#i feel so crazy when i remember this game

[obaewankenobis]

till forever falls apart; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair x reader (female pronouns, y/n not used)

word count: 10.6k

summary: not quite friends, but not quite lovers; you and finnick odair have been living in a careful balance that always leaves the both of you wanting more. when the third quarter quell arrives, you realize it’s better to be late than never.

warnings: typical hunger games stuff like child murder, forced prostitution, etc... slight mention of like suicidal thoughts but it's brief. smut (fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, i can't remember anything else, pretty vanilla stuff).

notes: there's kind of a lot of plot which i was nawwwt expecting. my bad if you're not into that i guess i know a lot of people look forward to the freaky stuff and it's def not my strong suit so i apologize 😭.

It was a little fucked up, the way you actually looked forward to being summoned to the Capitol.

Yes, they’d tortured your district for generations by killing children for decades upon decades. 

During your games, they starved you, maimed you, and forced you to kill other innocent children when you were just sixteen–a child by any means.

The torture hadn't stopped after the games, either. Even the nightmares were a walk in the park compared to the prostitution that awaited you in the Capitol. The looming threat of your family’s safety being compromised should you dare get any ideas of disobeying. 

So yes, it was a bit crazy to have a smile tug at the corner of your lips when a peacekeeper knocked on your door and told you President Snow had summoned you to the Capitol for the End of Victory Tour celebration. 

The smile, like always, was followed by quiet humming and a little skip in your step as you’d hurried to pack what few possessions actually mattered to you.

The reason for this temporary insanity was simple: whatever despair and destruction the Capitol had thrown at you, they’d also given you something to make up for it, even if it was purely unintentional. The apology came in the form of Finnick, another victor who’d shown you the ropes after you’d been crowned the year after him.

Being from different districts, the only time you were able to see him was when you’d both been called to the Capitol.

Gazing out the window as the station came into view, you sighed and imagined what you’d do upon arriving.

You take in the bright pinks and yellows of the stone streets, the rainbows that glittered against stained glass windows as the sun shone through them. The looming presence of snow-capped mountains provided a dramatic background and suit of armor around the Capitol, a stark contrast from the bright, bubbly city. 

For such an evil, awful place, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Your body had the same reaction it did the first time the train had screeched to a halt: completely frozen in time, so still a breath could not be squeezed from your lungs.

You hated the feelings that overcame you, of such paralyzing fear it made you weak. Hated how your fingers became so shaky it took you several attempts to button up your coat. Hated how your legs were so unsure of themselves you feared you’d collapse if you stood up too suddenly.

All of a sudden you were sixteen again, a terrified  tribute arriving in the Capitol like a lamb for slaughter.

You hated coming back here every six months at the very least — once for the Games, once for the tour, and however many times you were summoned by Capitol citizens. 

The Games were obviously hard–and so was the business you did in the Capitol–but the Victory Tours were a special form of torture. You hated looking at the winner, because they always seemed so lost and terrified, trembling like a lone leaf on a branch as the wind whistled through.

This past year had been a little different — there'd been two Victors this time, and their win sparked something in the districts that you’d never seen in your life. You didn’t hold any hope there would be long lasting change, but you were glad to see this year’s Victors weren’t alone. You wished you could’ve had that.

A gust of wind sweeps through the door as a Capitol attendant opens it, bringing you back to reality, and you force a small smile as the sunlight hits your face.

Waves of bronze hair catches your eye, and it takes everything in you not to jump from the platform and run to greet him.

He’s as beautiful as ever; the sun turning his hair a nice gold. His skin is a little paler and his hair is a little darker, given the winter months, but it’s only noticeable to you because you’ve spent hours running your fingers through it; spent days admiring the way water sluiced off his skin and glistened while he swam. 

You notice him immediately–not just because you’ve been subconsciously searching, but because he’s never greeted you at the station before. It’s then you notice dark circles under his eyes, the way they’re glassy with fatigue, and the rigidness of his posture. Your eyes narrow slightly and you open your mouth to greet him, when his arms open wide in invitation to his embrace. It’s then you know something’s really, really wrong.

Because as much as you care for Finnick, and as much as you know he cares for you, he’s never been so openly affectionate with so many people watching.

It’s part of the agreement you have; around others you’re polite, friendly even, and everything else you actually yearn for is tucked away behind closed doors.

