middle school? Then, you became angry. Your father was always in treatment in the hospital. Hospitals are meant to cure people, right? Your little kid brain thought. It felt unfair to you.

But then, you and your mom later left the small neighborhood you were living in and moved in with your aunt– her older sister. Aunty Belle is a nurse herself, a surprise for you as you didn’t know you have a relative who works in the same place you loathed at that time. But you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her, she was warm and welcoming when you arrived in her humble abode in Incheon. She doesn’t have a family of her own so she took good care of you and your mom. She became your third parent while your mom deals with the grief of losing her husband.

“It’s fun. You get to meet wonderful people every day and help them to feel better.” your aunt replied once when you asked her about her job.

Aunty Belle never got tired of your questions and curiosity about nursing. Slowly, you began rebuilding your plans. The dream of being a nurse is back, added with your other dreams: making your mom happy, and living independently (like your aunt). You studied hard, aiming for higher grades and going to the best college for your dreams.

But at age fifteen, Aunty Belle became your legal guardian when your mom passed. Through your aunt, you learned that your mother has been struggling heavier than you expected. Your aunt was extremely worried for your mom that’s why she begged her to come and live with her. You always thought your mom was getting better with how she cried less day by day and even took a job as a receptionist in a dental clinic. 

Since then, you have become more understanding and emotionally sensitive to everyone. The feelings you had years ago when you lost your dad were creeping around you. This time, instead of being angry at something else, you felt like this one was on you. You blamed yourself for not seeing the signs from your mother’s eyes. How she became more reserved or how her eyes were often blank whenever she tried to smile for you. Maybe you were too focused on reaching your plans that you didn’t give any attention to her. You were angry, hurt, and in guilt. It’s too overwhelming and is heavy in your heart. It reached the point where you broke down during breakfast, in front of the toast and bacon Aunty Belle prepared for you, weeks after your mom’s funeral.

“I should’ve seen it. I should have seen that she was not okay.” you sniffed as you looked down your plate. “I was supposed to make her feel better and happy.”

Crying, you pushed your plate in front of you and just covered your face with your palms. You repeated the words over and over again like you were reminding yourself how you failed as your mom’s only child.

“Oh, sweetie…” your aunt whispered before sitting beside you and enveloping you in a hug. Her hand moved up and down your arms, making you feel warm. “It’s not your fault. You are the best daughter she could ask for. She loves you more than anything else.”

After that morning, Aunty Belle made sure to get you the best help. She guided you in everything she could and supported you with your choices. She made sure that you will still pursue your plans, never stopping you from doing what you want. Years later, you graduated from high school and were about to embark on a new journey.

“You know that you can just have this place,” she mumbled when you were packing your things. “I’m selling it anyway.”

“But Aunty, this isn’t in my plan. You know how bad I want to live in Seoul.” you smiled at her.

Because of your efforts and hard work, you got accepted into one of the best universities in another city. You later moved from Incheon to Seoul to finish your studies and become a nurse there. While Aunty Belle sold her home and followed her own plans of living with her longtime best friends under one roof.

But none of what happened in the last few years was part of your plans when you were younger. You didn’t really see yourself coming back to Incheon after living in Seoul for the longest time. You never thought you would leave your job in the hospital you dreamed of and work in a slightly different environment.

Two years ago, you left home. The house you had plans in with someone else. You were the one who broke off those plans and moved away without really telling anyone. You remembered that night like it was yesterday.

Every step you took away from him felt like a piece of you fell on the ground. Your vision was all blurry and you had to cover your lips as you sobbed. You clutched onto your gown while you remind yourself that you need to do this. For the sake of your own being. But still, there is this voice telling you to stay– to turn around and come back to him.

“YN, honey,” 

Looking up, you see Julia looking at you with sympathy. She walked towards you with open arms and you immediately just broke down on her dress. Listening to your sobs, Julia eyes her date, whom you didn’t notice was there waiting too, to get in the car. 

Your whispered voice muffled in the hug, “I hate this so much,”

The whole drive home, Julia and Chanyeol respected your silence in the backseat. They put on some radio music and chatted about the wedding while your teary eyes just looked outside the window. They were like your parents that night. When you guys passed by McDonald’s, it took one nudge from Julia to make Chanyeol turn the car back around for the drive-thru. She ordered your food for you in a separate bag so you could have something to eat when you reached home. When you arrived in front of your house, they helped you with your small bag. 

