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orellazalonia · 2 months ago

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I’ll Still Love You

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: This has ANGST!!! I hope you cry /j. I love this version more than the other to be honest, maybe you all will like it too! You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Your Version

There were things Bucky didn’t think he’d ever have again.

Peace. Sleep. A future. And you.

You came into his life like silence after gunfire. Still and steady, almost unnoticeable at first. You didn’t push or prod. You didn’t flinch at the name Winter Soldier or look at his arm like it was a loaded weapon. You just existed in that calm, present, and kind way.

Many times you would ask how his day was, not his past. You told him what you dreamt about instead of asking what woke him screaming. You made him feel like a person, not a project nor a burden. And that was enough to terrify him.

But he kept coming back.

The first time he held your hand, it was hesitant. He was half-expecting you to pull away, but you didn’t. The first time he kissed you, it was desperate. Like he was drowning in memories and you were the only air left. And you kissed him back like you already knew how many pieces he was in, and didn’t mind picking them up one at a time.

He didn’t say I love you for a long time, not until it slipped out during a fight that he couldn’t remember why it happened to begin with. The words had always felt too big, too fragile. But he knew it the night you fell asleep on his chest, your breathing slow and your fingers resting over the surface of his metal arm. Like you cherished even the parts of him that brought so much destruction. He watched you sleep for hours, just holding you, trying to remember what it felt like to want to stay alive.

Sixteen months with you, and he still couldn’t believe it was real.

The little apartment above the bookstore wasn’t much, but it was yours. The heater barely worked. The neighbors were loud. But there were books in every corner, and a photo of you both pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat. You called it “home.” And for once in his life, Bucky did too.

Every morning, he woke up with you tangled in the blankets beside him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm slung over his waist. You always woke up first, but you never moved until he stirred. You said you liked to watch him even though he never knew why.

He always figured you saw something in him he couldn’t. And maybe that was what scared him most. That somehow, one day, you'd wake up and see him for what he really was. Not a man. Not a boyfriend. Just a weapon with blood on his hands.

But that day hadn’t come. Not yet.

When the mission briefing came through, it was supposed to be simple and low risk. An abandoned Hydra lab flagged for cleanup. Just intel recovery and demolition. No fights, no enemies. He didn’t want you going in. Something about the location sat wrong in his chest. But you insisted. Said you’d handled worse.

And maybe that was the problem. You always handled everything for him. For others. Even when you shouldn’t have had to.

He watched as you went down another hall to split up and cover more ground. He wished he had never left your side. Because then came the moment of static on the comms, then the flicker of power loss, and lastly the sudden radio silence.

He ran. It took six minutes to find you.

You were in a containment room, collapsed near a machine that looked like something between a scanner and a torture device. Your body was curled on the ground, breathing shallow, hands twitching.

He dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey… C’mon, Doll, open your eyes.”

You blinked and looked up at him. You stared at him like he was a stranger. When you spoke up, your voice was hoarse. “Who are you?”

The question didn’t register at first. He thought maybe it was the shock. Or a concussion. Maybe you were disoriented. But then you pushed yourself away from him and crawled back, visibly panicked. Your eyes were wide and your throat was working hard to swallow a scream.

“Please… don’t touch me.”

And just like that, the air left his lungs. He tried to stay calm. He tried saying your name, gently. Over and over. You flinched every time like it was a threat. Like he was. It was the look in your eyes that gutted him the most. Not fear of what had happened. Not confusion. But the absence of everything.

Everything you’d shared. The way you looked at him every morning. The jokes you made in the kitchen. The way you once whispered you’d never been safer than in his arms. It was all gone.

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know you loved him. And in that moment, he’d never felt more like the ghost they said he was.

You didn’t come home right away.

When he managed to coax you back to the tower, the Medics cleared you, of course. Physically, you were fine. Not a scratch on you. But the memory loss was real. The device had done something. Wiped neural pathways, scrambled connections, stripped entire years like peeling wallpaper.

You remembered your name. Your training. How to handle a weapon. How to take apart a gun and stitch a wound. But not him. Not the man who held you every night like you were the only thing tethering him to this century. Not Bucky.

At first, you stayed in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility while they ran scans and tests. Bucky barely left your side. He hovered in corners, not too close, watching you try to relearn yourself in pieces. You were calm, quiet, and even polite.

You just didn’t know him.

He heard it in your voice every time you said his name: Barnes, not Bucky. Cold and distant like a fellow agent rather than the man who once made you laugh so hard you cried over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of a power outage.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” You told him once, hands folded in your lap, and voice so gentle it cut him clean. “But… I don’t feel anything when I look at you. I’m sorry.”

He nodded and didn’t say anything more. What could he say?

He didn’t cry in front of you. But later, in the hallway, he braced his metal hand against the wall and exhaled like it hurt just to breathe. They had given you the option not to work for S.H.I.E.L.D anymore, to never see him again. To transfer and reset your life wherever you wanted.

But you didn’t. You looked at him and said, “Maybe… if I spend time with you, it might come back.”

So you came home.

You sat in the apartment like it was a museum. You traced the spines of your own books with unfamiliar fingertips. You opened drawers and stared at the little things like the shared grocery lists, photos of the two of you at Coney Island, a half-finished mug you’d made in a pottery class Bucky had hated but gone to anyway, just because you asked.

None of it sparked anything. But you wanted to remember and that mattered.

He made dinner the first night. Pasta, simple. You smiled faintly and said it tasted good. But you had always used to make fun of him for using too much garlic. He waited for you to say it, but you didn’t.

Later, you sat on opposite sides of the couch while a movie played in the background. You asked questions about yourself: what kind of music you liked, what books you used to read, or if you ever learned to play the old keyboard tucked beside the bookshelf.

Bucky answered every one like he was handling glass.

“You hated horror movies,” He said softly. “Used to bury your face in my shoulder even during the trailers. But you’d watch them anyway, just to laugh at me jumping.”

You tilted your head. “You get scared at horror movies?”

He cracked a faint smile. “Terrified.”

You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, just one fragile moment, it felt like you. He clung to that.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t call you doll or lean against you the way he used to. You weren’t his anymore. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. But every time you laughed or asked about a memory, he let himself hope.

Hope that somewhere, buried deep inside your mind, you were still his.

When he wasn’t spending time around you, he could tell how the rest of the team practically tiptoes around him now.

Some aren’t subtle. Natasha gives him long looks across briefing tables, equal parts pity and protectiveness. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to and whenever she does, her voice is softer than usual. Controlled.

Sam tries, bless him. He cracks a joke or two, light and quick, as if humor could stitch something this deep. He claps Bucky on the shoulder once in the gym and says, “You’re still in there. She’ll find you.” But he doesn’t say anything back, simply giving a tight nod before walking off.

Tony doesn’t gloat much anymore. He doesn’t joke either. He just sends a file to Bucky’s secure inbox about neural-recovery tech, theories, names of people who’ve studied memory wipe reversal. No subject line. No message. But Bucky understands it for what it is: support in Stark language.

Even Clint says it plain. “You’re not giving up.” And Bucky says it back. “I’m not.”

But none of them really know how to be there for him.

Because they saw the way you used to look at him, like he wasn’t a weapon or a man with blood on his hands, but simply yours. And now… you don’t even flinch when you stand near him, because you don’t remember what there is to be afraid of or to love.

So they give him space. But not Steve.

It’s late when Steve knocks. He doesn’t bother answering, but Steve comes in anyway. He finds Bucky in the kitchen, t-shirt and sweatpants, staring at a chipped mug on the counter like it just insulted him.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and waiting.

Bucky exhales, but doesn’t look up. “She used to use that one,” He murmurs. “Every morning. Even when the handle cracked.”

His best friend glances at the mug to see the tiny sunflowers on it, slightly faded from too many washes. He remembers seeing it in the sink a hundred times. He remembers seeing you curled against Bucky on the couch, sipping from it with both hands while Bucky tucked a blanket around you like you were something breakable.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Bucky says. His voice is low, shaky even now. “She’s here. She’s here, Stevie. But it’s like watching her ghost walk around our apartment.”

Steve swallows as his chest aches, but he doesn’t show it.

“She’s not gone, Buck.”

“She doesn’t remember me.”

“But she’s trying.”

That lands hard. Bucky finally looks up, eyes bloodshot but dry.

Steve pushes off the counter and takes a slow step forward. “You’re angry. You’re grieving her, even though she’s right in front of you. That’s hell. But Bucky…” He sighs. “You know what it’s like to lose everything and still survive. You’ve done it before.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “It’s not the same.”

“No. It’s not. Because this time, she’s trying to come back to you. You just have to be patient.”

Bucky looks down at the mug again. He breathes slowly, his tone more vulnerable now. “What if she never remembers? What if she falls in love with someone else, and I’m just some… ghost in a photo?”

Steve’s expression cracks for a moment but his voice remains gentle. “Then you’ll still love her. You’ll still be there, however she needs. Because that’s what you do when someone’s your home.”

Silence fills the air before Bucky finally nods. It’s a slow, pained motion done only once.

Steve steps closer to his friend and grips his shoulder, firm and steady. “You’re not alone in this. You never were.”

And with that, Bucky stays. He stays by your side at a comfortable distance, offering a steady presence and patient answers to any questions you have.

Even though it hurts him to see you this way, makes him sick to his stomach with grief and anguish at the loss of your love; Bucky never let it show around you, not even once.

Because if there was one thing he remembered and understood better than anyone, it was what it meant to lose pieces of yourself. He couldn’t be angry with you for forgetting, not when he’d spent decades trying to remember who he used to be.

So he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t plead. He doesn’t guilt you into trying harder either. He just stays.

Sometimes, you asked him questions.

“Did I… love you?”

He never lied. Never told you stories to manipulate your heart into remembering. He just answered, gently and honestly.

“Yeah,” He’d say. “You did. And I loved you too.”

And when you looked down or away or offered a polite smile instead of a knowing one, he’d excuse himself for a few minutes to the hallway where he could breathe through the ache in his chest. But Bucky wasn’t a man who gave up. Not on you. Not now.

Because the truth was, he’d wait as long as it took. Even if you never remembered. Even if he had to fall in love with you all over again from scratch and let you fall for him at your own pace, in your own way.

On some days, something sparked enough to give him hope.

One morning, it started small. Not with a kiss. Not with some dramatic tearful moment or sudden flood of recognition. Just… a hum.

You’re making tea, quiet and slow, the way you always did. The kettle hisses and clicks, and you’re standing in Bucky’s- your kitchen, waiting.

And you hum. A stupid little melody. Out of tune and familiar.

Bucky freezes in the doorway, his breath caught like a hook in his throat.

Because you always used to hum that song. A dumb old jazz piece he played on vinyl one night just to tease you, and you rolled your eyes and said it sounded like elevator music. Then you got it stuck in your head for weeks to the point where he’d find you humming it while brushing your teeth or waiting for the microwave. Once he heard it while you were patching up a bullet graze.

And now you’re doing it again, without realizing. He doesn’t say anything. He’s afraid if he moves too fast, the moment will vanish like mist.

You pour the tea then turn enough to notice him, tilting your head slightly in concern. “You okay?”

He swallows. “Yeah. Just… you always used to hum that.”

You blink. “Did I?”

He nods and you don’t say anything else. But you look thoughtful. Like maybe, for a flicker of a second, something stirred inside.

Later, it happens again.

You’re sitting on the couch. He’s a few feet away. Respectful as always. You yawn, curl your legs up under you, and reach for the blanket on the back of the couch. Without thinking, you toss one corner toward him.

He stares. Because you always used to share it like that. The dumb little blanket-sharing ritual, a habit you never talked about. Just muscle memory. A routine born of hundreds of nights side-by-side.

And now… now your body remembers what your mind doesn’t.

You notice the way he’s looking at the blanket. “Is this something I used to do?”

He nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”

“…Do you want it?”

“No,” He says quickly, quietly. “I’m good.”

You study him a moment longer, then gently drape it across both your laps anyway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But he doesn’t move for a long time.

That night, when you go to bed, Bucky stays on the couch like he always does now. It’s separate and distant, yet safe. But his heart is full of knives. Because every second you’re here, every time you smile or laugh or hum that dumb melody, he remembers how it used to feel. The ease and the intimacy. The way you’d tuck your face into his chest and call him “Buck” in that soft, sleepy voice like you’d never say it for anyone else.

And he wonders if he’ll ever have that again. But even if he doesn’t, even if you never remember, and even if you move on someday and love someone else…

He knows one thing like gospel truth:

He will still love you. Always. Even if it breaks him.

Because it was never a choice. Not with you. You were the first thing that made him believe he could have a future. And he’ll keep loving you even if all you ever give him now are flickers of hope.

And now, even with your memory scattered like ash in the wind, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever lost.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #angst fic #angst

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akamitrani · 8 months ago

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omg i just read your dht fanfic and it was so good!! if your taking requests could i request that reader is married to david and she was with him on the set if terrifier (2024) and reader asks him to make love to her with his Art costume still on? Thanks!’ (sorry if this makes no sense lmao)

— The After-Hours Act —

David Howard Thornton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut, established relationship, costume kink, roleplay (?), kissing, pining, choking, rough sex, public sex (well, kind of).

Summary: It's late at night, filming is practically done. Your husband, David, gives his final performance of the day.

[A/N: Omg hi, yes I accept requests! Thank you so much for liking my last fic 🤍 Hope you enjoy this one too, it's my first time doing smut. I absolutely loved the idea and probably had way too much fun with it lol.]

The set was alive with chaos. Flickering lights casting long, jagged shadows against the cracked walls, making the abandoned warehouse look even more sinister. Fake blood is pooled on the concrete floor and the air is thick with the smell of sweat, latex and the metallic tang of stage blood.

In the middle of it all stood David, fully transformed into the unnervingly silent and grotesque Art the Clown. His smile stretched wide under the white mask, black lips curling into a grimace that was equal parts amusing and horrifying.

You watched from the shadows just beyond the set, your eyes never leaving him. David had always been able to command a room and, as Art the Clown, he held a power that drew you in no matter how many times you had seen him in character.

The director yelled “Let's wrap it up!” and the tense energy of the set dissipated like smoke. David instantly broke character, his terrifying expression melting into his usual boyish grin as he exchanged a few words with the crew. His eyes flicked over to you and he gave you a subtle wink.

Your heart skipped a beat as he made his way toward you, still in full costume. The other crew members busied themselves with cleanup, leaving you and David in a pocket of relative privacy.

“Enjoy the show?” – he teased, voice low and familiar despite the eerie costume.

You couldn’t help but smile, mix of nerves and excitement – “You were terrifying, as always. But...” – you replied, eyes lingering on the smeared makeup around his lips – “I have a little request tonight”

David’s brow quirked in curiosity, he stayed silent, slipping back into Art’s mute persona for a moment. You took a deep breath, stepping closer so only he could hear your words...

“Can you stay in costume... For a little playtime, with me?” you whispered getting closer to him, a blush creeping up your cheeks.

For a split second you saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes, it was quickly replaced by a mischievous glimmer... He understood the idea. He nodded slowly, slipping fully back into character, his smile turning wickedly playful. Stepping back, he walked towards the door of the warehouse, locking it.

You felt a thrill shoot down your spine, you were completely alone with him now – No crew, no distractions. He moved closer to you, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey. The game had begun.

David – or rather, Art – stopped just inches away, tilting his head in that unnerving, silent way.

“Are you sure about this?” – he whispered, the question hanging in the air like a dare. You could see it in his eyes, he was more than ready to play along. You wanted to see just how far he would take it, how much you could handle... You nodded.

Without warning, he lunges forwards, pining you against a cold concrete wall. A gasp escapes your lips as his gloved hand wrapped around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but enough to send a wave of adrenaline through your body.

The pressure of his hand on your throat sends waves of heat between your legs, your breath coming out in short gasps. He leaned in closer, his painted lips brushing your ear, he remained silent, true to Art's unsettling nature.

You whimpered softly, feeling the undeniable desire. David's grin widened and he pushed you harder against the wall, his free hand slipping to your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel his growing bulge against your thigh, his gloves rough against your skin. His eyes bored into yours demanding submission.

You gave in willingly, letting him take control over you. The grip on your throat tightened just slightly, enough to make you even more wet.

“David...” – You breathed his name. A futile attempt to break the spell of Art's menacing silence.

But he wasn't ready to break character yet. Instead, he released his hold on your throat and captured your lips in a messy kiss, taste of makeup and sweat mixing between you two.

He pulled back, just enough to look at you. For a moment you thought he might speak, but instead he let out that eerie silent laugh, his shoulders shaking as he looked at you with a mocking expression.

“You really are good at this...” – You said, voice husky with arousal and fear.

He flashed that terrifying grin again and in a heartbeat lifted you up in his arms. You look at him with a surprised look as he carries you to the prop bed in the set and carefully throws you in it. He hovers on top of you, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer to him. This time you completely feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh, making you moan – “Hmm yes...”

David's hands start to wander around your body, you're completely under him, completely at his mercy. His fingers slid under your dress pushing it up, revealing your black lacy set of lingerie. He pulled back and paused for a moment, he had an idea, suddenly getting out of bed – you look at him confused.

"David? What happened?" – You asked, afraid you did something wrong. He doesn't speak, instead he silently laughs gesturing for you to wait with an excited expression.

You watch him happily reach for Art's infamous black trash bag that was in a corner, open it dramatically and start looking for something inside of it. You were about to say something, but before you could do that he threw the bag away, in his hand is a black knife with fake blood still on it. He smiles devilishly pointing to the knife... then you. You freeze, feeling genuine horror with his actions now.

David senses your growing tension and gestures with both hands as what can be understood as 'relax, I'm not going to hurt you... probably'. What an imp. He starts crawling on top of the bed towards you with a hungry look, reaching your legs. He signals for you to open them and you gladly do so, without asking questions. He pauses for a moment as if savoring the situation, the position you're in – He gives you his trademark creepy smirk.

He reaches for your panties, his finger lifted one of the side edges and in a swift motion he uses the knife to slash it, removing it and revealing your throbbing cunt – now on full display for him. You inhale sharply, the cold air making you shiver. He throws away the knife and your undies somewhere around the set.

He pulls you towards him roughly, demanding, pushing your legs more far apart. You notice his bulge is very prominent now, poking through his clown costume. David hovers above you, one hand beside your head and the other ghostly stroking your sensitive bud making you moan. You don't want to wait, can't handle teasing now – you shift slightly as a form of protest.

“Fuck me now” – You breathlessly groan

He stopped in his tracks and looked you dead in the face, up until now he has been real soft with you, taking things slowly... But if you're such a needy bitch with no patience then he will give you exactly what you want.

David pulls back slightly and gathers your legs in front of him, pushing you to the side forcing you to change positions. Your back now is exposed to him, your ass completely tilted up, he uses his knee to once more spread your legs. You tried to look back at him but he shoved your head down in the bed and unspokenly demanded you to stay this way. Not wanting to defy him again you accept his command.

You stayed like this for a few seconds wondering why nothing has happened, you couldn't help but listen to your surroundings, especially behind you – focusing on any sound, any clue to what will happen. Unbeknownst to you, your husband – Art, at the moment – was dazed at the sight before him. Pussy swollen with desire and wetness threatening to drip down your groin, enough to make his dick beg to be released.

A sudden sharp noise of tearing cloth invaded your ears, making you jump a little bit. You were scared to look back but your curiosity was louder at the moment and you couldn't help but slightly glance to the source of the sound. David had torn his clown suit to free his dick, now holding his fully erect member in his hand leaking in precum, pumping it a few times.

He caught you looking and in a futile attempt you tried to avert your gaze, too late now. He smiled wickedly and as punishment, he gave you an unexpected ruthless slap to your butt, making you hiss in both shock and pleasure. The stinging sensation only adding to your burning heat. He continued – two, three, four, five slaps – smacking until you were moaning for the pain, for him.

“Mmm-aah fuck” – you moaned – “fuck me, just fuc-”

Your phrase cut short when he entered your pussy, shoving his dick deep inside you then completely out in a excruciatingly slow speed. He was taunting you, giving you what you wanted but not in the way intended to.

“Mmmm Dave, please ah- please...” – You cried out. You could feel the clown smirking behind you.

David started picking up speed, pounding hard, grabbing your waist for stability. There will definitely be some purple digits engraved there tomorrow.

You can hear his ragged breath and occasional whimpers, you're surprised he could maintain Art's silent persona this far. David is usually quite vocal, he enjoys praising you during sex. The difference is noticeable, you're still unsure about it... On the other hand, his much more dominant demeanor when portraying Art makes up for it.

