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mrs-kmikaelson · 11 months ago

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Our Song and Dance⁴

Pairing: Finnick Odair x 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: LONGGGG, descriptions of torture, suicidal thoughts and tendencies, violence, exploitation of minors, mentions of forced prostitution, very complicated relationships, complex mental health issues, death, grief, and some unhealthy coping mechanisms Words: 18.2K

Masterlist | Part 5

a/n: since it's that time of year, i decided to give u guys a lil present. merry christmas and enjoy!!!

You had never felt so cold.

Growing up in a working home, you sometimes went through winter just hoping that your sheets would be enough to keep you alive, unable to afford a heater. In your first Games, you nearly froze to death, your matches being the only thing that saved you. Then once you had won and made it to the Capitol, you went through those cold nights with Finnick, sometimes hoping that you really would freeze to death, even if you never told him that.

Yet none of those times could compare to how cold you felt now.

Cold as you were brought out of the Capitol. Cold on the hovercraft. Cold when they sedated you. Cold as you were wrapped in blankets. Cold as Finnick went to touch you. And now, as the doctors examined you like you were an artifact, you were still just as cold.

But you were an artifact, weren’t you? You were the Princess.

So it didn’t really matter how cold you were at all.

You had been transported from the open medical area to your own room. It was almost like you blinked and, just like that, you were in a different room. Like magic.

Even though magic did not exist. Not in Panem. Not in this world.

Someone named Boggs had come to see you, explaining that you were in district 13, a district that you thought didn’t exist for your entire life. This is the revolution, he said. He was meant to bring you up to speed, ease your confusion, but you weren’t sure that was possible at the moment.

Throughout his explanation, you didn’t say a word, just staring up at him. This may have been seen as rude, but you weren’t doing it on purpose. You really didn’t know what to say.

He eventually left, not getting anywhere with you. From what you could tell, he had a lot more to deal with than just one girl. For a supposedly dead district, there was a lot going on in 13, but that wasn’t where your mind was.

Your body was in 13, but your mind was in the Capitol.

“Please, don’t-”

You closed your eyes, trying to rid yourself of these memories, but that only made it worse, images appearing underneath your eyelids. Your eyes quickly snapped open, darting around the room, your chest rapidly falling and rising.

You were in a bed. There was a desk, some chairs, a glass of water on the night stand next to you. The floor was white, tiled, not grey concrete. There were lights. You were in 13, where the lights were on, not in the Capitol, surrounded by darkness.

You’re alive, Y/N, you told yourself. But that didn’t seem to make anything better.

When did it ever?

You ran your hands up and down your arms, feeling new scars that hadn’t been there before, scars that could maybe heal one day, but you knew there were still open wounds you had that couldn’t be treated, open wounds that may never scar at all.

You didn’t think the wounds you had right now would ever close.

Your heart was racing, beating so loudly that you could hear it, so you imagined it wasn’t yours at all, that it was Finnick’s heart that you heard. Though you supposed that your heart did belong to him.

Even though you didn’t want to see him.

Nevertheless, imagining him sitting with you and pretending to listen to his heartbeat was what calmed you down. It always would. In a way, that was the only thing about you that remained sure, the only thing you had left from the life you lived.

Because that’s what it was: a life lived. Y/N Y/L/N lived her life. For a time, she was happy. She fell in love. And then she died. Now… now, you didn’t know who you were.

What you did know was that you weren’t the same Y/N that Finnick knew, the same Y/N who’d fall asleep in his arms. Now, you weren’t sure you could fall asleep at all, not for long, never for long.

Johanna and Peeta’s faces flashed through your mind. Their screams still echoed in your head. They were different now, too. Johanna wasn’t so fearless anymore, and the golden boy wasn’t so golden. His bright gold had been captured by darkness, and you weren’t sure if any of you would ever see it again.

At that thought, you finally got up, ignoring the ache in your bones. You couldn’t just sit there. You couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t eat. You couldn’t think anymore- you wouldn’t. You had to see them.

You left your room, a nurse coming up to you right away. “Ma’am, please, you need to rest-”

“I’m fine.” Your voice was raspy and scratched at your throat, so you cleared it. You didn’t know what you looked like, but you knew it couldn’t have been great with the way the nurse was looking at you. “Could you please take me to my friend Johanna?”

Hesitance was painted all over her face, as well as fear. You didn’t know why; you weren’t in any position to fight. “I’m sorry, I- I can’t-”

You cut her off. “I just want to see my friend.” Annoyance laced your voice, but if one listened closely, they’d also hear the desperation. You needed to see her, you needed to see someone familiar, someone that wasn’t there just because you were their responsibility, someone that wasn’t the boy you loved.

Her mouth opened and closed for several seconds before she responded, “I- she’s with a counsellor right now-”

You sharply inhaled, blinking and seeing Johanna, hearing her cry. When you opened your eyes again, you only saw the nurse staring at you anxiously, expectantly. You ran a hand through your hair. You needed to see someone. “Peeta then,” you said. “Take me to Peeta.”

Her fright seemed to increase. She looked at you like you weren’t in your right mind, which was right, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. There was something else in her expression, like there was something you didn’t know, something she didn’t want to tell you, but she nodded, anyway, agreeing.

This nurse was young, kind, and even a little naive. If you were in your right mind, you’d feel more empathy for her, be more compassionate or soft, but you weren’t. Your mind was in all of the wrong places all at once.

She reminded you of the nurse you had in the Capitol. She wasn’t there to ease your pain but to keep you alive, make sure you didn’t bleed to death so that you could go through the whole routine all over again the next day. She looked at you like that, too, like she was scared of you, even though you were the one that was powerless, even though you were the one on the brink of death.

Now you weren’t. You’re safe now, Boggs had told you. You didn’t say anything in that moment, but what you wanted to say was that he was wrong.

You’d never feel safe again.

When the nurse brought you to Peeta, Katniss was also there, but she didn’t notice you, staring through the glass of a white room. There was a blond boy in that room, strapped down to the bed.

But this boy wasn’t Peeta.

He wasn’t Peeta at all.

“Y/N?”

You turned away from the sight in front of you to the voice that called your name. The voice belonged to none other than Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the 50th Hunger Games and second Quarter Quell, but you knew him better as the man who drank his sorrows away until he couldn’t remember all that’d happened to him.

You nodded in greeting, but didn’t speak. He looked like he had more he wanted to say but held it in as he glanced back at the room, a young blonde girl entering it and carefully going to sit on the bed.

“She’s too close,” he remarked.

“It’s okay,” someone else responded. You turned and saw a greying man on the other side of Katniss, recognizing him immediately as opposed to when you first met him. Plutarch Heavensbee.

You glanced to Haymitch who was already looking at you. He glanced at the Gamemaker then nodded to you. Whatever he was trying to say didn’t fully translate, and you didn’t understand why this man who had caused so much pain was standing right next to Katniss like it was nothing, but for now, you still remained silent, choosing to let it be.

Throughout this interaction, Katniss had practically been none the wiser, eyes fixed on the inside of that room. When you redirected your attention to the scene, you realized why she was so focused. You still recognized the blonde girl from the reaping, even though it’d been over a year since they took place.

Primrose Everdeen.

Yet little Primrose never went into The Games. Her sister took her place. This was Katniss’ sister.

We live in district 13 now, she told him, her voice soft, soft enough to tell you that even though she was surrounded by war, her childhood was still there. It’s a real place. Stories are true. A pause. You were rescued.

Peeta didn’t look fazed by what she was saying, his attention on something else entirely. The look in his eyes was contained, but you saw it. Anger. My family hasn’t come to see me, he said, but he was talking to himself more than he was talking to Prim.

Family.

You saw your mother’s face in your mind, but you weren’t sure if that was still what she looked like. The last time you saw her was a year ago, her face stricken with grief, tears leaking from her eyes.

She hadn’t come to see you, either.

And you realized it was probably for the same reason Peeta’s family hadn’t come to see him.

At that realization, anything else Peeta or Prim said fell upon deaf ears. You couldn’t hear a thing, your song playing in your head on a loop, dancing so fast that the world blurred and you couldn’t see a thing.

Dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing-

“Y/N.”

The call of your name cut through the music, making you turn your head to see Katniss staring at you. You glanced around; Haymitch and Plutarch were gone now, so was Prim. It was just Peeta on the other side of the glass, kicking and yelling, people in scrubs going to sedate him.

You actually looked at her now, noticing the purple marks around her neck that matched the bags underneath her eyes. She looked different now, different from the last time you saw her in person and different from when you saw her on TV.

The Girl on Fire looked like her spark had been extinguished.

And, suddenly, she reminded you of yourself now more than ever.

You nodded to her and then turned to walk away, but her hand caught your wrist. Like a reflex, you yanked it away, spinning around to face her. She muttered a sorry under her breath, making you inhale.

“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice quiet. She couldn’t be blamed for how you could no longer handle touch, neither could Finnick. You felt guilt wash over you as you heard his voice cracking in your head, remembering how you didn’t say a word to him.

He’s fine, you told yourself. He has Annie.

Your thoughts were diverted away from him and back to Katniss as she spoke. “Has anyone explained it all to you yet?” This was a question, even though her voice was monotone while she asked it.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, thinking back to Boggs. “Yeah- um, a little.”

She looked at you like you were a puzzle and she was rearranging the pieces in her head, using what little energy she had. “Did they tell you?”

You furrowed your brows. You were just as if not more tired than her, your mind all over the place, too all over the place to understand what she was asking you. “Tell me what?” You questioned.

She didn’t respond right away, still looking at you as if she was trying to figure you out. Her eyes told you this story; however, her expression was blank. You’d seen snippets of her videos, not in full, never in full, but even from a snippet, you were able to see that look.

The way a victor looked.

When you met Katniss, you thought to yourself that she hadn’t been under the spotlight long enough to have been burned.

But with the spotlight they had on her now, she’d gone up in flames.

After a beat, she ceased her mental debate and decided to speak her thoughts. “I think we should talk.”

And she may not have known it, but what she told you may have just changed the course of your life.

Katniss took you to her room, sat you down, and with her raspy voice, she explained your situation to you. I’m The Mockingjay, she said. And they wanted you, too, Y/N. They wanted the Princess of Panem and The Mockingjay to be the voices of this revolution.

You stared at her wordlessly as she went on, just listening. To her, you must have looked crazy, listening to everything she said without any reaction whatsoever, but you knew that Katniss had been dancing long enough now to read you, too.

You were mind-blown. She was telling you that they wanted you to be a voice for the people, but wasn’t that so ironic? Your voice had been on mute for years. You were silent as you were used in the Capitol. You were silent as they made you go back and take everything from kids, kids just like you. Even when you thought you were about to die and had so many things to say to the boy that you loved, you didn’t say any of it.

How could you ever be a voice?

They chose the wrong person. Katniss was good. She was good at being The Mockingjay, good at saying the right things, and great at being a voice for Panem. But you? You weren’t cut out for this.

Why would she tell you this? This revolution had been well-planned and was proceeding fine without you. Why would she tell you this- why now?

You cut her off mid-sentence. “Katniss, what exactly are you trying to tell me?”

She paused as if she didn’t know the answer, either. Her red eyes glazed over and, for a few seconds, you both sat in silence. You thought she wouldn’t say anything until she looked back up at you. This time, her eyes were full of light, like she’d just realized she held the key to all she ever wanted, all you ever wanted.

And, in a way, she did.

“Hope,” she breathed. “I’m telling you that I have hope for a better world.”

A better world.

Once, you had hopes, too. You hoped that your kids would make it through The Games. You hoped that you could be loved back by the person you loved. You hoped that you could one day mend your relationship with your mother. You hoped that you could be happy.

But each of these hopes were crushed until nothing remained but disappointment.

You didn’t have any hope left.

After Katniss’ declaration, you sat silently before eventually leaving without saying a word.

She was so young. Sometimes, you forgot that. She wasn’t a child, but she was supposed to be. She was supposed to have a childhood, not the weight of a country resting on her shoulders.

But you’d carried the weight of the crown for years now.

You knew better.

You abandoned the idea of hope as soon as you dived off that pedestal in The Games, and then it abandoned you for good the second you woke up in the Capitol.

There wasn’t any hope left, not for you.

You got back to your room, ignoring your nurse who opened her mouth to speak to you but ultimately didn’t say anything, letting the door close in her face. It wasn’t personal. There were too many different people on your mind to think about her, so many words you said and didn’t say floating around, things you did and what was done to you.

You didn’t want to be awake anymore, to think about these things. Sometimes, nightmares offered more relief than your real life ever could.

But as you went to go lie down, you suddenly stopped, seeing something on your bed that hadn’t been there before. It was a sleek black box, one that wasn’t so common back where you were from but became an everyday custom after you won The Games. You picked up, clicking the side button and watching light shoot of it and project an image in front of you.

For a moment, you could’ve sworn your heart stopped.

Because that image that the box projected was of Finnick Odair.

It was a video shot here, in 13, similar to others you’d seen, but you’d never seen this. This was the first time you saw him on camera since before the Quell. And this was also the first time you’d looked into his eyes since you left that night.

Even if you weren’t really looking at him.

Finnick was always charming, the corners of his lips always quirked upward. He had mastered this façade- oh, Finnick knew how to dance, dance around all of the hard topics, dance around everything that was wrong with your lives to make you seem like the perfect happy couple, like victors.

But he didn’t look like that in the video.

He looked solemn. And maybe even a little scared.

No matter his appearance, you could’ve never expected the words that came out of his mouth, never from Finnick, never from one of you, from a victor. But he still said them.

Your mouth fell open. For the first time since you arrived in 13, you let tears fall down your cheeks, though you didn’t know if you could stop them, even if you tried. They burned on their way down, rubbing salt into the bruises you could see and the bruises you could never fix.

May the odds be ever in your favour, darling.

The box in your hands clattered to the ground, the video cutting out as you ran to the toilet, but Finnick’s voice still echoed in your ears. You threw up what very little you had eaten, head spinning.

Dancing, dancing, dancing.

This song didn’t sound right anymore. This dance didn’t feel right anymore. You were so tired of dancing- you just wanted to stop.

But Finnick hadn’t stopped at all.

Finnick was still dancing. Katniss was still dancing. Peeta, Johanna, every single person in Panem was now dancing with you. They knew now. They could hear the music, too. And who would save them?

You had wished for years and years that someone would pull you off the dance floor, that someone would make it stop. There were so many people that knew, so many people that just let you endure it- let you all endure it. How could you let any more people endure anything close to that?

You couldn’t stand on the sidelines and watch as everything burned to the ground. No, you wanted to help them set fire to the Capitol and burn Snow alive.

Hope. I’m telling you that I have hope for a better world.

You may not have had this hope. There was no better world out there for you.

But you’d be damned if you didn’t try to make one for every kid out there that cried and prayed their name didn’t get called at the reapings.

You would not get to live in this better world.

But you would make it in memory of the younger you that could have.

You later found Katniss again, telling her that you’d do it. You left out the part about how you sobbed for hours at the recording you knew she left you because that wasn’t what was important right now. You were not important right now.

This was about something much bigger.

She took you to Coin, who cleared the room at the sight of you, a surprised expression on her face. “Ms. Y/L/N, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She stood up, shaking your hand, glancing at Katniss periodically before looking back to you. “I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you sooner-”

“It’s alright,” you cut her off, trying your best to pull your lips into a smile. You had barely been in the room with her for a few seconds, but there was something about this woman that threw you off.

Katniss explained her story to you, how she was a widow, how her entire family died in a day. You sympathized with that, but Alma Coin did not remind you of a widow in the slightest.

She reminded you of the people you saw in the Capitol.

Clearly, she sensed the tension, giving you a smile and letting go of your hand, beckoning you both to sit. You sat down in the chair across from her, surveying the room, looking at the blueprints and papers sprawled everywhere. Your attention was drawn back to the woman when she spoke.

“So, how may I help you? I know adjusting to life here must be hard for you. But I will be here every step of the if you so need it.” You opened your mouth to speak, but she kept going, “You are an incredibly strong young woman. I cannot imagine what it must have been like to live through those Games, nor could I imagine what it must have been like within the walls of the Capitol.”

No, you couldn’t, you thought, but you didn’t say that. Instead, you gave her a stiff smile, hoping that all your practice faking it could make it look believable. It seemed that President Coin had some practice faking it, too.

However, you cut straight to the point. “Madam President, I want to help the rebels in any way that I can.”

Her mouth fell open slightly, as if that was the last thing she was expecting. She looked to Katniss again, like you were out of it. And maybe you were, but so was The Girl on Fire. So were all of you.

It wasn’t fair of her to treat you like glass because, the truth was, she was right. You went through The Games not once but twice, and then you were immediately thrown into the Capitol, facing horrors that you weren’t sure you could ever speak aloud, horrors that flashed before your eyes every time you blinked, even as you sat across from her.

But you were. You were sitting across from her. You were ready to do something.

You may have just been pulled from the Devil’s clutches, but you were ready to walk through Hell all over again if it meant you got to kill him.

Katniss didn’t waver. “So do I.”

Coin’s hesitance was easier than expected to spot. For someone who wanted to lead Panem, she surely wore her heart on her sleeve. Or maybe you had just gotten too good at this dance that you could spot anyone’s slightest misstep.

Slowly, she cautioned, “You both are going through a lot right now-”

The brunette sharply cut her off, “That doesn’t matter.” Your eyes were trained on Coin, but if you stole a glance at Katniss, then you knew you would’ve seen the fire in her eyes. In a way, she hadn’t changed at all since the last time you saw her.

And you wished that was true.

“Send me to the Capitol- send us to the Capitol.” Underneath her demand was pleading. “I’ll do anything.”

Coin brought her hand to her mouth, an indent on her finger where her ring was supposed to be yet no ring in sight. “I can’t.” But she wanted to. “I can’t send you there. We can’t get into the Capitol until we control district 2.”

“Then send us to 2,” you spoke up, her eyes moving to yours. There was some emotion in her eyes, pity or fear, you couldn’t tell, but you didn’t want to know what you looked like to find out. “I can fire up your troops, call out to the loyalists. You’ve seen what The Mockingjay can do, and I don’t doubt that you know what I am capable of.” You paused. “Let us win this for you, Madam President.”

She was silent for a moment, continuing to stare at you as if she was waiting for you to break, to do something that showed her that you weren’t capable of this, but she wouldn’t get that opening. You wanted this more than anything, and you would stop at nothing to get it.

Finally, she blinked, and you knew you had her.

“It would be an honour.”

You didn’t tell Katniss, and you certainly didn’t tell Coin, but a part of you was relieved that you weren’t going back to the Capitol so soon. You just left, and yet it felt like it had both been a world ago and just yesterday.

You didn’t know if you could handle it so soon, going back there. You could barely even handle looking at Finnick.

It wasn’t his fault. It was never his fault. You could never blame him, never for this.

How could you blame him when picturing his face was what got you through it?

How could you blame him when the only reason you survived was to find out if he was still alive?

They told you he was dead. They played his screams on a loop until you couldn’t tell that they stopped. His screams now blended in with the music so well.

Oh, you loved him. You loved him so much more than you could ever express. And maybe that’s why you never told him, but now you knew it was for the best. Finnick was strong, and beautiful, and he had a long life ahead of him with the woman of his dreams. You weren’t gonna get in the way of that.

You knew that you’d never truly be happy without him.

But you also knew from experience that he’d never be happy with you.

These were the thoughts that filled your head on the hovercraft. Even as he was nowhere in sight, his face was still all you could see.

He was here, too. You knew he was. Katniss told you beforehand. She didn’t know the whole story between you two, but she still told you. She had no idea how grateful you were.

You were hiding from him. You accepted the fact that the two of you would never get a happy ending, but that didn’t mean that you were ready to see him, knowing that. If you looked into his ocean blue eyes, God knew that he’d only pull you in and drown you in them.

You couldn’t do that.

It wasn’t fair to him.

It wasn’t fair to Annie.

It wasn’t fair to you.

And it wasn’t fair to all the people that were depending on you.

Suddenly, your thoughts were cut off the sound of footsteps came your way. You looked up, letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you saw it was just Haymitch.

He nodded to you. “Princess.”

You held back a scoff as he sat down next to you on the floor. “Haymitch.”

You still remembered when you met him. He was one of the first people to actually speak to you after you won your Games. For some reason, the others were too “intimidated” by you, but Haymitch didn’t have much left to be scared of, not when he went into an arena with 47 people and was the only one who walked out.

What you couldn’t remember was the last time you had an actual conversation with him, or at least the last time you had a conversation and he was sober.