“Thank you so much, guys. I’m sorry this is our first meeting, Chanyeol.” you tried to lighten the mood as you three stood on the porch.

He smiled, “It’s fine. Everyone has their bad day.”

You chuckled before Julia nudged her again with her elbow. Then, she turns to you.

“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Probably early morning. I already have the keys to keep my apartment so I can go there now too if I want to.” your words rambled as your head felt like a mess.

“Okay, call me. I’ll pick you up–” Before you can say anything, she lifts her finger. “And no, I won’t take no for an answer. I wanna see your new place.”

They left after Julia made sure you were fine. Walking into your house for the last time, you tried to go straight to your room to change from your gown to your pajamas. Then, you cried again. And again. And again. 

The last time you woke up in that house was the morning after that. You woke up before dawn. The sky was barely lit and the moon was still present above you. You promised yourself that you would leave like a ghost. Like what you have been doing the last few days. Cleaning up, your hand ran on your bedsheets to smoothen out the wrinkles. Fortunately, almost ninety percent of your clothes fit in two pieces of luggage. You just have to leave a few things that you’ll probably get when you get back.

From Julia

Will be there in five

Five minutes left, you find yourself sitting in front of your vanity mirror. Making one last check, you pulled the small drawers in the table. That’s when you saw that old pearl ring Taehyung bought you in the flea market. A heavy sigh from your chest makes its way out of your lips. Holding it between your thumb and index finger, you stare at it.

We tried, didn’t we?

Before any tears can fall, you simply close your eyes. Your chest heaves. You clutched that ring in your palm for some minute, like you were giving your one last goodbye. Then, you carefully place it next to your keys. You decided to leave your keys as you don’t want to come and go here in secret as you always have the tendency to do that especially if you want to avoid a person. Like you were doing now. You want to come back here better and hopefully, talk to Taehyung in the future.

Feel at home, this house is yours too. Paint the walls with the colors you like, buy new furniture, and fill the frames with new memories. Just please don’t sell it. I’ll try to reach out as soon as I can. For now, live the last years you missed.

You wrote on a piece of paper that you left on the same table. In the weeks you two lived together after the accident, you knew how he struggled to adjust to this house. Now that you’re going, you wish for him to feel comfortable in this house you two shared and called home. The pieces of furniture and shade of blue that took over every wall in the house were picked by both you and Taehyung when you bought it. The frame kept every memory you and Taehyung love to look back on in the span of your four-year relationship. But if it means for him to feel at home, you won’t mind if he wants to change things around the house. Even though it will probably break your heart harder than it is now.

“You…”

It was only your first morning, the second day in your new apartment in Incheon when someone came knocking on your door. You were still organizing your place and unpacking when you heard continuous heavy knocks. Almost instantly, your eyes widened when you saw who it was through your door’s peephole. The person spoke again as soon as you opened your door.

“You moved?!” Jisoo immediately pushed through your door and welcomed herself in. “You moved here?!”

Based on the tone of her voice, she was more angry than surprised. Her eyebrows were scrunched together while her nose flared. Her hands were on her hips like she was waiting for an explanation. Your lips opened for a second before it closed again. You softly scratched your cheek before opening your lips again,

“I-I thought you were on your honeymoon vacation.”

She tilts her head, “Well, I’m not. Am I?”

“Why are you here?” you mumbled, sounding scared at her.

The thing is, Jisoo rarely gets angry or annoyed. You had known her ever since you began working as a nurse and you learned she have the longest patience for everyone else. But when she runs out of it, you don’t know how she will react.

“Why are you here?” she returned your question with raised eyebrows. “You did not tell me you were moving here or resigning in the hospital! What happened?”

You closed the door and quietly walked back to your messy living room since you knew she would follow. She did and continued,

“I saw the shift schedule like two hours ago and you’re not there. I had to ask Gail and she said you resigned. You were not answering my calls or messages! I had to call Julia. Then, she told me you moved here– What the fuck happened? I was only busy for like two weeks and next thing I know, my best friend’s in another city and hospital.”