He takes his dick out and flips you on your back to face him again, he takes your legs and puts them on his shoulder. He promptly aligned his shaft with your entrance again, staring directly at you. David's half-lidded blue eyes peaking through the white mask, black lips slightly open indicating breathlessness. Pounding you, he pushed your bra out of the way, he loved the erotic sight of your tits bouncing just for him.

His cock deliciously hit your sweet spot with expertise – he just knows how to make you feel good – feeling the climax build up more and more on your stomach on each thrust he gives, you're almost there.

He leans in closer to you, one of his hands grabs your throat while the other stays at your waist, pining you completely onto the bed. He's choking you mercilessly, cutting your oxygen this time.

David picks up his speed really fast, making the prop bed creak loudly, the sound of rough slapping skin filling the set – Your orgasm threatening to crash down. The stimulation is overwhelming and you can't hold it anymore.

His dick hits hard and deep in your pussy – you deliciously cum, your juices spilling all over his shaft. He nods maniacally feeling your tightening warm cunt around his cock, it was all that he needed to reach his peak – closing his eyes and throwing his head back, he ejaculates inside you with one final thrust. He releases the hold on your neck allowing you to gasp for air.

You see his face contorting and you think he might break character now. Instead he opened his eyes and smiled at you while clapping his hands cheerfully. The way he stayed silent, embodying Art’s menacing playfulness, drove you to the edge.

He removes himself from you, sweating, panting. You suddenly feel the exhaustion and so does he – literally plopping himself on the bed, by your side.

“I love you so much, you know that?” – he finally spoke after some minutes, the real David finally breaking through.

It was such a relief to hear his voice again – “I love you too... Even when you're being a complete psycho” – you teased, still breathless.

David laughed, genuinely – “I hope I wasn't too rough” – he said, pressing his forehead against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist in a comforting embrace.

“Maybe a little” – you admitted, resting your hands against his chest – “But I like it when you surprise me”

David smiled, leaning in to kiss the top of your head, filled with all the tenderness you knew him for. It was just the two of you, sharing a quiet moment.

“Thank you” – he murmured – “For loving all sides of me... Even the creepy ones”

You laughed softly, running your fingers through his chest – “I wouldn’t have it any other way”

You knew this was a moment you’d cherish – a memory of the man you loved, both the sweet husband and domineering clown... And tonight, you have experienced both.

“Alright, alright. I think we've given Art enough playtime for one night.” - he murmured, gently caressing your back. He kissed you one last time before preparing to get out of bed.

“I think I'll have to buy another clown costume” – he joked, pointing at his groin area, where he had ripped the fabric.

“And new panties for me, ruined my favorite one” – you added with a fake pout pointing at the long gone undies, currently at the floor. (rip undies)

“Yeah, sorry about that... I- I don't know what I was doing honestly” – he said looking down

“No, no. None of that. I loved everything. All of it.” – You quickly replied, forcing him to look at you. You could swear you saw a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

“C'mon, let's get out of here” – He said sweetly, slipping his hand into yours – “We've had enough fun for one night”

Some minutes later as you both walked out of the darkened set hand in hand, you realized what you had just experienced was a moment you'd never forget. Fear, love and desire collided in the most thrilling way.

#david howard thornton #art the clown #david howard thornton x reader #art the clown x reader #david howard thornton imagine #terrifier 3 #terrifier 2 #terrifier #david howard thornton smut #art the clown smut #thank you to my man #on my knees for him

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delulu-julia · 3 months ago

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Hi! I just found your account, and I love your work (^.^) I was wondering if we could get some headcanons or a scenario whereas the turtles are fighting the shredder with the reader, who was kind of forced into it, and ends up jumping in the way just as Shredder's about to impale one of the turtles and takes the hit for them!

I hope all is well, thank you!! (^.^)

Tmnt 2012 x Injured!Reader

Hi! Thanks for requesting. I didn't know which ending to do, so I made two - a happy one, where you survived, and a sad one, where you died. Enjoy!

Everything was happening too fast.

Blades clashed, sparks flew, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. The turtles had fought Shredder before, but tonight—tonight felt different.

And you were in the middle of it.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t even supposed to fight. But one thing led to another, and now you were standing in the crossfire of a battle you were never meant to take part in.

And then you saw it.

Shredder, towering and merciless, his claw raised, aimed directly at one of them. They didn’t see it.

But you did.

You moved.

Pain. White-hot, blinding pain.

The force knocked the air from your lungs. Something sharp tore through your side, impaling you. The world blurred as blood dripped from your lips.

The turtle—whoever it was—stared at you, horror-struck.

You tried to smile. Tried to make it okay.

And then, everything went black.

During the Fight:

Leonardo

The moment your body moves in front of him, everything slows down. One second he’s ready to counter, the next, he’s watching you take the full force of Shredder’s attack.

He’s trained to control his emotions, but all of that discipline shatters the second he sees your blood on the ground.

When you fall, he catches you before you hit the ground. His hands are trembling.

He doesn’t hesitate—he orders the others to get you to safety while he stays behind to finish the fight. And this time, he’s not holding back.

He blames himself. He was the leader—it was his job to protect you, and yet you nearly died saving him.

Raphael

He sees red. Pure, unfiltered rage.

The moment your body moves between him and Shredder, he screams. He tries to reach you, but it’s too late.

He sees the way your body jerks from the force of the attack, the way your blood stains the ground, and his vision goes red.

“No, dammit! What the hell were ya thinkin’ ?!” His voice is raw, desperate, shaking as he drops to his knees beside you.

He’s never felt this kind of helplessness before. He presses down on your wound, but his hands are shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

When he turns back to Shredder, he’s gone feral. There’s no restraint, no tactics—just raw, violent rage. And Shredder is about to pay. He fights like a man possessed, not stopping until the enemy is down.

After, he stays by your side but is angry at you. Not because he’s mad, but because he was terrified.

Donatello

The moment you move, he knows what’s about to happen, but his body won’t move fast enough to stop it.

The sound of your pained gasp is something he never wants to hear again. His heart stops, and for a terrifying moment, he forgets how to breathe.

He doesn’t care about the fight anymore—he has to get to you. The logical part of his brain shuts down. All he can focus on is keeping you alive.

“no… no, No, NO—this can’t—hold on, I can fix this, I have to fix this—” The next second he is already next to you. hands frantic as he works to stop the bleeding.

He’s muttering calculations under his breath, trying to figure out how much time you have, trying to ignore the crushing fear that he might not be fast enough.

In the lair, he works tirelessly to treat your wounds, barely resting until he knows you’re okay. He won’t sleep for days—he’ll stay by your side, making sure you don’t slip away. He can’t lose you. He won’t.

Michelangelo

“No—WAIT!” But it’s too late. You’re already moving, already taking the blow that was meant for him.

Panic. Pure, raw panic. One moment you were okay, the next you were bleeding out in front of him.

His stomach drops when he sees you collapse. He doesn’t think—he just runs to you, shaking as he kneels beside your broken body.

“No, nononono—this isn’t funny, dude, c’mon, open your eyes—” His voice cracks as he shakes you, desperate for any sign that you’re still with him.

He’s crying, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s in the middle of a battle, that Shredder is still there—none of it matters if you’re not okay.

And when he turns back to Shredder, there’s none of his usual cheer. No jokes. No laughter. Just cold, burning rage. (Oh yeah, when there’s serious Mickey, you know it’s over)

After the fight:

The moment the fight is over, all four of them are at your side. They don’t care about anything else—you come first.

Donnie is frantic, hands moving fast as he presses down on your wound. His voice is shaking as he tells you to stay awake. Does everything he can to save you. Literally doesn't sleep, constantly checking your stats. No one talks about it, but everyone sees how desperately he clings to hope.

Leo is silent, but his expression says everything. He looks calm on the outside, but his grip on his katana is tight enough to break. He doesn't talk. Like, at all. He just sits next to you, squeezing your fingers in his hand. He feels guilty for what happened. He should have protected you, but instead you protected him. He tries not to show his emotions to anyone, because he doesn't want to upset others even more. He is a leader, he must be strong… But at night he stands at the head of your bed, hoping for a miracle.

Raph is pissed. At Shredder, at himself, at you. Because you were reckless, because you almost died, because he was scared. But he doesn’t leave. He just sits there, gritting his teeth, fighting the urge to break something. Sometimes his rage turns to silence, and at that moment he looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Mikey is crying, but he won’t leave you alone. He keeps talking, trying to keep you awake—“Stay with us, okay? We’ll get pizza after this! My treat!” He hates silence. It scares him. He talks to you a lot, trying to pretend everything is okay.

“You’re strong, right? You’ll make it through, won’t you? Move your pinky if you will… pretty please?”

Sometimes he’s afraid to look at you, because then he’ll have to admit that everything is really bad.

Happy ending

When you wake up…

The first thing you see is the four of them asleep around your bed.

Donnie is knocked out cold at your bedside, clearly exhausted from taking care of you.

Mikey is literally hugging your arm in his sleep.

Leo is sitting upright but has definitely dozed off.

Raph is leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his face is softer than usual.

The second they realize you’re awake, Mikey tackles you into a hug. He literally jumps on you, forgetting that you are still wounded. (And Donnie yells at him because “THEY’RE STILL HEALING, YOU DUMBASS.”) After that, he does not leave your side for a single step. He is not going to give fate a second chance to take you away.

Leo exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. After the fight, he doesn’t leave your side. Even when you wake up, he’s unusually quiet.

Raph scoffs and mutters, “Next time, don’t be an idiot and throw yourself into a blade” but then he ruffles your hair. There's such weariness in his gaze, as if everything he's been holding in for so long has finally let go of him the moment you wake up

Donnie just rubs his face and sighs in relief. He almost falls over from fatigue, because he had hardly slept before. After that, he becomes even more careful with you. Now he is developing armor that can protect you in the future.

They don’t say it outright, but you can tell… they thought they’d lost you.

Bad ending

Silence.

The turtle’s lair was unrecognizable. No one spoke, no one tried to lighten the mood. Even the TV was off, for the first time in a long time.

Donatello sat next to you, holding your cold hand. No heartbeat. He checked everything. Five times. But the miracle did not happen.

When Donnie says you won't wake up, Leo doesn't react. He just looks at you.

"That's not true."

He becomes even more withdrawn after that. He blames himself. Sometimes he stands on the roof, staring into space, but if anyone came closer, he would simply leave. Now any little things that are left from you are carefully stored in his room, in the safest place. In future battles, when he wants to give up, it is these things that will give him determination.

Raphael became even more short-tempered. The smallest thing could set him off. When alone, he would go to the training area and beat the training dummies until his fists bled.

Donatello barely slept. He built, he designed, he studied. If only he had created better weapons… better armor… Maybe then, you would still be alive.

Michelangelo stopped joking. Stopped playing games. Stopped being himself. But still, after a while, when the mourning passes and turtles move on after your death, he still comes to his senses. Although, sometimes, when he was sure no one was listening, he would sit by the bed where you had spent your final days and talk to you.

“I miss you, Y/N…”

And silence was his only answer.

They don’t move for a long time. Not until Splinter arrives and gently tells them… “It’s time to let go.”… and they do. But still, something in the air is changed. Without you, It’s never will be the same.

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cosmiclily · 3 months ago

Note

hey, here i go again, this came up to my mind, so if you want and have the time, here it is

what about an angst with Vi, where she dreams about reader wearing a wedding dress, and she's in a suit, it's their wedding, but then she wakes up crying, cause knows she can't have that

btw, hope you're having a good week! 🩷

i sleep so i can see you

vi x reader

wc: 1.6k

cw: hurt no comfort, there is a little description of a panic attack

notes: 😼😼 i love angst and i love to make my comfort characters suffer muahahahaha, jk. there is like 5 seconds of happiness in the beginning and then suffering. thank you for the request!! i’m having an okay week nothing special, hope yours is going well! 😽

Vi was never the marriage type. If you had asked her as a teenager whether she ever wanted to get married, she would have scoffed and said, “Marriage is stupid. Why would I want the state and the church involved in my business?" But she never really meant it.

She wasn’t against marriage out of rebellion or some grand stance against tradition. No, Vi never imagined herself getting married because, deep down, she never believed anyone would stay.

When you lose your parents, grow up in the system, get separated from your sister, and watch every sense of family you ever had slip through your fingers, it becomes hard to believe that anyone would stick around. That anyone would want to stay. That anyone would be willing to put in the work to understand the mess that lives inside you—the trauma, the scars, the weight you carry every single day.

But you did.

You stayed.

You saw through the walls she put up, understood her in a way no one else ever had. You made her feel safe, cared for, like she didn’t have to fight the world alone anymore. You peeled back her layers, tamed the wild animal. And for the first time in her life, Vi found herself thinking that maybe marriage wasn’t such a bad idea.

Maybe sharing her life with someone—sharing everything—wasn’t so terrifying. Maybe growing old with the same person, waking up to the same face every morning, wasn’t a curse.

So when she saw you walking down the aisle, draped in white, makeup done, the biggest, most breathtaking smile on your face, she couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over.

You held a bouquet of violets in your hands, and that small piece of her with you meant the entire world.

Everything was perfect.

Your parents were there, her sister was there, Vander, Ekko, Mylo, Claggor—everyone. Smiling. Happy. Whole.

It was almost too perfect.

Then, as you took another step forward, something shifted.

The aisle stretched, growing impossibly long, like you were further and further away from her. Your smile—so bright, so warm—began to twist at the edges, turning wrong.

Vi tried to move, but her feet were cemented to the ground.

She tried to call your name, but no sound came out.

She tried to run to you, reach for you—anything—but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—

Vi jolted awake, gasping.

Her body was shaking, drenched in cold sweat, her chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. Her face was wet. It took her a second to realize she was crying.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

She wasn’t getting married. You weren’t in a wedding dress in front of her.

Vander wasn’t alive.

Her sister was gone. You were gone.

And she was alone.

Just like always.

The room was dark, suffocatingly quiet except for her ragged breathing.

Vi didn’t even have the energy to think, to process. All she could do was drag herself to the bathroom, sink to her knees, and empty her stomach into the toilet.

She spent what felt like hours on the bathroom floor, her back pressed against the cold tiles, hands trembling, hair sticking to her damp forehead. Vi’s chest rose and fell unevenly, breath hitching as she fought against the weight pressing down on her ribs. It felt like she was drowning.

She’d been through this before—with you.

The nights she’d wake up gasping, screaming, clawing at reality until she felt your hands on her, grounding her, pulling her back. You always knew what to do. You’d whisper soft reassurances, hold her until the shaking stopped, remind her that she wasn’t alone. That she was safe.

But you weren’t here.

And it was her fault.

Everything was her fault.

She was never good enough for anyone to stay. That was her curse—every time she let someone see the real her, every time she let someone in, they left.

And why wouldn’t they? Who would want to deal with this? With her?

Vi forced herself to move, to do something other than spiral. She turned the faucet on and splashed cold water onto her face, gripping the edges of the sink as she tried to anchor herself to reality. But everything still felt off—like she was stuck in some inescapable dream.

Her eyes flicked to the clock. 4:57 AM.

Too early. Too late. Meaningless.

Her hand reached for her phone before she could stop herself, fingers scrolling through her contacts until she found your name.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

Maybe you’d pick up.

Maybe you’d tell her it wasn’t her fault, that she was fine, that you were fine. That everything was okay. That you were coming home.

But you wouldn’t.

So she didn’t call.

Vi locked her phone and let it drop onto the counter with a dull thud. Then, with a heavy breath, she dragged herself out of the bathroom and back to bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come.

When her alarm went off, she was still wide awake.

But even if she was falling apart, life didn’t stop for her.

So, she forced herself up, took a shower, and went to work. It was an uneventful day at the shop—no tattoo appointments, no familiar faces walking in, just a single girl wanting a belly button piercing. By the time 3 p.m. hit, she had nothing left to do.

She thought about going home. Maybe she could force herself to be productive. Maybe she could drown herself in work, find something to focus on so she wouldn’t have to think.

But she knew exactly how that would go. She’d sit in silence, overthink, spiral.

So instead, she took a detour.

Vi knew your habits. She knew you liked to go to that small coffee shop by the river, the one with the rickety outdoor tables and the faded green awning. She knew your order by heart.

And there you were.

Sitting outside, a mug in your hands—probably tea, since you were trying to quit coffee—watching the ducks drift lazily across the water.

You looked exactly the same.

Like you.

And that somehow made it worse.

Her phone felt heavy in her back pocket, like it was calling her name, demanding that she did something. That she said something. That she stopped standing there like a coward, staring at you from a distance, pretending like she wasn’t the one who ruined everything.

But instead of pulling it out, instead of calling you or walking up to you, she just stood there.

Frozen.

She was the one who screwed everything up.

The one who said awful things. The one who pushed you away. The one who locked herself up so tight that even you—the person who had always been so patient, so understanding—couldn’t get through to her.

In her head, it had been inevitable. You were going to leave eventually. Everyone did. So if she accelerated the process, if she pushed you away first, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. Maybe she could brace herself, prepare for the pain.

But like hell that worked.

Because here she was, standing across the street, looking at you like a ghost from another life, and it hurt just the same.

And then you looked up.

Your eyes met hers.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then, just as quickly as you saw her, your expression hardened, and you turned away. Not just looking past her, but through her. Like she was nothing.

Like she was no one.

That was what finally made her snap.

Before she could think, before she could stop herself, she was crossing the street, stepping onto the café’s patio.

“Hey.”

You froze, your grip tightening around your mug, but you didn’t look at her.

Vi clenched her jaw. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna pretend you didn’t see me?”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, finally turning your head. “What do you want, Vi?”

And it wasn’t the words that got to her. It was how you said them. Tired. Like you had already run this conversation a million times in your head. Like you had already decided she wasn’t worth the energy.

Her hands curled into fists. “I—” She hesitated, suddenly realizing she didn’t have a plan. “I just… wanted to talk.”

You scoffed. “Now you wanna talk?”

The bitterness in your voice stung.

“What do you expect me to do?” Vi shot back, voice rising. “Act like we didn’t—” She stopped herself, taking a sharp breath. “I know I messed up. I know I said things I shouldn’t have, but damn, you really hate me that much now?”

You let out a humorless laugh, finally setting your mug down. “Hate you?” You stood up, and she realized just how much closer you were now. “Vi, I don’t have the energy to hate you. I wasted too much of it trying to love you.”

That hit like a punch to the gut.

She opened her mouth, ready to say something, anything, but you weren’t done.

“I gave you everything, and you threw it away” you continued, voice shaking. “And now you’re here? Just expecting me to what,forgive you? Pretend like it didn’t happen?”

“No,” Vi said quickly. “That’s not—”

But you weren’t listening anymore.

“Where the hell was this energy when I was begging you to let me in?” You took a step forward, eyes burning into hers. “Where was this Vi when I was trying to help you?”

Vi clenched her teeth, anger bubbling in her chest—but not at you. At herself.

She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to make things right.

You just stared at her, something unreadable in your expression. Then, after a beat, you shook your head.

“I hope you figure your shit out, Violet.”

And with that, you picked up your things and walked away, leaving her standing there, heart pounding on her chest.

──────────────────────

masterlist - part two

#vi x reader #vi x y/n #vi x you #vi angst #arcane #vi arcane #arcane x female reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane angst #lily writes

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23swife · 6 months ago

Text

early mornings | sam & dean

tags. pure fluff, mentions of sex once, 800 words lailas notes. loved doing this, first time trying headcannons style nd you didn’t specify so I did both sam and dean. theme inspired by @sammyluvr their’s is honestly so so gorgeous.

sam winchester !

— .✦ You both had sex the night prior, and so Sam is the sweetest human in the morning. It's in the bunker and you're still asleep but he wakes up for his five am runs and just admires you for ten minutes.

— .✦ You eventually wake up and at first are very much panicking. Where is he, did you do something wrong, is he mad.

— .✦ He comes back with breakfast. In bed.

— .✦ "Sam, I'm really impressed that your best quality isn't your di—"

— .✦ "I'm trying to do something sweet." Yeah but why would he do it if not to hear your teasing?

�� .✦ You also just hide your insecurities behind jokes and banter so maybe that's why Sam shut it down when he heard it. You both eat in bed and he picked up your favorite which makes you fall in love (and scream inside) a thousand times more.

— .✦ You're so insanely terrified but you're also comfortable. He's your best friend and now he's something so much more. You thought yesterday was a one off but he's so clearly in this for the long run that you're beaming the entire day. It's the best morning you've ever had.

— .✦ He even tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, which is just so very fairytale Sammy. And it makes you feel unreal.