“How’d you find me?” you asked, but your eyes were still trained on the floor. He didn’t seem to mind.

“I hang around here sometimes, go through the boxes and see if there’s anything medicinal in ‘em,” he responded, making you chuckle.

If he was looking for something medicinal, then you weren’t such a great replacement.

“Well, sorry you couldn’t find what you were looking for.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shake his head. “No, I need to be brought back to reality, anyway. And you, uh, you do a good job at that.”

You snorted, sensing the compliment was backhanded, even if he didn’t see it that way. Or maybe he did, but Haymitch was never one to hold his thoughts in. “Why, because I’m so fucked up?”

“No.” A beat of silence passed. “Because you remind me of a human’s will to live better than those Games ever did.”

You finally looked up, seeing that he was already looking at you. The sincerity in his eyes was so strong that it burned into yours, making you look away before it burned just enough to spark tears. “I don’t think I’m the best example of that.”

His reply came quick, like he didn’t even have to think about it, but he had no idea how much you would after he said it. “You’re still standing, aren’t you?”

Aren’t you?

You didn’t say anything after that, nor did you look at him, and he didn’t force you to. You spent the rest of the ride pondering over his words.

You thought of every painful thing you ever went through. The Hunger Games. Being sold. The Quarter Quell. The Capitol. Falling in love.

You went through all that, and you were still here. You were still standing.

Weren’t you?

Or were you just waiting for the right moment to fall?

Your thoughts were halted as you felt the hovercraft come to a stop, realizing just how long you’d been thinking. You both stood up, going to leave this room. Like most real conversation you’d had with victors, you thought you both would just pretend it never happened, but right before you were about to enter the main ops room, he stopped you, grabbing your wrist. This time, you stopped the flinch before it could happen, looking up at him.

Haymitch Abernathy was not a soft man. After being cut so many times, his edges were jagged and sharp, but looking at you in that moment, he looked more than just soft. He looked sorry.

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure to say what he wanted to say or not, something unusual for him. He seemed to have made up his mind, telling you, “Stay standing, Y/N. There are still people out there that can’t do that by themselves.” Then he paused, eyes glazing over.

“Show them that they can.”

Getting off the hovercraft, damage surrounded you. The once pristine nature of district 2 was gone, replaced by devastation, rubble everywhere. If this was district 2, then you couldn’t imagine that any of the other districts were any better, that your district was any better.

Your mind was drawn back to your mother before you shook it away. You couldn’t be thinking of that right now.

A man in black attire carrying an assault rifle greeted you. Not a Peacekeeper. But a chill still went down your spine.

You couldn’t really tell if it was because of the soldier or if it was because you felt Finnick staring at you.

He wasn’t far behind you, in the row behind you and Katniss with Boggs and Gale. You tried to ignore it, but that proved to be harder said than done.

Katniss carried her bow in her hand while a sword was strapped to your belt, lightly hitting your leg as you walked, but you got used to this feeling during your first Games. In a way, it was almost comforting, even though it never should’ve been, even though weapons should’ve never been comforting to a child so young.

But you weren’t a child anymore.

In your hand, you carried a crossbow, Beetee’s special arrows on your back. The sword was really only there for show. This wasn’t The Hunger Games; no, this was a very different and special game entirely.

This was war.

You wouldn’t be getting up close for combat very often, so a crossbow made more sense, but after The Games, weapons started to hold sentimental value, both for the victors and the viewers that watched them. For Katniss, it was her bow; for Finnick, it was his trident; and for you, it was your sword.

Suddenly, as you were making your way to the Justice Building, a bomb went off, shaking the ground and making you spin, your grip on your bow tightening. Your heart was beating rapidly, but Corporal Homes wasn’t fazed, even letting out a little laugh. “Don’t worry. It’s just how the loyalists say good morning.”

You let out a shaky breath, holding the bow tighter to try and stop your hands from trembling. You shut your eyes, trying to calm down, but all that did was bring you right back to the Capitol. Your eyes quickly reopened, but when they did, they met those ocean blues that you’d been trying to avoid.

Your body went rigid. It begged you to look away, but you couldn’t. You were pulled to him like a magnet, a magnet that scraped against you, a magnet that nearly stopped your heart with how strong it was, but no matter how much it hurt you, fighting against it was useless.

Concern swam through his eyes, along with another familiar emotion you couldn’t pinpoint. It had been so long since you last saw him, since you last really saw him. Maybe that was why you couldn’t decipher it.

But, really, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Are you okay?” God, and his voice. How was it possible that his voice could both fill and create a hole in your heart at the same time? It was both quiet and loud, both sure and uncertain, and caring in every sense of the word.

So warm but made you feel so cold at the same time.

You just looked at him for a few seconds, as if you were hypnotized, until you realized you needed to respond. You nodded, afraid that your voice would crack if you tried to speak.

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but a hand came to your shoulder, yanking you out of trance. You turned to see Katniss, glancing between you both for a second before her eyes rested on you. She nodded towards the building and the rest of the crew who had walked ahead of you. You nodded back, walking away from Finnick without another word.

How did we get here? you wondered.

We’re gonna be fine. Look, whenever you get nervous up there, you just hold my hand, alright? You’re not alone in this, okay? I’m right here.

He was right there. He was still right there.

But the difference between then and now was that you could no longer just hold his hand.

He was right there.

But you were still alone.

Once you had put some distance between yourselves and Finnick, Katniss whispered, “I’m sorry.” You turned your head, but her eyes were directed in front of her. “That looked personal.”

“No, it’s fine,” you assured her, and then you left it at that. Because, truth be told, you were grateful for Katniss interrupting you. You weren’t sure you would’ve ever walked away if she hadn’t. But you did. And now you had bigger problems to worry about than your love life, if you could even call it that.

You finally made it into the Justice Building, being greeted by both Commander Lyme and Paylor. While they lived in higher ranks, they were still soldiers. You appreciated how they cut right to the chase.

You and your squad from 13 stood around a table projecting a hologram of district 2’s mountains with at least a dozen other soldiers, more littered throughout the room with Coin on a TV in front of you.

Lyme started, “President Coin, we’re indebted to you for the reinforcements, the Princess, and the Mockingjay.” She glanced at you. “But I’m not sure that anyone outside of 2 knows what we’ve been up against.” She pointed at the hologram. “This is The Nut. The Capitol’s headquarters for all offensive operations. It’s manned by both military and civilian personnel from district 2.” She then continued to explain what all more or less knew, that it lied so deep beneath bedrock that it was untouchable.

“Yesterday, we attempted to take the northeastern gate. The enemy countered from higher up and we were forced to pull back.” She momentarily looked down, her mask of a stone cold commander falling and showing the human behind it. “We took heavy losses.”

Another commander spoke up. “Could we create a decoy? Send troops towards one gate, launch a staggered attack on another.”

Paylor didn’t miss a beat. “Whose troops do you propose as a decoy, Commander?”

Although the question was not directed towards her, Coin still responded, “We have the Mockingjay and we have the Princess of Panem. Do not underestimate their influence. We could use them to erode support, sway some of the loyalists.”

“You’ve been underground a long time, Madam Coin,” Lyme said. “This isn’t like the rest of Panem. Support for the Capitol runs deep here.” And why wouldn’t it? When the oppressor had done just about everything but oppress you, then how could you see the oppression happening everywhere else?

Coin quickly retorted, “Then there is no sacrifice too great.” Her voice was like that of a widow: soft enough that you could tell what she’d been through but firm enough for the exact same reason.

No sacrifice too great… but wasn’t there?

“We need to control the arsenal inside that fortress. Even with every district in this alliance, we are outgunned.” All twelve other districts could band together, but without 2, none of you stood a chance.

No sacrifice too great.

“I won’t commit my people to a ground assault just to pillage weapons.”

“Commander Paylor, your people have suffered more than just about anyone else at the hands of the Capitol.”

“Which is why I won’t condone a mass suicide.”

“If we don’t take district 2, we won’t get into the Capitol.”

For the first time since your entrance, you spoke up. “What if we don’t have to take it?” You felt everyone’s eyes on you but yours remained focused on the hologram in front of you, unblinking as if you weren’t there at all.

And maybe you weren’t.

Lyme responded, “What are you proposing, Ms. Y/L/N?”

What were you proposing? You couldn’t be sure. But you knew what you needed, and that was this war ending in Snow’s final breath.

No sacrifice too great.

“What if we don’t need The Nut to win?” You looked up. “What if we could take it away from them instead?”

Gale seemed to be the only one who caught onto what you were saying, or at least the only one willing to speak it aloud. “We could disable it, trap them inside or flush ‘em out.” He continued, gesturing the hologram. “If we can’t attack straight on, then couldn’t we use our hovercraft to strike around it? We’ll use the mountains; we’ll hit weak spots in the peaks.”

“We could design the bomb targets in sequence using seismic data.”

“Trigger avalanches,” you muttered just above a whisper, imagining it in your head. Something like this happened in The Games once, one of the years you were mentoring. It was catastrophic, akin to a bloodbath. It was a miracle there was even anyone left alive to fight for a victor’s title.

You wondered if Finnick thought of this, too, but you didn’t dare look over at him, looking back to hologram and trying to block the images of blood and terror from your mind.

But as you stood there and spoke about war, you didn’t know if that was possible.

Not when the war in your mind had still yet to be won.

“Block all exits, cut off their supplies. You make it impossible for them to launch their hovercraft.”

Paylor had a look of realization on her face. “Bury them alive.”

“We’d forfeit any chance to control the weapons-”

Beetee cut Coin off, “Yes, but we’d face a weakened Capitol.”

“There’s civilians in there,” Boggs interjected, stoic but any hearing person could hear the compassion in his voice. Civilians. Is that what they were?

You were a civilian too, once. Then you were a tribute, a pawn, a victor, the Princess. Did civilians still exist? What kind of civilians could support the Capitol? What kind of human beings could support the torture you were subjected to, the torture people in the districts were subjected to on a daily basis?

You wondered if your mother was given the courtesy of a civilian before the Capitol took her life.

You weren’t.

“They should be given a chance to surrender. Could use one of the supply tunnels for the evacuees.”

“It’s a luxury we weren’t given when they firebombed 12,” Gale said, as if he were reminding you, as if any of you needed a reminder.

“There’s gotta be a better way.” You were already so focused, but if you were losing attention in any way, Katniss brought it back, the disbelief in her voice audible to everyone in the room. She glanced in between Gale and you, but she didn’t get whatever response she expected of you.

Katniss may have had hope for the good of humanity, but you didn’t have that. The Capitol took that away from you without a second thought. She may have been driven by hope, but you were driven by anger.

There was no sacrifice too great.

“I suggest we try the avalanche, but leave the train tunnel alone,” Coin decided. “Civilians can escape into the square, where our armies will be waiting for their surrender.”

“We should have every available medic standing by.”

“And if they won’t surrender?” Lyme challenged.

Coin’s lips almost formed a smile. “Then we will need a compelling voice to persuade them.” And a voice was something she had.

The Mockingjay and the Princess, two sides of the same coin. Heads or tails, luck was on the President’s side either way.

You tuned out after that, letting everyone else talk logistics. Throughout the entire conversation, you didn’t hear Finnick say a word. He was perhaps the most talkative person you had ever met, and yet now, he had nothing to say.

He only looked at you the whole time, like an artifact.

And even as you walked away, you still felt the cold burn of his stare.

You watched from a broken window of the Justice Building as the hovercrafts started, rubble blowing in the wind. The sight was magnetic, pulling you in to look at it. It was almost beautiful.

This world could’ve been beautiful.

You wished that this dance could have been more beautiful before it made your feet bleed.

You watched as the hovercrafts danced in the sky before dropping bombs on the mountains, dancing to the sound of explosions and then to the sound of cheers around you.

Dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing-

“This isn’t right.” A voice brought you out of your trance. You turned to see Katniss, her eyes on the scene outside the window, as mesmerized as you were. But mesmerized wasn’t the right word. She was stricken by horror.

Oh, if she saw what happened to you that could make you ever justify this. If she saw what happened to Peeta to make him hysteric. If she saw what happened to Johanna to make her numb. If she saw, then would she still be so transfixed then?

If she saw, would she still be standing?

If she saw, would she understand why you still were?

You stared at her for a moment, contemplating if you would say any of this before deciding against it, turning back and monotonously replying, “It’s fire catching, Everdeen.”

She scoffed, “And we’re lighting the match.”

Sharply, you countered, “Don’t forget that the Capitol poured gasoline everywhere first.” You turned back to see her already looking at you. A sigh left your lips. “They did this, Katniss.”

“And so anyone that had anything to do with it deserves to burn for it?”

No.

Yes.

“Did we deserve to burn, Girl on Fire?” You caught her off guard, anger slipping through the cracks of your voice, resolution filling your eyes. “Did we deserve to burn in those reapings, in those parades, in those damn Games as they all made a spectacle of it? All those kids and their families, did they deserve to burn just because the Capitol saw fit?” She was silent, tears coming to her eyes that she refused to let fall, so different from that girl you were with in the arena yet the exact same. Your eyes burned, too. “The way I see it, we’re fighting fire with fire.” You scoffed. “At least we’re giving them a way out.”

You didn’t stick around to hear Katniss’ response, walking away to find whoever would tell you what do next. You could’ve stood by that window for the rest of the night, watching as the terror unfolded, but you had more important things to do than watch the fire.

You had to go light a match.

You examined yourself in the mirror blankly. You were donning a black costume, and a costume it was. Because what was a costume if not an impersonation of something you were not?

But someone thought that this was what you were. Someone thought that you could be a leader. Cinna did—or at least that’s what Effie Trinket told you. You didn’t know why she seemed to be in charge of “design” or why she showed such an interest in you, but you supposed it wasn’t so unusual for an artifact.

Your makeup artists did their jobs fabulously, painting your face until you were almost unrecognizable, until you looked like that girl from before The Games, that girl that the people of Panem knew and loved. With this makeup, you couldn’t see the circles under your eyes, the discolouration of your face. They made you look alive again.

On the outside, at least.

On the inside, you weren’t sure if there was any makeup that could repair the damage that’d been done.

Your hair had been braided into an updo, like a crown. They tried to give you back your necklace, the one Finnick gave to you before The Games, but you never wanted to see that necklace again, never wanted to see a rose ever again.

You would hate the smell of roses for the rest of your life.

“It’s time.” You looked away from your reflection to see Haymitch standing at the door. You nodded to him, glancing back at the mirror one last time before exiting the room. Katniss fell into step with you both as you made your way toward the train tunnel, but remained silent. You didn’t speak, either.

Soon, you were joined by the rest of your Star Squad, but you avoided any and all eye contact with Finnick. It’d be a shame to cry and ruin all that beautiful makeup on your face.

It’d be a shame to feel something right now when you felt so numb.

But you’d quickly be feeling a lot.

“Don’t worry, Katniss. There’ll be survivors,” Boggs tried to reassure. She glanced at him, but didn’t respond.

Haymitch was more concentrated on what you came here to do. “Let’s focus on what it is you gotta say.” He looked in between both of you. “Now, Plutarch wrote a speech that either of you can read-”

“No,” you both simultaneously said, briefly glancing at each other.

Haymitch sighed, throwing the cards to the side. “Okay, didn’t think so. Let’s, uh…” he stopped you both, standing in front of you. “But just remember you’re talking to everybody. Not just the rebels, but the Capitol, the survivors in 2. We want them to lay down their arms. So you- both of you might wanna experiment with a little sensitivity, warmth.”

They have the upper-hand, that’s what he was really saying. But you understood how this worked. You’ve danced this dance a million times already.

“Don’t worry, Haymitch. I know how to fake it.” He looked over at you as if he wanted to say something, but Boggs spoke before he could.

“Make it quick, you’re exposed.”

Katniss walked toward the tunnel first, turning once she was far enough to face the rest of you. They decided that she would go first. She had been at this for a while now, much longer than you.

You’re lucky, you know.

How so?

You just are.

Maybe the Katniss Everdeen that you met in the training centre was lucky, but this one, the one who shot an arrow at the force field in the Quarter Quell, the one who became a symbol before she could even blink… you weren’t so sure that this one was so lucky. Not anymore. Not in this world.

Luck didn’t exist in this new world.

“This is Katniss Everdeen, speaking to all of the loyalists from the heart of district 2-”

“Survivors! Inbound!”

The sound of the train’s horn became audible to you, its wheels screeching against the train tracks. Boggs went running for Katniss while a hand grabbed your shoulder. This time, you couldn’t hold back the flinch.

“We need to go, Y/N.” And then your body went rigid.

That was your name.

That was your name coming from Finnick Odair.

You didn’t even notice when he moved so close to you.

You swallowed, nodding, but it was like your feet were cemented to ground. You couldn’t move. If you moved, if you turned around, then you’d be looking right into his eyes.

Oh, there was time when the only thing you wanted to do was stare into his eyes all day. And maybe the problem was that you still wanted to.

You closed your eyes, inhaling a shaky breath, and when you opened them, the survivors were jumping off the train, being forced down to the ground, guns pointed at them, loud noise everywhere. Suddenly, you couldn’t take your eyes off of what was happening, even as every bone in your body begged you to, even as your head spun.

Finnick’s hand was still on your shoulder, but neither of you moved. None of you did.

Another man jumped off, looking disoriented, but what drew your attention to him wasn’t his appearance but the gun in his hand. The grip on your shoulder got tighter.

“Drop it! Drop your weapon! You! Drop it,” Boggs shouted, aiming his machine gun at him as he moved in your direction. “Drop the gun! Drop it-”

Suddenly, a gun went off, and everyone was screaming. You ducked down, eyes frantically darting everywhere before they settled on Katniss, running towards him, yelling. Your eyes widened, a wave of déjà vu passing over you as you remembered this exact scenario in the Quell, Katniss running towards danger and you running after her.

And just like that, even though you were paralyzed by fear, you quickly shot up, running after her without a thought. “Katniss!”

“Y/N!”

“Stop! He needs help!” She screamed as you were about to reach her. The next moment happened too fast for you to grasp it, the man jabbing his gun at her chin and cocking it. You skidded to a stop where you were, your breath catching in your throat.

Boggs was shouting, but your ears rang. It was almost as if you could feel that barrel on your own skin, and maybe it was because you had.

Snow’s voice rang through your head, Tell me about the rebel plan, Y/N.

You’re gonna have to kill me first.

Oh, sweet girl. He had knelt down next to you. I will make you wish that you died in that arena.

The man’s voice shook you out of your daze. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t shoot you.”

“Drop the gun!”

Katniss was silent, staring right into his eyes, but you saw what was behind the brave façade she was putting on. She didn’t have a reason.

“She can’t.” His eyes went to you, widening as if he hadn’t realized you were there. You stepped forward, feeling everyone’s eyes on you. Inside, you were shaking, but on the outside, you were calm and collected. On the inside, you were just a tribute in this game, but on the outside, you were the victor that everyone had crowned you.

“We blew up your mine. But you burned her district to the ground- my district to the ground.” You stepped closer, your resolve hardening. “So I guess we both have every reason to want to kill each other, but, really, does that make sense?” You asked, not looking away from his eyes once. “You know who I am. You know who she is, and I can bet that you know a few of the people standing behind me. So many people that the Capitol has rooted for, that you have rooted for- why would we be doing this? After the riches, and the glitz, and the glamour, why would we fight back against a system that has supposedly given us everything?”

Because they took everything from you first.

You took another step closer, putting your hands up when he jabbed the gun in Katniss’ neck. “Look around you.” He quickly glanced around before his eyes fell back on you. “Are these the people you want to kill? The same people that you cheered for?” Slowly, your hands fell. “Why are you fighting us? Why are you fighting the rebels? You’re neighbours. You’re family.”

He looked up at you for a few seconds, but those seconds felt like hours. In his eyes, you could see evil, chaos. But you also a sliver of humanity, and you prayed to God that you reached past the chaos to the humanity. You prayed to whoever would listen that he heard you. And, maybe, for the first time, the universe was on your side, because his gun slowly lowered to the ground.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Katniss was stuck in a trance until you pulled her up, but you weren’t so focused on her. Your eyes panned over the people, your people and the loyalists alike, but they were all just people, you realized.

They were all just people.

“There is no our side or your side,” you yelled, backing away from the man and facing everyone. “There is only freedom and captivity. These people are not your enemy.” You turned, facing the rest of the crowd. “We all have one enemy. And that’s Snow.” Tears gathered in your eyes. “He does not care who you are or how loyal you are, how important you are—to him, we are all just pieces in a game.”