So, when you wrap your arms around his neck, you’re hoping it's brief, because you don’t want to get used to being so close to him in public. And when you begin to pull away, you’re startled to find him gripping you close to his body, lips brushing your ear so he can whisper something without anyone else knowing or overhearing.

“I need you to meet me in my room in half an hour. It’s important. Don’t be late,” he says quietly, urgently, before suddenly releasing you. It doesn’t sound like one of your late night rendezvous, unless he’s wound really tight and that desperate for release — no, this seems far bigger than that.

When he finally leans back, you grasp his forearms and study him, searching for answers in his eyes and only being met with apprehension. 

Forcing a small smile, all you can say is, “It’s good to see you too, Finnick.”

He squeezes your hand in his own for a brief moment before disappearing, leaving you alone with two Capitol attendants who are supposed to just be carrying your bags to your quarters — but you know they’re guards in disguise, making sure you have nowhere to go.

It’s exactly twenty eight minutes later when you appear in front of Finnick’s door, a hand raised to knock when it flies open. 

He’s a little more relaxed, though you can see the tension in the ticking of his jaw and the tight grip he has on the door. Still, the corners of his mouth lift upward in a smile as his eyes land on you. “I was worried you’d be late. Y’know, you’ve never been a very punctual person.”

“I’ve never seen you so high strung before.” You shrug, “Thought I might hurry my ass up for once, in case you had a heart attack.”

He laughs, a lovely melody that makes your insides melt a little whenever you hear it, but you can tell his mind is occupied. “We should get going.”

“Yeah, about that… where exactly are we going?” You ask, though you know deep down you’d follow him anywhere. 

“You’re asking so many questions. You don’t trust me?” He asks teasingly, flashing you a smile, and you’re overwhelmed for a moment because Finnick was like the sun — golden and glowing, blindingly radiant from the smile on his lips down to the tips of his toes.

You do trust him — and as he leads you to an awaiting black car, you reassure yourself that he’s not leading you to your imminent death.

Well, maybe you were wrong. Because the words coming out of Finnick’s mouth–backed by Plutarch Heavensbee of all people–are nothing short of treasonous. And in Panem, treason is inevitably followed by death, or a fate so much worse death seems merciful.

“You’re sure she’s not going to say something?” Plutarch asks, and you think it’s because you haven't said a word since they told you about it all. About District 13, the stirrings of rebellion in the Districts, the plan to escalate into a full scale rebellion with the newest victors from 12 — Katniss and Peeta — being the face of said rebellion.

“No, we can trust her. I promise,” Finnick nudges you with his shoulder, as if urging you to confirm what he’s said.

You look around to the others in the room at the Heavensbee mansion: Beetee Latier from Three, Johanna Mason from Seven, and Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve. They don’t look nearly as surprised as you do, so you suspect you’re one of the last people to be told this news. 

“Yeah— I just… you really think it’ll work?” You cringe as your voice comes out in a dry croak.

“We won’t know unless we try,” Plutarch says, and you wonder why he’s in on whatever this is. He’s just been promoted to Head Gamemaker, and he lives in this mansion that spans the entire street and is packed to the brim with books and priceless art. Surely there’s nothing wrong with his life that would make him want to rebel. “You and Six are the only ones we haven’t talked to… and we need as much unity between the Districts as we can get.”

“Okay,” You say after a moment, willing your voice not to shake. It's less fear and more excitement at the prospect of something better in your future. 

You can hear Finnick’s audible sigh of relief, hear the soft scratch of his chair against the floor as he pushes it back, and feel the softness of his lips against your temple as he kisses you.

You wish he wouldn’t do that. Not because you’re embarrassed that anyone would see it, but because it just serves as a reminder that he’s just out of your reach. Every touch or kiss was on stolen time, and one day, the feeling you got around him would catch up to you in the most devastating way possible.

So, instinctively, you duck down in an attempt to escape him, and try not to notice the slight frown that overtakes his features.

“I’ve kept you all long enough,” Plutarch says in  dismissal, checking his watch. “The victory party is tonight, and I would hate for any of you to miss seeing the little lovebirds.”

“C’mon.” Finnick grabs your hand and tugs you to your feet. “We’ve got to get all prettied up.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff. “I’m perfect just the way I am. You on the other hand…” you look him up and down. “Well, we’d better hurry up.”

He gasps and clutches his chest like he’s been struck. You know he knows it's a joke, because there truly is nothing prettier on this earth than Finnick Odair.

The brief joy you feel when you see Finnick can only last so long.