You sat on your grey couch while Jisoo still stood in front of you. You looked away as your replied,

“Well, actually I’ll be working in a school–”

Jisoo’s tone went higher, “What?!”

“I applied as a school nurse–”

“No, no, no.” she shushed you. “Tell me everything that happened. Everything.”

So you did. But first, you asked her to sit down next to you. You ordered food by app as you don’t really have any stock of food at the moment. While you were waiting for the food, you began telling her about what happened. From how you met Lily to how you happened to be where you are right now. Jisoo listened intently. As you went on, you noticed her shoulders and facial expression softened up. From her jaw being clenched tight, her lips were formed into a slight frown. You tried not to cry throughout the whole story-telling impromptu but your voice did shake and you just felt your best friend’s warm hands somewhere in the middle of your story. At the end, you find yourself leaning your head on her shoulder while she leans hers on top.

“I and Joon just decided to go on honeymoon next month. Plus, I have a toaster and an air fryer in my car.” Jisoo broke the comfortable silence you two shared with a random sentence.

You lifted your head, looking at her, “What? Why?”

“We received like a ton of it from the wedding. We had to give some stuff away rather than selling it and I just knew your place is probably still empty. So I just bought some. I have plates too.” she smiled.

“But what if I was the one who gave you that toaster?” you asked, squinting your eyes.

“You did not.” she chuckled but your expression didn’t change. She blinked and asked with a feeble voice, “You did not, right?”

Your lips broke into a smile, “Yeah, we didn’t.”

She pouted before you two laughed and hugged. Just like that, you and Jisoo are okay.

Unlike any of your past decisions, nothing was truly planned when you decided to move away. Aunty Belle, whom you visit every now and then, comforted you about it and said that life just happens like that sometimes. And that’s how your two years went. Unplanned. You just applied for the first good job you saw, which happened to be being a school nurse in a preschool. You moved to another apartment after just a few months since your initial place is farther on the subway you always take to get to the school every morning.

Working with kids, you always miss your patients back in Seoul. Particularly, Naeun, whom you are still in contact with. You visit her a couple of times when you go to Seoul.

And there were times when you thought you saw Taehyung. Not just in Seoul, but also in Incheon. The first one was just months after you left, you were on your way to preschool when you saw him in the subway. But you thought it was just a look-alike and impossible since he would not have any reason to come here. Plus, you were feeling a little down that week as it was supposedly your fifth anniversary. The next time is when you come to Seoul to visit Naeun. It was a busy Sunday and you stopped by a toy store in the mall to get a gift for your favorite patient. It was a bit crowded since it was on sale. So you lost him in the blink of an eye.

The most recent one is when you came to Seoul for Julia’s birthday. You had a few drinks with your friends and everything was already slightly blurry. But you swore you saw him when you were waiting for your Uber late at night. You were with Julia, who was waiting with you just to make sure you’d be safe. She was talking about something but your eyes caught a man walking on the other side of the road with his head down on his phone. The small light coming from his screen made you recognize him. It’s him, you’re sure.

Although you have visited the city a couple of times already, you never drop by the bakeshop or the house. You never even contacted Taehyung. There were times it crossed your mind. But you never did. You miss him. God knows, how much. But you don’t know what to say about the house, him, you, or the relationship you two had.

You and Jimin talked seldomly. The first one was a week after you and Taehyung officially went separate ways. He would ask how are you and you would do the same thing. You were surprised but happy at the same time when you learned he had a kid, who happens to be Jisoo’s nephew. You two had this unspoken rule to not talk about Taehyung because Jimin doesn’t bring him up and you are too shy to ask. But you know they are doing well, you heard they expanded the shop.

In the whole two years, Taehyung never really left your mind. It’s hard. Especially when you would still get random reminders of your relationship in unexpected ways. In what was supposed to be your fifth anniversary, you got a scheduled e-mail from his account. Every year, your phone calendar still updates you to buy him a gift a month before his birthday. And just like last month, you found an old picture in one of your bags. Something you probably slipped there long ago. It’s a picture taken years ago during your first snow in your house with a handwritten caption, TOO MORE SNOWY DAYS TOGETHER. It was in his handwriting.