You pointed to your people behind you. “Katniss Everdeen, Haymitch Abernathy, Finnick Odair, Peeta Mellark, Annie Cresta, Johanna, Beetee, Enobaria- we are all that is left from three generations of victors. The rest of them are dead.” The faces of those that you killed flashed through your mind. “Slaughtered in the Quarter Quell or killed in the aftermath, it’s all the same. They were murdered by the Capitol—and it didn’t matter how important, or loyal, or loved they were- their lives were ended like they didn’t mean a thing.”

“And they would do the same to any of you if it benefit them.” You shook your head, raising your voice. “Stop killing for him.” You paused, breathing heavily. Your fight was not with people in the districts. Your fight was with one person and one person only. It was time that everyone else saw that. “Tonight, turn your weapons to the Capitol. Turn your weapons to Snow.”

Before you could say another word, gunfire erupted and you were falling to the ground.

And then your vision went black.

“Please, I don’t know anything,” you sobbed, fighting against your restraints, but it was no use.

Snow tutted, coming out from the shadows in which he hid. “Oh, Y/N, I wish I could believe that.”

Your body shook. “Please, I’m telling the truth, I don’t know anything about a revolution.”

“And yet all of your comrades did?”

You rapidly shook your head back and forth, worsening the pounding in your mind. They kept telling you about an uprising, but you didn’t know what they were talking about. They said you knew, but you didn’t know. They said that Katniss knew, that Peeta knew, that Johanna knew, that Finnick knew, but they couldn’t have.

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know where they were.

You prayed that Finnick was safe, but if he wasn’t, then you prayed that he was dead. You’d rather him be dead than ever face what you were facing now.

“They didn’t. I didn’t- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow looked at you silently for a few moments, and you had no idea what he was thinking. Then brought his hand up. You flinched, but his hand only went to your hair, petting it. The look in his eyes was almost something like pity, you realized, but it wasn’t real. You didn’t know how long you’d been there, wherever you were, but in the time you there, you learned that President Snow was incapable of sympathy.

You even thought that he enjoyed this.

“Oh, my dear princess… I would’ve hoped that you would’ve learned to be honest with me by now,” he sighed, and then he took his hand away and looked away from you altogether, looking to the Peacekeeper that’d moved to the wall. “Again. And let’s be a little more… effective this time.” He moved to walk away, and you shook your head.

“No, no- please don’t- please, please- no- no!”

You shot up, panting, your hands digging into blankets. Your eyes darted around the room and you realized you were back in your bed in the medical centre. A hand was placed over yours and you immediately shuffled away, your eyes going to the person and meeting blue, concerned orbs.

Finnick held his hands up in surrender. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me.” Your chest still rapidly fell up and down, but for some reason his presence calmed you down and put you into a panic all at the same time.

Only Finnick could do that to you.

You closed your eyes, blinking the remnants of your nightmare away, even if that nightmare wasn’t a nightmare but rather just the life you so happened to live. You’re here, Y/N. You’re alive.

But why?

“How am I alive?” you croaked, looking down at the dull bed sheets instead of into his eyes. It was funny: you looked down to avoid the blue of his eyes, but the colour of these sheets was so similar.

What’s your favourite colour?

It’s blue, not really dark or light either. Sort of green- it’s close to grey, too.

Now that colour just made you want to cry.

Finnick didn’t say anything for a moment, as if he was shocked that you were even speaking to him. And you were, too. You hadn’t spoken to him in weeks, and if you went back to the last time you spoke, back in the arena, you would’ve never thought that this was how it would turn out. Even if you went back to just your first days in the Capitol, you still could’ve never imagined a reality where you didn’t speak to Finnick.

But you could’ve never imagined any of this happening in the first place.

If you went back to the night you met him, you could’ve never imagined how deeply you’d fall for this boy.

And you never could’ve imagined how much it’d hurt when you hit the ground.

Finnick’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “You were shot back in 2. But the bullets were stopped by your costume. Cinna made sure that it was bulletproof.”

Cinna.

The way people spoke about him, in the past tense, the way you hadn’t seen him anywhere. You’d figured that he was dead.

You wondered how many more people would die for this revolution before you could all be free.

“The doctor says you sustained minor injuries, bruised rib, bruised lung. But nothing worse than the injuries you came back from the Capitol with.” At that, you turned your head to face him, meeting his eyes immediately. His eyes were soft but almost hard. He was almost looking at you the same way he did after you volunteered for Annie. In his eyes, you saw care, confusion, sadness, some anger, and emotions you couldn’t name, but most of all, you could see the pure exhaustion weighing him down.

He stared at you for a few seconds, or maybe a few minutes, maybe longer than that—time didn’t seem to exist. “Why would you do that, Y/N?” He whispered. And in that moment, you knew you weren’t talking to the Prince of Panem, the victor of The 65th Hunger Games, or the soldier who wanted to build a better world.

You were just talking to Finnick.

And that scared you.

Your breath hitched.

Why would you do that?

Finn-

Why would you volunteer?

Because you had to.You volunteered for Annie because you had to, the same way you did what you just did because you had to. To you, there was no choice, only one path to follow.

“I did what I was meant to do, Finnick.” Even as you willed it not to, your body betrayed you, your voice cracking on his name, but this time, you kept eye contact. And even though you were talking to Finnick, the Finnick that held you at night and soothed you when you cried, your Finnick, he was not talking to Y/N, not the Y/N that he held and soothed.

That Y/N could not talk to Finnick, not this Finnick.

If she did, you didn’t know if you’d ever get her back again.

He was shaking his head before you even finished speaking. “No, you could’ve died.” I’m already dead.

“But I didn’t.” But I did.

“But you almost did!” You flinched as his hands went up in the air, and then he froze, freezing you with him. You flinched. You flinched like he was gonna hit you, and he saw that. You cursed yourself immediately, wishing you could take it back as the look that encompassed his eyes became hurt.

There were few times when Finnick ever looked at you like that, and you could remember each as if they just happened. You never wanted to see that look on his face again, to be the reason for that look.

Time stopped again. You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to apologize, but you couldn’t find the words. And before you could, time picked back up. Finnick’s hands fell down to the bed, and he looked away from you, lowering his voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Y/N.”

Tears welled in your eyes. He didn’t know what he was saying. “You could have the world at your fingertips, Finnick.”

“There is no world for me if you’re not in it.” He looked back at you. And you couldn’t tell if your imagination was playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn there were tears in his eyes, too. “You’re my world, Y/N.” And just like that, any hope you had of remaining invulnerable shattered and the dam you were trying to hold in your eyes broke, tears falling down your face.

You shook your head, silent sobs wracking your body. Did he have any idea the effect he had on you? Did he have any idea what he was doing to you? “Why are you saying these things?”

Something akin to a scoff left his lips. “Because it’s true-”

“No- no, they’re not-”

Finnick latched onto your hand, making you look right at him. This time, you saw tears trailing down his cheeks, and they seemed so real. “Y/N, I swear to you on everything I believe in that I’m telling you the truth.”

You wished it was the truth. You wished that this was real. You had been wishing that your pretending could become real for ages now.

But you’d danced this dance long enough to know that wasn’t gonna happen.

Even if Finnick had convinced himself that it would.

“It’s impossible.”

“I l-”

“Ms Y/L/N?” You both turned the source of the new voice, finding your doctor at your door. She glanced between you both carefully as you ripped your hands away from Finnick’s, wiping at the tears that’d fallen and the ones that continued to fall. “May I speak with you, please?” She requested, glancing at him.

He quickly stood up, but this time, you weren’t looking. “Yeah, I’ll, uh- I’ll head out.” He paused for a second, like he was waiting for you to say something, but you weren’t sure that you could continue to speak to him right now, even if you wanted to. When you remained silent, you heard his shoes pitter-patter against the ground as he made his way out of the room.

When he was gone, you exhaled and Dr. Terren looked back at you. She hesitated, “Did I… interrupt something?”

“No,” you breathed out. “Nothing important.”

She nodded after a beat, getting right into her medical talk, but she didn’t look so convinced.

And you weren’t sure that you were, either.

You were hit bad, the doctor said, but it could’ve been worse. And she was right. It could’ve been worse.

You didn’t feel a thing. Lung, ribs—all you felt was heartache. Maybe it was good that you couldn’t feel the pain. But you couldn’t be sure.

She kept pushing the same idea: therapy. That’s where Johanna was. That’s where Peeta was. But that wasn’t gonna be where you were. Terren kept talking about trauma, about how this near-death experience called for you to talk to someone, but really, what good would that do?

Would that therapist understand? Did they go through what you went through? Did they understand what you were going through? You didn’t have time to stop and talk about your feelings, if you could even sort them out into words, nor did you want to reminisce over anything that happened while you were in the Capitol.

Even if reminiscing was all you could do.

When Terren left, you ripped the IV out of your arm, leaving your hospital room to go to the other room they gave you. At least that one wasn’t filled with your favourite colour.

Your room in 13 was grey, like most things here. It was drab, but you wouldn’t complain. Anything was better than the Capitol. The door to your room slid open, and then you stopped. On your floor was the same black box Katniss left you, the same one you watched Finnick from.

Poison.

You swallowed, deciding to ignore the box altogether and go to your ensuite. You never wanted to see that video again. Watching it from that box was the first time you ever saw it, and it would be the last.

They must have gone through extra effort to hide it from you in the Capitol. They made you believe he was dead. You believed this was such conviction that, when you saw him again after the rescue, you thought you were dreaming.

You even thought you’d died.

You even wished you did.

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, dead is what you looked like. That bullet may not have killed you, but you still looked like a corpse. You’re very lucky to be alive, Y/N, Dr. Terren told you.

Luck.

If luck was what kept you alive, then it wasn’t good luck at all. Luck would’ve been that bullet puncturing like it was intended to.

Your hand went to your ribs, looking at the bandages wrapped around them in the mirror. Then your hand travelled to your hair. Long and silky, so sought after in Panem. But as you ran your hands through it, you didn’t feel its softness. All you felt was Snow’s hand, petting you as you begged him not to kill you.

And then that turned into you begging for the exact opposite.

You don’t know how long you were looking at your reflection before you were opening and closing the sink drawers, your hands moving with a mind of their own. Part of you didn’t know what you were doing, but another part of you must have as you suddenly stopped, having found what you were looking for.

Scissors.

You picked them up, staring at them as if they were treasures, watching the light glare off the blades. You didn’t know what you were doing.

All you knew was that this feeling was tearing you apart.

And that’s all you could focus on.

Suddenly, your hand holding the scissors was moving. You still didn’t know what you were doing, but before you could find out, your name sounded.

“Y/N?”

You looked up, seeing Katniss stand in the doorway, confusion on her face that slowly contorted to fear. She glanced down at your hands, making you do the same. Quickly, you moved the scissors away from your wrist, unknowing of how they even got there.

You looked back at Katniss, your mouth opening and closing. You didn’t know what to say. Finally, you stammered, “I- I-” she looked back up at you and you realized that she, too, didn’t know what to say. “My hair. It’s- I want to cut my hair.”

That’s not what you were doing.

Katniss seemed to know that, not looking convinced in the slightest. She was quiet for a few moments, eyes on the scissors before she was walking towards you. Gently, she pried them out of your hand, as if you were a child holding a gun.

Then her eyes met yours. The eyes that were once hard as stone now looked at you with softness. “I’ll help you,” she whispered. She nodded to herself, repeating, “I’ll help you.”

You were grateful for her going with your story, even if it was just because she didn’t know what to say to what she really saw. She moved behind you, exhaling and getting ready right away.

And she may not have known this, but in just her walking in, she had already helped you more than you could’ve ever helped yourself.

Muffled chatter came to your ears as you sat in one of the common areas. Most people ate in the cafeteria, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go in there. Finnick was in there, along with Katniss, and you couldn’t really talk to either of them right now.

With Finnick, you didn’t know where you stood. He said so much to you in your hospital room, after you were shot, but you didn’t know what to make of any of it. He was talking to you like you were more than just fake lovers—and truth be told, that’s what you were. You may have forgotten that for a while or pretended for too long, but it was fake. The dance changed every so often, but at its core, it was the same.

Finnick was acting like this was a dance you engaged in voluntarily, like this was a dance he enjoyed dancing. While you had no one you’d rather dance with, you knew it wasn’t the same for him. You saw the way he looked at Annie; you saw it for the entirety of your “relationship.” He looked at her with such tenderness and care, like she put the stars in the sky. The second you saw her, the second you saw the way he looked at her, you knew that you didn’t stand a chance.

But for some reason, in that hospital room, you almost felt like he looked at you that way.

And that didn’t make sense.

That didn’t make sense at all.

Another part of you didn’t want him to see you like this, not again. Katniss did, and you weren’t ready to see her so soon, either. It was a weak moment, you told yourself, but you were fine now. You were here for a reason—you were still here for a reason.

Show them that they can.

You didn’t have hope, but you were still the hope of so many people, the hope of Panem. You weren’t gonna let them down. You were not going to stand by and let Snow’s reign of terror continue.

You made a pact with yourself. As Katniss was cutting your hair, you promised yourself that you would see this through. Afterward, it didn’t matter what happened, but you would fight until this country was free.

Even if you died for it in the process.

“Looking good, Princess.”

Your head shot up from your tray and, for the first time since you arrived in 13, you felt a smile arise on your face. “Johanna.” Your tray was pushed to the side as you stood, wrapping your arms around her.

“Easy. I hear you’re injured.”

“I’m fine, Jo,” you reassured her, pulling away. She mirrored your smile, a sight you never thought you’d see again after what you heard in the Capitol.

“You always are, aren’t you?” She retorted. You only continued to smile, opting not to respond. She must’ve seen your discomfort—of course she did, she knew you so well—so she changed the subject. “It’s good to see you.”

“Ditto,” you responded, even if it was a little untrue. You loved Johanna. She was the first person you looked for when you got to 13, and seeing her right now made you so unbelievably happy, a happy you didn’t anticipate feeling for a long time, but it wasn’t good to see her like this.

She had always put on a brave face, was always so much stronger than you, but right now, she looked like she was barely holding on. Her eyes were hollow, bags underneath them that matched yours. Her face was pale. And the beautiful red streaks that had once filled her hair, the hair that she loved, was now gone. It was all gone.

The Capitol took it just to show her that they could.

And even though you cut yours out of your own will, they still took yours, too.

Eventually, she sat down with you, resting her head on your shoulder. Before, when things were bad before they got worse, you’d sit together in the Capitol, you, her and Finnick, and you’d pass time together, just like this.

Except Finnick wasn’t here.

However, you convinced yourself that it was for the best.

Annie. He had Annie. You volunteered for Annie, got yourself in this position for Annie, so that he could have a life with her, the life he always wanted. He may have denied it, or maybe he didn’t know that you knew, but some nights, he’d dream about her, talking in his sleep. He wanted to marry her, to have kids with her.

He could do that now. This is what you did this for, so that he could have his happy ending. Even if it meant taking away yours for good.

Like she was reading your thoughts, Johanna muttered, “How come you aren’t in the cafeteria with prince charming?”

You stiffened, but you still knew how to dance this dance, deflecting, “Why aren’t you?”

She lightly chuckled. “Good point.” She didn’t answer, even though you knew the reason why, just as she probably knew the answer to her question. You expected her to drop it, but you supposed you should’ve known better from Johanna Mason. She was silent for a few moments until she spoke again. “He loves you, you know.”

You sighed, “Jo-”

“That boy loves you with all he has, Y/N.” She lifted her head up from your shoulder, making you look at her. “Always has, still does.”

Oh, Finnick and you were incredible. You made the masses believe that the love you shared was real- he made them believe it. You didn’t have to do any work. It wasn’t acting for you, but you knew it was for him.

Not even Johanna knew that it wasn’t real. She might’ve suspected, but for all she knew, you two were really in love. You wished that was true. For years, you wished that was true.

But your wishes rarely ever came true.

“It’s not that simple,” you said.

She slightly tilted her head. “Isn’t it?” Her words echoed throughout your head. Isn’t it? It should’ve been. In a different world, maybe it was that simple. In a different world, maybe the two of you really were as in love as everyone thought you were. In a different world, maybe all those wishes and all that pretending could’ve been a reality.

But that was not this world.

So you didn’t say anything, instead resting your head on her shoulder this time, conveying your thoughts to her without speaking them.

I wish it was.

You lied on your bed in silence, staring up at the plain ceiling and imagining patterns of your own. Back at home, the ceilings had colourful swirls on them, muted tones swooshing together. But that wasn’t really your home. The home you came from didn’t have pretty designs or fancy furniture. The home you came from had paint peeling off the walls. The home you came from didn’t have furniture at all.

But that wasn’t really your home, either.

At some point, you think, that place was something like a home. When your dad was still alive, you’d wake up every morning to the scent of food cooking in the kitchen, even if it was only a bit. But then he died, and there was no one to buy food at all.

That year, you barely ate a thing.

The next year, you picked up the slack. You could still remember it, being ten years old and finding your father’s hunting gear. Going into the forest, you were scared. You didn’t want to harm an animal.

But you did.

And then you did it every time after that.

When you came home, you saw the way your mother looked at you. Somewhere inside of her, something cracked. Somewhere inside of her, she saw something that you couldn’t. And, after that, she started looking at you a lot less.

Five years later, you were sent off to The Games. You could remember seeing your mother in the crowd, but when you got into the Justice Building, she wasn’t there. You waited. And she never showed. But you held your tears and told yourself you had to stay strong, for her, because she couldn’t.

You thought about her in the arena. You thought about her when you picked up that sword. You thought about her when you took your first life. You thought about her when Bay died. And you thought about her when Claudius announced that you, Y/N Y/L/N, had won the 67th Hunger Games.

Was she watching? you wondered. Is she happy?

When you got back to 4 and opened the door to your house, her jaw fell. Like she didn’t know. Like she was shocked. Like she never thought you’d win at all.

Like she didn’t want you to.

Mom, I- I won. Did you watch?

Silence. I watched. I tried, I just- I couldn’t watch you kill after that first- that-... The boy. A boy your age. A boy you stabbed into. A boy who you watched bleed out. A boy whose blood was on your hands–and with the way your mother stared at you, you almost felt like the stains were still there.

And they might as well have been.

She hugged you. But it didn’t feel like she was doing it because she missed you. It felt like she was doing it because that’s what a mother is supposed to do. They’re supposed to hug you–they’re supposed to love you.

But you weren’t you anymore.

You moved into the new house together. Then, soon after, you were moving into Finnick’s, leaving the house to her. You think she was relieved, relieved that she wouldn’t be sleeping in the same house as a killer.

And now, as you lied on this rough bed in 13, there was no house at all. No old house, no new one, no Finnick’s house, no district 4 at all. No mom, either.

What was the last thing I said to her? you wondered. Why can’t I remember the last thing I said to her?

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes. You couldn’t even remember when you last spoke to her. Your own mother. She was the woman who gave birth to you, the woman who raised you. Yet you couldn’t remember the last time you were in the same room.

And now you’d never be in the same room again.

A burning grew in your throat, but you didn’t let the tears fall, blinking them away. You’d cried an ocean of tears already. Now wasn’t the time to cry anymore. Now was the time to be strong.

You never wanted this. You didn’t choose this, to be princess of a country that only abused its citizens, a country that threw you to the wolves then claimed they loved you when you came out seemingly unscathed, a country that wouldn’t have loved you so much if they knew just how scathed you were.

You did not choose this. But, for some reason, it chose you. The people chose you. The people believed in you. They believed that you were some sort of hero, coming to save them all from this villain that had hurt them all so badly. They didn’t know that it wasn’t true, that you weren’t a hero. They didn’t know that you were scared of the villain, too.

But if the people in the districts could believe in you, the people being bombed and attacked, the people grieving the loss of their loved ones–if they could believe that, then you could, too.

If the people of Panem believed you could be a hero, then you promised yourself that that’s what you’d be.

“So I changed the chemical compound of the powder, adding more fluorine to excite the electrons, causing them to jump more rapidly from orbital to orbital and ignite faster as-”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Beetee paused, like he was surprised that you couldn’t understand. To him, it was so simple, but to most people, like yourself, it had no meaning. “Chemical reaction,” he reiterated. “I increased the strength of the chemical reaction so you can hit more.”

Your mouth formed an O shape. “Makes sense. That’s all you had to say, y’know.”

His mouth opened, likely to say something sweet and snarky as per usual when the two of you spoke, but he was halted by the door to the armory sliding open. You both turned to see The Mockingjay making her way into the room.