— .✦ He's surprised when you kiss him after you're both done and off the bed. He's even more surprised when you don't immediately leave his room, instead shower in his bathroom and change into his clothes.

— .✦ He kisses you the second he sees you in his flannel. And he blushes like crazy.

— .✦ Sam hopes he can spend the rest of his mornings in bed with you, and if all it takes is some breakfast he's more than ready.

— .✦ He tells Dean he'll be looking for cases in his room today and doesn't let you go. He never wants the morning to end. He spends the day in bed with you, your head on his lap or his chest, anything as long as you're touching him.

dean winchester !

— .✦ Your alarm blares AC/DC and he wakes up with a jump, arming his gun under the pillow until he sees that there's no threat.

— .✦ He almost wakes you up just out of principal because why the fuck is your alarm doing nothing to you but waking him win a frenzy.

— .✦ Then he notices how cute you look, hair ruffled on the bed. Your soft breaths make him smile and he leans down to kiss your hair. He's blissed out for a moment and forgets about what you did to him.

— .✦ Then he checks the time and it's already eleven which means that was your emergency alarm (in case you don't wake up at a reasonable time, you mentioned once).

— .✦ "Sweetheart, wake up." He says, against his will. He only slightly shakes you but you get up pretty easily since someone else is touching you. You've always been a much heavier sleeper than Dean, not being a hunter from such a young age and all that.

— .✦ He's surprised to see how quickly you get up and into the bathroom to brush your teeth and take a shower (which he joins you in) and then get dressed.

— .✦ But that's about as much as he lets you do. He knows you're an action type of person but that means that sometimes you might not take a moment for yourself and just feel instead, which is the worst thing Dean can think of.

— .✦ He doesn't want that for you so he gets you back in bed (after he makes it, you're very picky) and you spend a good few minutes above him, straddling his body as you both talk about random things, mostly the plan for the day and it's the most domestic Dean's ever felt.

— .✦ Your head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat, it's everything he's ever wanted. Someone to want to be alive with because the only reason you stay alive is to share it with someone else. (After a while Sam doesn't cut it and he'd rather have you over his pain-in-the-ass little brother any time.)

— .✦ You eventually do get on with the day and walk around the bunker, find cases, go grocery shopping, but Dean only does all of those things in suspense of what's to come the next morning; which is another lazy few hours with this ‘one’.

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insanity6666 · 2 months ago

Text

Molten Hearts 3.5

Vulkan keep vigil over you.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, brief talk of confinement/captivity, brief mention of pregnancy. Vulkan letting his dragon tendencies show.

Apologies, this is a short one. Getting through this was a struggle. I had a vague idea for the scene but not much else. Also, I couldn't think of a way to lengthen it without it being weird or janky so... small one for y'all to gnaw on.

Part 1, Part 1.5, Part 2, Part 3

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Vulkan timed the machines with your breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Your heartbeat, the soft rhythm, accompanied the monotone sound, telling him you were in a deep, restful slumber. A healing sleep.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He sat on the chair that had been brought in for him, elbows on his knees and hands clasped at his chin. He hadn’t moved since he had returned from his duties, the meeting with the elders and his officers. He had made sure everything was in order so he wouldn’t be interrupted. He needed to stay with you. He promised to be here when you wake.

The bed was too big for you. It was made for Astartes, of course, but Vulkan demanded you receive the best care, and that meant you would be placed here in the Apothecarium instead of a baseline hospital. His sons, thankfully, had thought ahead and prepared the necessary equipment for you well before your arrival. They had admitted they hoped it would never be needed, they wouldn’t abide risking their Legion Mothers health by being ill-prepared or leaving you in the hands of other baselines who weren’t part of their legion and didn’t understand how valuable you really were.

They forgot about the bed, though.

The thought almost made him smile.

The injuries weren’t serious, really. Vulkan knew that. He had read over the medical report dozens of times. Every update or change he was alerted to, no matter how small. He knew you were alright, all things considered. The worst was the broken pinky finger, and that was only a minor oblique fracture. The rest were mostly bruises, a few stitches from where stone had cut or embedded itself into your flesh, and a general stress from the encounter. You’ve had and walked away from worse on the battlefield. He knows this.

But you were meant to be safe here. This was his homeworld. Where his influence and strength was at its greatest. The seat of his power. Yet here you lay, in a medically induced sleep to aid in your recovery from an encounter with a salamander.

He knows, logically, that it was a complete accident. A one-in-a-million chance. A random happenstance. A prime example of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn’t have known what would happen. It was no one's fault, except whoever hadn’t put up the perimeter defenses properly. That issue had been dealt with.

Vulkan still felt like it was his fault. He failed to protect you. He hadn’t been there. The only reason you were still alive is because Kessok had been with you.

His hands tightened their grip as he watched you sleep. His mind mulling and gnawing over every injury. As much as it wasn’t productive, it helped him ignore the swirling mess of conflicting instincts and emotions in his head right now.

He hated that he wasn’t there. He was disappointed that it was one of his sons, not him, that was there to save you. He was proud his son had protected you. He was awed by your defense of Kessok. He was terrified when he saw you sitting in front of a dead salamander. He was worried for you while you lay here resting. He was honoured by your offering.

‘By the Great Forge, your offering…’ Vulkan closed his eyes as the memory replayed in his mind again. Both you and Kessok sitting in front of the dead beast, wounded but victorious, smiling in relief and triumph. His focus was on you, however. Your smile, the way you reached for him even as he pulled you into his arms, how you relaxed the moment you were safely in his hold, the pride with which you presented your courting gift.

He shifted slightly in his seat as a slight discomfort began to grow, even as he scolded himself for it.

‘This is neither the time nor the place.’ He thought as he opened his eyes, focusing on you again. ‘It is inappropriate.’

Vulkan couldn’t help it, despite his self-admonishment. You didn’t know, not truly, what you had done. You gave him one of their most ferocious creatures, something that would provide food and materials for his people and for his personal use, if he so chose. You removed a threat to the community. You had defended the city and its people. More directly, you had defended one of his sons.

Kessok’s helmet had been recovered, which had been idly recording despite not being worn, a habit the young Astartes had developed, which allowed them to capture the encounter. The angle and positioning had not been ideal, but it allowed Vulkan to witness most of the fight.

He saw how you had attracted the beast's attention when it focused on the pinned Space Marine. Saw how you used the environment to your advantage. Saw you drop and disappear under the beast's bulk, only appearing again in a mad sprint towards Kessok somewhere off-screen. He saw the stone pierce the salamander's skull as it chased you, tumbling out of frame.

He felt something primal well up as he recalled the details. You were so clever, so brave, so fierce. You had taken his sons as your own, and protected them as such. You were strong and beautiful. The thought of you protecting your own brood of little ones -that he would give you- made him stifle a groan. That thought immediately followed one of you quickening with his child. Growing round and soft, safe and warm and always within reach.

Slowly, he stood. Mindful of the tubes and machines as he stepped closer. He placed a hand on the wall above you as he leaned over your sleeping form. Peaceful. Bruised, but beautiful. His free hand slowly rose, the back of his knuckles grazing your cheek, careful of the scratches there.

“You do not know what you do to me.” He breathed, voice barely a whisper. The cold prickle of anxiety melting away in the face of the warmth that bloomed in his chest. It spread steadily, like lava pouring in the rivers of his veins.

“I will not abide any threat to you. I need you safe. To be far away from danger.” He paused as he watched your eyelids flutter as you slept, your face turning slightly towards the warmth of his hand. Even in sleep, you reach for him. “I want to lock you in my chambers, away from anything that could do you harm, never to leave except with me at your side. It is selfish, I know. I cannot stand the thought of losing you, now that I have been confronted with the possibility. I want to keep you close, safe and warm and content. Forever with me.”

He closed his eyes and breathed. Slow. Steady. In. And out.

“But that would kill you. I know it would. You would hate me, and that…” He swallowed, unable to speak as his mind recoiled at the prospect of such a horrible fate, “I can’t. I can’t smother your light for my own selfish wants. I want to, but I love you too much.”

It was a terrible truth, his only mercy is that you were far too deep in your dreams to hear him.

***

@incrediblethirst, @kit-williams, @beckyninja, @bleedingichorhearts, @jaghatai-khock, @pluvio-tea, @moodymisty, @thethronezone, @iluminatka16, @runin64, @vithralith, @mooniequeen

If I have missed anyone in the taglist, please let me know!

Also if the links don't work, I'm always suspicious of them.

#warhammer 40k #vulkan #vulkan x reader #primarch x reader #Vulkan is a dragon #Vulkan has dragon tendencies and it shows #When you want to support your boo but also want them to STOP GETTING INTO DANGEROUS SITUATIONS PLEASE!#His hearts can't handle it #I'm not super happy with this one but eh #Either I stare at it for the next three hours before closing the doc #or I post the damn thing #I wanted to add more but as we all know #the characters had other plans #The last part was not planned #I had planned something spicier but then it took a slightly darker turn #and I figured “fuck it” maybe next time #Enjoy #writing #OC

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badslittlemuffin · 11 days ago

Note

U want some request about bnha x reader??¿ i would looooooove some fic about aizawa falling in love during the war and getting crazy because he thinks he doesnt have time for this but just cant stop the love!!

THANK U FOR THE REQUEST!!

i honestly wasn't quite sure where to go with this one, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! sorry it took 4ever to write, my life has been really busy-

shota x prohero!reader, near death experience, kinda ooc

wc: 465 :(

Shota was about to lose it.

He had never been a fan of your stereotypical 'romance' per se, but when he met you? Oh, he was done for. You were like the one bright spot in his dim world. You shone like the fucking sun, and he was nothing more then a moth running to your flame.

And Shota hated it.

They were in the middle of a war, for god's sake, and here he was, trying to stay focused when all he wanted to focus on was you. He was sure you were going to be the death of him. He honestly didn't know what to do with himself. He had never felt something so... intense before.

So, when he was forced to watch you get thrown around by Shigiraki? He almost screamed. The moment the battle was over, he threw half-assed glances at his students before rushing to your side. You were half unconscious, ribs broken, inches away from puncturing something vital, blood surrounding you. He refused to leave your side, even in the ambulance, watching as the EMTs frantically tried to keep you alive.

He sat by your bedside for weeks as you recovered, his face in a constant state of concern as he observed your every movement. Even as the Commission harassed him daily for his attendance at meetings and conferences, he ignored them all, his sole focus being you.

When you finally woke, he felt as if a huge weight had just been lifted off his shoulders. You were safe. You were alive. You were recovering. The relief of it all almost broke him. Almost. His eyes flew open, relief covering his features, his hands immediately finding their way to yours.

To say you were confused was an understatement. Here was the man who you've seen show more interest in sleeping for a year than in you, and yet he hovered over you, his lips moving faster than you had ever seen them as he rambled about how worried he was.

He saw your confusion and quickly shut his mouth, opting to sit back in the chair he had pulled right up to your bedside and gently hold your hand, his gruff thumb brushing over your knuckles. "I was terrified you were dead..." He mumbles, his eyes trailing on the scratchy blanket.

You smile slowly, tightening your grip on his hand. "Am I hearing this right? Aizawa Shota, Professional Napper™, caring for someone?" His eyes snapped up, shooting you a glare. He sighed, his gaze softening, "That almost terrifies me more."

So yeah, he might have been on the verge of pulling out all his hair because of how desperately he wanted you, but now the war was over, he let himself hope that you might just want him too.

AHH IDK

#cas's asks♡#shota aizawa #aizawa #aizawa x reader #shota x reader #shota aizawa x reader #mha #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #bhna x reader

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dmwrites · 6 months ago

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The End seemed safe. Cleo thought. Nothing was safe, therefore, the most dangerous place to be would probably be the safest. She knew it didn’t make any sense, but nothing did, with gravity losing its pull and blocks getting sucked up into the sky and the damn moon not so much setting anymore.

Cleo went to the End by herself, and she regretted it. Not just becasuse the endermen were agitated and began pulling her rotting corpse of a body apart, but because she was alone. But the endermen were annoying too. Cleo understood it, to some extent. The world was ending, and it was either pulling up the few blocks of endstone that made up the ground under their feet, or pull her apart. They tore at her, her skin and bones taken from her body with screams to echo her own. They stayed angry, even if she didn’t look at them.

Cleo stopped fighting after a while. As far as she knew, everyone in the overworld was probably dead or gone now, so what really was the point? She was alive, but in the hands of terrified endermen. Soon, surely, she would join her friends in the afterlife. At least, that’s what she hoped.

And when the end of the world came and went, what remained in its wake was everywhere. Cleo lay in pieces, watching the world around her fall apart in ways that didn’t even make sense. She tried to call out for death, but there was no sound. The very little bit of her undead consciousness that remained held on, watching in horror.

And then, there was silence. For a long, long time. And Cleo was alive. Well, she was dead, but she’d always been dead. Death, it seemed, didn’t want her.

Her body lay in pieces, unseeing, hurting, and she wondered, in thoughts that took eons of effort to construct, if she would remain in this vacuum of time and space forever- almost nothing, but painfully enough.

And then, something changed. It wasn’t obvious at first, as the pain consumed her constantly. But then something touched her cheek. Something smooth, soft, warm, so different from every feeling that had consumed her for so long. Cleo couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, was torn so far apart that she was hardly anything at all, and yet she felt the warm touch of a human being. And then, a touch on her eyelid. Then her bottom lip. Then her neck. Someone was putting Cleo back together.

The pain was still there, but lessened now, day after day, as her body was reconstructed. Nerves and muscle and tissue were woven into place, and Cleo became more and more aware. First it was touch, the tugging of string, the swipes on a hand. Then smell. The person smelled of flowers, of sun-soaked soil. Then she could hear, a gentle humming that soaked into her very skin.

And then, one day, Cleo could see. Hands pulled away from her eyes, and there was a face hovering over her own. Long brown hair curtained Cleo’s face from the outside world, wherever that might have been. Cleo blinked hard, and the face came into focus. A long, angular face and wide blue eyes. Familiar. Not here, not in the reality Cleo had been pulled apart in. But familiar.

“Hi Cleo,” Pearl said. “You can hear me, can’t you? Blink twice if you can- your voice box isn’t re-installed yet, sorry ‘bout that.”

Cleo blinked twice, and Pearl’s face lit up in a huge smile.

“Cleo! Oh, I’m so glad you can understand! Golly, I… I’ll keep plucking away at this- you! Just… stay with me, okay?”

Pearl sewed Cleo back together with strings of sunlight and moonlight, all intertwined together to make her skin whole again. Gentle touches as she moved muscle and bone back into place, somehow reforming Cleo like she was clay. Pearl talked as she worked, fingers flying with hesitant assurance over Cleo’s body.

“I just never expected my cousin to actually come to visit. Silly girl.”

“It was horrible, just horrible to fall into that hole and not know where we were going to come back out. My wonderful friends, each one of them popped out of existence, one after the other.”

“They’re safe now, though. I saw to that. You will be too, Cleo. We all will. I promise.”

“I knew I had to find the rest of you, bring us to our new home.”

And at some point, Cleo opened her mouth and spoke.

“Pearl.”

“Oh golly goo! Cleo! Oh my god! You scared the life out of me! Does it hurt at all, does everything seem right?” hands flew to Cleo’s throat, gently palpating and examining. Pearl had a huge smile on her face.

“It doesn’t hurt. Not at all,” Cleo answered.

Pearl laughed, a kind of choked up noise that was so painfully human, something Cleo thought she’d never hear again. For the first time in a very long time, Cleo felt hope.

“Oh, I’m so glad, Cleo. You don’t know how afraid I was. Still am, because you don’t exactly have all your bits back, now do you. There is still your legs, and more nerve endings…”

As Pearl went to put a hand to Cleo’s face, Cleo grabbed her wrist. “How are you doing this, Pearl? This shouldn’t be possible. What you’re doing is… I don’t know, magic?”

Pearl shook her head. “Cleo, please just let me work. It’s not… just trust me, okay?” She wrenched her hand out of Cleo’s grasp.

Cleo knew this was real. She could reach out, touch Pearl’s hair, her face, her hands. She could see Pearl work now, leaned against an obsidian tower, looking out over a vastness of endstone, and darkness beyond that. An end island she distinctly remembered watching fall apart into nothingness. But here it was. Whole. Here she was. Almost whole. And there was Pearl, finishing up the stitching on Cleo’s legs with golden string that seemed to shine with a light that came from within itself.

Cleo stood.

“Who are you?”

Pearl walked her, arm in arm, to the portal in the middle of the island.

“I’m Pearl.”

Cleo looked at her. Underlit from the swirling portal like this, she looked tired. Her sunflower crown was wilting. Her green dress was coated with endstone dust. She was Pearl, but Cleo knew she was someone else too.

“Are you coming with me?”

“No. I’ll meet you there. I have others to find,” Pearl reached forward and hugged Cleo tight before stepping backwards into the end portal and disappearing.

The End was quiet now. Endermen had reappeared at some point, strolling among the reconstructed pillars and paying her no mind. Cleo looked over the island in grim amazement, more questions in her mind then answers. She ran a hand down her arm, assuring herself once more that she was real, she was as whole as a rotting corpse could be, and all of this was real too. It was. She was. Despite it all, she was going to be okay. She was going to see her friends again.

Cleo jumped into the end portal and closed her eyes.

——

The first day on the Hermitcraft season nine server, Cleo found herself counquoring a woodland mansion (“who on earth does this first day?” Cleo asked herself multiple times) with Impulse, Gem, and Pearl.

Pearl and Cleo died to a creeper explosion at the same time, and ended up respawned in the bed they’d set just for that purpose.

“Hi.”

“Hi Cleo.”

Cleo looked at Pearl. She was dressed in a pair of shorts and a hoodie, hair thrown back messily. Cleo almost wouldn’t have believed that this was the same girl who had stood over her in a flowing green dress, with her magic needle and thread, if it wasn’t for the knowing smile Pearl gave her.

“I guess I owe you,” Cleo said.

“You don’t owe me a thing,” Pearl replied, shaking her head.

“But-”

“Cleo! Pearl! Impulse just found a library and I’m pretty sure he’s gonna get blown up by creepers! You gotta come watch this!” Gem interrupted, yelling at them from a broken window.

“Coming!” Pearl replied, and took Cleo’s hand. “Come on, Cleo. We’ve got much more fun ahead of us. The past can wait.”

Cleo followed Pearl, still with more questions then answers. But Pearl was right. They were all together again, and there was much fun to be had. Cleo pushed the memories of pain, of light, of hope, into a small corner of her mind, and went to watch Impulse climb a ladder. He did get blown up, as it turned out. And it was hilarious.

#hc8 #zombiecleo #pearlescentmoon #Saint Pearl mentions #I <3 throwing incomprehensible nonsense at the wall and pointing at it #basically what if Pearl was Saint Pearl and grabbed everyone for hc9 #and had to reconstruct Cleo bc she was in the end etc etc #okay bye

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stylesispunk · 6 months ago

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"Unholy christmas" day 3/3

outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: After spending months wandering outside in the wild, you and Joel find safety inside the gates of Jackson just around christmas. A confession and a kiss lead to other things and you wake up wrapped around each other's arms.

wc: 4,5k

warnings: fluff, mentions of smut and no proofreading at all, sorry my head hurts.

a/n: welcome to the third and last day of my joel's fic christmas version event. This one didn't turn out as i planned but is still cute. (my personal favorite was merry christmas, please call me) thank you so much for being here and reading and I wish you all a merry christmas, i hope you all have a beautiful night either if you spend your night with other people or alone. happy reading and merry christmas 💌♥️🌲

You couldn’t believe your eyes the first time you stepped inside Jackson. How the gates creaked open, or how the snow crunched beneath your boots as you and Joel made your way. A town in the middle of the hell you had faced felt almost surreal. After months of wandering through the wilderness, living on edge, Jackson felt like stepping into a dream, all decorated and bathed in warm lights, strings of Christmas decorations you thought you would never see again.

As you made your way inside, Joel glanced at you, his rugged features softening for just a moment when he took a glimpse of your awe expression. Something inside his heart felt at peace for the first time in months.

He had put you through so much during this time. Dragging you through the danger and fighting just to kept you both alive, and doing terrible things just for him to allow you to see another sunrise. He didn’t regret the things he had done for keeping you safe, not for an instant, but when the weight of it all bore down on him. When you were sleeping clung to him at night and he’d lie awake, watching the firelight flicker against your face, wondering if you would be better off without him.

But what would it be of him without you?