While they’re not particularly awful, just annoying, looking into the faces of your prep team makes you nauseous. All it does is throw you back to nearly a decade ago when you were a tribute. 

And, sometimes, being constantly reminded of the horrors you endured made you wish you died in that arena. Not all the time, but sometimes.

“Arms up!” Shrills Iris, who resembles a lemon the way she’s dressed head to toe in bright yellow. You obey the command on instinct. Something cool, almost metallic, slides over your body. The dress is made of a thousand tiny silver-white jewels, each rope swishing and clicking against one another when you move. Matching jewelry weighs down your ears and neck, twinkling and making you appear to be a jewel yourself.

“All done!” The woman beams, clapping her hands together and practically shoving you out the door and towards the direction of the car waiting to drive to the President’s mansion.

You’re sure making victors attend every celebration in the Capitol brings Snow a special kind of pleasure. It’s probably the only kind of joy he ever feels in his life, looking at the miserable faces of past tributes and knowing that because of him, their bodies have either been sold to the highest bidder or withered away due to addiction — or sometimes, in the worst cases, both.

You are grateful for the chance to see the newest Victors, though. You want to be in their presence and somehow have them light a spark of hope in you.

“You were right,” a voice behind you says. You turn to see Finnick. 

“What?”

“Earlier,” he continues, his eyes briefly flitting to your dress before returning to your eyes. “You are perfect just the way you are.”

“I—” Stupidly, you can feel a hotness in your cheeks, and know he’s managed to make you blush. He always does that, finds a way to make you stumble over your own words. “Thanks. I think I was right, too.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“You do look so much better all dolled up,” you tease, using this as an excuse to take him all in. He, of course, looks breathtaking, which is a bit annoying because you’ve never seen him be anything less. He’s wearing a seafoam colored shirt that brings out the green in his eyes. It’s nearly see through, mostly where his muscle strains against the fabric. It gives everyone a glimpse of his body you feel honored to have seen up close, but it also makes you feel sad at how obviously he’s being objectified. His trousers are a light linen, and you frown again at how… Well, conservatively he’s dressed, despite the sheerness of the shirt.

“I haven’t seen you this covered up in years, shouldn’t you be practically naked?” You blurt out, and you’re rewarded with another laugh that makes your heart sing.

“If you want to see me naked, sweetheart, all you have to do is ask,” he grins, the tips of his teeth peeking through his lips.

“I meant,” you clear your throat and will the blush in your cheeks to subside, “Normally you’re a lot more… distracting.” Well that doesn’t sound any better now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Distracting, hmm? I’m free in…” He pretends to check the imaginary watch on his wrist. “Just a couple hours, if you are. Your place or mine?”

“Finnick,” you grit your teeth. You know he knows what you mean, and yet he still teases.

“Ye-es,” he replies in an almost sing-song voice before his expression becomes a little more serious. “I’m not supposed to take away from the lovely couple tonight. Apparently I can be a little distracting. Did you know that?” His eyes twinkle with more laughter you’re dying to hear.

“You? Distracting? Never,” you reassure him, patting his chest as you move past, trying not to notice how his eyes linger on you.

You disappear into the crowd, not only in search of a drink, but some different company. You, Finnick, and alcohol were a deadly mix you swore you’d never combine again. Luckily, there's no shortage of people holding trays of drinks, from bubbling champagne to deep red wines, and you quickly pluck a glass of rosé. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed, all you know is that you’ve just finished your third glass and are reaching for a fourth when your stomach starts rumbling. You realize then you haven't eaten since you’d been on the train. It’s not that there wasn’t any food at this party, there was, in fact, an excess, but it was so rich you were worried it would only further upset your already queasy stomach.

The voice that finally made you understand the phrase butterflies in your stomach calls your name, and you can't help but smile as you turn around and see Finnick holding a plate of shrimp drenched in a red sauce, setting it down on the bar in front of you. Your favorite. 

“Thank you!” You can’t contain yourself as you throw your arms around his neck, nearly brought to tears as you think of how delicious the shrimp would be. “I am sooo hungry.”

Finnick doesn’t even budge at the force of you throwing your weight towards him;he probably knew you were going to do that, just as he knew you hadn’t eaten. He knew you eerily well, Observing you must take up a lot of his time. “I figured you could use a break between all that wine.”

You smell the alcohol on his breath and know he's been doing his fair share of drinking, but that’s not the only indicator — the touching becomes almost second nature when he’s got enough alcohol in him. 