Your breath got caught in your throat for a moment before you regulated it, calming yourself down. You hadn’t seen Katniss since she walked in on you in the bathroom. The way her eyes met yours told you that she remembered that day well, too. But if you knew anything about Katniss Everdeen, it was that feelings were not her strong suit. If you knew her as well as you thought you did, then she’d pretend it never happened.

You hoped she’d pretend. If you knew Katniss as well as you thought you did, then she was just as good at pretending as you.

“You wanted to see me?” she queried, directing her vision to Beetee. A breath left you.

“Yeah, I wanted to show you both your new arrows. I adde-”

You cut him off, “He did something to the chemicals to make the arrows better.”

“Reaction. I increased the force of the chemical reaction.”

“Same difference.”

Beetee took a deep breath, closing his eyes and then reopening them. “Since you’re so… well-versed, you can explain it to her.” You snorted at his response while he wheeled away. Beetee always had the ability to make you laugh, even if it wasn’t his intention.

When you looked away from his retreating figure, you were met with Katniss staring right at you, realizing she was still in the room. Her brows furrowed, a light, light smile on her face that would otherwise be invisible to a stranger. “I’ve never seen Beetee get so… irritated.”

The tension in your shoulders dissipated as they shook with your laughter. Nobody had seen him get annoyed often, unless you were around. “Yeah, that happens when you're stuck in the Capitol with someone for years on end.”

Beetee was always a pretty good friend. You met at a Capitol function, of course, and from then on, you made it a point to annoy him whenever you could. Besides amusing you, it also served as a reminder that he was a human, too, not just some Capitol pawn.

Snow didn’t sell Beetee, but he used him in so many other ways. You and Finnick were their pride, but insiders knew that Beetee was their prize. He was perhaps the smartest person you’d ever met, but you figured that, every once in a while, he deserved to let his guard down and just be normal for a few minutes.

And, deep down, you knew he wasn’t as annoyed as he seemed.

Even though you were laughing, the smile on the brunette’s face slowly dimmed as she looked down. Your smile disappeared. “What is it?”

She was quiet for a second until she spoke, “You and the other victors… you all seemed close.”

Seemed.

Pictures flashed through your mind, pictures of your time in the Capitol. Normally, when you thought about your time there, you pictured all the bad, all the conversations behind closed doors, all the grown men and women who used you when you were still a child. What you didn’t think about was all the kids who were there with you, all the kids who had to grow up just as you did.

Some of these people were people you killed, the same people you had conversations with, the same people who were going through exactly what you were going through.

You were close.

Until you weren’t.

You didn’t say anything for a while, letting yourself remember it all. “Yeah,” you finally responded. “Yeah, we were.” And you didn’t say anything more on the matter. You didn’t know what more there was to say. You cleared your throat, changing the topic. “Anyways, this is what Beetee wanted to show us.” You picked up the arrows, showing them to her.

She hummed, looking back up. You knew that she knew what you were doing, but fortunately, she went along with it. “Never knew you could shoot.”

“Oh, please, Everdeen, anyone who grew up in the districts can shoot.”

“Yeah, doesn’t mean they’re any good,” she retorted, shrugging.

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that a challenge?”

She shrugged again. “I don’t know, is it?”

Another laugh left your lips, your third time laughing since arriving in 13. “You’re on, Girl on Fire.” You grabbed one of the non-incendiary arrows and a random bow lying on the table, loading the arrow in.

You faced your body to the targets across the room, bringing the bow up to your ear, pulling the arrow back, and eying the red. The corners of your lips quirked upward and, as soon as you turned your head to face Katniss, you let it fly. The look on her face made your smirk widen, turning to see that you hit the target dead-centre.

“How the hell did you just do that?” She walked closer, shock etched onto her face.

“Precision. And years of experience,” you replied, lowering the bow. “My father was a hunter.”

When you looked back at her, she had a different expression, like she was remembering something. Her eyes glazed over. “So was mine.” Her eyes found yours again, and this time, there was something there that wasn’t there before.

Back when you met, she was just Katniss Everdeen, and you were just the Princess. But now, you were both a lot more than that.

It seemed that you and Katniss Everdeen were more alike than you thought.

Right before the 74th Hunger Games, when you and Finnick were watching the training scores on TV, you didn’t think the tributes from 12 stood a chance, even though the girl had the highest score.

Watching the Games, you disregarded them completely, even as they got just as many sponsors as your tributes. You watched as Haymitch Abernathy actually tried, actually cared for these kids, but not even that deterred you.

You ignored the possibility of them winning at all. You wanted it to be your tributes, so badly. They were good. You wanted them to survive, one of them to survive, to make it out of this, to live the rest of their lives. But you should’ve known better.

No matter your best efforts, those kids died, and there was nothing you could’ve done about it.

After that, you assumed it’d go to the Careers. Glimmer and Marvel were crowd favourites, flashy and luxurious, but not as cutthroat as Cato and Clove. A part of you even rooted for them. Maybe tradition would be broken, you thought, maybe it’d go to that kid from 11. Thresh had the determination and resilience to win.

That’s why you were surprised when you turned on the TV to see Peeta and Katniss as the last ones standing.

One of us has to die; they have to have their victor.

No. They don’t.

You were even more surprised when they both walked out of that arena alive.

Peeta became Panem’s golden boy, and he knew exactly what strings to pull, as if he’d been doing this his whole life. Katniss, on the other hand, was not a performer, not the performer you knew Snow wanted her to be. You could tell she was angry, but being angry was not her job.

You knew this because it wasn’t yours, either.

People like you and her didn’t get to be angry. You were supposed to be grateful for the opportunity that the Capitol so generously bestowed upon you, not angry or sad or guilty. That wasn’t for you.

You saw so much of yourself in her. And for that reason, you thought you’d never meet her. Too rebellious, too jagged, too questioning–she was nothing that Snow wanted around the Princess. You were right; you didn’t meet her.

Until the time came for the 75th Hunger Games.

You were surprised when she was the one who came up to you. She was confident and put-together, but you knew better. This was your dance she was dancing. You could hear the lyrics so well.

She was scared.

And she was angry.

Her attitude made you like her. You could’ve been friends, you noted, but not in this lifetime, not when she was meant to be your opponent. You never thought that you and Katniss Everdeen would be friends.

Little did you know, she’d become one of the only friends you had.

“C’mon, Everdeen. You’re going easy on me,” you said, holding your arms out. Katniss stood opposite to you, lightly panting with her hands held up.

“I’m just- I’m just tired-”

“No, you’re not. You’re going easy,” you deadpanned. “Stop stalling and hit me.”

The brunette hesitated for a moment before going in for a punch that you easily caught. “You call that a punch? Where’s that Mockingjay fire?”

She scoffed, yanking her fist out of your grasp. “I’m not going to hit you, Y/N. You were just shot-”

“Well, the revolution doesn’t care if I’m shot or not.” You gestured to your body. “I’m perfectly fine. So hit me like you mean it.”

“No-”

“Hit me like I’m Snow.”

She scoffed again. “This is ridiculous. I’m not going to hit you. You’ve barely healed-”

You cut her off. “Fine. If you won’t, then I will.” Without another word, you threw a sharp punch for her face that she narrowly dodged. You didn’t miss a beat, throwing another one right after, and another one right after that like rapid fire.

She blocked your hits, but your pace didn’t alter. The two of you moved around the ring, but Katniss' hands remained in front of her face, not once swinging. You weren’t relenting; you weren’t gonna stop until she swung back.

You had almost backed her into the corner when, suddenly, the wind was knocked out of you and your back was hitting the ground. The world spun. You blinked and you were back in the arena, lying on the ground with Johanna hovering over you. You opened them and you were back in the training room, and now it was Katniss that hovered.

“Holy shit, Y/N, are you okay?” Her eyes were worried and her voice was panicked. Holy shit, she actually hit me. With that realization, a smile slowly formed on your face. “What? Why are you smiling-”

She was abruptly cut off as you swept her feet out from under her, sending her to the ground right next to you. She groaned while you laughed, almost hysterical.

If the old you could’ve seen you now. You never thought you’d be friends with Katniss Everdeen, much less that you’d be laughing with her after she kicked you.

“It’s not that funny,” she heaved, but you didn’t stop, uncontrollably giggling.

“You- you actually did it-” you cackled, tears in your eyes. She looked over at you, still panting, until you made eye contact and she was laughing, too.

You stayed there on the floor together for a while, laughing your hearts out. For all you knew, you wouldn’t get many moments like this for a while, moments where you could just lie down and rest. For all you knew, this revolution would kill you.

So there you were, the Princess and The Mockingjay, pretending that you were just Y/N, and she was just Katniss.

And for now, that made you forget about everything else.

“Please. Please, I’m begging you- please don’t do it again.” Your shoulders shook with sobs, vision blurred.

“Ah, you know that that is not how the game works, my dear.”

“Please- please, I don’t want to play anymore.”

Snow tutted. “You know the rules. You give me something, and you get something in return. If you do not give me anything, then I will take something.”

“Please, I don’t- I don’t have anything more to give-”

He sighed. “Is that so?” He didn’t give you time to say anything else. “In that case, I won’t take from you.”

You blinked the tears in your eyes away to look up at him, a chill going down your spine at his expression. He didn’t look angry. No, he was smiling. “W-what?”

He hummed. “I’ll take from Peeta.” Your heart dropped. You pulled at your restraints as he turned to leave the room.

“No, please! Please, stop! Stop!” He ignored you, walking out the door and letting the door slide closed behind him.

And then the room went black.

You shot up out of bed panting, heart racing with your eyes darting around the room. The walls were grey, but there was a window. There wasn’t a window where you were in the tribute centre. Moonlight shone into the room. There was light. There weren’t Peacekeepers waiting by your bed, waking you up when you fell asleep. You were alone. You were safe. It’s okay. You’re in 13. You’re alive.

You’re alive.

Somehow, that didn’t make it any better.

You breathed in and out slowly, trying to regain control of your breathing like how Dr. Terren showed you. When you were rescued, you couldn’t breathe and you couldn’t be consoled. This feeling that you felt right now was like that, but you don’t know if any panic attack could ever compare to that one.

You were rescued. But it didn’t feel that way.

It didn’t feel that way at all.

Once you calmed down or reached some semblance of feeling calm, your mind went right back to Peeta. You hadn’t been to see him since you first arrived in 13–and even then, you didn’t speak. He wasn’t really in a condition to be spoken to. That’s what you tell yourself, at least. But there was more to it than that.

There was always more to it than what you were willing to acknowledge.

As if your body was moving on its own accord, you threw your bed sheets to the side, slipping on a sweater and sliding your feet into the slippers next to your bed. Walking out of the room, you didn’t spare the clock a glance, walking with a subtle determination that many wouldn’t understand.

You called it a victor’s drive. It was a certain determination that came with fighting for your life, even if it meant taking another’s. It was not wanting to kill, but doing it anyway. It was not wanting to live, but doing that, too.

There were many things a victor did not want to do.

And there were just as many things that you’d do, anyway.

A part of you didn’t know where you were going while the other part was sure of herself. Regardless, you let your body take you to where your mind didn’t want to go, making your way through the dark hallways with no sound other than your feet heard.

Before you knew it, you stood in front of the glass wall that you hadn’t seen since you first got to 13. On the other side lied Peeta, looking no better than the last time you saw him. His screams echoed throughout your brain.

Please! Stop! No-

You screwed your eyes shut, trying to block out the noise that surrounded you even in such silence. His screams quieted after a few seconds, but no matter your resilience or techniques the doctor taught you, no matter what, you’d never be able to silence your song.

There was a time when you almost believed that you could escape it, the music. When Finnick and you were pretending, it felt like you could really have it, a family, like one day it would be more than pretending. But now you knew that wasn’t possible.

This song would never skip.

And you’d be dancing until the day you died.

When you opened your eyes, you were met with blue ones staring back at you, as if he knew you were there. You took in a sharp breath, scared, but maintained your stare. His hair looked shorter and more unkept than you’d ever seen it. It wasn’t so gold anymore.

Peeta’s eyes were blue, but not blue like Finnick’s. They were bright like the sky and full of a childlike innocence that you no longer saw. His eyes weren’t so bright anymore.

He looked like a ghost.

And maybe that’s what you looked like, too.

Without thinking, you went for the door, pulling the handle only for it to remain still. You furrowed your brows, trying again with the same outcome. That’s when you saw the pin pad on the side and realized that it was locked.

Of course, it was. They weren’t gonna leave Peeta Mellark in a room by himself with the door unlocked. Not this Peeta.

This Peeta had to be strapped down to the bed because his one and only objective was to kill the woman he loved. This Peeta wasn’t the same Peeta you met at the parade.

This wasn’t him at all.

With that realization, you turned around, letting his eyes burn into your skull as you walked away. You weren’t sure of anything, but what you were sure of was that you couldn’t be alone right now. If you listened to the music by yourself right now, you didn’t know what you’d do.

Your feet pitter-pattered against the floor in quick motions. You didn’t know where you were going, just that you needed to find Johanna. If you couldn’t talk to Peeta, then you needed to talk to her.

Suddenly, you turned a corner and went tumbling to the ground. You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the fall, but it never came. Slowly, you opened them and the first thing you saw were another set of blue eyes, not bright or vibrant, but your favourite colour.

Finnick.

Your heart sped up. Suddenly, you could feel that the hands on your arms were his. Suddenly, you realized you were in Finnick Odair’s arms.

You think he only just realized that, too.

He cleared his throat, helping you up and letting you go. As soon as his hands were no longer on your skin, you felt cold. You felt just as cold as when the two of you were in the Capitol, standing outside together.

Except, now, you couldn’t hold each other like you did then.

Even if it was the one thing you wanted more than anything in the world.

Your breath got caught in your throat as you realized just how close he was. He was right there, in front of you.

You’re not alone in this, okay? I’m right here.

Right here.

And not at all at the same time.

He looked at you quietly, not saying a word, but after so long, you’d learned to read Finnick well. He looked like he had so much to say but couldn’t find the words to put them in. He looked like how he looked that night, that night that you were in the Capitol and that poor boy and girl died, that night that you kissed for the first time.

But as you looked at him, really looked at him, he also looked nothing like the Finnick you knew. You’d avoided looking into his eyes ever since you got to 13, in fear of what you’d see, and now that you finally were, you could see that his eyes weren’t so lively anymore. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

Could you ever?

“What are you-” he cleared his throat again, “What are you doing up?”

At his question, you diverted your eyes, suddenly finding the floors much more interesting to look at. “I, um, I couldn’t sleep,” you reasoned. You didn’t explain why.

“Yeah, neither could I,” he muttered back, voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t explain, either.

There was a time when you’d seek him out if you couldn’t sleep, a time when you’d go to him if you had a nightmare. That wasn’t possible anymore.

If you danced with him, you didn’t know if he’d be enough to keep you from collapsing.

If you danced with him, you didn’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep going.

After a beat of silence, you spoke, “I should, um… I should get going now.”

You moved to leave, but Finnick grabbing onto your wrist stopped you. You masked your flinch, not because someone was touching you anymore, but because of who that person was. Your skin ignited so hot that it burned.

“Wait, can-” he hesitated, “can we talk?”

Your breath hitched, back still turned to him. His voice was pleading, a tone you never would’ve imagined him taking when you first met. You closed your eyes at the memory, feeling tears gather.

You wanted to say yes—oh, you always wanted to say yes to Finnick. His happiness became the only thing you strived for. You stayed with him even when you knew he loved Annie, you fought for her, you volunteered for her, you pretended you were okay, you pretended you didn’t love him, you pretended all the time.

But you couldn’t pretend anymore.

A nation was counting on you. People were counting on you. People needed you.

You couldn’t fall apart right now. And if you talked to Finnick, you weren’t sure you’d be able to put yourself back together again.

“I-” your voice cracked, “I can’t-”

“Please. Please, Y/N, I just need to talk to you.” You shook your head, holding in the sobs that were begging to escape.

Why was he doing this to you? Why, why, why, why, why, why-

“Please.”

Y/N, please. I’m just asking you to trust me. Please just trust me.

Trust you to do what?

I just need you to trust me, Y/N, please. Trust me.

I trust you.

You would die for this man. You died for this man. And if it came down to it, you’d die again if it meant that he’d get to live in a better world. But you couldn’t talk to him now.

If you talked to him, then it didn’t matter what the Capitol would throw at you, what bullets you’d take. Those eyes would drown you.

You couldn’t do this. Not now.

“No.” You removed your hand from his grasp and walked away as fast as you could, even as your feet felt anchored to the ground, each step hurting more and more. You didn’t turn back once.

The tears that you held in fell as you walked away, running down your face like a waterfall. You walked faster and faster until your walk escalated into a run. The door to your room slid open before you ran in, locking it as it closed. You slid down the metal and let out a sob, more and more following it.

Your hands went over your ears, trying to block out the music, but it only got louder and louder.

No, no, nothing is okay!

We will never be free, Y/N.

Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for the Hunger Games.

Mom?

President Snow used to sell me.

We are both coming home, Y/N, I swear.

May the odds be ever in your favour, darling.

You screamed in agony, nearly ripping your hair out, uncaring if anyone heard you. Your body shook with sobs and your heart ached. It hurt so bad. You never thought it could hurt this bad.

You didn’t wanna dance anymore. You didn’t wanna feel like this anymore. You didn’t wanna feel anymore at all if this was all it’d feel like.

But it didn’t matter. How you felt didn’t matter. What you wanted didn’t matter. It stopped mattering the second you won those Games, the second you stabbed that boy. You stopped being a person and became the person Snow wanted you to be. You became the Princess.

And now it was your job to make sure there wouldn’t ever be another Princess, another you, another Finnick, another Katniss, Peeta, Johanna, Haymitch, Annie, Bay—it was your job to make sure this never happened to anyone again, that there would never be another group of kids that were forced to kill each other and themselves in the process. It was your job to make sure nobody else ever felt how you felt right now.

As you reminded yourself of that, your sobs gradually subsided and your heart rate came down. You weren’t okay.

But you had to be. You still had things to do- dancing to do.

You were gonna dance one last time, for this country, for all the kids that died, for the kids you were, for the kids you could’ve had, for yourself, and for the man that you loved. You were gonna dance until you couldn’t anymore. You were gonna dance until the music stopped. And amidst all the unknown, one thing was certain.

The day the music died, so would you.

It’s the things we love most, that destroy us.

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ramservices1 · 1 year ago

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Quick Fixes for Water Heater Issues in Summer 2023

Water heaters are one of the most significant household appliances today. The water heater has become an integral part of our daily lives, used for everything from cooking and cleaning to bathing or showering. Yet, like any other equipment, water heaters can develop problems that render them inoperable and cause costly damage to your property. Knowing how to fix such problems swiftly is crucial to minimize expensive repairs and upkeep.

Common water heater issues

A common problem with water heaters is that they cannot produce hot water. This can happen for various reasons. A faulty thermostat in the tank can all contribute to this issue. Fortunately, many of these issues have straightforward fixes, such as adjusting the thermostat or draining the tank to remove sediment.

Strange noises from the water heater are another common issue. This can also be caused by sediment accumulation. As a result, the heating element and the entire process fail. Two basic remedies are a tank drain to remove silt accumulation and pipe tightening.

Water heaters leak due to various factors, including damaged tanks, faulty connections, or excessive pressure. The good news is that you may simply fix this by replacing the defective tank or retightening the associated connections.

Moreover, foul-smelling water is produced by bacteria growing in the tank. A solution of water and hydrogen peroxide can be used to cleanse the tank, removing bacteria and refreshing the water.

Summer-specific water heater issues

Water heaters can experience specific issues related to overheating and pressure buildup during hot summers. Overheating occurs as the water temperature in the tank rises above the recommended level from additional external heating due to the weather.

Overheating can lead to a malfunctioning thermostat or excessive water pressure. But luckily, fixing this can be done by adjusting the thermostat or installing a pressure-reducing valve to get everything up and running again.

Apart from overheating, pressure buildup can also be a problem during hot summers. The rising temperature pumps up the heater’s built-in pressure. But, nothing that a quick fix can’t fix, so installing a pressure-relief valve or draining the tank to reduce pressure would help.

Maintenance Tips to Avoid Water Heater Issues

To avoid water heater issues, always do a routine checkup to ensure your heater gets the least complaints as it ages. The checklist for a routine check includes water temperature and pressure. The level of sedimentary deposits, leakage, or silt accumulation. When it’s regular, the issues can be minor, which a non-technician civilian can also fix, but if ignored for a long time, it will raise red flags for technicians to visit. So, a regular check on these can save time and money in the long run.