Your existence overwhelmed him. In a way his heart would stop beating the second your gaze locked with his. In a way his breath caught up his throat when you held his hand or simple touch him when sleeping.

It terrified him how much you had become a part of him, how much he depended on the sound of your voice to lighten the weight on his shoulders, or how your simple presence was enough to silence the worst of his thoughts. His chest ached whenever your gaze locked with his, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

He felt alive and vulnerable all at once, and it scared him. But what scared him more was the idea of losing you.

Without you, the hollow emptiness he had spent years suppressing would swallow him whole. He had fought so hard to keep you alive since you gave him something to fight for.

And now, looking at you smiling at the big Christmas tree in the middle of Jackson, he felt whole.

He stayed rooted in place for a moment, his breath caught in his throat as he drank in the sight of you. How could someone like him, a man who had done unspeakable things, deserve to stand by your side? But he couldn’t bring himself to pull away, not when you looked at the tree with the kind of joy he thought was lost forever.

“Joel?” Your voice broke his thoughts, soft and questioning as you turned to face him.

He cleared his throat and stepped closer, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Yeah? You okay?”

You nodded, a small, wistful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I can’t remember the last time I saw a Christmas tree.”

Joel’s gaze flicked to the tree for a moment before settling back on you. “Yeah, it is.”

Joel opened his mouth to say more, but the sound of approaching footsteps on the snow made him pause, breaking the moment between the both of you. You both turned to see Tommy and Maria approaching, their faces lit with warm smiles.

“There you two are,” Tommy said, his tone teasing. “Figured we’d find you here.”

Maria stepped forward, her eyes flicking between you and Joel. “We’re heading over to the hall for dinner. Thought you might want to join us.”

You blinked in surprise, glancing at Joel before looking back at Maria. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” Maria said with a nod, her smile widening. “The community does it every year around Christmas. Everyone pitches in—food, music, decorations. It’s a nice way to celebrate together.”

Joel shifted beside you, his hands tucked deep in his jacket pockets. He glanced at you, silently asking what you wanted to do.

“That sounds… nice,” you said after a moment, the idea of a communal dinner feeling strangely foreign after so long on the road. “We’d love to join.”

Tommy clapped Joel on the back. “See? Told you it’d be good for both of you to settle in a little.”

Joel grunted something under his breath, but his gaze softened as it lingered on you. “All right,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The walk to the community hall was short, the warm glow of lights spilling out through the windows guiding your way. Inside, the hall was alive with the buzz of conversation, the smell of roasted food, and the soft strum of a guitar from one corner.

As you followed Tommy and Maria to the community hall, the air around you felt festive, filled with laughter and the warm glow of lanterns strung along the path. The hall itself was bustling with life, long tables set up with trays of food and steaming mugs of cider. People greeted each other warmly, their voices blending into a symphony of holiday cheer.

You and Joel stepped inside, your eyes taking in the scene. For a moment, it was overwhelming—the sheer normalcy of it all after so many months of survival.

Maria nudged your arm gently, pulling you from your thoughts. “Grab some food and find a spot,” she said with a smile. “Tommy and I will join you in a bit.”

You nodded, glancing at Joel, but he was already being pulled away by Tommy, who had clasped a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward a group of familiar faces.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Joel muttered, throwing you a quick glance before disappearing into the crowd.

You made your way to the serving table, piling a plate with roasted vegetables and slices of bread before settling at a spot near the corner of the hall. From there, you could see Joel easily.

At first, it was endearing to watch him interact with Tommy. It reminded you of how hard he had fought to came here in order to be reunited with him all over again. And it was endearing, the sight of him, relaxed, the rare ghost of a smile playing on his lips. But as the minutes passed, your gaze lingered longer, drawn to the way people seemed to gravitate toward him.

Women. several of them.

They approached him with bright smiles displaying on their lips. Some were close to his age, others younger, their faces lighting up as they introduced themselves or leaned into a conversation with him. Joel, ever the gentleman he was, nodded politely, his deep voice lost in the noise of the room.

You knew Joel wasn’t the type to encourage attention, but the sight of him surrounded by all these women, some of whom placed a hand on his arm or laughed a little too loudly at something he said, sent a nagging feeling creeping into your chest.

You had never had felt the feeling of sharing before, it has always been you and him.

Until now.

You tried to focus on your food, but your appetite had vanished. The hall, went from feeling warm and inviting, to feeling suffocating. You told yourself it was nothing, that Joel was just being polite, but the tightness in your chest didn’t ease.

And you felt alone as if you were a burden Joel had to carry with him because he didn’t have the heart to left you behind.

Your gaze dropped to the table, your fingers toying with the edge of your plate, but what did you expect? Joel had done so much for you, had carried you through hell, he had brought you to a safe place where you would be able to live a life again.

The nagging feeling twisted into something sharper, something you didn’t want to name. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your eyes drifted back to Joel, now leaning slightly as another woman spoke to him, her hand lingering just a second too long on his forearm.

You set your plate down, your appetite gone completely. For the first time since arriving in Jackson, you felt an urge to leave, to escape somewhere else.

The sight of Joel, so effortlessly blending in and laughing softly at something Tommy said, nodding politely as the women around him vied for his attention, made you feel like an outsider looking in.

And then it happened.

Joel’s gaze found yours across the room. His expression softened, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was the kind of smile you rarely saw from him, one that seemed reserved just for you.

For a fleeting moment, the world quieted, the knot in your stomach loosening ever so slightly. But as your eyes scanned the room, taking in the familiarity shared between the townsfolks you felt it again. That foreignness. Like no matter how hard you tried, you’d never quite belong here.

Joel might. He was already starting to, even if he didn’t realize it yet. The way people looked at him, sought his attention, told you he could find a place here, a life.

But you? You weren’t so sure.

The thought settled heavily in your chest, and before you could overthink it, you pushed your chair back and stood.

You didn’t look back as you walked out of the hall, the cold night air biting at your skin as soon as you stepped outside. The muffled sounds of laughter and conversation followed you briefly before fading as the door swung shut behind you.

The town was quiet, the snow under your boots crunching softly as you wandered aimlessly. The lights strung along the houses glowed warmly, but they only deepened the ache in your chest.

You stopped at the edge of the main street, your breath visible in the cold air. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you stared up at the sky, the stars barely visible against the glow of the town.

The crunch of snow beneath your boots was the only sound accompanying you as you wandered, drawn toward the faint glow of the Christmas tree in the center of town. It stood tall and proud, adorned with twinkling lights and ornaments that glittered like tiny stars.

As you reached it, you came to a stop, the cold biting through your coat, but you barely noticed. You gazed up at the tree, and a flood of memories washed over you, brief, fragmented flashes of a childhood long gone.

A living room dimly lit except for the glow of a tree like this one. Laughter, faint and warm, as presents were unwrapped. The scent of pine and the soft hum of a Christmas carol your mother used to hum under her breath.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, a lump forming in your throat. That world felt like it belonged to another life, to someone else entirely. The woman standing here now, hardened by years of survival, couldn’t reconcile with the girl who once giggled over snow angels and stockings by the fireplace.

Joel stepped outside, the cold air biting at his skin as he scanned the bustling streets of Jackson. It wasn’t like him to let things go unsaid, especially not when it came to you. He’d noticed the way you pulled away, your silence heavier than usual. He could feel the weight of it, pulling at him, gnawing at him.

You inhaled deeply, your breath shaky as it clouded in the cold air. This was why you felt out of place here. Jackson was built on hope, on community, on remnants of a world you weren’t sure if you were going to fit into.

He’d watched you slip away from the warmth of the hall, your figure disappearing into the night. Without a second thought, he followed. He couldn’t let you disappear into the night like that, not when something was so clearly eating at you.

The snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way toward the glow of the Christmas tree. The town was quieter now, the hum of conversation and laughter fading as he walked through the streets, searching for you.

He found you standing under the towering tree, your face lit by the soft, flickering lights. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of you, so small against the backdrop of the glowing tree, lost in thought. Your gaze was fixed on the ornaments, the lights reflecting in your eyes, and for a moment, he just watched you.

His chest tightened, and he swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. He couldn’t stand to see you like this, so distant, so detached from the world around you. It was like you were still trapped in the past, somewhere far away from here, far away from the safety of Jackson and everything it had to offer.

“Hey,” he finally called out, his voice low but steady.

The sound of Joel’s voice startled you, low and rough but unmistakable. You turned to find him standing a few feet away, his broad frame silhouetted against the glow of the Christmas lights. He was breathing hard, like he’d been searching for you.

“I wondered where you ran off to,” he said softly, his eyes scanning your face.

“I just needed some air,” you replied, your voice quiet.

He stepped closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until he was standing beside you. His gaze flicked to the tree for a moment before settling back on you.

He stepped closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until he was standing beside you. His gaze flicked to the tree for a moment before settling back on you. “Didn’t mean to leave you alone there”

“Don’t worry.” you said quickly, but even to your own ears, the words felt hollow.

Joel's brow furrowed slightly, sensing the distance in your voice. He could see it in your eyes, the same unease, the same weight that had been there all night. Something was pulling at you, and he could feel the space growing between you both, even as you stood so close.

“I know you don’t like crowds,” he said, his voice softer now, as if trying to tread carefully around your thoughts. "But you don't have to be alone, not here."

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to go away. "I just... need to figure things out."

Joel turned his body to face you more fully, his expression open but intense. He wasn’t going to let you pull away from him, not now. He reached out, gently brushing his fingers along your arm, his touch warm against the chill of the evening.

"Hey," he said, his voice steady. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brow furrowed. “About what?”

You hesitated, glancing back at the tree. “About us. About how maybe it’s time for me to… move on. Find my own place here. I don’t want to be a burden to you anymore, Joel. You’ve done so much for me already-”

His jaw tightened, and before you could finish, he cut you off. “Stop.”

You blinked, startled by the firmness in his voice.

"I think it’s time we go our separate ways," you said softly.

Joel froze, the words slicing through the cold air. "What?"

You looked down, unable to meet his gaze. "I’ve been thinking about it for a while. You’ve done so much for me, Joel. You got me out of the QZ, kept me alive out there...but I know I’m just a burden. You don’t have to keep looking out for me. Tommy can find me another place."

He stared at you, stunned. "You think I’m tired of you?"

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. "Aren’t you?"

Joel closed the distance between you in two strides, his hands gripping your arms gently, but firmly enough to make you look at him. "No," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I ain’t tired of you. Not even close."

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his tone. "Joel, I just don’t want you to feel like-"

"Like what?" he interrupted, his jaw tightening. "Like you’re something I have to put up with? You aren’t. You’re the one thing that makes this goddamn world a little easier to stand. Don’t you dare think I’d ever want you gone."

Your breath hitched, his words sinking in. The way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing that mattered in his life, made your heart ache.

"Joel?" you asked, your voice trembling. "Why would you want me to stay? I don’t… I don’t bring anything to the table."

He exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over your sleeve. "You bring more than you’ll ever know. You keep me sane, keep me fighting. You’re the only thing in my life that feels right."

The lights from the Christmas tree flickered behind you, casting soft patterns across his face as his voice softened. "I need you, baby. And if you ever think about leaving again, you tell me first. I’ll set you straight."

You let out a shaky laugh. "You really mean that?"

Joel’s lips twitched into a faint, crooked smile. "Damn right, I mean it."

Before you could overthink it, you leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his torso. He held you close, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head.

Joel pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hands still resting on your arms. His eyes softened, a quiet intensity behind them that made your heart skip. The flickering glow of the Christmas lights reflected in his gaze, but it was the warmth in them that held you still.

He tilted his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "You’re not going anywhere."

Before you could reply, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours as if asking for permission at first, as if testing the waters. The world seemed to stand still as his hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb gently grazing your skin.

The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, carrying a quiet desperation that told you everything he couldn’t put into words. He was telling you that you were his world, that you were his, that he needed you as much as you needed him.

When he finally pulled back, his gaze lock with yours, his breath mingling with the cold night air. His voice was rough, almost a whisper. "You understand now? I don’t just want you here. I need you here. With me. We are a team."

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you smiled, your hands resting against his chest. "Okay, I promise I won’t go away from you.”

He closed his eyes briefly, relief washing over his face, before pressing another kiss to your forehead. Then, he went all over for your lips again, this time deeper, as if he wanted to imprint this moment on his heart forever. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, drawing you closer, while his other arm wrapped securely around your waist.

You melted into him, your fingers clutching his jacket as if to anchor yourself to the only steady thing in your chaotic world. The cold air nipped at your skin, but you barely noticed, lost in the warmth of his skin, of his presence, on the way his lips moved against yours, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go.

When the kiss broke, you both stayed close, breaths mingling in the frosty air. His thumb brushed your cheek, his gaze soft yet unreadable.

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, “let’s get you back inside before you freeze.”

You nodded, but your hand found his, intertwining your fingers as he led you to the house. The walk was silent, but the tension between you was electric.

Inside the house, the fire burned the room dimly lit by the soft orange glow of the embers between the both of you. Joel shut the door behind you, his eyes lingering on you as you removed your coat. There was no space for words now, just the unspoken language that pull you back to him.

He crossed the room in two strides, his hands finding your waist, his lips meeting yours again with a quiet urgency. You let him guide you toward the bed, his touches careful, his gaze searching yours for permission every step of the way.

You gave it to him, silently, your hands slipping under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips that almost felt like they burn, his breath hitched, but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t. Not when you were looking at him with those puppy eyes that made him feel like he was your biggest treasure.

That night, the world outside didn’t exist anymore. It was just you and Joel, tangled together beneath the blankets, your mingled warmth chasing away the cold. Every touch, every kiss, every whisper of his name felt like a promise you didn't dare break.

Later that night, the room was dim, only the crackling of the fire providing light. You could feel his breath on your skin, slow and deliberate, as if he was savoring the taste of you, every moment with you leaded to this and his hands moved with a gentleness that surprised you, as if he was treating you like something fragile, precious he has promised himself he would protect.

But there was nothing fragile about the way you felt. With him, there was strength, a connection that ran deeper than anything you could put into words. You felt it in the way he held you, in the way his body responded to yours. It was raw, but it was also tender, and that combination left you breathless.

You pulled him closer, your fingers tracing the lines of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. You wanted to show him how much he meant to you; how much you needed him in this moment.

Joel’s lips found yours again, but this time, the kiss was slower, more conscious. It was a silent plea, an exchange of everything you couldn’t say aloud. You didn’t need words. You had each other, and that was all that mattered.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in short, soft bursts. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and rough, a faint hint of concern threading through his words.

You nodded, your hands slipping into his hair, tugging him back down to you. “I’m more than okay,” you whispered, taking his lips on yours again.

But Joel’s voice broke the kiss as he pulled away slightly, his hands lingering on your hips before he stood, turning toward the small table in the corner of the room. “I, uh... I got you something for Christmas,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, but there was something softer behind it.

You blinked, surprised. Christmas hadn’t really felt like Christmas since the outbreak, and you hadn’t expected anything, certainly not from him. As he turned his back to you, his broad shoulders and his muscles in his bare back caught your attention. He was a picture of raw strength, but in that moment, you saw something else in him, vulnerability, tenderness, and a depth of care you hadn’t expected from the man who had carried so much loss during his life.

Your chest tightened as a strange, overwhelming sense of clarity washed over you. It was like everything had all led to this. To this moment, with him. You didn’t need anything else. You didn’t need a world full of certainty or things that made sense. With Joel, every simply made sense.

He reached for something on the table, a small wrapped box that was too carefully wrapped. His fingers lingered on the edges of the paper before he turned back toward you. His expression was unreadable, though there was a small, almost shy smile on his lips.

He stepped toward you, the firelight casting a warm glow on his face, illuminating the lines and scars on his temple. When he stopped in front of you, he held the gift out, his eyes meeting yours, softly “It ain’t much,” he muttered, “but I thought... I thought you deserved it. I got a while ago but since we’re here and we can celebrate Christmas again, I feel like I can give It to you.”

You took the small box from his hands, feeling the weight of it in your palm. Your heart skipped a beat as you met his eyes, seeing the love in them, the thought behind his gesture. It was so simple, so genuine, that it took your breath away.

You slowly unwrapped the box, your hands trembling just slightly as the soft paper fell away. Inside was a delicate silver necklace, the pendant a small, simple heart with intricate engravings along its edges. It caught the firelight, glimmering softly, and something inside you fluttered as you held it in your palm.

Joel watched you, his gaze soft but intense. He seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for your reaction. You could tell it meant something to him, something more than just the gift itself.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep the emotions from flooding your voice. “Joel...” you whispered, your fingers tracing the edges of the pendant. “It’s beautiful.”

His face softened, the corners of his mouth curling into a quiet smile. “I saw it a while ago,” he said, his voice low, almost uncertain. “Thought you might like it. And... I didn’t know when the right time was, but I guess now felt right. This... this is for you to carry me with yoy everywhere you go.”

You felt the warmth of his words seep into you, settling in your chest as your heart pounded. This wasn’t just a piece of jewelry; it was a symbol of the quiet love he had for you, the love that had been building ever since you had met in the ruins of the world.

Your eyes lifted from the necklace to his, you cupped his jaw, feeling his breath catch as your lips met his again, soft at first, but deepening as the world around you seemed once more. It was just the two of you, lost in each other, breathing each other in.

When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, your chest heaving with the emotions swirling inside you. “I didn’t get you anything,” you murmured, the guilt creeping into your voice.

Joel’s hand brushed through your hair; the soft gesture meant to comfort you. His eyes met yours, the warmth in them determined. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice low, steady. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips, but then he leaned in, his voice softer this time, laced with something tender. “But, uh... Can I call you love?”

His question caught you by surprise, but it also made your heart skip. The simple, honest sincerity in his eyes made your chest ache with affection.

“Love?” you echoed, testing the word in your lips. It felt strange and foreign, but in his presence, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He nodded, his gaze earnest. “Yeah. If that’s alright. That would be a gift for me, for now” he clarified, smiling at you.

You felt the warmth of his words wrap around you, making your heart flutter with a mix of emotions. The sincerity in his eyes made the world feel smaller, like everything was finally making sense.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you gazed up at him. “You can call me love.”

A smile stretched across Joel's face, his eyes softening with joy. He leaned in again, this time his lips capturing yours with a tenderness that made everything feel right. The kiss was deep, filled with the promise yet to be written, and as you pulled away, your heart ached with a love that had been growing between you, unspoken, until now.

Joel gently guided you back onto the bed, his hands roaming over your body with a careful urgency. You felt his warmth radiating from his body as he settled beside you, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The room was silent except for the crackling of the fire, but in that silence, everything spoke.

You pressed your cheek to his chest, your hand splayed across the warmth of his skin, feeling his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. It was a beating you could now call yours, a melody that you caused.

“Merry Christmas to me, then, I guess,” he murmured, his voice thick with affection as he pulled you closer. His body felt like a shield, protecting you from everything that had ever threatened to tear you down.

You smiled, nestling into him even more, your own fingers tracing patterns along his skin. “Merry Christmas, baby.” you whispered back, feeling more alive, more complete than you had in years.

In the quiet darkness of the room, wrapped in his arms, with the world outside frozen in time, you knew this was where you were meant to be.

And that was enough. The world could wait. Tonight, it was just the two of you.

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jackabbotsfakeleg · 2 months ago

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The Pitt as Noah Kahan Songs

Robby- Growing Sideways

But I ignore things, and I move sideways, until I forget what I felt like in the first place. At the end of the day I know there are worse ways to stay alive. Cause everyone’s growing and everyone’s healthy. I’m terrified that I might never have met me. Oh, if my engine works perfectly on empty, I guess I’ll drive

Langdon - Orange Juice

Honey, come over, The party's gone slower. And no one will tempt you, We know you got sober. There's orange juice in the kitchen, bought for the children, It's yours if you want it. We're just glad you could visit

King- You’re Gonna Go Far

So, pack up your car, put a hand on your heart, Say whatever you feel, be wherever you are. We ain't angry at you, love, you're the greatest thing we've lost

Santos- Call your Mom

Medicate, meditate, swear your soul to Jesus, Throw a punch, fall in love, give yourself a reason. Don't wanna drive another mile wonderin' if you're breathin'. So, won't you stay, won't you stay, won't you stay with me?

Javadi - All My Love

Write me a list of how it is, of how it was, of how it has to be. You burrowed in under my skin, what I'd give to have you out for me. I still recall how the leather in your car feels, And at the end of it all, I just hope that your scars healed

Mohan - Your Needs, My Needs

To spiral out, to try and float, To see a friend, to see a ghost. Bitter-brained, always drunk, Rail-thin, Zoloft. Subtle change, shorter days, Dead-eyed, dead weight. Your life, your dreams. Your mind, your needs.