“Goodbye, Nurse YN!”

A little kid waved his little hand to you while his mom politely smiled at you. You waved back and continued walking back from your small clinic. This is how your day ends in school: tiny voices saying goodbye and sometimes giving you warm hugs. You were never really busy since you worked with two other school nurses who you became friends with. 

“Oh, hey, YN.”

You just sat in front of your computer screen, recording some student’s health records, when your co-nurse popped into your shared office. Martha just found her recent hobby a couple of months ago after you told her that you haven’t been dating for the last couple of years.

You exaggeratedly sighed and did not even look at her, “What do you want?”

“YN sounds so tired of you already.” Aileen, your other co-nurse, laughed while organizing her files.

“I know, she is.” Martha chuckled. She turns to you, “I know a guy…”

You paused from what you were doing, “Martha–” 

It’s not like you’re not interested in dating. It took you more than a year to be open again to the idea and so far, you’ve gone into two dates from Martha’s recommendations. But both were not a match. The first one is a great guy but he seems like he cannot get over an ex since he talked about her half of the time. While the second guy is just rude. That’s all you can say about him. The date was all about him not liking how the steak was cooked and how one of the waiters was too kind to you. It was horrible.

“No, no, honey. Listen to me first.” Matha cuts you off. “I personally know this guy. He’s my cousin and… he also works in the medical field! He’s a doctor.”

An eyebrow raised. A doctor? Well, you never dated one before. But you knew doctors were better than that last guy you mentioned.

Aileen joined, “Is he the one you showed me earlier?

“Yup,” Martha replied, popping the ‘p’ sound.

“Oh, you’ve got to see him, YN. The guy is gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “If you won’t date him, I will!”

The three of you laughed. Of course, Aileen can’t. She is currently seven months pregnant with her second child and married to one of the teachers in this same preschool.

“Just don’t tell Seb,” she added, mentioning her husband.

You still haven’t said anything even though you are admittedly interested. Martha pulled her phone out.

“Wait, I’ll show you his account.”

“Oh, that dress suits you perfectly!”

Jisoo’s voice filled your room as you fixed the dress on your body. Even though you two are in different cities, she is still your go-to every time you need to dress up for something. Usually, through Facetiming. The date is fine-dining. So, you tried on different dresses for Jisoo to pick on and eventually, you two agreed on the same one.

“Don’t forget your coat! It might get cold,” she advised. “Now, turn around again!”

You giggled before doing what she said. You heard her cheer and compliments, making you smile.

“You are stunning!”

“Thank you so much for helping me, Jiji,” you said with a small smile.

“You’re welcome. Just have fun, okay? Let me know how it goes later.” she told you and you nodded. She spoke again, “Now, go! Book that Uber already.”

“Okay, okay. Bye! Call you later. Love you!” you waved.

She waved back, “Love you, take care!”

You ended the call and moved to another app to look for a ride. Your date initially asked if you wanted him to pick you up. But you just agreed to meet him at the restaurant he invited you to. He seems nice. Martha said her cousin has been single for a while now. After his last relationship, he just gave most of his time to work.

To +82 65 78** ****

Hi! I’m on my way. See you there.

You sent your date the message when you finally got in the car you booked twenty minutes ago. It did not even take a few minutes before he replied,

From +82 65 78** ****

Okay, see you there! Take care.

Pursing your lips, you look outside the window of the moving car. You hope for the best for tonight. You hope Martha’s recommendation is at least okay this time. Maybe the universe could prove to you that Taehyung is not the only guy in the world who could make the butterflies play around in your stomach. Or the only guy who would be patient enough with your tendencies. You just have to know that he is not the only guy in the world. Period.

As much as you won’t say it, dating Taehyung for four years made him your standard for everything. You already met two versions of him; one before the accident and one after the accident. They are almost the same person but the latter just brought you a lot of pain because of various circumstances. But you know and feel he shows his emotions in other ways.

“We’re here.” the female driver, whom you saw is Val, said as she stopped the car in front of the brightly lit restaurant.

You smiled before getting out of the vehicle, “Thank you.”

Starry Night lives up to its name. As you noticed before, the whole place is lit up with many lights. Carefully, you walked inside with your strappy heels. The staff smiled and greeted you, and you greeted them back.