Is upgrading necessary?

Though that may sound tempting at times, it is not always necessary. We can reduce the chances of damaging your whole water heating unit if we regularly check the list of things we discussed earlier. But you can also call in for the unit to be replaced.

Sometimes, some particular components of any electronic equipment can become so expensive that they cannot be repaired without spending a lot of money. In these cases, technicians always recommend replacing the whole appliance unit.

Read More: https://ramservicesandsales.com/2023/04/21/water-heater-issues-and-quick-fixes-in-summer-2023/

#Best water heater service provider in nagpur #common issues of water heater #Ram Services and Sales #Water heater #water heater home service in nagpur #Water heater issues #water heater repair

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seakicker · 2 years ago

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☆ My Next-Door Neighbor is an Annoying Older Woman Who Constantly Bothers Me

☆ between: college au!scaramouche x milf!reader

☆ synopsis: scaramouche insists he doesn’t want to fuck the milf living next door, but all his friends think he doth protest too much.

☆ word count: 10.5K words

☆ a/n: like with my venti x milf!reader fic over on ao3, this is supposed to give a sort of doujinshi vibe, hence the embarrassing title and the lunacy of some ideas like milf!reader going outside in a super sheer shirt. hopefully you feel the doujinshi vibe i was going for as i have a lot of fun trying to replicate the style, themes, and flow of doujinshis using only text!

☆ contents: fem + plus-sized reader (reader is explicitly described as chubby, busty, and taller than scaramouche), age gap obviously; scaramouche is a senior in college and reader is in her early 40s, degradation, a couple insults (such as scaramouche calling you a hag/loose/etc.), degradation, exhibitionism (scaramouche fucks you in front of a glass sliding door), sexual frustration, and unprotected sex + scaramouche pulls out

also posted to ao3 with the same title and under the same username!

Scaramouche has a problem.

Well, a problem slightly more irritating than the approximately nine hundred other problems he deals with on a daily basis. These issues include, but are not limited to, the consistent problems he has with the hot water heater in his apartment, his obnoxious group project teammate Ajax who insisted upon being the group’s leader despite his complete and utter lack of intellect, his annoying circle of friends that always seem to find ways to poke their noses into Scaramouche’s business, his frustratingly-dull history professor that always goes off on tangents completely unrelated to the class’ subject matter… and so on and so forth. It’s one issue after another; there’s always something when it comes to Scaramouche.

A matter more pressing than all of those other nine hundred issues put together, however, comes in the form of his next-door neighbor— you.

You’re a divorced woman in your early forties who lives by herself, works during the daytime while Scaramouche is on campus, and always seems to leave and return home at the same times he does. He moved in next door to you a few months ago at the start of his junior year, but you’ve never really gotten the chance to get to know him beyond the curt responses he gives you when you ask how he’s doing or what he did over the weekend. His coldness towards you doesn’t make too much sense— have you somehow offended him without knowing? You like to consider yourself a good neighbor: you don’t party (like a woman your age would ever do such a thing), you don’t blast loud music long into the night (or at all), you take good care of your things and avoid causing trouble for Scaramouche or your other neighbors, and you’re very, very tidy. When you’re in the mood to brag a little, you’ll say that you have the nicest balcony in the entire apartment complex.

…Avoid causing trouble for Scaramouche, huh? He’d beg to differ.

If Scaramouche has nine hundred problems in his life, then maybe it’d be more accurate to claim that you’re the cause of at least seven hundred of those problems rather than claiming that you’re one single, self-contained issue separate from all of those other problems. Maybe it’s the way you insist upon butting your way into his life and, in what must be your way of expressing it, “taking care” of him that irritates him more than anything else. Really, if he had to sum up your advances in one word, he’d have to go with aggravating.

At first, he bitterly wondered if you’re just some senile old hag using him as a replacement for your son, who’s surely moved out by now given your age. All you are is a woman looking to cure her empty nest syndrome by doting on someone her son’s age according to Scaramouche— he viewed your kindness as underhanded and delusional because he can take care of himself, you know. He’s an adult man living on his own; he knows how to navigate the trials and tribulations of young adulthood without some old lady insisting upon knocking on his door and gifting him home-cooked meals, bringing up his mail from the first-floor mailroom, or helping him with chores where you can. It’s not like Scaramouche would ever let you into his apartment, but that hasn’t stopped you from finding ways to help outside by sweeping outside his front door or washing the outside of his front window while he’s not home.

Okay, maybe it’s a little creepy to wash your neighbor’s windows without him asking you to help out, but it’s not like he’s going to do it. You would know— you had once waited a week to see if he’d clean up a spilled drink stain on the walkway in front of his door. As you expected, he never got around to it, so you happily cleaned it up on his behalf. Cleaning up for him doesn’t really put you out of your way either— whenever you sweep his doorway, it’s because you were already outside tidying up in front of your place; why not help out your neighbor in the process?

When you bring him meals you prepared yourself, it’s out of the goodness of your heart and because you can’t help but worry about a college boy’s diet— fast food, pizza, frozen microwave meals, and instant ramen don’t have all the nutrients a hardworking man needs. When you bring him his mail, it’s because he has a tendency to forget about it until his mailbox is, quite literally, overflowing. Whereas you check your mailbox every single day, Scaramouche seems to forget about his until the end of the week, which is certainly no way to live— what if he misses an important bill or notice? As a result, you took it upon yourself to check his mailbox for him whenever you go to retrieve your own mail.

Again, maybe it’s a little creepy to gather your neighbor’s mail, but it’s not like you’re hurting anyone, right? You certainly don’t root through his mail or open any of it. Even though Scaramouche rolls his eyes and mumbles a halfhearted little “thanks” every time you hand him his mail, he doesn’t really seem to mind. Despite his initial reluctance to accept any of it, he still eats the food you prepare for him if the empty containers he returns to you a few days later are any indication of that fact. You figure maybe he’s just a little shy or tired from his long day on campus— it does your heart well to know that he’s working so very hard.

On the flip side of things, Scaramouche considers your… activities a total inconvenience. He’ll admit that your meals taste very good— though he’d never say it to your face— but he doesn’t like feeling indebted to you or thinking that he owes you something even though you’ve told him multiple times that your favors don’t need any payback. You’re just happy to cook for someone other than yourself, you had told him once, confirming Scaramouche’s suspicion that you live alone. It’s not his fault you’re bored enough to make food for someone you barely know, so do you have to rope him into your wiles? He already has groceries and though he doesn’t really know how to cook, what’s wrong with having a bowl of cereal for dinner? It’s none of your business, is it?

Between your constant insistence on involving yourself in his life and the fact that he’s never seen anyone else leaving or entering your apartment, Scaramouche was able to correctly guess that you live alone… a realization that can’t help but annoy him. He figures that if you had someone, anyone else in your life like a spouse or another child living with you, you’d stop pestering him and stick to involving yourself in the lives of your family instead of your neighbor.

Would a pet do? Should he find some stray kitten and leave it on your doorstep? Is that what it’d take to make you mind your own business?

“Hey, Kuni, tell me about your little neighbor lady again,” Venti coos, accidentally knocking over his—thankfully— empty beer bottle when he leans forward to grab his phone. He’s drunk, but that barely makes a difference; he’d still make this request sober.

Glowering around the mouth of his own bottle, Scaramouche rolls his eyes in Venti’s general direction. “Why? If you want to know that hag so badly, go talk to her yourself.”

Venti busts out laughing, an action that his drunken body clearly can’t handle seeing as he falls sideways into Aether’s shoulder, making the latter grimace in response. Venti’s already a handful sober, but when he drinks… it takes the entire friend group to get him home and/or in bed safely. “Don’t threaten me with that, ‘cuz I really will do it— I’ll go steal your hot older girlfriend.”

Glaring up at him from his spot on the rug, Scaramouche has half a mind to shove that empty beer bottle into Venti’s eye for suggesting such a thing. Hey, wait a minute— why is Scaramouche the one sitting on the floor when this is his damn apartment?

“She’s not my fucking girlfriend,” he barks, turning to direct his glare at Kazuha too when he hears him chuckle.

“The more you deny it, the less convincing you are— you talk about her all the time, so I’m inclined to believe you really are dating,” Venti chirps, reaching for a bottle of beer that is most certainly not his.

“That’s mine,” Aether protests, watching as Venti takes a sip from his bottle anyways.

“Oops, my bad.” He doesn’t sound sincere.

“Well… get me another whenever you stand up.”

Venti waves his hand dismissively before redirecting his attention back to the more important matter at hand— Scaramouche’s complete and utter inability to just admit that he has the hots for his hot MILF of a neighbor and that any protest otherwise is a feeble attempt at hiding the truth.

“They say you’re attracted to things that make you mad,” Venti says. “…Cuteness aggression. Yeah. I saw a video about it once.”

“That’s not what cuteness aggression is, and ‘they’ say that you attract the things you fear,” Kazuha corrects him from his spot in the nearby armchair— again, why is Scaramouche the one sitting on the floor?— before he goes to take another hit off his blunt.

Venti repeats what Kazuha said in a nasally voice in an attempt to mock him, but the gesture only makes Kazuha chuckle again. It’ll be hard to draw any response more eloquent than a single laugh or a sigh out of him for the rest of the night— it’s a very, very stark difference from how he usually is.

“Why the fuck do I ever invite any of you over here?” Scaramouche sighs, taking a long swig from his own bottle. He doesn’t even really like the taste; it’s something Venti found on sale and decided to bring over, but Scaramouche has decided it’s better than spending his Friday night sober. Besides, it’ll take at least four more of these to deal with the impending conversation that he’s been trying so hard to pivot away from since Venti first brought it up.

“Because we’re best friends forever, next question. Why do you deny how much you wanna fuck your sexy neighbor, Kuni?” Venti asks again, pouting when Aether snatches the bottle Venti stole from him. “It’s super obvious. Xiao and Heizou agree with me, and I’m not just saying that because they’re not here tonight and can’t contest me on it. It’s true.”

Kazuha nods, and Aether simply shrugs. Christ alive, do they all think the same thing?

“And why on Earth do I— in theory— want to fuck her? She’s probably loose or something,” Scaramouche argues.

Venti busts out laughing again.

“It’s the opposite, really,” he starts, glancing between Aether and Kazuha when neither of them laugh along with him. “What, have you guys seriously never been with an older lady? They’re the best; the reason I know Kuni wants to get with that lady next door is because I got with the lady next door to me a couple months ago. It takes one to know one, or something. Trust me, Kuni, I know what you’re going through and we are seriously gonna get through this together.” Why is he making it sound like a relative died or something?

“They’re experienced,” Venti sighs longingly, blindly reaching out again for the bottle Aether’s holding, who moves it further away and out of Venti’s reach. “They feel really, really good. They actually know what they’re doing… sometimes the girls—and guys, mind you, I’ve gotten with plenty of both— our age clearly don’t know they’re supposed to be doing, but getting with somebody’s mom…”

“You’re gross!” Aether gasps, though his pink cheeks tell a different story.

“Not as gross as the guy who’s told us the same story about seeing his neighbor lady braless like four times now,” Venti replies, glancing over at Scaramouche with a grin. “Really left an impression on you, huh, Kuni?”

Just like that, Scaramouche finds himself instantly reminded of, well, the time he saw you braless first thing in the morning. A few months ago on some random Saturday morning, Scaramouche was out smoking a cigarette on his porch when you stepped outside to water the plants you keep on your balcony. There were so many of them: a small tomato plant, a pot overflowing with basil that you took to trimming after you finished watering everything, a couple of hanging baskets field with flowers, and a few other vegetable plants and potted succulents. More glaringly obvious than the abundance of plants occupying your balcony was your complete and utter shamelessness— even a quick glance in your direction was enough to draw Scaramouche’s attention to the distractingly sheer fabric of your white camisole.

It’s not like Scaramouche was actively staring at your tits— really, he wasn’t, he swears— because anyone would notice something that egregious. The low, low sweep of your camisole around your ample bust, your nipples beading up against the thin fabric, the constant fucking movement of the top as you shifted and bent over to water the plants sitting on the ground, moved, and walked, all of it. He complained to his friends about your complete and utter shamelessness— What kind of woman steps outside practically naked? he spat, much to the amusement of Venti, who had said that wearing a thin shirt does not, in fact, make one naked.

Worst of all, you had actually fucking caught Scaramouche staring, an action that made you grin wickedly and run your hands down the sides of your soft, plump body as if to try and draw his eyes down along with your hands. Instead, Scaramouche had only whipped his head to the other side, busying himself with tapping the ash off his cigarette as if it were the most important task he’d ever complete in his life. Jesus Christ, he was only staring because he couldn’t believe you’d be so shameless as to wear something like that outside, not because he was genuinely aroused by how low your camisole sat on your chest, how big your tits are, how soft they look…

He thinks he shuddered then, and he insisted to his friends that it was because of a sudden chilly breeze and absolutely nothing more. It was either that or because he was just so shocked by your display that a shiver went down his spine— he can’t even remember the exact reason he gave anymore.

Either way, none of them really believed him.

“Ah, he seems distracted,” Kazuha notes simply, raising a hand to point at Scaramouche before grinning. His words pull Scaramouche from his little daydream, and he groans at the realization that, yes, he spaced out remembering yet another instance of your abhorrent shamelessness and perversion.

“Spaced out thinking about cute MILF boobs, I get it,” Venti affirms, nodding. “Nobody gets that more than me. Not only that, but you’ve also, uh, ‘complained’ to us about seeing her in her swimsuit. Really, Kuni, it’s like you’re biding your time and waiting for her to take her clothes off so you can tell us about it.”

…That’s a story for another time. Scaramouche has had enough of thinking about you for one day; it’s bad enough that you brought him his mail today just mere moments before Venti, Kazuha, and Aether arrived to hang out— what if they saw you?— but to be reminded of the image of your tits underneath that pathetic excuse for a top…

He shakes his head and takes a long, long sip from his bottle.

“And they’re so soft, Kuni,” Venti says, slumping over further into Aether for support. “They feel like absolutely nothing else. I feel like firmness or perkiness or whatever is really, really overrated— the softness of a cute MILF’s boobs is unrivaled!”

“Can you not say things like that right into my ear?” Aether mumbles bashfully, making Venti laugh.

“Why? Am I gonna put the mental image of MILF boobs in your brain, too? Are we gonna become an entire friend group full of MILF chasers? That’d be hilarous. I already know about Xiao’s little crush on his English professor.”

Jesus, Scaramouche has got to steer this conversation somewhere else or he’ll go mad. “Anyways,” he beings, “Where is that pizza you ordered ages ago?”

“I thought Kazuha was taking care of it,” Aether remarks, glancing over at him. Kazuha goes to reply, but nothing comes out— yep, he’s gone for the night. He won’t be able to get out any more than four words max until morning.

As if the universe heard their request, the doorbell rings to signify the arrival of dinner. Before Scaramouche can go to pull himself up off the floor—he really should make Venti move; it’s his couch in his apartment— Venti’s already in the process of skipping towards the door. Aether takes the opportunity to kick his feet up over the other couch cushion, making Scaramouche wonder if the three of them formed some secret pact to ensure that he stays on the floor the entire evening.

However, what stands on the other side of the door is not, in fact, the pizza delivery boy. It’s you, aluminum foil-covered glass casserole dish in hand, leading Scaramouche to believe that while the universe did hear their request for food, the devil answered by sending you to his doorstep while he has three of his friends over.

“Oh! You’re not the pizza guy,” Venti beams, putting on his best ‘polite’ voice possible. Scaramouche groans and looks over towards his other two friends just so he doesn’t accidentally make eye contact with you, but neither Aether nor Kazuha look back at him. They’re looking at you.

Christ, he’ll never live this down. Not only do they know who you are, they now know what you look like.

“I’m not,” you giggle. “I live next door; I bring food to Scaramouche sometimes whenever I get a little too excited in the kitchen and make too much. I can’t eat the leftovers fast enough before they go bad, and I would hate to waste food, you know?”

“You can call him Kuni,” Venti offers. “We all do. It’s less of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

Scaramouche decides that Venti will be leaving his apartment in a body bag tonight.

His cheeks burn with equal parts humiliation and anger, and the realization that his friends’ teasing is only about to get worse now that they know who you are and what you look like more than motivates Scaramouche to devise a plot to kill the three of them.

After introducing yourself to Venti, he smiles and replies that “the pleasure is all his” when you tell him it’s nice to meet some of Scaramouche’s friends. Venti has half a mind to invite you inside for a moment, but he decides that’d be unnecessary— he figures he’s already done more than enough to inspire Scaramouche into action. If Scaramouche won’t act on his feelings himself, then maybe a little shove from his friends will help him along.

“That’s sweet of you!” Venti praises, taking the dish from your hands. “I’m glad Kuni’s eating properly these days. One time, he told us that the only thing he survived off of during finals week was a sleeve of Saltines and some peanut butter. You’re so kind, miss.”

You giggle sheepishly, a sound that Scaramouche would like to claim grates his ears. Miss? Can’t Venti see that you’re, well, old? “Well, I’m glad that he has such kind friends to support him. You all take care, okay? You too, Scara— Kuni!” You call out past Venti’s shoulder, making both Aether and Kazuha chuckle.

After bidding farewell to the four in what has to be the most mortifying moment of Scaramouche’s entire life, you leave, allowing Venti to close the door behind you and make his way back to the others. “Those boobs are huge,” he sighs dreamily, looking up at the ceiling. “If I got suffocated between those, I would die a fully satisfied man.”

“Then go die,” Scaramouche mutters in agreement, cheeks still burning with humiliation. Why does the universe insist upon tormenting him so?

Eyeing the dish in Venti’s hands, Aether pipes up too “She cooks for you? Kuni, you have it so good.”

Scaramouche is amazed that, after all this time, his friends still find it in them to be jealous of him despite all of his attempts at framing you as annoying, invasive, and overbearing. Can’t they see that you’re doing this on purpose?! Scaramouche has half a mind to wonder if you’re psychic— what other explanation is there for your obnoxiously perfect timing? He asks about food and suddenly you appear on his doorstep, dish in hand as if you had heard him through the walls. There’s no way they’re that thin, are they?

Venti moves to set the dish down on the kitchen countertop before turning around to look Scaramouche square in the eye. “Kuni, I’m saying this because I respect you as my longtime friend,” he asserts, tone and gaze both deathly serious in a way that’s genuinely almost out of character for someone as flippant and carefree as Venti. “But you better fuck that lady the first chance you get because, if you don’t, I’m taking her for myself.” That should do it.

Scowling in response, Scaramouche crosses his arms over his chest and sighs bitterly. “Why would I stop you? I don’t care what you do with her. For the last fucking time, I’m not into her.” Despite his words, Scaramouche can’t deny that there’s something… unsettling about the idea of Venti getting with you. Does he really want to watch his friend take four A.M. booty calls in order to fuck the woman living right next door to him? Can Scaramouche truly stomach the idea of his friend fucking the brains out of someone just a few walls away from where he lives? It’s hard to put his finger on why, but something about Venti getting with Scaramouche’s neighbor, despite his insistence that there truly is nothing between the two of them, really, really irks him.

Well, it’s probably just because a lot of Venti’s behavior tends to irritate Scaramouche in the first place, right? Yeah, it’s probably just that. He doesn’t need to hear every last gritty detail of his friend’s sexual trysts.

That characteristically smug grin of his finds its way back to Venti’s face as he reaches over Aether’s shoulder and snatches his beer bottle again. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. How about we forget the pizza and eat what she brought over?”

“Oh, I see now,” Kazuha interjects after having been silent for the past twenty minutes. He turns his phone around to show Scaramouche, Venti, and Aether the check-out screen on the pizza chain’s website. “It seems I failed actually submit the order; it was still waiting for me to pay.”

Scaramouche doesn’t have a hangover the next morning, a blessing he owes to the fact that he only ended up drinking two beers last night. He probably would’ve consumed more if he had the chance to, but Venti blew through the rest of the box quicker than the other three could try to stop him. It took both Kazuha and Aether supporting Venti’s hardly-conscious body to get him down the stairs to the parking lot so they can drive him home— there’s no way Venti would be able to safely get himself home amidst such an awful hangover.