Collins - Strawberry Wine

No thing defines a man like love that makes him soft. And sentimental like a stranger in the park. For a few moments, I see you, If I was empty space, and you were a formless Shape, we'd fit. But love leaves little runway, and every time we run Straight over it

Whittaker - Paul Revere

I’ll say I’m not from around here. But I'm in my car and I see the yard, The patch of grass where we buried the dog, And the world makes sense behind a chain-link fence. If I could leave, I would've already left.

Abbot- No Complaints

Thought I was raised better, tried to fake better. Tried to blame weather and escape better, Hope the skin heals where the pain enters, But I finally got sewed up, I set a time, then I showed up, And, now, the weight of the world, it ain't so bad

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bowieandqueen11 · 2 years ago

Text

Sanji With A Clingy Reader Would Include...

Request: OH BABY telling about one piece is like unlocking a whole second heart of mine i have fully for that anime and manga and live action. and so, if you ever decided of course, you writing something similar to something you did on marvel once and sanji with reader that has no personal space and is touchy would be amazing. but also... kissing zoro is great to, if you ever decided? anyway! HOPE YOU LOVE IT (one piece i mean), and if not ignore me UwU

Ooh yess babes this is so SWEET!! :3 I LOVED IT omg hello to my latest obsession not me ordering the first collection of the manga

This was really sweet and fun to do, but I did stay up all night writing it so all comments are much appreciated!

Warning: slightly spicy, some mentions of fighting!

(I do not own One Piece or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @fanpageknight.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Look at this man. Seriously, look at this man with his little bottom lip bite and eyes like the sun shines heavily out of them and tell me he would be anything less than absolutely madly, heart wrenchingly, soul crushingly enthralled with a clingy reader??? That's right you can't take the l on this one.

It all started that day when the three of you ended up shipwrecked on that sad sack excuse of a rock. When you and Sanji huddled on one side of the forsaken isle to stay away from the terrifying Pirate Zeff. His hands had shaken as he drew them up to his chest, but he mustered the nerves to string open the sack Zeff had thrown at his feet. Once he had counted out the cans, he offered all the food to you.

He wanted you to stay alive far more than himself. Ever since you had landed on his ship he had been smitten, and his weary heart would beat its last under this smothering sun as long as you would live on for the both of them.

To keep him calm: to stop his gasping, tortured heaves as he tried his best not to writhe in panic at the thought of never stepping back on safe land again, you would spent most of those 85 days sitting over the cragged edges. Sanji couldn't tear his eyes away from peering down at the gushing shards of stone below that seemed to rip up in tides and tear for his swinging feet; to try and distract him from sniffling any longer, your hand would tentatively creep over the rock until it landed flatly, and unceremoniously on top of his own. His fingers flexed beneath your own, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he folded them upwards, giving your hand a shaking squeeze: a dutiful promise, a flitting confession of love, that you just happened not to feel in your ruminations of the circumstances.

In fact, he asked you that night, in an uncharacteristically quiet and bashful voice, if you would keep his nightmares away by holding him like his mother used to. You felt terrible: you were so stunned that for a moment you stood with the last piece of mouldy bread you had in your hand in shocked silence. Poor Sanji thought you were about to reject him outright: throw what little he had left of his heart - that he had so carefully lifted out and placed in his hands to offer to you, only to have it thrown back to his feet in the usual ridicule he got for his love. His bottom lip began to tremble, until you nearly knocked him onto his bottom with how fast you dropped everything and flew over to lock him in a tight hug, not minding the fact that your shoulder was growing wetter and wetter despite the brewing rain each time Sanji buried his snivelling head against it.

So you would let him rest safely in the bracket of your arms: his left cheek resting in the warm stretch between your collar bone and your neck, his right hand draped leisurely around your waist as you told him stories of pirates and treasure: of the Deep Blue and tropical fish that shone like bursts of fragmented starlight every time their fins graced the water. Although he would groan any time you removed your hand from where you were stroking the wet strands of his hair back from his forehead, it was quickly replaced with wonderment as you would point up at a cluster of stars and whisper excitedly: 'look, there's some now!'

He had never been afraid of nights ever since that moment, not when the stars were still out and he could trace with the butt of his cigarettes the fish you had drawn specially for him in the skies. It was like a secret message: a lover's reminder that he was never alone. That you were always with him. That your beauty - your light, it shone everywhere, no matter where he was.

It was the first time he had kissed you, two forgotten children lost underneath the dripping crevice of your little hideaway. As your belly began to rise and fall underneath his elbow, and he believed you had exhausted yourself out after trying to make him feel better, he dared to dart up from your shoulder and press his lips firmly against your cheek. It had been quick, almost gliding past time like a dolphin leaping up out of the water, but it had meant so much to him that he curled up into a ball in your side and flushed a bright cerise, having to shove his fist into his mouth to stop his manic giggling from waking you up.

But you weren't asleep, and as Sanji settled back into your neck with a smile bright enough to rival the shine of buttercup petals, you swore as he began to drift off in the first peaceful dream he had had in years that one day you would return the favour, but in full.

The two of you were thick as thieves growing up, to the point where Zeff became so distracted by your antics that he often tried to separate the two of you by making you work the floor and Sanji either in the kitchens, or off fishing at the docks. Ten seconds later though, he'd be kicking through the kitchen doors again to find you leaning on the kitchen counter next to an eager faced Sanji, whose to busy to register Zeff's shouting. Instead he places the spoon to your lips, having spent half of lunch service prep cooking you a brand new recipe he had spent the whole night creating out of a medley of your favourite foods. He subconsciously licks his bottom lip, the tension in the room felt by the other chefs who try to carry on washing pans and cutting vegetables enough to put everyone on edge as Sanji refused to look anywhere but your lips. Holding his hand under your chin, his dipped eyes were broken by a sudden grin as a loud 'mmhhh' left your mouth and you chewed in sweet bliss.

Still ignoring Zeff's increasingly erratic rant, as Sanji goes to start cleaning up his pan you slide down to stand behind him, wrapping your arms tightly around your back and jutting your chin into his shoulder blade like a baby koala. You can tell he's laughing silently by the way his shoulders shake against you, but all he does is pull up your hand from his belly button to press sweet, dainty kisses up and down the lengths of your fingers, before dropping it down to press your palm flatly against his heart.

'I think that might be your greatest dish yet, buttercup!'

'From you, that means everything my precious heart.'

'Why do you call me that?', you murmur, refusing to lift your lips from his shirt.

'Well my sweet love, why do you call me buttercup? I mean, I always know I smell of butter and the likes-'.

He's distracted by your snort against the side of his neck, but the two of you are too love-strikingly embarrassed to say anything again. Even if neither of you could see the warm peach rushing up both your cheeks, Zeff could. He could also hear the padding thuds of Sanji's heart as he gripped his fingers that almost imperceptibly bit tighter around your hand, and he found himself sighing at how oblivious you two idiots were.

Sanji is definitely just as clingy as you, if not more so. You've definitely met your match in this man. I mean, any time you're out on the floor, handing out bread to tables and scanning the room to check if there were any patrons you may have to throw out by the scuff of their collars later, his eyes are trained on yours. He leans against the banisters, not even trying to remotely hide how obviously he's tracing your path with a dumbstruck, lit up smile. If you're in the kitchens, desperately trying to bite your tongue and not tear Zeff a new one as he chops his hands together and rushes you to plate up? He's sliding up to your side in an instant, throwing scathing looks at the man while trying to help you spoon thyme onto your bass, nuzzling the side of his head into yours encouragingly. If you have any free time at all? Sanji is fast on your heels, darting after you like someone's firing shots at his dress shoes, as if you have his heart tied to a string on your wrist as he seeks out whatever nook you're going to relax in. It doesn't matter if you're at the bar, watching the docks, or trying to hide from Zeff in one of the cupboards in the pantry: Sanji is squatting down and grunting as he shoves himself in right next to you. He sits criss cross, only satisfied when at least one of his knees is resting heavily over yours, and he has full access to watch what you're reading over the side of your neck.

He only fully settles, though, if you touch him in some way. He genuinely will begin mewling once your hand reaches over to brush your knuckles over his jawline, or your hand finds itself guided to bunch itself up in his hair. One time, he guided your hand into his lap, and you began to absentmindedly stroke your pointer finger along the seam of his inner thigh. Thank goodness you had your head buried in a book one of the pirate crews had come to swap some dried meats with you for, because it took every muscle in Sanji's body twitching: every finger clenching and unclenching into his knee until he drew blood not to knock you flat right there and then and kiss you like there was no tomorrow.

He gets a MASSIVE nosebleed - so gushing, in fact, that he tries to reassure you he's fine as you hold him by the elbows and lead his tilted back head and pinched nose down to Zeff for some help.

It becomes a very major recurring issue every time he looks at you. He makes sure to carry a handkerchief in his breast pocket from then on.

God, if he didn't love you more than anything in all the seas. If you weren't the only one that he let see past his charming nature: if you weren't the only person left in his life that truly could recognise the young boy left in his eyes, in his gait, in his smile, in his dreams. That little kid on that great big ship, the one who had found you stowed away behind one of the barrels of rum, and instead of calling for the crew had taken your trembling hand and led you into the kitchens, introducing you as his newest sous chef. That same kid, who stood beside you and held your hand so gently, so heartbreakingly gently under his as he guided you through lessons of chopping onions and sautéing garlic, breaking out into long strings of rushed, praising French every time you got it right. The same one, who would frown as if he were the one who had been hurt any time you burnt your hands or sliced your fingers. Who would unravel the knot at the back of his apron, and tug it over his head to carefully place it over yours.

'This always brings me luck', he would say as his fingers daintily tucked the strings underneath your shirt collar. 'But I don't need it anymore, because you've brought me all the luck and happiness a man could ever dream of, my cherie.'

The same kid who would tip toe out of his bed to sneak down to your hammock, crawling in and burying himself underneath your blankets where you slept in the brig, telling you fantastical stories about his mother until you fell sound asleep. He would watch you from where he lay on his side, hands folded by your head, as if you had hung every star in the wide skies. He would brush his fingers over the edge of your cheek and curl up beside you, wishing that every minute of every day of the rest of his life could be spent with you.

Yeah, smitten wasn't enough to cover it. Only destiny could be raw enough to draw the two of you to each other, Sanji always thought.

As teenagers, you would end every shift outside, sitting on the wonky boards of one of the jutted docks. Just sitting side by side, as you always wanted to be, pretending you weren't playing a game of chicken as the two of you teased and pressed and glanced your fingers over each other's, leaning back and looking up at the stars. Sanji always appreciated the better chance it gave him: shrouded in naught by wisps of moonlight and the rare flashing neon of ship string lights, to take you in as much as he could. You didn't mind the fact that he spent the whole time staring over at you. In fact, if you hadn't been so lovestruck, you might have found the courage to tear your head away from the horizon to meet the look of gut-wrenching devotion that always seemed to pour out of his eyes and beam only on you. It always felt like warm sunlight, sitting next to him, and so you finally dared a chance at grabbing his fingers and intertwining them between your own, pretending it was because of the sea chill spraying a fine mist over your legs.

Again, the squeeze he gave your hand was almost, almost imperceptible, but you felt it this time. And you could feel the look of enduring devotion he pierced into your skin, a warm tingle washing like a spring tide through your tired body.

He always knew. He always knew that if he had stayed on that rock, he would have been content to. Happy, even. Because he would have been with you.

'I love you', he said without words. He gave your hand another squeeze. 'I'm going to love you forever. No matter how many lifetimes. No matter who I am. I'm always going to find you, and I'm always going to love you.'

His voice nearly made you jump, surprising you at how it started with his usual buttery smoothness, before cracking with a thick gulp as his words trailed of. 'Never leave without me.'

'I promise, as long as you don't leave without me.'

He shakes his head. 'You never leave me. Not even for a moment.'

Sometimes, when the two of you are older, he still comes stealing into your room at night, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as his lips wobble into a frightened frown. Turns out, as he draws the covers back and comes reaching in for you, he had another nightmare that pirates had come to steal you away from him again. With an aching sigh for how stricken he looked, how desolate, you let him claw at your shirt and bury his head into the side of your neck until the rest of the world melted away.

He kissed you again, that night. When the feel of his legs strewn familiarly between your own began to burn against his skin, and the weight of hand perched over his thrumming heart became too heavy to bear in secret. With nothing but the light streaming like shards of pearly stars through the porthole to betray a moment so special, so longed for, Sanji let his eyelashes flutter close as he slowly... slowly pressed his lips against your cheek again.

This time, his eyes widened in shock as the feeling of your hand gripping at his jaw and turning his face straight on to your own. Before he can even open his mouth in confusion, the sweet pressure of your lips pressed against his top one. For a moment, Sanji doesn't move an inch: doesn't even breath, not even processing that the thing he’s spent every moment of his waking and sleeping life wishing for ever since he found you on that boat was actually happening, right here right now. He tries really hard to stop his whole body from shaking, as his silky lashes finally falter shut against the top of your cheeks and he tries to focus his whole attention on the way your plush lip seems to press so perfectly against his own.

When he finally pulls away, he lets out a loud 'OW' as he pinches his arm.

'What did you do that for!?'

'I had to double check this wasn't a dream, my sweets!'

And then he's on you again, like a ravished man gasping for air. God, he wasn't sure if soulmates were real, but when your top lip pulled down against his, and he could feel the thud of your heart synch against his own beneath the tips of his fingers, if he didn't know that he was yours.

He stays in your room a lot more often after that, using it as an excuse for you to help him button up his shirt during sleepy mornings, smiling at the feel of your fingers as they knocked against the muscles of his chest. It was also his favourite part of the day - the good morning kiss the two of you shared before you raced down to be at your shifts before Zeff decided to knock your heads together.

One time you forgot to give him one, too distracted by one of the sous chefs busting into your room with a bloodied nose and a chipped front tooth, whistling through the gap as he begged you to come down to the main foyer and help him break out a fist fight that had started between two gangs of rival pirates. The pout on Sanji's face that day was enough to make even the most bounty-heavy pirate's knees tremble. Every other chef steered way clear of his station, watching the arch of his back and the jaw in his muscle jump as he busied himself by frying his steak of tuna, so gutted at the loss of just one kiss. Not angry, no: just grief stricken, because this man seriously just adores you that much.

When you finally get your lunch break, the first thing you do is throw your napkin down on the kitchen ground and grab Sanji by his suit collar, enjoying the surprise tilt of his head as he drops his spoon onto his serving tray and allows you to lead his feet backwards to the fire exit. As soon as he's outside, you slam him gently against the wooden beams of the Baratie restaurant, and kissed him silly to make up for it. His look of trusting confusion suddenly melt into jumping heart eyes when your knee slides up between his thighs to try and pin him in place. His breathing comes out in harsh, shallow gasps between ferocious kisses, and you have to press him back against the wall every time he comes arching forward to follow your head for even more kisses. No, this was about you making him feel good. And by goodness, as your tongue pressed against the seam of his lips and tentatively ran over his front teeth, if he wasn't two seconds away from falling to his knees right there and then.

When you let him go, he slides down the wall like putty until he's sitting with legs stretched out and both his suit and hair a ruffled mess. He's literally never been more deliriously happy in his whole life.

Your favourite time of the day is when the restaurant closes, and the two of you finally have the kitchens to yourselves. Once you've tossed your aprons back onto the rack with a tired sigh, the only thing that can cheer you up is the sound of Sanji kicking his chair back with the toe of his shoe, and the sight of him beckoning you over to him with that tilted head and pearly beam of his. Mmh, how safe you feel, how loved as you collapse down to sit on his knees, and he tucks you in between the brackets of his arms in a vice so tight it could match any Marine knot.

You take one of his hands off the pen he was holding, turning his palm round to face you so you could fiddle with the rings he was wearing. You draw one up, curling his finger before your eyes, before slotting one off and sliding it onto your own ring finger. It was the one his father had given him: one he so loathed to wear, and yet felt guilt bore down too heavily on his conscious to ever take it off. You turned the one on top of it, one you know Zeff had given him after his first day working at the Baratie, and you smiled at the memory.

'You know', you start, still fiddling with his hand, feeling him shift his thighs as you pressed a gentle kiss on the pointer finger you were currently grasping onto. 'I may just have to keep this one.'

'Oh yeah?', he says dreamily, and you could feel his grin growing as he hid his burning face in the nape of your neck. 'Don't worry sweetheart. One day, once I find the perfect one, I'll give you a ring of your own.'

The two of you sneak out and share cigarettes out the back door a lot, where Sanji steps forward and kisses you like a man possessed every time you pinch the stub from out of his mouth and draw it along your bottom lip teasingly. When you try to get him to go back in, he just wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you up, spinning you around to stop you from leaving him alone. Laughing, you try to shove him off, swatting at the hands that form a tight clasp over your belly button, until his large fingers finally slide down to hold your waist. You glance behind you, smirking at the way his eyes are tightly shut in euphoria as ducks down, chest nearly enveloping in his desperation to reach your face again. His kisses become sloppier: smoke stained as they leave wet trails up your jaw, before he finally gives in and tries to make you laugh one last time by nibbling at the lobe of your ear.

Whenever he has a fight with Zeff, you have to hold him afterwards. The feel of your fingers curling the hair at the nape of his neck, or rubbing soothing circles into the sore muscles of his shoulders stops the furious darts of air from flaring his nostrils almost immediately.

Man has blaring heart eyes 100% whenever he's in a fight with rowdy customers, and you get to kick the flashy knife out of the last one's hand before the pirate could launch straight for Sanji's neck. He tilts his head at you with those amazed eyes, a gentle smile growing almost shyly on his face like a secret wink, before he throws his now empty plate at the pirate trying to sneak up behind your back. The crash echoes out through the booth area, a cry so furious: so full of rage that anyone would try and dare hurt you, that it makes all the remaining pirate crews crawl out towards the door on their hands and knees.

Stitching each other up afterwards is a motherfcking mess though, that Zeff straight up just abandons all hope of being able to use his kitchen. With a defeated rub of his pounding temples, he lets the door slam shut on his heel because he just can't deal with the two of you. He'd much rather pick up a brush and start sweeping bits of crushed and splattered asparagus off the floors than have to watch you to battle it out in a stiff competition of who could be more sickeningly, maddingly in love with the other. Between you standing between Sanji's entrapping thighs, closing you in tighter so you could have full access to kiss his bobbing Adam's apple as you use a rag to swipe bits of dry sauce off his neck, and him throwing his head back and whimpering, Zeff was going to go insane. Even worse, as soon as you're finished, Sanji's reaching between your fingers to lick split consomme off your nose.

The two of you are literally insufferable, and if every one apart from Zeff doesn't find it the cutest thing I-

When Luffy comes and wrangles Sanji into joining his crew, the chef's first thought is to be distraught. He seeks you out straight away, nearly breaking some poor fisherman's pole as he tries to hurdle over it and grip onto your shoulders, making you drop the barrel of dried meats you were carrying from Luffy onto the planks and watching Luffy nearly dangle off the edge of his ship to stop it from rolling into the ocean.

'Y/n- I- I can't go!'

'You're hardly scared!'

'I'm not scared of going, I'm terrified of going without you!'

You let him pour his heart out for a moment, before stopping his rambling, near sobbing mess of a sentence by bopping the tip of his nose. You giggle, swiping some hair from his forehead. 'Sanji, Luffy asked me to come first. I promised I wouldn't go without you, and I meant it.'

You manage to unlatch his twitching hand from your left shoulder, and give it an almost imperceptible squeeze. The tears that threatened to fall from his eyes finally cascade down, although he's so relieved that he's smiling through the blurriness. You swipe them away with your free thumb, finally, after all these years, feeling the squeeze of your hand that Sanji gives you back, before he envelops you in a breath taking hug.

'Awww, you guys are so sweet!', Luffy calls out from where he's hanging by his sandal off the railing of his ship. 'But could someone give me a hand before my hat falls into the waves? That would not be very cool.'

The first thing the two of you do once you're on The Going Merry is to find your bunk. Sanji isn't very subtle when he kicks your door shut with his heel, and comes scampering towards you like an upended sand crab, pinching for you until he's hefted you up over his shoulder and has unceremoniously landed you in your shared hammock. He's quick to jump in, straddling you as the hammock sways back and forth with the commotion.

He nearly starts crying again when he sees a flash of silver poke out from underneath your neckline; he grazes his hand over the chain, recognising it as his father's ring you had taken months ago. The one he had hated so much. The one you had tried to save him from. A small piece of him. A weight you tried to bear for him. A reminder of how much he was loved.