“Good evening, madam. Welcome to Starry Night. How may I help you?”

“I have a reservation under Jung Hoseok’s name.” you politely replied.

“Oh, okay. Let me check our list. Excuse me.” the host scrolled down his iPad for a minute. “The name’s here! Please, follow me to your table. This way please.” 

You followed him while looking around the place. It’s not too crowded and it has a romantic feeling because of the lights and jazz music. You know someone who would have loved to go here. Before you sit down, the host assisted you with the chair and offered to take your coat. You agreed. Pulling out your phone from your purse, you update Hoseok that you just arrived. You put your phone down and studied the whole place again with your eyes. 

A woman caught your eye. She was talking and chatting with the chef in the side station. They looked like they were waiting for someone to enter the door. Your gaze were broke off when someone spoke from your side.

“Good evening, ma’am. My name is Soojin and I’ll be your waiter for tonight. Would you like to order something?” the young waiter smiled.

“Oh, I’m still waiting for my date…” you murmured. “But can I have some water please?”

“Certainly, ma’am. Excuse me.”

Soojin left as you said thank you. As she was gone from your sight, your eyes landed on the man who was entering the restaurant. Dressed in a nice black coat over a light blue shirt, you quickly recognize him. Your mouth runs dry while your heart beats like a horse’s footsteps in a race. You were frozen.

What is he doing he– Fuck.

Your eyes meet. You can see his eyes widening as his lips gaped slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down while you practically lost your hearing. All you can hear is the drum inside your chest.

Fuck, you cursed again.

What are the chances for this to happen? Is the universe playing or simply fucking with you? You asked for a great date and it gave you this. The man you’ve been holding as your standard ever since. 

It burns.

His eyes. You can feel them as you take a sip from the ice-cold glass of water. After the host led him to one of the empty tables in your line, your eyes traveled everywhere except on his spot. You two were literally just an empty table apart.

Is he here for a date? Why here? In Incheon, really? Can’t he just date people from Seoul?

It has been nine minutes, you’ve been counting. Your hand rests on your knee, to stop your knees from jerking up and down, while the other rests on the table with your phone. You’ve been texting but erasing messages to Hoseok. You don’t think you can do this. With Taehyung being just a few feet away from you, it felt wrong to be with someone else. You should have been sitting right in front of him.

Slowly, you try to move your eyes in his direction. You paused when you saw that he was staring at you too, unmovable. Are you supposed to smile? Wave? Nod. just nod. You were about to do that when the same woman from the side station walked up to him, covering your view of him.

“Hi, good evening!” you heard her honey-like voice greet him. “I’m Ashley.”

You noticed Taehyung stood up. They shake hands and you don’t really hear the rest of their conversation. You began texting your date,

To +82 65 78** ****

Hi. Where are you?

You’ve been alone for a while now.

Taehyung noticed. The glass of water on your table is almost empty. The waiter already come back to you a couple of times now. He can see you chewing on your lower lip as you check your phone every minute that passes by.

Did your date just stand you up?

His hands clutched as he thought of that idea. He knew you didn’t deserve that.

“I think this is good! Not too sweet, not too spiced. It’s soft too. Just perfect.” Ashley snapped him from his thoughts.

Taehyung tried to concentrate on what he originally meant to do here, “Yeah… uhm… Jimin, my friend, really tries to balance the texture and taste. It’s his own carrot cake recipe that he worked on before we even had the shop.”

Ashley already had a taste of every cake he brought. Five open Tupperware are on their table, including the cheesecake you love. She began talking about the other cakes and dessert while Taehyung stole some glances at you again. This time, you are on call. You pursed your lips before replying to whoever it was. He can read the disappointment through your eyes as your lips form into a small frown. You sighed before saying, it’s fine, I understand. No problem. 

“Okay, these are really good. I think your products will be a great addition to our menu.” Ashley spoke again. 

Taehyung looked at her with surprise, “Oh, wow. That’s… great.”

Did he just get this deal?

“Yeah, I trusted my chef when he said he had the best Tiramisu in your shop and I’m glad I did. These desserts are perfect and really satisfy my sweet tooth.” She compliments.