As he pokes through his apartment scooping up empty beer bottles and stained paper plates to toss into a trash bag, the glass casserole dish sitting out on the kitchen counter catches Scaramouche’s eye. Save for a few scraps shoved into the rounded corners of the pan, it’s practically been picked clean— the four boys tore through it easily with Venti, Kazuha, and Aether all fawning over just how good a home-cooked meal tastes after months of campus cafeteria food, fast food, and instant ramen. Venti mentioned that there’s just something about a MILF’s cooking that makes it so much better, leading to a conversation about how, in Venti’s educated opinion, older women just do everything better: sex, cooking, cleaning, caretaking, all of it.

Scaramouche scoffs at the memory. “She’s nothing special,” he mutters to himself, still failing to understand Venti’s obsession with somebody he’s never even met until last night. Scaramouche is the one who’s actually been living next door to her for months now— as his friends know by now, he has plenty more to say about her than Venti does.

Shouldn’t he be the one to comment on things like the size of your bust, the softness of your legs, the plumpness of your ass and belly, and the flavor of your cooking? He’s the one who’s actually seen you lounging in tiny string bikinis by the apartment complex’s pool, watering the plants out on your balcony in a pair of shorts that certainly break publicly decency laws, and retrieving your mail in a shirt so thin he can make out the little bumps of your nipples up against the fabric.

“Christ, what am I thinking?” Scaramouche stops himself and second-guesses whether or not he’s actually hungover. There’s no way his sober mind would drift to thoughts of you, right? Clearly something must be wrong with him— he blames Venti for putting all these thoughts in his head with his never-ending discussion of what makes older women so utterly sexy.

He’s then reminded of what Venti told him right before they all sat down to eat your cooking: that if Scaramouche won’t hurry up and fuck his neighbor, Venti will do it for him. Even now, the idea still bothers him for reasons he just can’t quite put his finger on— Venti’s been with tons and tons of people; why does he want Scaramouche’s neighbor too? Can’t Venti see how awkward that would be?

Setting the trash bag down on the floor, Scaramouche takes to the sink to wash out the casserole dish you brought over for them last night. His mind concocts disgustingly vivid images of you as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn piece of dried cheese, and maybe he’d be shocked by how little effort he’s putting into warding those thoughts away if he weren’t so utterly immersed in them. His mind conjures up the image of you in that tiny black bikini he saw you wearing by the pool while he was out smoking on his balcony— he remembers the little number being so small that you had to readjust it every single time you simply sat up or lied down because every last motion was enough to threaten a nipslip. It makes him wonder if you dress like that on purpose or because you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that clothes and swimsuits you used to wear still fit you despite clear evidence otherwise— are you actively vying for the attention of any man who’ll give it to you, or are you brainless enough to throw something on without caring about how poorly or not it fits?

It’s probably a mix of both; you’re just that shameless.

Scaramouche grits his teeth at the mental image of you straddling him while adorned in that tiny little bikini that seems to only get tinier and tinier the longer he allows his imagination to run wild. Of all the fucking things to imagine you doing…

He pictures what you’d look like with your thick, plump thighs enveloping either side of his hips as you run your hands up and down your ample chest and soft stomach. God, he can see it all now: the little bumps of your nipples beading up against the thin fabric of your swimsuit, the soft hang of your tummy spilling over the tiny, flimsy string keeping your bottoms secured around your wide hips, the way your tits would bounce as you ride him…

“Something’s wrong with me,” he grumbles, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. The clump of cheese he’d been scraping at finally separates from the pan, and he realizes that if he wants to rid you from his mind for good, he should take matters into his own hands before Venti does.

No, wait, this has nothing to do with Venti— this isn’t about staking claim over you before any of his friends can, this is solely about him finding ways to release the grip you have on him as if you’re some kind of wicked succubus. Scaramouche glances downwards after setting the dish aside to dry and, much to his chagrin, finds that the mere thought of you was enough to fucking get him hard. The eager press of his cock against the confines of his briefs moritifies him solely because of the very reason why he’s like this in the first place; how the fuck did the thought of you in a bikini so tiny your areolas peek around the sides reduce him to such a state? He’d like to believe that he’s only this hard because it’s been a while since he’s jerked off, but that would be an excuse less believable than any of the ones he’s ever given his friends.

He knows that he’s too dignified to jerk off to the thought of you— if he’s feeling horny, then surely he can find things more deserving of his attention than some hag next door. He refuses to give you that kind of satisfaction (despite the fact that you’d never even know unless he told you, so how could you be smug about it?), so he decides that an ice-cold shower is in order before venturing out to settle things with you.

After a shower so cold Scaramouche swears he saw his fingers begin to turn purple, he dries off, gets dressed in something other than the clothes he fell asleep in last night, grabs your clean casserole dish, and leaves to go to the one place he wouldn’t have ever imagined himself stepping foot in— your apartment. If this is what it takes to sever the connection between you and his mind…

God, this is going to be annoying, Scaramouche thinks as he knocks on your door using his foot, casserole dish supported safely by both of his hands. He feels the need to steel himself because he just knows you’ll answer the door in something sheer, skimpy, or some combination of the two and he needs to be ready for that.

Why? Are you hoping for that to happen, Kuni? Venti’s voice whispers from the back of Scaramouche’s mind.

He really is losing it.

“Good morning— oh, Kuni! This is a surprise,” you greet him upon opening the door, flashing him a smile so bright it nearly makes him cringe. Can you spare him the pleasantries so he can just get to the point?

Fucking Venti— why teach her that nickname? Turning his head to look at a faraway bird instead of you, Scaramouche scoffs. “I need to talk to you.” Straight to the point, emotionless, and rude, it’s all so in-character for your neighbor that you can’t help but giggle.

You grin wider. “Of course. Come in; I’ll put a pot of coffee on.”

Scaramouche waits until you’re a good few steps ahead of him before following you inside, glancing around the living room of your apartment as he makes his way to the kitchen table. Your apartment’s clean, impeccably so at that— every book on your bookshelf faces the same direction, the blanket draped over the back of your couch doesn’t have a single crease, and he can’t see even an ounce of dust on any inch of your tables and countertops.

He snorts a little. Rather than viewing the cleanliness as impressive or inspiring, he bitterly interprets it as a testament to your overabundance of free time and lack of other hobbies or pastimes.

“I’m not sure how strong you like your coffee, so I’ll just make it how I normally do,” you pipe up from the kitchen, pulling Scaramouche away from scrutinizing the titles of the books on your shelf. Restless Summer Nights? The Devil’s Mistress? They all sound like bargain bin erotica novels.

It was a mistake to direct his attention away from your novels and to you instead, he figures, because only now does he get a look at what you’re wearing— if one could even call that clothing. You’re dressed in something he wants to call a workout outfit, but anyone leaving the house in an outfit like that surely has goals other than simply exercising— they want to attract attention. A sports bra that sits so low on your chest that a single bounce on an exercise ball would expose you combines with a pair of spandex leggings so tight they reveal the lines of your panties to comprise your “workout outfit,” and to say that Scaramouche is mortified would be an understatement. He can’t help but find the combination of your manner of dress and your collection of novels completely pathetic.

And despite his apparent disgust… he’s been staring at you long enough to pick up the most minute details about your outfit. The indifferent passerby likely wouldn’t notice your pantylines— a certain amount of staring is required to actually notice them; they’re really not obvious from a quick glance. Actually, why can’t he stop looking at you? He writes it off as a simple morbid curiosity at how someone can be so completely and utterly shameless— one could almost liken his sick, cynical fascination with your ample curves and soft body to rubbernecking.

Scaramouche instead stares down into the cup of coffee you’ve set in front of him like it’s the most fascinating object in the entire world. He’s half-inclined to just close his eyes entirely, seeing as the slightest glimpse of your bust still occupies the uppermost part of his peripheral eyesight when you sit down in the chair opposite of him.

“So,” you start, sliding a porcelain dish with a small bowl of sugar cubes and a saucer of creamer his way. “What can I help you with? It’s rare for you to talk to me first, Kuni.”

He adds “drop that nickname” to his mental list of topics to bring up with you. Scaramouche plucks a few sugar cubes from the bowl before him and drops them into his coffee before absentmindedly stirring the liquid with a serving spoon.

“Last night,” He clears his throat. “Why did you come over to talk to V— to my friends?” Why are you always in my business? he really wants to ask, but he feels like you’ll start crying if he presses you too firmly.

And that’d just be obnoxious.

You giggle. “That makes it sound like I came over on purpose because I knew you had people over, and that’s not true. Haven’t we been in the habit of food delivery and acceptance for months now?” Scaramouche’s eyes follow yours to the squeaky-clean casserole dish he placed on your counter.

“I’m glad your friends seemed to enjoy the food just as much as you do,” you add sweetly, pursing your lips and blowing on your coffee to help it cool down.

“It was humiliating,” Scaramouche counters, a statement that prompts you to look up from your coffee and make eye contact with him. “They wouldn’t— they wouldn’t stop fucking talking about you after you left.”

Wait, that’s not the point here, is it? Surely Scaramouche’s main complaint isn’t that Venti practically sweet-talked you right into his bed, it’s that Scaramouche is tired of you invading his business and his space, right? He doesn’t care about Venti’s comments about your soft tits or your wide hips, he doesn’t care about Aether’s bashful confession that he exclusively jerks off to older women, he doesn’t care that he has competition because there’s nothing to compete over and he’s really, actually, truly angry that you always find a way to worm your way into his days and his mind and his free time and his wet dreams and his—

“Oh, I’m flattered,” you reply simply, sipping your coffee and smiling around the rim of the cup. “They’re such nice boys. I’m glad you have such sweet friends, dear.”

What’s warmer: the tips of Scaramouche’s ears or his untouched cup of coffee?

“That’s not— what? That’s not the point I’m making and you know that,” he grimaces, clearing his throat again. “My friends shouldn’t have to put up with a shameless old hag the way I have to.”

You set your cup down. “That’s not very nice. I look good for my age— that charming boy down at the corner mart always asks for my ID whenever I pick up some wine!”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “That’s his job. Anyways, I’m telling you to mind your own business.”

“Oh, is that all? Of course I can do that for you.” Your reply comes without a single skipped beat.

“I mean it, that means don’t touch my mail and— what?” Wait, there’s no way you’re making this this easy. A shameless, conniving, lustful, lewd seductress of a woman like you agreeing to just… fuck off at the first request? Scaramouche doesn’t buy it— this is just another phase of your plan to throw him off guard and pull the rug out from under him so you can sink your claws deeper and deeper into him.

“I like cooking for you and cleaning for you, and I was very happy to meet your friends yesterday, but if you want me to stop, of course I will,” you explain. “I wonder who’ll help me eat my leftovers now… your friend from last night gave me his phone number; does he like potato soup? I’m making that tonight.”

Scaramouche almost, almost feels a shiver tear down his spine. He’s starting to believe that Venti’s just as much an antagonist in this situation as you are.

“Why the fuck did you accept his number? Delete it,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and glaring over at you. His coffee’s surely gone cold by now, but that’s alright— he was never much of a coffee drinker anyways.

You shrug, a sly smile forming on your lips. “Oh, I don’t know. He was so sweet I didn’t want to say no… it’d give me someone new to talk to, if nothing else.” Why do you need to talk to Venti when he barely knows you and I’m right fucking here?

“It’s not like you talk to me much despite all my best efforts, Kuni,” you offer him the subtlest of pouts, an action that would look out of place on the face of a woman your age if you weren’t so… if you weren’t so…

Forget it, he’s not saying anything about you that could be interpreted as a compliment. “…Especially now that you and I have agreed to leave each other alone.”

Oh, Scaramouche doesn’t like this feeling. He hates feeling like a situation has spun out of his control, and that’s, unfortunately, exactly what he feels is happening here. You’ve agreed to his terms and you’ve promised to stay out of his way, so why does he feel so… angry?

Yeah, you must have some underhanded motive here. Why else would you be making this so… easy? That’s not like you at all— he was expecting you to fan your eyelashes, pout your lips, push your tits forward, and whimper that you’re sorry and that you’d love to keep talking to him, so will he please give you a second chance?

I’ll do anything, he was sure you’d say.

You clear your throat. “Well, is there anything else you’d like to discuss now? If not, I’ll get back to my yoga. It’s good to be active, right?”

What the hell? You’re ending the conversation? No way, no how— this ends on Scaramouche’s terms, not yours. Who do you think you are?

“No, that’s not it, actually,” he blurts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Staying out of my business means staying away from Venti— from any of my friends. Don’t talk to them, don’t text them, don’t— I don’t know. Don’t be around them.”

You smile a little wider. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound jealous, Kuni.”

He scoffs, staring you directly in the eye as if to challenge you. “Seriously? Shit joke.”

Of all the adjectives you could have picked to describe him… “It’s just that the thought of you getting with Venti is nauseating, alright?”

You hum. “And why him specifically, hm? You had other friends over last night— are they single?” Jesus Christ, what is this, an interrogation? And where the hell are these sorts of questions coming from— did you already send Venti an invitation to hook up?

Sneering so hard his nose scrunches up, Scaramouche can’t help but feel appalled. “Did you decide I’m not good enough or something? Who do you think you are?”

You go silent.

Scaramouche, somehow, goes even quieter than silent when the weight of his words finally sets in. There it is— the culmination of your grand plan to humiliate, embarrass, and utterly demean him in your own home. You had this outcome planned from the start, didn’t you?

“I didn’t say that,” you stammer, attempting to correct yourself. “Why do you think I’ve been vying for your attention all this time? Of course I like you, Kuni.”

God, how you piss him off. Who do you think you are— some bashful schoolgirl confessing to her first crush?

“I know that I’m just an old woman and that you could certainly find a cute, young, perky college girl whenever you’d like to, but if you’d ever like me…”

Of course Scaramouche could get someone his age from one of his classes— he doesn’t need to settle for some loose old hag— and yet… the thought of you getting with anyone else, Venti or not, pisses him off in a way he can’t quite describe. Maybe he views himself as some kind of hero protecting everyone else from your shamelessness, maybe he views himself as the only one worthy of your attention as the one who has to put up with you the most, maybe he views you as someone actually, genuinely worth being with…

He sits up a little straighter. “You have no idea how obnoxious you are,” he mutters. “Taking up my time and attention even when you’re not around.”

“What a forked tongue,” you reply, leaning forward and, much to Scaramouche’s chagrin, pushing your breasts together with your hands. “You know that’s why I like you, right? Mean boys have always been my favorite— ever since high school.”

“You’re not worth the time,” he spits. So fucking annoying. So fucking shameless. What kind of woman your age behaves this way, anyway? So obnoxious, so pathetic, so intoxicating, so impossible-to-keep-out-of-his-mind—

“Venti sure seems to think I am,” you offer with a smug, self-satisfied smile as you rise from your seat. Hooking your thumbs up under the straps of your sports bra, you quickly snap the elastic fabric back against your shoulders to give your tits a little bounce, an action that, of course, does not go unnoticed. Slapping his hands down flat against the perfectly-ironed lacy tablecloth covering your dining room table and standing up so quickly he nearly knocks his knees against the table’s hardwood underside, Scaramouche laughs.

What a time to finally, finally accept that he has the hots for his neighbor— the same neighbor who’s supposedly the cause of so many of his bad days and sour moods. You’ve prompted many a disdainful mutter from Scaramouche after catching a glimpse of you through your drawn curtains, you’ve been the subject of many a snide comment made in the presence of his friends, and, most frustratingly of all, you’ve inspired countless, countless inappropriate thoughts that he cannot believe you’ve been the subject of.

And all it took was one of his friends hitting on you for him to realize that.

“Constantly flaunting a body like this,” he chides in a way that he wants to come off as insulting and condescending rather than sadistically flattering, but the little grin you offer in response gives him reason to believe you interpreted it as the latter. Seriously?

“Other boys your age seem to enjoy the flaunting,” you counter, slipping your thumbs into the waistband of your spandex leggings. As if to tease the act of pulling them all the way down your legs, you flip the fabric of your waistband over its seam to expose the majority of your soft lower belly.

Anger burns hot behind his pale cheeks. “Is this some kind of pathetic hobby of yours? Fucking guys half your age?”

“I like to consider it a lifestyle,” you reply, shimmying your leggings further and further down your thick thighs until your thong’s completely exposed. A black lace thong— how becoming of a nymphomanic like yourself. “I’m fine with trading experience for virility and stamina; do you know how many men my age finish in thirty seconds and call it there because they’re ‘just so tired’? College boys either go until they can’t hold themselves upright or until they have nothing left to pump into me.”

There’s that vulgar nature that’s both irritated and (subconciously) aroused him for months. He wants to believe that your disgusting nature doesn’t make his cock twitch, but the time for pretending has clearly passed. You don’t believe he finds you ugly or unappealing and neither does he anymore.

“And do you find this… lifestyle fulfilling?” Scaramouche challenges, grimacing at the pressure building in the frontside of his tight jeans.

You laugh. “Is that your way of saying you don’t? Are you a virgin, sweetheart?”

“Of course not. Just because some of us don’t fuck everything with two legs and a pulse doesn’t mean we’re virgins.” His clumsy escapades are none of your business— his high school girlfriend and that guy from the concert Venti dragged him to over the summer don’t concern you.

Bending forward to push your leggings down to your knees, you gaze up at Scaramouche through your eyelashes and giggle. “Don’t make it sound like I don’t savor every last cock or strap I ride. You could put every last one of them in front of me and I’d be able to tell you who they belong to with my eyes shut.”

Venti mentioned something about experience, didn’t he? What a sanitized way of calling older women complete and total whores.

The inferiority complex in Scaramouche wants to prove that he’s the best thing a whore like you will ever experience, that he can make you feel better than any of the other bumbling college morons he probably knows can, and that you’ll give up your ways of fucking everyone that looks at you in order to devote yourself to him and him alone. That’d be some nice payback for all the pain and humiliation you’ve subjected him to these past couple of months, right?

No, he has a better idea.

“If you want to show yourself off that badly,” Scaramouche huffs, doing his damndest to ignore the nearly-painful throbbing in his jeans. “Then I’m sure you’d be fine with doing it in front of that glass door, right?”

With your hands still bunched in the fabric of your leggings, you look back at the glass sliding door that leads to your balcony and bite your lip. It’s not likely anyone would actually see you— you and Scaramouche live on the third floor— but it’s still a possibility and an exciting thought nonetheless. Maybe you could give that nice redheaded quarterback boy you fucked a few months ago a nice show; he lives just across the parking lot in the building parallel to yours.

“Now who’s the deviant one? I’ve never fucked anywhere more public than a nightclub’s bathroom stall,” you tease, finally pushing your leggings all the way down and off your legs. He doesn’t believe you, but Christ, those thighs of yours look soft…

You accept his offer nonetheless and make your way over to the balcony door, your thong riding high on your wide hips and your hardened nipples pressing into the flimsy fabric of your pathetic excuse of a sports bra. “You’re helping me wipe off all the fingerprints afterwards,” you scold, inviting him over with a wiggle of your hips and a glance back over your shoulder.

Now, rationally, Scaramouche would never propose the idea of fucking in a place as public as right in front of an apartment complex parking lot. He’s never considered himself an exhbitionist and he’s always been somewhat obsessed with his image, and people who care about their image generally don’t have sex in the potential presence of others. Additionally, there’s probably something to be said about him potentially getting caught fucking the same woman he’s spent the better half of this past year complaining about, but the current irrational, horny, angry Scaramouche wouldn’t listen to better judgement or rationality anyways.

The relief that comes with unbuttoning his jeans and giving his almost painfully-hard cock room to breathe is so euphoric he can’t help but sigh, the throbbing in his crotch more aggravating than any pounding headache he’s ever experienced after an evening drinking with his friends.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” he laughs, incredulous. “To think the hag living next door to me is the reason I’m like this.” Jamming the weight of his bulge into the plumpness of your soft ass, Scaramouche seizes hold of your hips in both of his hands and gives the fat of your love handles a painful squeeze just to hear you suck the air in through your teeth.

“I thought you’d never come around, you know,” you breathe, beyond eager at the prospect of finally, finally getting to fuck the neighbor boy you’ve been actively working at breaking for months upon months now. A guy this mean, this arrogant, and this demeaning doesn’t come around that often, especially when so many of the guys you get with take the polite route by calling you “ma’am” and complimenting you over and over again— which certainly isn’t a bad thing, but cruel has always satisfied you in ways that kind cannot.

The height difference between the two of you means that Scaramouche has to stand up a little straighter than he normally does in order to press his hips against yours, a realization that’s only slightly humiliating. Granted, it could never compare to how humiliating it was for you to show up at his apartment in front of all his friends.

God, does it feel good to put you in your place.

“Spread,” Scaramouche mutters, knocking one of his feet against both of your ankles. He doesn’t tell you that he needs you to spread your legs so your hips will lower a bit, allowing him to reach them a little more easily since you’re a bit taller than he is.