A confused Zoro, not realising there are new crew members on board, follows the sound of Sanji's voice crooning out how much he adores you, and how he loves you more than every star in the sky, down past the window on your bedroom door. Let's just say, he's not very impressed when he catches sight of the hammock swinging wildly from side to side, and an array of clothes thrown out and discarded in a mess around it.

#one piece #sanji #one piece imagine #sanji imagine #sanji x reader #sanji headcanons #opla #monkey d luffy #zoro #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji imagine #vinsmoke sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji headcanons

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joluvsfinnick · 11 days ago

Text

Guess

f!reader x finnick odair.

part two of this fic.

summary - Once bound by a secret Capitol romance, you and Finnick Odair fell apart under the weight of betrayal, secrets, and Snow’s manipulation. Years later, you’re both reaped into the Quarter Quell, forced to face not only the arena, but each other. A letter he slipped under your door before the Games stirs buried feelings, and in the arena, quiet touches and lingering glances crack open old wounds. After the rescue, District 13 forces proximity: shared training, tense lunches, and haunting memories. Through jealousy, soft forgiveness, and unspoken longing, you both realize the love never left. And this time, you choose to stay.

warnings: mentions of his past again briefly. VERY brief mention of suicidal thoughts. gale makes an appearance

a/n - i’m trying to redeem myself from the last fic i swear </3 hopefully this one is better!! also i do feel like this type of writing is a little outta my range, so forgive me🙏

The roar of the countdown pounded in your ears.

Sixty seconds.

You stood on your metal plate, staring across the water, breath shallow. The jungle was just beyond, mocking you with its stillness. You could feel the moisture in the air, thick and unrelenting. Everything smelled like salt and steel and something foreboding.

Fifty seconds.

Your knees trembled, but you stood your ground. You weren’t a good swimmer. You’d trained for years in blades and speed, but water? Water was foreign. That alone nearly made you sick. But what really made your stomach turn,

Was him.

Finnick Odair stood several platforms away. The same boy who had once held your heart in his palms like a lifeline.

The same man who shattered it with a single phrase: “Maybe this was a mistake.”

Forty seconds.

The letter.

It still felt like it was burning a hole through your chest, even now, folded tightly and tucked into the seam of your boot.

Thirty seconds.

Finnick’s head turned, slow and deliberate. His sea-green eyes locked on yours across the churning blue.

Your breath hitched.

He gave nothing away, not anger, not softness, not even fear. Just… a flicker of something unreadable.

Twenty seconds.

You looked away first. Just like you always did when things got too real.

Fifteen seconds.

You clenched your fists, fingers curling into sweaty palms. You weren’t ready. Not for the blood. Not for the water.

Not for him.

Ten seconds.

Breathe.

Nine.

Breathe.

Eight.

The sea is calm.

Seven.

His eyes are not.

Six.

You have to survive.

Five.

You have to see him again.

Four.

Even if just once more.

Three.

To say what you never got to say.

Two.

Please.

One.

You dive, water engulfing you instantly. Cold. Icy. Unforgiving.

You kicked wildly, flailing more than swimming. The salt stung your eyes, your limbs aching from the panic before the fight had even begun. The Cornucopia shimmered in the center. Blades. Packs. Food. Hope.

But you couldn’t reach it. Water filled your throat, sending you gasping for air.

A strong arm wrapped around your waist.

You thrashed with instinct, terrified. You can’t go out like this, not without saying goodbye to him. Not without telling him everything you needed to.

“Easy,” a voice murmured. Familiar. Unwelcome. Comforting.

Finnick.

“Let me help you.”

He guided you through the water with ease, dragging you with practiced strength. You hated how natural it felt, his arms around you, his body pressed close. You hated how your heart betrayed you in its rhythm. The metal base of the Cornucopia loomed, and he hoisted you up with little effort. Then, just like that, he was gone, diving back for Peeta, helping him with the same determination.

You haul yourself up the rocks of the cornucopia, fingers scrambling for grip on the slick metal platform. Your chest is heaving. Salt burns your throat.

All you can think about is the fact that you’re alive but unarmed.

The moment your feet find traction, you sprint toward the pile. It’s chaos, bodies everywhere, metal clashing against metal, screams and splashes and the distant pulse of the Capitol anthem still echoing in your skull.

You don’t look for faces. You don’t stop. You dive forward and grab the first thing you see, a small set of twin daggers in curved sheaths, light and deadly. You slide one into your boot, the other into your grip.

Someone screams behind you. You spin but it’s too late.

A tribute, big, fast, face smeared with blood, is barreling straight for you with a club raised high. You try to dodge, but your footing slips on the wet surface. You fall hard, elbow cracking against the platform. Your dagger goes skidding.

You see the weapon above you, swinging down. But it never hits.

Marek slams into the other tribute with the force of a freight train, taking the blow on his back, driving the boy sideways. You scream his name, too stunned to move, as they crash to the ground just feet away.

There’s a brief, brutal struggle. And then the club rises again, only to come down straight into Marek’s ribs.

You scream again, louder this time, and launch yourself forward, but your knees collapse under you. You crawl instead, dragging yourself through blood and seawater.

The boy who killed him is already dead, Finnick’s trident buried in his chest before you even realized he was near. The body rolls off Marek with a sickening thud. But it doesn’t matter.

Marek isn’t moving.

You reach him, hands slippery with from the blood that covers the ground as you shake him. “Marek, Marek, please, no,” His mouth opens like he’s trying to say something, but nothing comes out.

His eyes find yours. He looks… calm. But then they go still.

You don’t even notice Finnick until he’s beside you. Until he pulls you back from Marek’s body, first by the elbow, then by the waist.

“No—NO—!” You twist against him, kicking, clawing. “Let me go! I’m not leaving him!”

“You have to,” he snaps, voice harsh with desperation. “If you stay here, you’ll die too. You’ll die too.”

You scream again, not words this time, just grief. Fury. You’re not even sure who it’s for. But Finnick doesn’t let go.

He grabs both your wrists, pulls you to your feet. You stumble, wild and weightless, all fight leaving you in a single breath as your knees threaten to buckle.

“Come on,” he mutters, wrapping an arm around your back as he drags you from the blood-soaked metal. “We have to move. Now.”

Your head whips over your shoulder as he pulls you away. You can still see Marek’s body, crumpled, abandoned.

“Please,” you whisper, too quiet for Finnick to hear. “Please don’t…” But there’s no going back.

The moment Finnick pulled you away from the Cornucopia, his hand closed over yours with a quiet certainty that both startled and grounded you. The jungle air was thick and heavy, sweat and dust clinging to your skin, but his grip was cool and steady, a lifeline when everything else was slipping through your fingers. You didn’t look at him; you barely even breathed. Your mind was a fog of shock, the sharp sting of Marek’s death slicing through your chest like a blade.

Somewhere in the distance, the others waited. Katniss, Peeta, and Mags. You could see them now, standing near the shoreline, the tension in their bodies as palpable as the oppressive heat. Katniss’s eyes locked onto you and Finnick as you approached. There was surprise there , something almost like disbelief. She had never imagined the two of you moving through the Games together, much less with that quiet connection flickering between you. Peeta was watching too, his brows drawn tight in concern, but his glance carried something more, something wary, guarded.

Mags, however, met your gaze with a small, knowing smile. No shock. No judgment. Just a steady, understanding look that reminded you there were people who saw more than the surface, who understood the burdens you all carried.

Finnick never let go of your hand, even when you stumbled, and even when the flood of grief threatened to pull you under completely. His fingers curled around yours like a silent promise: you were not alone.

Your legs felt weak, your breath shallow, but the rhythm of his grip was a steady anchor. It reminded you that you were still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.

Inside, the chaos was deafening. Marek , your partner, your friend, someone you had trusted and loved, was gone. The image of his face, pale and still, haunted the corners of your mind. The weight of it threatened to crush you, but Finnick’s quiet presence was like a shield against the collapse.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The words stuck in your throat, twisted with anger, heartbreak, and confusion.

Katniss and Peeta exchanged subtle glances, their whispers barely carried on the humid breeze. You caught snippets, soft murmurs full of shock and speculation. They wondered how you and Finnick, once distant, even hostile, could now be intertwined like this. It didn’t take much to tell they had expected animosity, or at least distance. But here you were, hand in hand, and it unsettled them more than they let on.

Mags, watching quietly from the sidelines, didn’t need to ask questions. She had seen too much, carried too much pain herself, and understood the unspoken bond forming between you and Finnick. She knew the cost of loss. She knew the desperation beneath his protective stance. And she knew something else, something you didn’t yet, about the dangerous game that was playing out beyond your immediate fight for survival.

Slowly, your heart began to steady, the haze lifting just enough to clear a sliver of purpose. Marek’s death couldn’t be the end of your story. It couldn’t be the price you paid without a fight. You clenched Finnick’s hand tighter, letting the fire inside you grow. The grief was still there, raw and jagged, but beneath it was a fierce determination.

You had to keep moving forward.

The group moved deeper into the jungle, branches scratching your arms and leaves whispering secrets you weren’t sure you wanted to hear. Finnick was close, always close, his hand a constant, grounding presence wrapped around yours. You kept your eyes trained on the path ahead, silent but aware of every glance thrown your way. You refuse to meet Finnicks eye, or even talk to him. You don’t know what to say. The mix of emotions you’ve been through in the past 24 hours have been too much to wrap your head around.

—

Later, as the group navigated through the thick jungle, a moment came that shattered the fragile peace.

You weren’t paying attention, your mind still tangled with memories of Marek, with the crushing weight of loss and fear, when you stumbled forward and suddenly hit something invisible, something harsh and unyielding.

Your chest slammed against the forcefield. The impact stole the breath from your lungs and sent a jarring shock through your entire body. You crumpled to the ground, the world falling black.

Finnick’s eyes snapped to you with immediate panic. He dropped everything and was at your side in an instant, his hands trembling but sure as he checked you, calling your name.

“No, no, no, stay with me,” he whispered, voice cracking with desperation. His hands pressed firmly against your chest, trying to restart your heart, trying to pull you back from the edge.

His breath was ragged, matching your shallow gasps. His tears mixed with sweat as he pressed harder, his fingers working the life back into you with a frantic urgency.

Katniss and Peeta stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, watching the scene unfold as if the world had stopped spinning.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Finnick choked out through the tears, his voice breaking under the weight of his fear. “Come back to me.”

Slowly, agonizing seconds passed.

Then your eyes fluttered open, focusing on the panic-stricken face inches from yours.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as the jungle slowly steadied around you. Finnick’s hands were steady on your shoulders, his face close, eyes shimmering with a mix of worry and tears.

You managed a dry, tired smile and muttered, “Careful, there’s a forcefield up there.”

Finnick blinked, then a slow, shaky grin spread across his face. Wiping a tear from his cheek, he teased softly, “Careful, don’t make me regret saving your life with my kiss.”

He pulled you into a fierce hug, his arms wrapping tight as if holding you was the only thing keeping him grounded. His heartbeat pounded against your own, steady and fierce.

Nearby, the others watched quietly, Peeta’s guarded gaze softened, Katniss gave a subtle nod, and Mags just smiled knowingly.

For the first time since Marek’s death, you allowed yourself to lean into Finnick’s embrace.

—

The forcefield burned into your skin like fire. Not physically, not anymore, but the phantom sting remained, a warning echoing across every nerve ending. You could still feel it humming in your bones. One second you’d been scanning for threats, trying to prove to yourself and the others that you weren’t broken, and the next, you were airborne, pain and electricity ripping through your chest.

And then, Finnick. Pressing his mouth to yours in a desperate mimic of life. His hands trembling, soaked with tears and panic and the weight of a hundred regrets. He’d held you like someone who couldn’t afford to lose one more thing.

You remembered the feeling of your heart stuttering back to life, his voice cracking as he gasped your name. Now, minutes later, your legs were shaky but moving, driven more by pride than strength. You hated that your knees still threatened to buckle. That Finnick’s hand still gripped yours like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

The jungle pressed in around you, thick with vines and heat and the distant chorus of the Games. You walked in silence, the others a few feet ahead, Peeta glancing back every so often, Katniss whispering something to him under her breath. But neither of them asked. The looks said enough.

Mags didn’t look surprised at all. She walked just behind you, her expression unreadable but calm. Like she’d known long before you did.

Finnick squeezed your hand. You didn’t pull away.

—

It took the better part of an hour, but you finally stumbled on a spot you all decided to call camp for the night. While the others cleared out the area, removing any harsh rocks or sticks, you stood still. They refused to let you move much.

Finnick never left your side.

You sat down against the trunk of a tree, arms crossed, head bowed. Everything ached. Not just your body, though the pain in your ribs was undeniable, but something deeper. Something that had nothing to do with the forcefield.

Marek. His name burned behind your eyelids.

Your partner. Your friend. Maybe the only person left who truly knew you before this. And now he was gone. You saw it over and over again, his wide eyes as he shoved the other tribute to the ground.

You hadn’t even had time to say goodbye. Or thank him. And somehow that hurts the most.

Eventually, all of you sit around in silence. No one’s sure what to talk about, so you speak up first. “I’ll take first watch.”

“No.” Finnick’s voice was low and immediate.

You turned on him. “I wasn’t asking.”

“You’re still shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You almost died,” he hissed, his head snapping towards you, his tone sharp but quiet enough not to be a threat others. “You think you can take the first shift after being unconscious less than an a few hours ago?”

“I can handle it.”

“I said no.”

You stared him down, jaw clenched, fists trembling. Part of you wanted to scream. Part of you wanted to let him win, just to be held again. But neither of those were options. “Then we both do it,” you snapped. “You stay awake, I stay awake. Happy?”

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue more, then shut. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Fine.”

—

The jungle had finally gone quiet.

Not peaceful. never peaceful, but still. As if the arena itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged near the edge of the small clearing the group had claimed for the night, your back pressed to a thick tree trunk, gaze fixed outward into the darkness. Vines dangled like nooses from the canopy above. The hum of insects droned on, unbothered by the fact that a bloodbath had unfolded only hours ago.

Finnick sat beside you, close but not touching. His trident lay across his lap, glinting faintly in the moonlight. You knew he hadn’t taken his eyes off you, even if you hadn’t looked at him once.

Behind you, Peeta and Katniss were tangled together in restless sleep. Mags rested a little apart, curled like a child beneath a thick leaf, breathing softly. Her presence was like a steady heartbeat, quiet, dependable, ancient.

You, however, were unraveling. Marek’s death, it was playing on a loop behind your eyes. The same way Finnick’s letter echoed in your chest, over and over, like a wound reopening.

The silence stretched long between you and Finnick, until he finally broke it.

“You got the letter,” he said softly. You didn’t answer. You didn’t know if you could. You take a deep breath. “I didn’t know if it’d make it to you,” he added. “It wasn’t safe… but Haymitch said he’d try.” Still, you didn’t move.

“I meant every word.”

A pause. “I just need to know if you—”

You turned to him abruptly. “No.”

Finnick blinked. “No?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The sharpness in your voice surprised even you. He sat back slightly, like the words had knocked the air from his lungs.

“Why not?” he asked, and though his voice stayed gentle, you could hear the edge beneath it. The hurt. The desperation. “You deserve an explanation. You deserve to know why I– why I said what I said. Why I—”

Your throat tightened. You looked away again, jaw clenched. And finally, you whispered, “It’ll hurt too much to know the truth if one of us doesn’t make it out of here.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Finnick didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You stared straight ahead into the darkness, your voice trembling despite how hard you fought it.

“If I let you explain, and it was real, if you really felt everything I did… If I let that hope in and then watch you die, I don’t think I’ll make it. And if I die knowing you really loved me—” Your breath hitched. “I’d go with regret. With something too big in my chest to let go of.”

Finnick’s trident slid off his lap with a dull thud in the grass. He didn’t speak, not right away. But slowly, his hand inched toward yours. Not pressing. Just waiting. You didn’t take it. But you didn’t pull away either. A part of you wanted to take it, to find comfort in his grasp again, but you just couldn’t.

He leaned his head back against the tree behind him, eyes closing briefly. “Okay,” he said finally. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Good,” you breathed.

—

The world hadn’t slowed since Mags walked into the fog.

She hadn’t said a word. No dramatic farewell, no noble declaration. Just let go of Finnick’s shoulder, pressed her lips gently to his cheek, and turned away.

You’d screamed after her. Katniss had, too. But the poison was too fast. She was gone in seconds.

The jungle felt unbearably close, the thick air pressing down like a weight on your chest. Every breath was a struggle, each inhale sharp and shallow from the poison still lingering in your lungs. Around you, the others sat in a rough circle, bodies tense, faces drawn and pale under the waning light.

Katniss sat a little ways apart from you, scanning the shadows with fierce, guarded eyes.

You sank down beside her, the damp earth cold beneath your fingers. You didn’t speak. Words felt hollow, like fragments of a shattered mirror reflecting only pain and fear.

Mags was gone.

None of you knew what to say, or where to go next. The Capitol cameras might be watching every step, every breath, every flicker of despair.

Finnick’s grip tightened slightly on Peeta’s shoulder, a silent vow to carry him through whatever came next. You felt the ghost of Mags’ sacrifice like a cold shadow settling over the group, a painful reminder of what survival demanded.

You glanced at Finnick, his face streaked with dirt and tears, jaw clenched so tightly you worried it might break. You wanted to say something. Anything. But the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the heavy night air.

Instead, you shifted closer, letting your fingers brush his, just for a moment, a quiet promise that you were still here. Still fighting.

Katniss’s sharp eyes flicked between the two of you but said nothing. You knew she saw the fragile thread connecting you, and Finnick, a thread woven with pain, loss, and desperate hope.

No one moved for a long time. The jungle whispered its secrets all around, but inside your circle, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the steady thrum of hearts refusing to give up.

You didn’t know how you’d survive tomorrow.

But for now, you were together.

Since you and Finnick had taken the first watch, before the fog happened, Peeta and Katniss volunteered this time. You allowed it, only because you felt like you were about to crumble with exhaustion.

But even as your body laid still against the tree, rest didn’t come. Not really.

You watched the jungle sway, watched the fire crackle. You watched the slow rise and fall of Peeta’s shoulders where he stood beside Katniss, both of them quiet, alert, trying to keep it together.

And then there was Finnick.

He lay on his side a foot away from you, muscles twitching beneath his skin like he was still outrunning something in his sleep. But you knew he wasn’t asleep.

You could feel it in the way his breath hitched sometimes. In how often he blinked against the firelight. In how his fingers flexed against the ground, restless.

You stared up at the treetops, jaw clenched, willing yourself to stay still. You told yourself not to get involved. Because you’d already given enough. You’d already hurt enough.

But then Finnick exhaled, shaky, long, broken in the middle like a cracked shell, and you were moving before you even realized it. You scooter over toward him, your hand reaching instinctively, brushing lightly against his arm.

He startled just slightly, as if he didn’t expect to be touched.

And when his eyes met yours in the low flicker of the fire, you didn’t say anything. You just lifted your hand a little higher, fingers curling gently behind his neck. An invitation. He hesitated for a second. Just one.

Then he let out another trembling breath and shifted closer. Carefully, slowly, as if unsure he was allowed to. He laid his head down in your lap, curling toward you, silent.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the burn in your eyes. And then you did what you hadn’t done in so long, you threaded your fingers through his hair, slow and deliberate, combing gently through the sea-swept gold. His lashes fluttered, but his eyes stayed open. Watching the dark. Watching you.

You ran your nails along his scalp in gentle, looping strokes, like muscle memory. Like your hands remembered even if your heart wasn’t sure how.

After a long while, you heard the smallest breath from him. Not a word. Not a cry. Just. a sigh. So you kept going.

You traced along his brow, down his cheekbone. Drew circles near the corner of his jaw. Back when everything was simpler, or at least less painful, he used to fall asleep like this. Whenever you got the chance. Wherever the Capitol wasn’t watching too closely.

Now, of course, they were watching. Always. And still, you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not when this might be the last time you hold him. Finnick hadn’t asked for comfort. You weren’t even sure he would’ve. But the way he pressed closer into your lap, the way his fist slowly unclenched.. that was enough.

That was a yes.

Peeta and Katniss were quiet a few feet away. Maybe they saw it, maybe they didn’t. Or maybe they just chose to let the moment be. No questions. No commentary. Just the four of you, alive, for now, in the middle of something impossible.

Eventually, Finnick’s eyes slipped closed, lashes brushing your thigh. His breathing slowed.

You kept your fingers moving through his hair.