Taehyung bowed his head, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Your desserts deserve to be everywhere. Haven’t you guys thought of opening a branch here?” she asked.

“Oh, we’re still figuring things out. We just expanded our main shop in Seoul.” he chuckled.

“Well, I might go there when I visit Seoul.”

“Please do and let us know.” he smiled.

“I will. By the way, the contract is not ready now. But we are definitely having this deal! Can you and Jimin visit here again next week or maybe me and my head chef can visit your shop in Seoul?” Ashley offers.

“I still have to discuss that with my friend.”

“Oh, sure. Sure. Here, we are okay with any decision. Just let us know. You guys have our e-mail and numbers, right?” Taehyung nods. “Okay, I guess… that’s a done deal.”

Ashley stood up and offered her hand. Taehyung stood up too and shook her hand. 

“Thank you so much.” Taehyung smiled.

While Ashley replied, he stole another glance behind her. That’s when he sees you standing up and walking back to the host at the entrance of the restaurant. The host had an apologetic look on his face as you talked to him. He helped you with your coat. It seems like you’re leaving with your date being a no-show. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. But I would have to go for now..” Taehyung carefully said.

Ashley smiled, “Oh, of course. Yes. You can go. But one more thing… can you leave these cakes?”

Taehyung chuckled with that, “Of course!”

“Thank you! See you in the contract signing!”

“See you.” 

Taehyung took his coat from his seat and left in a hurry. You were already gone, possibly out of the restaurant. He said thank you to the staff who opened the door for him and he immediately searched around. That’s when he sees you standing, looking down at your phone.

“This one’s just a few minutes away–”

He took a deep breath before saying, “YN?”

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[seireitonin]

Can you make Toby headcanons

I can’t believe I haven’t already done this?? He’s literally all I think about lately. Also sorry for the lack of posts life is busy. Anyway! (Some of this will be canon)

“Ticci” Toby Head Canons

Toby was in and out of the hospital all his life

CIPA will do that for you

He constantly had to lie about the bruises he got from his dad while he was in the hospital

He didn’t want to be separated from his sister in foster care

Toby got bullied and outcasted at school

But he also was a bully kinda

The violence he was experiencing at home made him violent at school

He would beat people who teased him bloody

He’s impulsive and cynical but also empathic

He would use his body as a shield against his father to protect his sister and mother

Purposely behaving bad so he would get it the worst, sparing his sister and mother

Slenderman was trying to get both Lyra and Toby to become proxies and Lyra had been experiencing the slender sickness and seeing Slenderman

So she purposely crashed the car so her and Toby would both die, but he was none the wiser

Only Lyra died and Toby has survivors guilt

Not only because he’s alive but because Lyra was a better person in his eyes

She took care of him, she was sweet, she was gentle

Toby was rough, standoff ish, and rude

Toby thinks he deserved to die, not her

Wishes he died instead of her

Slenderman only targeted Toby after that

The hallucinations getting stronger and worse

Him seeing his dead sister

Constantly feeling sick

Toby looked at all his neighbors with jealousy

Why did they get the perfect suburban life?

Why was he given a life of suffering?

Slenderman was breaking him down day after day

On top of all that the abuse didn’t stop

Slenderman was able to take his mind over easily with all that Toby was going through

Toby’s grief, anger, sadness, pain and suffering making him unable to fight off Slendermans influence

The night he killed his father he was under Slendermans control completely

Only snapping out of his trance for a few seconds before being taken over again

He didn’t really want to kill his father but his body wasn’t his

Luckily he was able to snap out of the trance before he hurt his mom

But he still burned the neighborhood down, ready to accept death

Then Slenderman took him in

When he was 19 he acted a bit like the teen he never got to be

Not super upbeat but he was more playful and free

Masky and Hoodie do care about him, just in a rough love kind of way because they didn’t want to see him die

Also he was so young, they know what it’s like to loose your life and mind to Slenderman at a fairly young age

So they trained him hard and kept reminding him that he’s disposable so be careful and not so reckless with his body

Toby’s not only good with hatchets but knives as well

Also good at hand to hand combat and dodging

Has infinite stamina and is really strong and fast

Dated Clockwork from ages 19-24

He died at 25 but was resurrected by Slenderman and became possessed fully (which is another reason why he’s so sickly pale)