You would tease him for skipping the foreplay and just jamming himself right into you, but you know that you’ve been plenty wet enough ever since your discussion with him first wandered to sex and masturbation. Well, that, and if you had to wait another minute to get the cock you’ve been so desperate for for so long now, you very well may go crazy. It’s taken months, but you can already tell that it was all so, so worth it.

Running his knuckles down the center of your thong, Scaramouche relishes in the smug satisfaction that comes with realizing that you’re wet. It’s equal parts arousing and equal parts pathetic— just how desperate are you for any cock you can get your hands on?

“You’ve already kept me waiting for months,” you say with a pout cast back at him from over your shoulder. “Why make me wait even longer when I’m right here?”

“Shameless and impatient,” he remarks with a frustrated huff. “Can’t you do something good with your life or yourself for once and just be quiet?”

As tempting as it is to make a teasing quip in return to only further rile up your angsty neighbor boy, a frenzied giggle is the only sound you can muster up when you feel the firm press of a cock against your clothed pussy. Even through your flimsy thong, you can tell that he’s hard, which is a reward in its own right. It’s what you’ve wanted to achieve since the very first time he caught you half-naked watering plants on your balcony— is it so wrong for you to want to rile up the cutie next door?

Scaramouche roughly yanks your thong down to hang around your lower thighs, leaving you entirely on display for him when you follow suit by tugging your sports bra up to your collarbone. The cool, smooth glass against your bare tits is an unfamiliar sensation, but it’s certainly not an unwelcome one— especially when you remember that anyone could look up from across the parking lot and get an eyeful of your bare tits squished up against the glass door.

“I wish I could watch you sink it in for the first time,” you hum, reaching down between your legs to part the outer lips of your cunt for him a little wider. “In front of a mirror or something maybe. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because you’re the spitting image of the romantic type.” There’s no way you consider him the romantic type, is there? He’s not going to hold your hands and whisper in your ear about how cute you are, you know.

Damn it, you’ve got him actually wanting you more than he’s ever wanted you before— this makes all his filthy fantasies about taking you bent over your kitchen counter or being underneath you while you ride him into oblivion look like a cheap, budget porno from a video rental store. His desire has always been real—albeit subconscious, sure—but it feels so much more genuine now that it’s been realized.

“Don’t say a word about this to anyone,” he mumbles in a brief moment of humiliation, biting into his bottom lip as he finally, finally sinks the full length of his cock into you.

Jesus Christ, if there’s anything Venti’s ever been right about, it’s how good a mature pussy feels. You’re soaked all the way down to your inner thighs, you’re so warm Scaramouche nearly feels his knees give out from underneath him, and you squeeze him so well he can feel your pussy gripping the sensitive underside of his tip.

“Why not? I can invite your friend next time,” you propose, squealing with delight when Scaramouche slaps a hand down against the side of your ass. “Venti, right? It’d feel so good to have my ass used while you—“

“Just shut up,” he hisses bitterly, glaring at you hard enough to give himself a stress headache. “Don’t talk about other guys right now. Especially not ones I know.”

“You’re right, it’s rude to talk about other men when I have such a good one right here with me already,” you feign sympathy, pushing your hips back flat against the front of his thighs. “Oh, Kuni.”

There’s that damn nickname again. As much as he hates the idea of you using it to tease him or fluster him, he can’t deny the way his dick twitches whenever you coo it in that soft, sultry tone of yours. It’s like you were custom-made to gobble men up or something— just how many of his classmates have you fucked?

Oh, it doesn’t matter. Not when he knows he can establish himself as the best of the whole damn lot of them. Not when he knows that he gets the privilege of seeing you every single day and nobody, nobody else does. Not when he’s seen your cute nipples peeking at him through that tiny, flimsy pajama top he caught you in all those months ago. Not when he gets to peruse on over to your apartment whenever he wants because you’re right fucking there and nobody, nobody is physically closer to you than he is.

Jesus, this is all starting to sound like some kind of crush.

“How’s that?” Scaramouche taunts, slapping his hips against you so wildly the sound of skin smacking on skin almost drowns out his voice. He’d like to claim that this sort of pace is supposed to be punishing, and he’d be right if he were to say that, but he wants it hard and rough just as much as you surely do. He couldn’t stop his hips even if he wanted to because he knows there’s nothing he’s wanted to do more than fuck your brains out for months upon months now.

You don’t answer him, too preoccupied with relishing in the feeling of his cock pounding into you with everything he’s got. How befitting of Scaramouche to fuck you like he’s angry at you— if he could even claim to be mad anymore. The combined sensations of his hips hammering against yours, his fingernails digging into your soft, plump love handles, and his balls slapping against your ass on each thrust are all far too overwhelming to even attempt a reply.

“Seriously? You run your mouth for ages and now you shut up when I ask you a question?” You’re doing this on purpose— Jesus, you’re insatiable.

Your back arches when Scaramouche digs the tip of his cock into a particularly sensitive spot inside of you, a broken whine leaving your lips instead when you attempt to reply with a dirty quip. He laughs when he realizes what’s just happened— that’s certainly one way to get you to shut that filthy mouth of yours.

“I hope somebody’s watching you, actually,” he admits despite all the jealousy even a single mention of his friend stirred up in him. “That way they can see you’re not worth their time because you don’t value yourself whatsoever. Why would anyone want someone who’s happy to just give themselves away like this and get fucked in a place so public?”

Maybe that’s just a weird, roundabout way of saying I want someone to watch me fuck you so they know a whore like you has been whipped into shape and that you only want me now. Who’s to say?

“You don’t care about getting caught yourself?” You finally pipe up with a grin.

Scaramouche snorts. “Getting caught with the likes of you? I’d transfer universities.”

You pout. “Would I still get to see you?”

For whatever reason, the question catches him off guard. How many times does he need to remind you that you’re not his girlfriend, that you’re not some sweetheart with an innocent crush, that you’re just his fucking neighbor who just so happens to have a hot body and just so happens to feel so, so good around him like this and just so happens to be the subject of his wet dreams and fantasies and—

He’s only able to spit out one word. “Obnoxious.”

His hands reclaim a firm grasp on your ample hips before he takes to fucking into you at a whole new angle— one that’ll surely hit that spot that got you to shut the fuck up moments ago. Your hands clamor for anything you could possibly grab onto to steel yourself, but there’s nothing except for the cool, flat glass beneath your palms.

“Kuni,” you rasp in a broken voice, beyond impressed with his ability to have found your most sensitive spot and target it specially. Call it sheer dumb luck or a testament to how perfectly compatible your bodies are, it doesn’t matter. He won’t let up on it until you’ve collapsed— maybe it’ll be a nice change of pace from your partners being the ones to collapse after an evening with you.

With the task of finding something to hold onto having proven fruitless, you instead slip a hand back between your legs to rub at your clit. Scaramouche snickers at your apparent desperation to orgasm, but he’s not letting you off that easily.

“What a pathetic display,” he remarks, pounding into you so quickly you can barely register the full length of his cock before he’s pulling it all the way out of you again. With your legs trembling and your knees buckling, the possibility of actually collapsing underneath him is becoming increasingly likely— these wild, frenzied thrusts of his prove exactly why you’re so into college guys.

Looking down from the fuzzy reflection of your face in the glass, Scaramouche watches each sink of his cock into your tight, dripping cunt with all the intensity and attention of a virgin. It may as well be his first time— you feel so fucking good he’s starting to lose his train of thought. You take him all the way to the hilt on each thrust so easily that he’d absolutely call you a common whore if he were able to form even a single word.

Despite his inability to form a coherent sentence, Scaramouche finds that he has just enough rationality left to pull out mere seconds before coming all over the swell of your ass, his cock twitching in his hand as he bites back moans. Here he is, coming all over the soft ass of his obnoxious older neighbor lady after spending so many months convincing his friends that he does not, in fact, want to fuck her.

You laugh breathlessly, the hand between your legs still rubbing frantic circles over your clit as you attempt to reach your own orgasm as well. “What’s wrong with coming inside? I’m hurt.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. That’d be irresponsible.

“Well, that’s alright,” you chirp, standing upright and turning around to face him. “I can always wring it out of you myself, right?”

“You’re insatiable,” he replies, inching backwards towards the couch as you step forward in time with his footsteps.

“Pot, kettle. You’re still hard, Kuni.”

With the realization that he’ll need some kind of excuse to offer his friends when he inevitably returns to a slew of unread messages a few hours from now, he falls backwards onto the couch just before you make yourself comfortable in his lap.

Well, not that any of them have ever believed any vague, half-baked excuse Scaramouche gives.

#hiiiii #juju bakery #scaramouche smut #scaramouche x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #scaramouche x y/n #kunikuzushi smut #fem reader

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joemothersfavoritechild · 1 year ago

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“across the street” pt. 2

-3k-ish words

-mike schmidt x fem!reader

-no trauma au

an: thanks for all the love on my last post!! i took some inspiration from a few joel miller fics for this one. also, referring to the ending, gotta let it marinate or sum. and if you get the orange reference, marry me.

summary: you have a late night phone call with yk who, and build furniture in the morning.

part one is here!

————————————————————————————

You plopped down in your chair, sighing while rubbing hand sanitizer over your hands. Your shift had been busy as hell, this being the first break you had all day, and it was only halfway over. You wiped your now clean hands over your eyes, trying to rub the tired soreness out of them. At least the pay is good, you thought.

Your coworker calling your name pulled you away from your thoughts.

“25 wants you again.” They said.

“Why me?” You whined.

“I don’t know, I think she prefers women.” They answered your rhetorical, giving you a sympathetic smile.

“Fuck me, I’m going to have to take my lunch after this. I’m never working another Sunday.” You said, standing up on your practically creaking legs.

This was how the rest of your afternoon went, running in all directions like a chicken with its head cut off. “23 wants an ice cream,” “25 pulled out her IV again,” “Call security on 26, he’s trying to leave.” It was an absolute shit show, you hardly had a chance to see the time on your phone, let alone check for a text that you were desperate to receive.

Your drive home was quiet, soft music playing to hopefully decompress you. It always seemed to help. You pulled into your driveway, noticing the lights on at a certain someone’s house across the street, his old Accord telling you that he was home. You turned your car off, trying to stop looking at it from your rearview.

Walking into your house wasn’t as satisfying as you’d hoped, boxes still covering the floor. You took your shoes off as you set your work bag on the ground. You looked at your bed frame again in the dark, not bothering to turn a light on. Was a day too early to expect a message? Was that considered desperate? Probably, you thought. But fuck, you were so desperate. He checked all the boxes,

cute? : check

siblings? : check

caring? : check

a little mean? : check

dorky as hell? : check

abandonment issues? : probably check!

You forced yourself to pull your eyes off the box. As the saying goes, a watched fish doesn’t get caught.

That’s not right, you think. Your tired brain can’t decipher what you were trying to go for, but you knew it would’ve worked.

Anyways, constantly thinking about someone texting you doesn’t help anything. You plugged your phone into the charger near the couch, purposefully ignoring staring at it for too long.

Your eyes fell back to the boxes surrounding you. You passed them all, going straight to your bathroom to shower.

The shower was the right call, you decided. Scorching water loosened your muscles and kept your mind in the present. Washing the outside world off your skin was the highlight of your day.

You got out of the shower, eventually. The warm water didn’t last as long as you had hoped, though it did try. Your nearly hour-long shower would overwhelm any water heater on the market. You quickly dried yourself off, taking the time to brush your teeth and apply your skincare before wrapping your towel around yourself and stepping into your bedroom. You threw on some pajamas from your suitcase that moved with you; pajama pants and an old shirt.

You balled up your work clothes into your towel and put them all in the laundry basket in the corner of your room, already beginning to overflow. You reminded yourself to start the laundry sometime tomorrow as you walked back to your temporary bed, the large green couch in your living room.

You pulled back the covers on the couch, piling into it. You had completely decked it out; two blankets, a comforter, two pillows (one for your head, one for between your legs), and the fan dialed up. You closed your eyes, listening to the white noise of the fan above you.

You were interrupted by the shrill noise of your phone ringing behind you. You groaned, folding your blankets over so you could get off the couch and walk to the charger. You ripped your phone off the charger, taking it with you as you laid back into your bed. You re-adjusted your blankets before pulling the phone under your ear and swiping to accept the call.

“Hello?” You said groggily.

“Hey.” A voice responded. It took you a moment, but eventually, you recognized it. You were suddenly awake with nervousness.

“Hey, Mike.”

“Hi. Um, I texted you,” He said, sounding more like a question than a comment. “A few times, not a big deal. I just wanted to make sure you were alive.” He joked.

You paused, trying to quickly check your messages.

“You there?” He asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here. Sorry, I’ve been working all day. It was super busy, so I didn’t have time to check my phone, and when I got home all I was thinking about was sleep.” You described.

“No need to be sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You’re okay?”

“I’m okay.” You responded.

“Good, good,” He pauses. “So, um, how was your day?”

“Pretty shitty.” You summarize, hearing him laugh in the background.

“Tell me about it.”

So, you did. You proceeded to tell him all the gritty details about your job. What your coworkers are like, the patients that you had to deal with, the frequent fliers, all of it. He asked a lot of questions, making you feel more comfortable rambling on to him.

“What’d you have for lunch?” He asked.

“I had leftover wingstop, I barely have any food at the house.”

“What’s your order?”

“Eight-piece boneless, classic hot. With fries, ranch, and a huge coke. It was amazing,” You said, practically salivating remembering it. “What about you and Abs?” You asked.

“It was very fancy, I don’t know if you’re prepared to hear me talk about it, you might be jealous,” He said sarcastically. “I made cheese quesadillas.”

You laughed a little too long at that, surprised. He was funny, another check.

You talked on the phone for a while, so long that you were talking about the most boring stuff. Like how Abby was a picky eater, and it annoyed Mike because all he wanted to do was eat a good burger now and again. It was sickly sweet and felt like being a teenager again. Whispering as to not wake your parents up, hoping that they wouldn’t catch you up past your bedtime.

You’re not sure when it happened, but you fell asleep on the phone. Mike was talking about something, maybe about the tv show he had been watching. You’re not exactly positive, but you know that you passed out cold.

Your eyes fluttered open, the phone still pressed up against your cheek, warm from the contact. You blinked rapidly, trying to keep your dream in your mind. You had to think hard, as it was delicate. If you let it go, you’d never remember what it was.

It was a good dream, as most of yours tended to be. You didn’t remember a lot, only pieces of it. But you knew Mike was there. You knew that he had led you to your bed, pulling you under the covers with him. You talked, cuddling close to him. God, it had felt so real. You could practically see the lines under his eyes and the pores on his nose. You smiled, but this felt a little creepy at this point. Borderline delusional, your mind added. You barely knew him and you were already dreaming about him.

You grabbed the phone from under your face, groaning as it got unstuck from your skin. Thankfully, it wasn’t dead. You unlocked it, taking the opportunity to look at the texts that you had gotten the night before.

Yesterday, 12:36 pm: hey, this is mike. i’ll need you on the weekends from 8 am-4 pm. and idc that you said not to pay you, i’m building your bed too.

Yesterday, 2:49 pm: you okay?

Yesterday, 5:03 pm: not to be creepy, but i think i’m going to call you. you’re worrying me a little lol

Today, 1:45 am: i think you fell asleep, i’ll talk to you in the morning :)

You smiled, making a contact for him. “mike <3” was now typing. Three little dots popped up on your screen and you quickly swiped out in nervousness. You opened it again when you got a notification.

Today, 10:23 am: i dropped abby off for school and slept in a little, is it okay if i come over to build that bed frame for you?

You smiled again, quickly replying to make up for last night.

Today, 10:24 am: yeah, ofc. give me a few minutes to wake up lol, i need to brush my teeth and clean up for a second.

He replied immediately.

Today, 10:24 am: lmk when you’re ready

You willed yourself to stop smiling, god it had been too long. You hardly knew how to act with a potential date.

“Oh, god.” You muttered to yourself, realizing you had to talk to him. Why did you have to talk to a man to get a boyfriend? Why couldn’t it just happen telepathically?

You sighed, rolling off the couch. You plugged your phone back into the charger, making your way to the bathroom. You completed your morning routine and ran to your bedroom to pick something out to wear for the day. You decided to go for casual, grey sweatpants and a green hoodie. Didn’t want to seem too desperate. You pulled your socks up your feet, laughing at yourself.

You grabbed a quick breakfast from your kitchen, consisting of leftover cookies and a slice of cold pizza. You tried your best to tidy your place up, moving boxes to the corner of the living room. Running down the hallway to your bedroom with your boxed bed frame in hand, you placed it on the floor, taking the other boxes and moving them to the hallway. You scrubbed your toilet and sink, turning on the air fresheners you had placed around the house.

You washed your hands, drying them before returning to the living room. You texted Mike, letting him know that you were ready. He liked the text message, and in less than two minutes he was knocking on your door.

You eyed the door at the noise. Jesus, he was not playing around. You took another deep breath, opening the door to see him standing there with a small smile. He went for casual too, you noted. He wore a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats. He held a bag, which you assumed was full of tools.

You smiled at him as a greeting and opened the door wider to allow him to walk into your house.

“Hey.” He said as you walked past you.

“Hi, thanks for coming so quickly.” You responded. “You didn’t have to, the payment feels premature.” You joked, shutting the front door. He looked a you for a second while taking his shoes off at the entryway.

“Shut up, you can’t sleep on the couch for a week”

“I totally can.” You bite back.

“You won’t, where’s your bedroom?” He finished, looking at you again.

You were shocked into silence, feeling your cheeks warm up. The comment made your head spin. Fuck, could he tell that you liked that?

You said nothing, ignoring his little smirk as you walked him to your bedroom. He followed behind you, dropping the bag on the floor with a small thump.

“Do you need any help or something?” You asked finally, breaking the tense silence.

“No, I’m good. I’ve done a lot of stuff like this,” He answered, shrugging. “You could put on some background music?” He suggested.

“That, I can do.”

You nodded, pulling your phone out of your pocket. You hesitated, before choosing a slower playlist of yours. Something calm, that you didn’t have to focus on. He nodded in enjoyment, then began to open the box that held your bed frame. He spilled the contents onto the floor, then kneeled on the ground. He started pulling stuff out of his bag. You guessed correctly, it was full of tools.

You just watched, sitting down against the wall of your room. It was attractive, him expertly putting your bed frame together. He was good with his hands, you wondered what else he was good at. He looked at you after a moment.

“You just gonna watch?”

“If that’s okay.” You shrugged, he nodded at your sort of question. He tried to hide his smile.

He was going to town, drilling, piecing parts together, all while completely ignoring the instructions. He didn’t need them.

After a while, you could tell he was getting hot. His black shirt was sticking to his skin. You hated to admit that it did something to you. You felt a warmth settle in your stomach and tried your best to will it away. Your eyes settled on his back, looking up to his neck when he turned towards you.

“Why’re looking at me like that?” He asked, eyes narrowed out of curiosity.

You made eye contact with him like a deer in headlights. Smiling at you, he laughed a little. Your words were stuck in your throat, embarrassed about being caught.

“Um, do you want some water?” You settled on.

“Sure.” He answered, chuckling at your suddenly shy demeanor.

You stood up off the floor and walked out of your room, closing the door behind you. What the fuck was that? You scolded yourself, internally. Now he was going to think that you were a horny weirdo. I mean, you were, but he didn’t need to know that yet.

You shook your head at yourself as you poured him a glass. This was ridiculous, you needed to chill out.

You came back into the bedroom and handed him the glass. He took it from you gratefully, fingers brushing over yours as he grabbed it. Telling you a small “thank you,” he brought the glass to his lips and began to drink greedily. You watched him as he downed the glass, some dripping down his chin.

When he was finished, he wiped a hand over his stubble. He looked over to you, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He held the glass out to you and you took it, quickly walking out of the room.

You placed the glass in the sink, blinking to try and bring yourself back to life. How did someone make drinking water look so good? How was that even possible? And god, the look he gave you.

You needed to get it together before you blew it. Talk to him, say something, anything other than just fucking staring at him.

You walked back into the room with a mission, you were going to talk to him. Taking your spot on the floor, you cleared your throat.

“So, what’s your favorite food?” You decided on.

He barely paused before answering, “Definitely pasta, like a good chicken alfredo.”

“Shit, that’s a good answer. I’m really into sushi right now. Can’t afford it, but into it.” You said, smiling at his willingness to answer.