And even though your body ached and your eyes burned, something inside of you exhaled. Just a little.

Tomorrow would be worse. You knew that. The Capitol wasn’t done yet.

But right now, right here, Finnick slept in your lap, and your heart was still beating, and that was enough to keep going.

At least for tonight.

—

The morning came without promise. No birdsong. No light breeze. Just the slow, oppressive crawl of pale sun through thick jungle canopy, filtering down like watered-down gold, far too faint to warm you.

No one said it, but you all felt it, that shift. That irreversible moment where the Games had tipped from survival to something else entirely. Grief. Weariness. A bone-deep dread.

You moved because you had to. Not because you wanted to. Certainly not because you believed there was safety waiting ahead. But staying in the clearing where it happened, where Mags had disappeared into the fog with only a final breath and a look, was unbearable.

So you walked.

Katniss had been the first to suggest it, finding Beetee and Wiress. She didn’t say much when she said it, just that Wiress had been in their alliance. Beetee would be with her. They’d need help. You didn’t argue. No one did.

Peeta limped quietly beside her, his movements steadier than yesterday but still strained. His arm brushed hers occasionally, and though neither of them acknowledged it, the subtle proximity seemed to keep them tethered.

You trailed near the back, alongside Finnick, whose silence this morning had taken on a different shape than last night’s. It wasn’t cold or closed-off. It was the kind of silence that speaks louder than words, raw and too large to fit in a sentence.

He hadn’t said a single thing since you’d woken. Not even when he handed you a piece of dried fruit, still soft from the heat. You took it without a word, fingers brushing briefly, and you didn’t miss how his lingered just a second longer than necessary. A quiet plea. A reassurance. You couldn’t tell which.

The jungle underfoot had turned thicker, vines snagging against your ankles, the humidity clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. You felt heavy, like something inside you had sunk overnight. Grief had lodged somewhere between your ribs and refused to leave.

Not even for him.

Especially not for him.

You didn’t know where the two of you stood anymore. You weren’t sure he did either. After everything, after Marek, after the forcefield, after holding him while he trembled like he was fourteen again and just trying to survive the Capitol, there still hadn’t been words.

Maybe there didn’t need to be. But you wished there were.

Every so often, you caught Peeta glancing back at the two of you. Not in judgment. Just quiet, observant curiosity. Like he was trying to piece it together in his mind. He never asked. He didn’t have to. Katniss noticed too, but her attention always veered back to the jungle in front of her, scanning, calculating. She was trying to stay ahead of the arena, as if she could predict its next move before it struck again.

You admired that about her. You just weren’t sure hope was still something you could afford.

Finnick’s voice finally came, low and close, like he was worried speaking too loudly might break something fragile in the air. “You need to rest.”

You looked over at him, brow furrowed. “I’m walking.”

His eyes, though tired, sparkled just faintly with that signature kind of charm. “Not what I meant.”

You exhaled through your nose, not quite laughing, not quite annoyed. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna start making jokes again.”

“Would it be better if I didn’t?” he murmured. “You never liked when I was too quiet.” The way he said it, it was almost nothing. Just a line, just a memory between you. But it hit like a blade.

You didn’t reply. Your eyes stayed forward.

Because the truth was, he was right. His silence had always unnerved you, especially when you first started dating. When Finnick was quiet, it meant something was deeply wrong. And right now, the silence between you both was a thousand different things, loss, regret, unfinished conversations, years of wanting and pushing away.

But it was also comfort. Familiarity. The kind you didn’t expect to find again, least of all here.

Another vine tangled around your ankle. You hissed, swatting it away, your frustration boiling closer to the surface. It wasn’t just the jungle. It was everything. Your skin itched with sweat. Your legs ached. Your stomach twisted with hunger and fear and the ever-present knowledge that this alliance could fall apart at any second. That you might have to kill someone tomorrow. Or watch someone you love die.

Again.

“We need water,” Katniss said, glancing back. “And we need shelter before dark.”

Her voice was tight. Flat. The edge of it almost reminded you of yourself. As you continued, the sound of buzzing insects grew louder, thrumming like static in your ears. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, and suddenly, the edge of the world felt closer than it had any right to be.

Katniss held a hand up abruptly. Stopped. Everyone froze. A soft clicking sound echoed from deeper in the jungle. Small. Precise. Like something mechanical.

No one spoke, but the tension pulled tight. Peeta shifted closer to Katniss. Finnick instinctively stepped in front of you. You narrowed your eyes toward the sound, and then, Nothing. Just the silence returning. But the air had changed again. Heavier. Expectant.

“We should move,” Katniss said. “Now.” You all started again, a little faster this time. Your heart picked up without permission.

Finnick glanced at you, just once. “Stay close.”

You wanted to snap back, something sarcastic, something sharp, but the words died on your tongue.

Because for what feels like the 100th time since stepping foot in the arena, you realized how afraid you truly were.

Not of dying. Of losing him again.

—

You weren’t sure how long it had lasted.

The monkey mutts had come without warning, just a blur of snarling teeth and red eyes in the trees, and then chaos, panic, blood. Screams. One of them had lunged at Peeta, jaws wide, and Finnick had barely gotten there in time. Katniss’ arrows had sung through the air like curses. You’d thrown your knives, sticks, anything.

It ended as suddenly as it began. Like the arena had been satisfied. Like it had gotten what it wanted, fear, pain, the promise of weakness. Now, you stood on the beach. The same stretch of pale sand where the Games had started. Everything felt different now.

The waves whispered softly in the background, dragging the jungle stench out of your lungs. The breeze off the water was cool against your skin, offering the first moment of relief you’d felt in hours, maybe days.

You weren’t sure how long it had been. Time didn’t move the same in the arena. The sun played tricks on you. Your muscles pulsed with exhaustion. Your throat ached for water, but your stomach couldn’t bear it.

Peeta stood beside Katniss, his hand curled tightly around the hilt of the trident Finnick had lent him. His shirt was torn, his hair clumped with sand and sweat, but he was upright. Alive. That counted for something.

Finnick was at your side again, his hand still hovering like it had been all day, close, but not quite touching. He kept glancing toward your arm, where one of the monkey’s claws had scratched you earlier. You’d cleaned it quickly, but the sting still lingered. You’d insisted you were fine, even snapped a little, but that hadn’t stopped him from watching you like you might fall apart at any second.

You weren’t sure whether to be grateful or resent it.

“Look,” Katniss said quietly, pointing toward the opposite edge of the beach. Three figures were approaching.

You narrowed your eyes, squinting into the hazy light. The first was clearly Johanna, her gait sharp and confident even through the exhaustion. Her axe was strapped across her back, her eyes narrowed as if daring the jungle to challenge her again.

Behind her, much slower, came Wiress and Beetee.

Wiress walked like she was floating, her arms twitching slightly at her sides, her mouth moving as if she were whispering numbers. Beetee looked more grounded, but even he had the glassy-eyed look of someone who had seen too much, too fast. You all stood frozen, observing them for a moment.

Katniss took a step forward but didn’t lower her bow. “They’re alive.”

Peeta exhaled in relief. “I wasn’t sure they’d make it.”

“Looks like they barely did,” Finnick muttered. You said nothing. Just watched them come closer, step by painful step, until Johanna finally stopped a few yards away and cocked her head at your group like it was just another nuisance.

“Nice to see none of you are dead,” she said flatly.

You raised a brow. “Nice to see your attitude’s still intact.”

She smirked faintly, then glanced at Finnick. “Didn’t think you’d actually protect them. Thought you’d bail after the first cannon.”

Finnick gave no reply, just looked at her with hollow eyes. Johanna frowned, only slightly, but didn’t push. Then, almost as an afterthought, her eyes flicked past Finnick to where Mags should have been.

“She’s not with you,” Johanna said quietly, her voice dropping an octave. Your heart clenched, but no one answered.

Johanna looked back at Finnick, something like pity hidden beneath her rough exterior. “I’m sorry Finnick.” You don’t know much, but you do know Jo and Finnick are close. Finnick’s jaw tightened, but still no words came.

Wiress dropped to her knees in the sand, whispering, “Tick, tock, tick, tock,” under her breath as Beetee sat beside her.

“She’s been doing that since yesterday,” Johanna said, sounding tired. “Won’t eat. Barely drinks. But she’s right about the arena. There’s a pattern.”

No one argued, because deep down you all knew she was right.

You felt the heaviness settle again, the same one that had hung over all of you since the fog. Since the mutts. Since the first blood was spilled. Mags’ absence still clung to Finnick like smoke, wrapping around his shoulders, too thick to shake. He hadn’t said her name once since she walked into the fog, and you hadn’t tried to make him.

You couldn’t bear it either.

Now, you stood surrounded by tributes, supposed allies, some former enemies, but there was no trust. Just survival. And barely that. Still, it was something.

You glanced at Wiress again, watching the way she traced lines into the sand, over and over again. Circles. Clocks. Numbers.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but you had the night.

And for now, you had each other.

—

The faint crackle of Beetee’s voice broke through the heavy stillness as the group gathered beneath the towering canopy of ancient trees. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the gathered faces, landing on Katniss, Peeta, Finnick, Johanna, and you in turn. The others leaned in, hanging on every word.

“There’s a plan,” Beetee began, voice low but urgent, “one that might turn the odds in our favor.” His fingers traced a pattern in the dirt as he explained, “The lightning tree. If we can rig it just right, it’ll create an electrical charge strong enough to stun or kill anyone caught beneath.”

Katniss’s brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a hard line as she absorbed the details. Johanna’s jaw tightened, and Finnick’s eyes exchanged a fleeting glance with Beetee’s and Johanna, that subtle look, heavy with meaning, something unspoken that made your skin crawl with unease.

You tried to catch Finnick’s eye, hoping for some clue, some hint of what was really happening. But his gaze flicked away, distant and guarded. There was a wall between you now, a barrier you hadn’t expected.

No one had told you about the rebellion. No whispered warnings or secret nods. You were still in the dark, still fighting not just for survival in the arena but for answers that felt just out of reach.

Later, when the others were distracted setting traps or gathering supplies, you pulled Finnick aside. The jungle was quieter here, the sounds of insects and distant calls wrapping around you like a cocoon. You gripped his arm, voice low and sharp with frustration.

“Finnick… what’s going on? Don’t act like you and Johanna aren’t giving each other odd glances.” You mutter.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, the mask slipped, revealing the turmoil beneath. But then he shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t tell you.“

The words hit you harder than any blow. Why can’t he tell you?

You looked at him, searching, pleading, but all you got was silence.

The weight of it settled around you, more suffocating than the humid jungle air, and you realized the fight wasn’t just against the other tributes or the Capitol’s twisted arena. It was against secrets that could either save you all or destroy you completely.

—

The jungle pressed in around you, thick and humid, every leaf and twig heavy with the promise of a storm. You and Katniss stayed close, crouched beneath the shadow of a massive tree, eyes flicking toward Johanna but never meeting hers directly.

Finnick and Peeta were out there somewhere, carrying out the other part of the plan, but you and Katniss weren’t fools. Something was off. The way Johanna kept watching you, the way you’d been separated from the boys, it didn’t sit right.

No words passed between you. There was no need. A glance, a slight narrowing of eyes, and everything was said.

Johanna’s smirk flickered as she turned away, oblivious to the silent exchange happening just a few feet from her.

The low rumble of thunder rolled in, and the air thickened. The storm was coming.

Your pulse quickened, but your gaze stayed sharp, searching the dark canopy above, knowing that the lightning would change everything.

Whatever the plan was, whatever secrets they were keeping, you and Katniss were ready. And you wouldn’t be caught off guard.

—

The storm broke overhead like a scream.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the arena in brilliant white streaks, and thunder followed hard and fast, shaking the jungle from its roots.

You didn’t know how long you’d been waiting, ten minutes, maybe more, but when Johanna finally said, “Move,” you didn’t argue.

The three of you emerged from the undergrowth, silent, soaked, hearts pounding. Somewhere in the distance, the faintest shimmer of Beetee’s wire glinted in the canopy light, strung tight from the lightning tree to the force field. You followed it.

Beetee lay slumped at the base of the tree.

“Beetee?” Katniss called, rushing forward.

You followed close behind, crouching beside her. His hands were burned, the wire tangled in his arms. The end of it was frayed, crackling faintly. He’d been trying to complete the circuit, but something had gone wrong.

“Is he—” you began but were quickly cut off by a flash of movement.

Johanna turned, grabbing Katniss by the arm and slamming her into the mud. Before you could react, she was on you too, her knife flashing, slicing through your upper arm in one swift motion.

You cried out, struggling, but the blade wasn’t meant to kill, it was precise, surgical. You weren’t sure what she was doing, but God, did it hurt.

Blood mixed with dirt and water as you thrashed, disoriented, the world spinning, going hazy. Through the trees, you saw her sprint off with the wire in her hands. and then, nothing but the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. Darkness threatened your edges.

When you came to after only seconds, the world was chaos. Beetee was gone. So was Johanna.

Katniss was crawling, weak and dizzy, just a few feet from you. Her eyes darted around like a trapped animal.

“Peeta,” she murmured, panic threading her voice. “Where’s Peeta?” Before you could answer, a voice broke through the trees.

“Katniss!”

It was Finnick. He stumbled into view, mud-streaked and wide-eyed. Alone. He didn’t see you at first, his eyes were locked on her. “Where is he?” Katniss asked, staggering upright. “Where’s Peeta?”

“I— I can’t find—,” Finnick said, voice breaking. She lifted her bow, and you knew without a doubt that she was aiming to kill.

“Katniss,” you rasped, but she was already moving, arrow nocked, drawn, aimed directly at Finnick’s chest.

“You lied,” she whispered. “All of you.”

“Katniss,” Finnick said, stepping closer, his voice desperate as he see’s you on the ground. “Remember who the real enemy is.”

The words hung in the air like a spark. Katniss turned slightly, her eyes catching yours, raw, broken, but suddenly… clear. She looked up. The wire still glinted in the branches, barely attached now, swaying with the wind. The lightning was coming again. You saw it in her eyes before she moved.

She turned, lifted the bow to the canopy, and fired.

The arrow soared upward, arcing beautifully through the night, trailing the end of Beetee’s wire behind it.

The moment it struck the point of impact, lightning hit.

A blinding white explosion tore across the sky, and the sound that followed wasn’t thunder. It was the arena’s death rattle.

The sky cracked open. The force field shattered, sparks raining down around you. Everything burned electric.

You were weightless for a moment.

Then the world split in two.

—

The world was spinning.

You woke with a gasp, lungs aching like you’d been drowning. Your body jerked upright before your brain could catch up, hands flailing for purchase, heart thudding like a war drum against your ribs.

White walls. Metal ceiling. Cold air. Not the arena.

You scrambled back against the headboard of the medical cot, your bandaged shoulder slamming into the wall. The pain lanced through you, sharp and white-hot, but it was nothing compared to the panic rising in your chest.

“Peeta—?” you rasped. “Finnick? Katniss?”

Nothing but silence.

Then, voices. Muted, through the wall but calm. They’re discussing something. Your breath hitched. You couldn’t tell who they were.

You swung your legs off the cot, wobbling onto bare feet. Everything ached. Your knees buckled for a moment, catching against the cold floor, but you forced yourself up. You had to find the others. You had to find out if they were alive. If you were still alive.

The hallway outside was dim, lit only by the humming overhead fluorescents. The metal floor clanged softly beneath your steps. You leaned against the wall for balance, blinking through the dizziness and panic.

That’s when you heard it.

“…She’s strong. She’ll come around soon.”

The voice was male, low and unfamiliar. You didn’t know that voice. You didn’t recognize it. But he was talking about someone. You?

You stepped closer to the half-open doorway, your heart pounding.

“What matters is she made it out,” Haymitch said. “Barely. She’s lucky. They all are.”

You reached the edge of the doorway, breath shaking, one hand pressed flat to the wall for support.

You pushed the door just wide enough to see…

Finnick. Sitting with his head in his hands, face pale and broken in the center of a room that didn’t feel real. Haymitch stood across from him, arms crossed. Plutarch pored over something on a screen. And there, leaning in the corner, was a tall boy you didn’t recognize. Slate-gray shirt, black hair. His eyes flicked to the door just as you stepped inside.

They all turned.

Your legs nearly gave out when you saw Finnick. You didn’t care about the others. Not right then. Just him.

“Finnick—?” He stood instantly.

“You’re awake,” he breathed, and the relief on his face nearly undid you. He crossed the space in three strides, catching you as your knees buckled.

“Where—” your voice cracked. “Where are we? What happened? Where’s Peeta? Johanna?” Finnick’s grip on you tightened for a second, and when he pulled back, his eyes looked hollow.

“They didn’t make it,” he said, voice breaking.

You stared. “What?”

“They were taken,” Plutarch said from behind you. “By the Capitol.” Your world dropped out from under you.

You looked from face to face, Haymitch’s guilt, Finnick’s heartbreak, the stranger’s steady, unreadable stare. You couldn’t breathe.

“Where are we?” you whispered.

“On our way to District 13,” Haymitch said. Your blood ran cold. District 13 doesn’t exist anymore.

“That’s not real,” you croaked.

“It is,” said the stranger. Gale. But you barely heard him.

You were too busy trying to piece it all together: the broken wire, the flash of lightning, the sound of shattering sky, and then nothing.

“You left them,” you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice.

Finnick flinched. You staggered back a step, slipping from his grasp. The look in your eyes was half-broken, half-blazing. The weight of it all, the confusion, the pain, the unanswered questions, came rushing in like a tidal wave.

Haymitch sighed behind you. “They weren’t supposed to be left behind.”

You turned on him. “Then what was supposed to happen?” A silence thickened the room. Plutarch looked away. Gale, whoever he was, stayed quiet.

Haymitch rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking years older. “It was a rescue mission,” he muttered. “A rebel extraction. Beetee’s wire, the tree, the lightning, it was all part of the plan. We were breaking you out. Getting Katniss, and you, out of the arena alive.”

Your stomach turned. “What?”

“We had people on the inside,” Haymitch went on, nodding toward Finnick. “Johanna. Beetee. Finnick.” You froze. Your eyes snapped back to him.

“I knew it. I knew you were hiding something from me.” The anger is visible on your face. You’re seething, upset at how he kept this from you.

Finnick’s mouth opened, then closed again. His shoulders dropped, like the truth was a weight he couldn’t carry anymore.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t safe.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “Safe? You think this was safe?” Your voice cracked as you took another step back from him. “I asked you. I begged you to tell me what was going on, and you lied. Every time.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he said, and the way he said it, so full of guilt, so desperately gentle, made your chest ache worse than the wound on your shoulder.

“By keeping me in the dark?” you snapped. “By letting me think I was losing my mind while you and Johanna shared your little looks and coded glances and I was just, what? Dead weight?”

His jaw tightened. “You’re not—”

“I wasn’t prepared, Finnick!” you shouted, voice ringing off the metal walls. “I didn’t know what was happening! I thought Johanna was going to kill us!”

“She wasn’t.”

“You don’t know that!” you screamed. “You weren’t there. You left. You left me. You left Peeta, and you left Jo.” He stepped toward you again, but you backed away, shaking.

“I would’ve gone back for him,” he said, eyes glassy. “I tried. But they pulled me out before I could—”

“And now they’re gone.” The words landed like a blade. You could see it on his face, how much it cut him to hear you say it.

You turned to Haymitch, voice lower now, trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me? Any of you?” Haymitch just looked at you, and for once, he didn’t have a snide comeback. He just looked tired.

“Because knowing would’ve made you a target,” he said. “The Capitol watches everything. We had to keep it quiet. Even from you.”

“And Peeta and Katniss?” You raised an eyebrow, voice cold. Daring him to lie again.

He nodded slowly, no words spoken. A silent confirmation. A heavy, guilty weight in the air. The panic inside you boiled over. You stumbled backward, vision blurring, chest tight like it was going to explode. Finnick reached out, but you didn’t want his touch.

The room spun, hot and suffocating. Without thinking, your fists balled tight and slammed hard against Finnick’s chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you yelled, voice cracking. “Why him? Why Peeta? Why Johanna? Why did you have to leave me in the dark?”

Finnick caught you by the arms, his face pained, but you wrenched away. “You think it was easy?” he said quietly. “I wanted to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” You shook your head, tears burning your eyes. “I trusted you. I trusted all of you.”

Your scream had already ripped through the halls long before Katniss pushed the door open. The sound was raw and jagged, everything you were feeling spilled out with no filter, no control. She stepped inside cautiously, fragile, eyes wide but haunted. You caught her gaze flicker to Gale, a quick, silent exchange you barely understood, like they shared a past you didn’t.