Slenderman attempted to make him kill Clockwork, but luckily some of Toby was still in there and he was able to hold back from killing her

She was able to fight him off easily after that but couldn’t bring herself to kill him

But she doesn’t want to see him ever again

The one man she trusted tried to kill her and it was too much for her to handle

Toby was heartbroken for months and killed a lot of people, letting himself become a puppet for Slenderman completely

Toby came to the realization that his body was never his to own

His body belonged to the doctors when he was a kid to experiment on, the shield to protect his family, a puppet for Slenderman to use, even his Tourette’s controlled him sometimes

Toby is bi but leans towards women because women were kind to him all his life

Total horndog

He can be manipulative but honestly it’s not on purpose he’s just scared to loose people

“You shouldn’t leave. You’re all I have. My family is gone. Please. You’re the only thing I love.”

Very clingy with people he cares about

Especially because he knows he’s a lot to handle

His emotions can change very quickly

Since his mind has gotten used to Slendermans influence, his memories come back in full force

He vividly remembers everything that happened to him and will sometimes have breakdowns

The memories come at random times too

He’s full of himself and not insecure at all

Blunt, rude, will say what he wants whenever he wants with no filter but is nice to people he likes

Constantly has bloody and bruised knuckles

Smells like the woods/ outdoors and campfires

Made a promise to his sister when they were young to never be like his dad. So he’ll never hit a woman he loves

Belive she’s not meant to be loved. Everyone who’s loved him has either died or left one way or another

Wears neutral colors to blend in with the forest

Touched starved, due to not getting much gentle touch and affection in his life

Wants a normal life so bad but knows that will never happen

Wants to have kids. He wants to be the man his father never was

Hides his face gash with bandages and gauze when he goes out in public

He’s handsome and he knows it. He uses that charm to lure in/ manipulate his victims

Dark brown eyes and hair and pale pink lips

29 years old

Started dating Nina at 27

Toby is 6’0 flat

Very lanky but his back and arms are toned because of constant axe throwing and swinging

Toby is much more mature now that he’s 29 but can still joke around and stuff

Has scars all over his body not only from his father, but fighting since he was 17

He’s so full of himself and cocky especially when he’s manic

He’s an extremely jealous person and can be very possessive especially over the person he’s dating

He’s just scared to loose anyone

Hes violent as hell when it comes to killing

Very very messy because he’s impulsive and reckless and doesn’t care about getting hurt because he doesn’t feel it

Sometimes will target abusive men and will beat them to death with his fists while looking them in the eyes, smiling

Just because he was manipulated into killing at first doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it now

Because he really enjoys it

Especially when he’s angry or emotional

Still needs constant check ups and has to check for injuries on his body because he can’t feel them

Eats people on occasion. Since he chewed on his hands a lot he likes the taste of flesh

Likes fucking with his victims before he kills them sometimes. He learned that from Masky.

Has nightmares but doesn’t tell anyone about them

Doesn’t drink alcohol often because he really doesn’t wanna be like his dad

Midwestern emo

Looks like his mom. It makes him sad. He misses her.

When he’s by himself he wears grandpa sweaters and loose jeans

Nina is the only other person who can wear his clothes

Anyone else? No way.

Is close with EJ because of the constant medical checkups

Close with Jane too since Nina became friends with her

Actually can cook pretty well since he had to survive on his own a lot

His hair is mid neck and curly because he doesn’t bother to cut it

His beard is prickly and it started growing at 23

Has a bunch of piercings because he can’t feel pain (eyebrows, snakebites, tounge, septum, a bunch of ear ones) he also did it to match with Nina

His favorite food is ramen

His ADHD can make him upbeat and happy sometimes but it doesn’t last long

He likes to sit in the woods by himself sometimes and just enjoy his own company

He has quite the reputation working for Slenderman and all

Masky, Hoodie and Toby are called the triple threat

Hoodie handles ranged combat like guns. Masky is a hard hitting melee fighter, using crowbars, bats etc. Toby can do both by throwing hatches and using them in hand to hand combat. But he can also use his fists.

That’s all I got 4 now I’ll make a part 2 when I can remember more. Also this isn’t proof read sorry :3