The stupid questions continued for a few minutes. The two of you got to know the smallest details of your likes and dislikes. Turns out, Mike can’t stand the color yellow but loves orange. He’s not much of a drinker, mainly because he can’t afford it, but he does occasionally smoke weed. He’s a cat person but would get a dog if Abby asked for one. It killed you when he talked about his sister because it was so obvious how much he loved her.

Eventually, he finished your bed frame. The gentleman that he is forced him to carry your mattress in from the laundry room, helping you set that up too. Mike may have been on the shorter side, but he was strong as hell. The two of you put on your sheets, blankets, pillows, and finally your comforter. It was almost too domestic, too real.

When you were finished, you didn’t want him to leave. You think he felt the same. This was confirmed when he saw the tv sitting in your closet.

“Do you want me to mount that for you?” He asked.

I want you to mount me, you fought against saying.

“That would be great.” You agreed.

Mike probably spent three hours helping you put your bedroom together, setting up shelves, arranging your cabinets, and helping you put your pictures and posters up while you talked his ear off.

Even though you told him a million times that he didn’t need to, he hung your clothes up in your closet while you folded the rest to go in your new dresser. Finally, your room was fully decorated and unpacked.

He rubbed his hands together, settling on the end of your bed. You sat next to him.

“Thank you, seriously. I was dreading doing all of that by myself.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He said.

You both looked at each other for a second too long, the tension between the two of you becoming thick. You took breaks from looking at his eyes by moving down to his lips. You took a deep breath, noticing him moving closer to you.

He hesitated, pushing a stray hair behind your ear instead. His hand lingered on your face, eventually moving down your arm to put your hand in his. He interlocked your fingers together, pulling it close to him and pressing a soft kiss on your knuckles. He held you there, hand resting on his chin. This was almost more intimate than a kiss, you thought.

“Do you not-” You started, getting interrupted.

“I want to, believe me.”

You looked at him, willing him to continue.

“I don’t want you to think that’s all this is.” He explained, you nodded. You know that this was him being respectful, but it made you want to tear his clothes off even more. Forbidden fruit, if you will.

“Let me take you on a date, tomorrow on my lunch break. I know a place you’d like.” He continued.

“Okay.” You said, smiling.

————————————————————————————

**i do not give anyone permission to use my work as your own, respectfully

this belongs to @joemothersfavoritechild **

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daichiduskdrop · 1 year ago

Text

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚⋆·˚ ༘ *𝙎𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡 ⋆·˚ ༘ *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Chapter 14

Pairing: BTS Ot7 X fem! reader

Genre: A/B/O AU, Fluff, Angst, Strangers to lovers,

Warnings: mentions of bad eating habits

Words: 3814

A/M: Sorry for the poster, I'm not a graphic designer by no means ;-; lots of love

Taglist: @thelilbutifulthings @ilovemoneymorethenmen @singukieee @cherrysainttt @felicityroth @mageprincess7 @lucis-noctiana @danielle143 @osakis-gf @girl-nahh @vintageoldfashion @neverthefirstchoice @juju-227592 @silentreadersthings @i-have-no-life-charlie @everyonehatesshani @iamkookiesforyou @dragons-flare @fangirl125reader @roseidol

⋆·˚ ༘ *ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ✩‧₊˚⋆·˚ ༘ *

The traffic was surprisingly good, allowing the group to get to the packhouse early, with the journey only taking about 15 minutes.

Parking the car, Taehyung turned the engine off, making all of them scatter out of the car again. While helping you step down to the ground, Yoongi was careful to hold your hand securely, with the other one holding your bag.

The snow crunched under your boots as you all entered the home. Jin put in the code, allowing the doors to open with a loud beeping melody.

All of you went on to remove your shoes, Jin was quick to help you untie your shoelaces so you wouldn't have to bend at all.

Slipping your shoes off for you, the alpha took them and placed them underneath the heater once again, placing old newspaper underneath them so the dirty water wouldn't get on the ground.

„Come on, baby, let's go eat something.” The youngest said, already pulling at your hand. Complying with no issue, the two other alphas soon followed.

Washing your hands under warm water, Jin and Yoongi were quick to start cooking, with you and Taehyung taking a seat at the dining table close to them.

You were hesitant to sit, knowing it would be much better of you to go and help them, and so when you stood up, watching over the two men already harmoniously working together,

When Yoongi noticed you walking over, he was quick to turn you back around, gently nudging you back in the other man's direction.

„Stay with Taehyung-ah for a bit, kitten. We will take care of everything; you just rest for a little.” He said, pulling out the chair for you again, then he waited for you to sit before he pushed it to the table again.

„But-” You tried to get in, only to be interrupted just as quickly.

„Cub no. Listen to alphas; we know what's best.” The tone he used left no chance for you to talk again, and so you just gently sighed, defeatedly.

Quick to pick your mood back up, Taehyung jumped into action, his arms wrapping around your waist softly before he gently pulled you to himself, having you sit over his lap with your side against his chest.

As you allowed yourself to rest against him, the scent he carried clouded all around, calming you down. Smiling at you largely, he rubbed his palms over your sides, being mindful not to be too rough.

„Will you show me what you did today, babycheeks?” The long hair he had fell over his forehead, cascading down like a waterfall. Rubbing your cheeks softly, the alpha didn't hold back from squeezing them for much longer.

Just now you remembered him asking about taking photos of your work throughout the day. Feeling disappointed with yourself, you avoided his eyes.

Quick to notice that something wasn't right, his hands pulled you closer to his front, his chin nudging your face gently, scenting you just a bit.

„Hm? What is it, baby? Did you forget to take photos?” Taehyung asked, his voice deep as usual. Noticing the smallest nod, he could only coo at you, not being able to hold back with how soft you looked.

„Awh.. babycheeks, it's okay. I wouldn't get angry at you, ever, and not for something so silly. It's alright, sweetheart. Come here...” Cradling you to himself, he gently swayed from side to side, your face resting against his neck and peeking over his shoulder.

Yoongi has just finished cutting the beef and seasoning the small pieces in a pan before he starts to fry them. The other alpha is meanwhile preparing the noodles, opening up the packages, and boiling them.

Holding you close by your temple, the youngest alpha felt his heart break a little at the thought of you being so soft and shy when you were not doing what he expected you to do. Especially since it was such a silly thing as taking a photo or two.

„I can show you photos I took earlier on, though. You whispered near his ear, making him turn to you right away, beaming.

„Sure, I would love to see!” He said, excited that he would finally get to see your work. He saw some stuff in your apartment, but he didn't want you to be angry at him for snooping around while you were asleep, so he dropped it quickly.

Nodding to yourself, you went to climb off his lap, but he quickly shushed you gently, holding you to his chest with one arm while the other reached for your backpack, laying next to the chairs.

Placing it on the table, you unzipped it, the alpha's palms placed on the side of your waist, his thumbs rubbing gently over your clothed skin. Taking out the old model laptop lent from the school, you let it boot up, the system taking long to get ready.

Opening it, the email tab was still open, and so with the new one in your inbox, you clicked on it right away, only to be left in disappointment since it was only the poster materials you had to put together.

„What's that?” Taehyung asked, placing his chin on your shoulder and watching the screen with you.

„It's for the poster I have to make... We were assigned to curate an exhibition at school, and these are the flyers and posters informations for it. I have to get it done until tomorrow morning.”

You said, your voice obviously a bit upset. You understood that you didn't do much until now regarding the project, but it wasn't because you didn't want to; it was your classmates that were just always unhappy with your work.

„Hm... That sounds like a lot. Do you want to do it on this laptop? Yoongi will for sure lend you his studio computer with no problem; it will be much easier there since you don't have a mouse and stuff...”

He gently tried to sway your decision, knowing that you would go through a lot less trouble if you would just use his packmates stuff or anyone else's at that point.

Whatever that notebook was, it was too beat up by now, had a full-on missing key on its keyboard, and just looked rough with how the screen would freeze even with how little you have been using it so far with him by your side.

„You think so? I don't know... I'm sure Yoongi-oppa has a lot of stuff to do right now anyway..." Even when your voice was quiet and the sizzling oil was quite loud, all three men heard you well.

Turning to you right away at your words, Yoongi took a step back from the pan, wiping his hands clean before walking to you with a quick pace and a gentle, gummy smile on his face. Cooing at you, he spoke softly.

„Oppa kitty?” Bending to match your height, he carresed your cheek sweetly; your gaze now on the ground, you suddenly overcame shyness.

„I mean, you all are older than me, so I thought...” You mumbled, hiding your hands behind your sweater. All three of them had smiles much larger than ever seen before, and without further hesitance, you felt the alpha pull you into his embrace.

„Aigoo.. of course you can call us that; we don't mind sweet kitten. When is your birthday, kitty?” the man said, gazing at you with soft eyes.

„July 1st, 2000.” You said this, holding his fingers gently, his thumb caressing your knuckles.

You heard his chest rumble loudly at your words. It was one of the traditional standards to have the alphas older than the weaker second genders in their pack.

„Let's eat now, before it gets cold. You can work on it later, small cub.” Jin said, already finishing up with the stir-frying of the ramen noodles, with a few small side dishes of rice and kimchi prepared too.

With Taehyung helping with the bowls, you went to take your own, but instead you were once again gently nudged to your spot, a ceramic bowl, and a pair of clean chopsticks handed to you.

„What would you like to drink, kitten? Do you want your peach juice again?” The alpha asked, already about to pull open the fridge.

„Maybe.. maybe I could have the strawberry syrup instead?” you asked, looking up at him questionably. He smiled softly at you, nodding before he poured you a glass of that instead.

„It is very yummy; just make sure you don't drink too much of it, alright? It's very sweet; you could get a tummy ache.” He murmured, growing slightly worried with no necessary reason to be. Placing the tall glass before you, you thanked him gently.

Serving you a full bowl of noodles, Jin made sure you were the first one to be able to eat, sprinkling on the greens and with the Jjapaguri glistening in the light, the food looked delicious.

And so you all dug in, the men watching over your reaction to the first bite. When Yoongi and Jin prepared it, they made sure to not use all of the powder; even when it wasn't that spicy to them, they knew that Taehyung and especially you could have trouble handling it well.

Chewing on your meal, you enjoyed it, but since you weren't that big of a fan of meat, you left a lot of it in the bowl, not finishing it. Drinking, you went to put your bowl back, Yoongi and Tae still eating while Jin had already finished.

Quick to pull you back by your hand, the alpha sitting next to you furrowed his eyebrows slightly. „What about the meat kitty? You need the protein; come on, baby, eat a little more. Is it not tasty?” He asked, looking over you, his chopsticks placed down for a bit.

„No, no, it's good, thank you. I'm just not a big fan of meat in general." You murmured, rubbing at your arm, slumped in your seat. The meal was truly delicious.

Only humming in reply, the alpha didn't take too long before he started to feed you the small pieces himself, allowing you to chew well in-between bites. Whenever you went to whine with another bite coming your way, he just shushed you gently.

„It's important to eat well, peaches.” Jin said from the counter, going over it with a wet towel to clean it well. After you had eaten most of the leftovers, you pushed the bowl away, really full.

Nodding at that, the alpha next to you finished his own meal in a few minutes before he picked up both of your bowls, cleaning them for you.

„Good job, my kitty. I'm proud of you for trying. Let's go to the studio now, yea?” Taking a hold of your palm, the older alpha led you to his studio that was downstairs, entering the code carefully before he opened the door, holding it for you.

It was much darker than Hobi's studio you were in earlier, and the first thing you noticed was the big, black and white carpet with the large letters KEEP OFF on it. The same type of armchair the other alpha had was also in front of the big desk, which held a bit more equipment this time around.

With around three big speakers on each side, one big monitor, and a flat TV screen like the other rapper had, the desk was littered with wires, devices, and things you just didn't understand well.

Taking a seat, the alpha was quick to pull you on his lap too, adjusting you so you were facing the same way. Patting your lower back slightly, he went to turn on the computer, the screen booting much quicker than yours did.

„Oh- I forgot my laptop-” You mumbled, making Yoongi turn to you only to ruffle your hair.

„It's all good, kitten. Alpha will take care of everything; don't you worry your cute little head about anything, my baby.”

He didn't seem even mildly annoyed; how come he wasn't? You were prolonging his time; he had to help you like this. How was he not upset?

Plucking you back on the seat after he stood up, he pushed the chair back to the desk, gently scenting you with his wrist glands while sneakily running his fingers through your hair.

„Wait for only a small bit, kitty; Alpha will be right back.” Shuffling out of the room. He wore a pair of loose-fitting jeans today and a simple white t-shirt with a loose, silk-like black shirt over it, left open.

Closing the doors softly after himself, the man walked over to the kitchen again, Jin and Taehyung watching the TV by now, some sort of cooking show on. He knew the eldest had been obsessed with western cooking competitions lately and could only assume that Taehyung was left to watch it with him.

The others were still at the company, and after he received a few messages from Jungkook about you, he also told him about them staying until about 19 in the evening.

They still had to record a part of their song, and Namjoon had to stay in to talk with a few of their managers about some new changes in their pack life, mostly regarding you.

It was supposed to be more of the usual Namjoon-only meeting, but after they talked about it in the morning at the company, most of them wanted to stay and be present.

Sure, he was the pack alpha, but in the end, all of them were alphas. They wanted to be up-to-date regarding, hopefully, their omega.

Picking up your backpack once again, he took it with himself, noticing the small Stich charm you had on the zipper pull. Were you a fan of that cartoon? You must be.

Christmas was only around the corner, since it was the 12th of December at the moment. All the alphas already had many gifts in mind they would want to spoil you with in the future, and Christmas was a great excuse to do so.

Smiling to himself, he unlocked the studio again, entering it with you still sitting in his chair, not touching anything. You were afraid you might break stuff, and you didn't want that to happen.

Placing the bag on his desk, he picked you up, taking a seat first before he pulled you to his chest once again, having you close as ever.

Taking the old laptop out, he pulled up the screen, and even if it was still turned on, it just didn't seem to work too well; the screen was black, and it took a few seconds before it switched on suddenly.

Frowning at that, he watched as you opened the email again with a file attached to it.

„I need that for the poster...” You said it quietly, turning a little to look at the man. His longer hair was tucked behind his ears as he watched your notebook.

„Yea, no problem, kitty. I can just send it to myself.” The alpha said, already noticing that anything like airdrop just wouldn't work on that thing you had. Making a new email, he quickly typed in his address, sending a copy to the computer on the desk.

Putting the laptop away again, the man pushed the chair a little closer, already opening up the attachment. This was much faster than yours, that's for sure.

With the word document opened, there were only a few things present: a few hex codes for colours your group agreed on, the font name, and a few pieces of information about when and where the exhibition would take place.

Noticing the many blank spots without words, Yoongi once again frowned a little.

„What about this? Featured artists? Why is it blank, kitty?” Running his fingers through your hair, the silver bracelets he wore jiggled a little.

„Yea, that's just... We still have to finish it tomorrow morning, I guess. We are having some issues... with a few of the students that are supposed to have their works exhibited."

You murmured, fingers hidden away. You heard him hum a little; a light dissatisfaction was noticeable. There wasn't much you could do about it now anyway, though.

„Alright. Here is a Photoshop you can use. I will help you if you need anything, sweetheart.” Yoongi said, helping you pull out the keyboard drawer underneath the desk. Nodding, you whispered a gentle thank you.

Switching between the two opened files, you made quick work, roughly finishing the idea you had before you would have to show it to your group tomorrow.

With the alpha gently running his hands over your back and through your hair, he was quick to help whenever you ran into any troubles.

You weren't used to working with Adobe; it has always been too expensive for you to afford, but after a few minutes, you adjusted well, only running into a few issues with different keyboard shortcuts you weren't used to.

You didn't perfect it yet, only spending about thirty minutes at maximum working on it, but you got the rough idea done, allowing you to sigh out and rest your back against Yoongi again.

Chuckling softly at you, he saved the file, gently rubbing your hair. „It looks very nice, sweet kitty. You did such a good job. Alpha is very proud. I'll send it to your email, okay?” Nodding, you let your face rest close to the crook of his neck, breathing in the rainy scent he wore.

Sending a copy of the file to you, you could hear just the faintest sound of voices. Realising that it wasn't Taehyung or the eldest, you turned your face towards the black doors right away.

Chuckling at how fast you moved, the alpha gently patted your tights, urging you to go look yourself.

„Go on, sweet kitty. I have to finish up some stuff here anyway." After sliding off of his lap, you took hurried steps towards the room entrance.

Opening the door, you shut it behind yourself, taking a few steps towards the living room. Already, you could smell their presence. You missed them in a way, and so you were excited to see them.

The first to notice you was Jungkook, jumping up from sitting on the couch and rushing towards you, scooping you up and holding you to his chest.

„My babybun!” The alpha laughed loudly, twirling you around a little. Giggling a bit yourself, your arms looped around his neck, your face soon tucked into his neck, his own cheek rubbing over your head virgously.

At the loud proclaim of the nickname the man has made for you, the others turned, the other three alphas soon coming closer to greet you themselves.

The first to come was Hobi. Excitedly laughing, he rubbed his palms over your face and collarbones, looking over your figure and noting your scent.

„Sunshine, ah.. I'm so glad to see you again! Alpha missed you so much, bub.” Twirling your hair around his finger softly, he tucked the lock behind your left ear. You only smiled shyly. „I missed you too, Hobi oppa.”

The alpha gasped loudly before he pulled you into his embrace once again, almost crushing you with how strongly he took you in.

Cradling you to himself, his chin went over your head a few times, ensuring that his own scent would stick to you. Cooing at you, he spoke.

„Aigoo.. baby, you will make my heart burst like this, you sweetest little thing.” He mumbled to your hair, petting your back. Pulling away after a few seconds, he let his packmates also have their greetings.

„Baby princess, my sweetheart, how was your day? Come here, let Alpha hold you for a little bit.”

Bending slightly to look over your shy, warmed-up face, Jimin cooed loudly before he pulled you to himself, arms wrapped around your waist.

Tucking your face into his neck scent gland, you felt calming waves come crashing on you. You felt content having all of the packmates with you now.

Pulling away a little, he bent his neck to be face-to-face with you, gently bopping your nose while giggling, the alpha's eyes creasing.

��We bought you something, princess!” He smiled, your eyes widening a little. A gift? What for?

Walking over, the pack alpha also wanted to have his greetings, pulling you from his younger packmate, he hugged you himself.

„Alpha is very happy to be with you now, sweet cub.” Was the only thing he murmured for a while; too busy getting his scent soaked well into your skin.

Satisfied after a few seconds, he didn't move away from you, instead picking you up and helping you wrap your legs around his waist. With one arm supporting you, he let his other palm rest over your head, gently having you rest against his collarbone.

Taking a seat on the couch, Jin and Taehyung were already watching the TV, and so after the other two alphas also came closer, you all huddled close together.

Jimin walked over, holding something behind his back. He stood before you and his pack alpha, not able to contain his smile.

You looked over, curious eyes open widely, and the other men gently chuckled at your excitement.

Namjoon's palms softly rubbed at your sides and hair; he just felt the need to make sure you were really okay after a day without them being close.

Pulling a giant paper bag from behind his back, you didn't even recognise the name; the dark grey cover with a few golden accents made even the huge bag look expensive.

Placing it softly on your lap, Jimin took a seat next to Jungkook on your right side. You noticed Hobi taking a video in the background, giggling to himself.

Gently opening it, you noticed the many things it contained, with air-sealed bags covering all of them. Your mouth fell a little agape, pulling out the first, big package. On the label, it read:

Experience the epitome of luxury with our cashmere blanket line. Immerse yourself in the unparalleled softness and warmth of this high-quality masterpiece. Indulge in the finest cashmere fibres, meticulously crafted to create a blanket that exudes opulence and sophistication. Elevate your moments of relaxation with this luxurious, oversized cashmere blanket from HIMALAYA.

Dry-clean only

85% Mongolian Cashmere + 15% Egyptian Cotton

290 X 255cm

It was cashmere? What? You never even felt that fabric in your life, but you knew this must have been tremendously expensive. And it wasn't even the only thing in the bag!

Looking up at the Alpha holding you on his lap, your eyes were twice as big in shock. The cream-coloured blanket was still air-sealed, making sure not to carry any scents.

He only chuckled at you, the pack alpha's dimples showing. Bopping his nose softly, he smiled.

„Alphas will always take the best care of their 'mega pup. Forever.”

⋆·˚ ༘ *ੈ✩‧₊˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ✩‧₊˚⋆·˚ ༘ *

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