Then she asked, soft, almost broken, but desperate, “Where’s Peeta?” The room froze, the question slicing through the heavy silence like a knife. Haymitch cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice, but before he could speak, your rage exploded:

“The Capitol took him. They left him behind in the arena, and the Capitol took him.”

The words slammed down, brutal and unforgiving. Katniss’s breath hitched sharply. For a moment, she looked like she might crumble into herself, blank, stunned, as if the world had just cracked beneath her feet.

Then the storm broke.

Her body went rigid. Fists clenched tight, trembling so fiercely you could almost hear the shattering inside her. And then, like a dam bursting, she punched the wall, once, twice, her knuckles striking cold plaster with a sound sharp and jagged.

She screamed then, not words, just pure, desperate fury.

She slammed a fist down on the table, the crash echoing through the room, then spun on her heel, pacing like a wild animal trapped. Her breath came fast, shallow, as tears spilled down her cheeks unchecked, raw grief and rage coiling inside her like venom.

She didn’t speak anymore. No words could capture the depth of that pain. Only those violent, shuddering breaths and the wild beating of her fists against anything she could reach.

You watched, heart hammering, a storm of bitterness rising in your chest. When Haymitch moved forward with a syringe, urgency in his eyes, you stepped forward, voice sharp as steel. “No.” But exhaustion was crushing her body. The needle slipped in, and her thrashing slowed.

Her heavy lids fluttered closed. She sank into the chair, fragile and broken, but you could feel the fire still smoldering beneath that quiet calm. You stood frozen for a moment, your chest tight with rage and helplessness.

Without a word, you turned away. Finnick reached out slowly, a silent plea in his eyes. You slapped his hand away before he could touch you, cold and hard.

No words were said. No apologies. Only silence.

—

Time passed differently in District 13. It was sterile and cold, humming with artificial light and muffled orders barked down clean white corridors. There were no windows, no sunrise to count days by, only the low, constant ache of something unfinished. Something broken.

Katniss had been sedated. Not just that day, but more than once since. You caught glimpses of her sometimes, in the medical wing, in the cafeteria, in passing between mission briefings she hadn’t agreed to. Her edges were sharper now. Brittle. Unreadable. You hadn’t said a word to her since that moment in the room.

You hadn’t said a word to anyone.

Except when it was required, when some sharp-eyed soldier asked for your name, or your clearance, or your participation in another round of “reintegration” exercises. You nodded. Gave what was needed. Then vanished.

Most days, you spent in your bunk, staring at the ceiling. Nights were worse, your mind spun like a storm, and the silence around you felt more oppressive than even the arena’s danger. At least there, you had purpose. At least there, Finnick had looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him sane.

Now… he didn’t look at all. Not since that day. Not since you slapped his hand away and walked out of the room with your spine locked straight and your heart falling apart behind it.

But he’d started sitting near you again. Not speaking. Not reaching.

Just sitting.

In the cafeteria. In the training rooms. On the edge of your bunk while you pretended to sleep. Sometimes you opened your eyes just a sliver and watched him. The guilt on his face wasn’t performative. It wasn’t strategic. It was… deep. Worn like a second skin. His eyes were hollow most days, ringed with dark shadows that hadn’t been there before the arena. Before Mags. Before the Capitol took everything back again.

He was unraveling. Quietly. Slowly.

You told yourself not to care. Told yourself he deserved it.

But the longer the silence stretched, the more your chest hurt from holding it all in.

And then, one night, when the halls were quiet and the world felt too heavy, you didn’t send him away when he entered. You didn’t speak either. But you sat up, legs crossed, back to the cold wall of your dormitory. And you looked at him.

That was enough. He sat down at the edge of your cot again, slower this time. Careful. And then, for the first time in weeks, his voice cracked the silence.

“I never wanted to lie to you.”

You didn’t reply, but your chest ached from just the sound of his voice.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was holding himself together. “I was going to tell you. After I heard the Quarter Quell announcement. I had this plan in my head, how I’d say it, when, where. I thought… I thought we’d have time.”

You looked at him. Watched his jaw tighten as he exhaled.

“But then Snow found out we were close. Closer than he liked. I was… a liability.” His voice dropped. “So he reminded me of what I owed.”

And just like that, the air felt thinner.

You didn’t speak, but your mind stirred with images you hadn’t let yourself remember in days, his lips brushing yours in a dark Capitol corridor, back when the walls had ears and time was always running out. That desperate kiss he gave you when he could hear footsteps approaching. When he would whisper “I’ll find you”, low in your ear during a party, letting you know it was time for you two to slip away for a moment. Like it was a promise threaded with panic. The way your fingers used to thread through his hair when he couldn’t sleep, the weight of your hand grounding him in a world where nothing else made sense.

You blinked, hard. Tried to breathe past the memory of your hands brushing his face with your nails in the arena.

“I pulled away because I had to,” he said eventually. “Because if I didn’t, he’d use you too. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

You closed your eyes. You’d told yourself that before. Replayed it over and over, that maybe there was a reason. But hearing it, hearing the brokenness in his voice, it made it harder to hold onto the anger like a shield.

“You should’ve told me anyway,” you whispered finally.

“I know.”

He didn’t justify it. Didn’t reach for your hand. Just sat there, letting the weight of it all linger in the space between you.

“You were part of it all,” you said quietly. “The rebellion. The plan. The escape. And I was just… collateral.”

His eyes snapped to yours at that, pain flickering in them. “You were never collateral.”

“Then why didn’t anyone trust me?”

He swallowed hard. “They didn’t trust anyone. Not really. Haymitch. Plutarch, they were trying to keep it airtight. Too many risks. Too many mouths.”

“But not yours?” you asked, bitterly.

He looked away.

“I made them promise you’d be rescued,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That no matter what happened, someone would get you out. That you’d survive.” You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.

“I know it doesn’t make up for it,” he added. “I know you were scared and angry and alone and I wasn’t there. But I was trying. I was always trying.” Your hand had curled into a fist in your lap without you noticing.

“There were days in the Capitol I thought I’d break,” he continued. “Nights I came back from… those rooms… and the only thing that kept me from putting a knife in my own chest was the thought of you. Your voice. Your laugh. The way you used to make me forget, even just for a few hours, that I was a thing being sold.”

You remembered those hours, too. The secret ones. The ones stolen in silence, when you’d both pretended the Capitol wasn’t watching. When he kissed you like you were the only real thing left.

He glanced at you, then looked away like he wasn’t sure he deserved to. “Snow didn’t just use me. He broke me in pieces. And every time I started to find a way back to myself, he found new ways to remind me who was in control.”

“And now?” you asked, not because you didn’t know, but because you needed him to say it.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I’m still trying to remember who I am,” he said. “Without the arena. Without Snow. Without the guilt.”

You looked at him, really looked. His eyes were glassy but unblinking, his shoulders tense beneath the threadbare fabric of his borrowed District 13 uniform.

He looked tired. Older. Like someone who had been cracked open and hadn’t quite healed shut again.

You didn’t forgive him. Not completely. But you understood. And sometimes, that was the beginning of forgiveness.

You moved slowly, cautiously, until your shoulder brushed his. He froze. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to breathe. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t reach for him.

But you didn’t move away either.

And in a place like District 13, where there was no sun, no softness, no mercy, that meant everything.

—

One week later

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, casting a cold, antiseptic glow across the concrete floor. Everything in District 13 feels the same, gray, controlled, stripped of softness. The training room is no exception. Even the punching bags feel muted, the sound of fists against canvas lost in the suffocating quiet.

You’re already on the mat, lacing up your boots, when the door hisses open behind you.

You don’t have to look to know who it is.

Coin’s directive had come down without ceremony: all victors are to remain in prime physical condition. Appearances must be maintained. The rebellion needs its faces, its fighters, its survivors, whether or not they still feel like any of those things.

You’d obeyed the order silently, showing up each morning without protest. You expected to train alone.

But they paired you with him.

Finnick.

You keep your eyes fixed on the laces in your hands, but your chest tightens all the same. His footsteps are quieter than they used to be. Careful. Hesitant. You wonder if he expects you to turn away again.

You don’t.

He walks past you toward the rack of spears and practice blades. For a moment, there’s only the sound of his fingers brushing metal. Then, “You’re early,” he says.

You don’t answer right away. You finish tying the last knot in your boot and stand slowly, stretching out your shoulders, rolling your wrists.

“So are you,” you murmur.

He glances back at you. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes linger. He looks tired. Hollow in the way only you would notice, like someone still waking from a nightmare, unsure if they’re truly safe.

The mat between you feels wider than it is.

The last time you’d really spoken was a week ago. The night he told you everything.

You’d sat together in the dim dormitory light, knees almost touching. His voice was quiet, his eyes never quite meeting yours, and still he poured it all out. What Snow had done. What he’d been forced to give. Why he pushed you away, and why he hadn’t told you about the rebel plot.

You hadn’t forgiven him.

But you’d stayed. That soft moment rests somewhere in your chest now, tender, but still aching.

You both stand in silence for a long moment.

Then, without looking at you, Finnick says, “Coin said we’d be rotating drills today. Weapons first.”

You nod.

“Fine.”

You pick up a staff and step onto the center mat, posture straight, expression blank. He joins you a beat later, his gaze flicking to your grip, the way you position your feet, like he remembers every time you sparred in training before the quarter quell.

There’s no smile. No small talk. Just the quiet weight of two people circling the same truth but not yet touching it. You shift your stance.

“Ready?” you ask.

His eyes find yours.

“For you? Always.”

You arch a brow, smirking despite yourself. “Are you flirting or fighting now?”

His lips twitch, a ghost of his old grin. “Take a guess.” You look away, for a moment, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks before you meet his gaze again, your face unreadable.

And the first strike echoes across the mat.

The clash of your staffs rings sharp and sudden in the stillness, cutting through the quiet like a flash of lightning. You move instinctively, muscles remembering the rhythm of this dance, the ebb and flow you and Finnick had perfected in training before the war, before the games had shattered everything.

His stance is familiar, fluid and confident, but there’s something softer in the way his eyes search yours now, like he’s looking for permission, or forgiveness, or something you’re not ready to name.

You block his strike, feeling the heat of the impact vibrate through your arms. His breath is steady, but you catch a faint hitch, a reminder of the times you’d teased him, how his steady composure could crack with the right touch, the right word.

A flash of memory strikes, your fingers tangled in his damp, sea-salt hair after a long day in the arena, the whispered promises that had never needed to be spoken aloud. The way he traced the line of your jaw with a thumb, a touch so light it felt like a secret between just the two of you.

You falter for a fraction of a second, just enough for him to press an advantage, spinning you gently to the side. But instead of following through, he lets you go, eyes flickering with something almost shy.

“Not holding back anymore,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, bittersweet smile.

Your pulse quickens, the old ache rising again, hope and fear tangled together, fragile and raw.

You plant your feet firmly, meeting his gaze. “Neither am I.”

The room feels smaller now, the distance between you shrinking with every movement. The past isn’t gone; it’s wrapped around you both, woven into each strike, each breath.

And somewhere beneath the tension, beneath the anger and the pain, trust begins to seep through the cracks.

—

Weeks passed in the quiet tension of waiting, until finally news came: a rescue team, led by Gale and a small, fierce band of rebels, had breached the Capitol’s defenses and brought Johanna and Peeta back to District 13.

But the victory was bittersweet. Peeta returned a shell of himself, his mind shattered, tangled in the horrors he endured. He looked at Katniss with fear and confusion, mistaking her for a mutt, a creature bred to kill. The sight of him, broken and lost, crushed something inside Katniss, her pain deepening in a way that silenced even her fiery spirit.

The compound buzzed with cautious relief, but the tension was thick during meals. Conversations stumbled and faltered around the tables, eyes darting away from Peeta’s vacant stares and Johanna’s quiet, guarded presence.

You and Finnick had begun to find each other again, slowly reclaiming a space side by side. Lunches became less lonely, your elbows brushing occasionally, tentative smiles exchanged amid the quiet chaos.

It wasn’t perfect, far from it. But in the fractured silence, in the shared looks and small touches, there was a beginning.

—

Lunch had become a small but steady routine, you, Finnick, Gale, and Katniss sharing a table in the mess hall, while Peeta was still confined to a guarded room and Johanna rested in the medical center. The space between you all was slowly shrinking, the tension easing just enough to allow for moments of normalcy.

Today, the conversation between you and Gale had drifted to something light, a silly debate over whether the stew was better cold or hot, and who could endure the mess hall fare longer without complaint. His easy laughter was almost a balm.

Finnick set next to you, Katniss by Gale, both of them finishing their meals but keeping half an ear on the playful back-and-forth. There was a tentative ease between all of you now, a fragile bridge after the storm.

Gale leaned in with a grin, voice low and teasing, “Well, if you’re not going to admit I’m right, I guess I’ll just have to keep trying to win you over, one stubborn meal at a time.” The words hung there, light but unmistakably flirty, with a hint of challenge.

Finnick’s brows lifted in surprise, a flash of something sharp and protective crossing his eyes. Katniss’s gaze narrowed slightly, an unreadable expression flickering on her face.

You blinked, caught off guard but amused, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Finnick cleared his throat quietly, a warning laced in the tone. “Careful, Gale.”

Katniss shook her head softly, the faintest smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

Lunch wasn’t just about the food anymore. It was about quiet reconnections, fragile trust, and the subtle shifting currents between you all, even as Peeta and Johanna faced their own battles behind closed doors.

—

The clatter and murmur of the cafeteria had faded hours ago, but the weight of the day still settled heavy in your chest. After eating with Katniss, Finnick, and Gale, you’d excused yourself, needing space, needing to untangle the knot of thoughts and feelings twisting inside you.

You found yourself in the common room, a sparse space where a few scattered victors sat quietly, lost in their own worlds. The harsh fluorescent lights did little to ease the heaviness that sat on your shoulders. You sank into a worn chair by the window, staring out through the reinforced glass into the dim corridors of District 13, the sterile walls reflecting the pale glow of the lights.

Your mind was a jumble, memories and regrets mixing with a cautious hope. The slow rebuilding with Finnick, the letter, the brief flashes of affection and familiarity that haunted your days since arriving here. Yet, underneath it all, there was a wall—a careful, guarded thing you built around your heart to keep from breaking again.

The soft scrape of footsteps pulled you from your reverie before you could sink too deep. Gale appeared quietly, his presence surprisingly gentle. He paused a few feet away, clearly hesitant but deciding to approach.

You looked up, startled. “Gale,” you said softly, managing a small smile.

He took a tentative step closer, settling into the seat beside you without invading your space. “You disappeared after lunch. Thought you might want some company.”

You nodded, thankful for the kindness but wary of how much you wanted to share. “Needed a moment.”

For a beat, there was only silence between you, filled with the hum of the underground base and distant voices echoing from other rooms.

Then, with a careful smile, Gale leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You know, when this war finally ends… maybe we could do something normal. Go somewhere with fresh air, see the sun without fear. Maybe just the two of us.”

His words were light, almost playful, but you caught the subtle hope beneath. Your chest tightened, and heat rushed to your cheeks. The idea of a peaceful future was almost laughably distant, yet his suggestion stirred something fragile inside you.

You swallowed, glancing down at your hands. “That sounds nice,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m… not sure if I can think about that yet.”

Gale’s gaze softened, but there was a flicker of something else, maybe disappointment, maybe understanding. “I get it. This war has a way of stealing normal from us all.”

Your heart ached with the truth in his words, but beneath it, a familiar ache pulsed, for someone else. For Finnick. For what you shared and what you weren’t sure if you had lost.

You gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head, trying to push the feelings down. “I’m glad you’re here though.”

He smiled again, but there was an unspoken tension, a question lingering in the air neither of you dared voice.

—

You step into the training room just as the clocks switch over. Artificial lights hum overhead, painting everything in pale gray. The room is half-empty, quiet save for the low shuffle of movement across the mats. You spot Finnick immediately.

He’s already there, of course. Shirt damp from an early warmup, hair damp at the ends like he’d dunked his head under the sink. The moment your eyes land on him, he looks up. And something in his gaze changes. Sharpens.

You cross the room with careful ease, pulling your gloves tighter over your knuckles. You don’t say anything. Not yet.

But he does.

“Gale seems to be pretty interested in you.”

The words land like a crack of static. Subtle, but charged. Your jaw tenses. You should’ve known this was coming.

“Don’t,” you say, eyes still on your hands. “You know I—“

“Just making an observation.” His tone is light. Too light. But it doesn’t match his stance. His shoulders are too stiff. His expression too composed.

You look at him now. Really look. And you see it.

He’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

You step onto the mat without another word, and the sparring begins. But it’s different today. Every movement feels too sharp, too exact. Your fists move with instinct and buried frustration. His counters are faster than they need to be. Every time your bodies collide, shoulder against shoulder, wrist grazing wrist, it feels like something electric passes between you.

You can’t help it, You think of last night.

Gale’s smirk. His comment about “when the war ends.” The way you’d smiled, just enough to be polite. The blush that rose to your cheeks that you don’t entirely understand the reason for.

“You hit harder today,” Finnick mutters as you land a clean strike to his ribs.

“Maybe you’re just slower,” you shoot back, breathless.

His grin twitches, but doesn’t stay. There’s something else behind his eyes now. Something more unguarded. He circles you again, eyes locked onto yours.

Your bodies keep moving, pivoting, striking, dodging. But the rhythm falters.

Finnick’s tone is too casual when he says it:

“You like him?”

You barely hesitate. A soft scoff escapes, dry and unimpressed. “Thought you’d have better observation skills.”

The words hit like a trigger. And he catches it, recognizes it, remembers it. The phrase you had used during your first conversation with him.

— capitol party, the ending of your victory tour. —

Finnick approached her with a casual confidence that had rarely faltered, but inside, there was something unfamiliar tugging at him, an unspoken curiosity. He’d seen plenty of victors, plenty of Capitol faces playing their parts, but something about her unsettled that easy charm. Maybe it was the way she didn’t look away, the way her eyes held steady instead of darting nervously like most did. Or maybe it was that edge of defiance, sharp and clear, cutting through the polished facade of this place.

He swirled the liquid in his glass, trying to keep the mood light, to test the waters. “Add a death threat or two, and it’s basically just another day at the beach,” he said, half-joking, half-serious.

Her snort startled him, sharp, genuine, unexpected. “You must have very violent beaches,” she shot back, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of something real beneath the surface.

He glanced sideways at her, amused, lips twitching into a smile. “Only on Tuesdays.”

But he wanted to know more. He leaned in, voice softer now. “You don’t actually enjoy this, do you? All the fawning, the fake smiles.”

Her gaze met his without hesitation, steady and unyielding. “Do I look like I’m enjoying it? Thought you’d have better observation skills.”

That line, so simple, so biting, hit him differently. It wasn’t just a retort. It was a challenge. And in that moment, something shifted.

Finnick held her gaze, feeling the usual bravado slipping away, replaced by something more honest and raw. “No,” he admitted, shaking his head slowly. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else. That’s rare here.”

And in that rare moment, Finnick realized she wasn’t just another player in the Capitol’s cruel game. She was real. She was fierce. And maybe, just maybe, she was someone worth knowing.

— present day, training session. —

He shakes his head, seeming to clear something from his thoughts, and he throws a snarky response right back with a flash of that signature grin, too sharp to be playful. “Hm. Forgot how mouthy you get when you’re flirting.”

You pause mid-step, your arm still extended from your last strike. That word, flirting, spikes hot in your chest.

It takes everything not to react.

He used to say things like that all the time, back when things were easier. Back when his hand would linger a little too long at your hip during hidden moments, when his fingers would tangle through your hair just to annoy you, when the two of you were always finding each other in the dark.

You shake your head and reset your stance, jaw tight.

“I was really starting to believe you preferred fighting.”

Finnick’s expression flickers.

“Guess I like both.”

It’s quiet for a beat. Not silence exactly, just the sound of your breath, your heart hammering, the shuffling of your feet against the mat. But beneath it all, something is unraveling.

He lunges. You duck. Parry. Counter. But neither of you are really sparring anymore. Not for Coin. Not for strength. This is something else entirely. A push and pull you’ve both missed, even if neither of you will admit it.

His next strike comes close, deliberate.

You block it, holding his wrist for half a second longer than necessary. Just long enough to feel his pulse.

Neither of you speak again, but the tension stays thick, rooted in everything unsaid.

Because what he really meant wasn’t “do you like Gale?”

What he really meant was “is there still something here?”

And your answer, clear as ever, was:

“You should already know.”

part three will be here soon :)

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