Although you’ve pulled away from him, his fingers curl around your waist to keep you in front of him, his thumb drawing circles on the small of your back. You can feel his chest pressed against your back, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as you lean into him. He’s a sturdy and comforting presence behind you. You tell yourself as you lean back that it’s to steady your feet, but you know deep down you long to feel his skin against yours, and you’re too drunk to think about the consequences of people seeing you.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” he whispers, and you suppress a shudder at the tingles that erupt up and down your whole body, starting where his lips touched your ear.

“We haven't even seen Katniss or Peeta yet.” You hate how breathless your voice has become as his hand trails down to rest on your hip.

“I was being serious earlier, you know,” he says, and you're so close to him you can hear his heart race. Why would he be nervous to ask you to come over? It was casual, you were friends. Friends who helped each other out sometimes, but friends above everything. Being anything more terrified you.

“Really?” You pretend not to notice the pounding of his heart or the sharp intake of his breath. “Mine or yours?” It's funny to pretend either of you really have a place here — the training center’s living quarters hardly count as home.

“Mmm, we can decide later,” he says, suddenly pulling away. Cold air nips where his body once stood, and you’re thinking he’s finally come to his senses about being so handsy in public, but then he’s dragging you to the tile platform where people are dancing, and he’s sweeping you into his arms. 

The shrimp is long forgotten, as is the grumbling of your stomach. It’s too busy forming knots as you sway.

“You didn't even ask if I wanted to dance,” you smile, one hand instinctively going to Finnick’s shoulder while the other grasps one of his. His free hand rests on your lower back.

“Do you want to dance?” He drinks in the sight of you, savoring how close you’ve become.

“Yes,” your voice is barely above a whisper. The music is slow and soulful, and all you can do is stare at one another.

“Good,” he says, but you’re not sure how good this really is.

There was a reason you’d created rules for this whole… arrangement in the first place. You drew a hard line in the sand that Finnick kept trying to cross.

When Snow first told you what happened to desirable victors, you hadn’t believed him. And then, two days later, your boyfriend wound up dead. A freak accident at the power plant, they’d said, but you knew. Deep down you knew the timing was too close to be a coincidence, that Snow really did mean what he’d said about everyone you loved dying if you didn't comply.

You were terrified of the same thing happening to Finnick, so much so it was the only recurring nightmare that occupied your brain.

He’d been the one to suggest it be nothing more than just sex, though, probably for the same reasons that had held you back from asking for anything more. And, yeah, that should’ve been what you wanted, but you could admit to yourself that you were a hypocrite. For wanting all the good parts of him, but not the danger that came with it. For wanting him to be able to look past his own fears and want more from you, but not being willing to do the same. 

“When should we leave?” Your palms have grown sweaty at the unspoken desires racing through your brain, so you use it as an excuse to disentangle your arms from his body and rearrange them to clasp around the back of his neck.

To steady yourself, of course.

Now, both of his hands are on your hips and he draws you even closer so that you’re chest to chest, so close your breaths become one.

“Not yet.” His voice is soft, even pleading. “One more song.”

Upon closer inspection you find he’s tipsy, but not drunk. He’s a little looser but still of a sound mind, which is why it’s even more terrifying to look at him, because you can't think of a time where the two of you have acted like this fully sober. Neither of you are under the influence of drugs, or alcohol, or even overwhelming emotion that would make you do crazy things. Except the morning after the first time.

The sexual attraction had always been there, but the first time either of you acted on it had been after a particularly wild night that left the both of you to fill in the blanks as you woke up next to him, naked in your bed.

“I’m so sorry — so so sorry! Things got so out of control last night, it was a mistake,” you’d said hastily before he could say the same. You’d rather not be rejected when your head was pounding and you’d felt so sick. You’d clutched the sheets tight to your chest, suddenly self conscious by how bare you were.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he'd said it so casually you thought you'd misheard him at first. You probably looked as confused as you were, because he continued, “ It doesn’t have to be a mistake. I like you, I like… this,” he gestured to the two of you, and when you said nothing, he added hurriedly, “It doesn’t have to be anything. Actually, forget I even said—”

You'd cut him off with a kiss, and had fallen back against the silk sheets with the intention to burn every inch of him to memory, since you couldn’t remember the previous night and cursed yourself for it.

“Hello-ooo,” Finnick’s voice tore you back to reality. “Did you even hear what I said? The song’s over, we can leave now.”

You don’t really want to leave, but you suppose it’s for the best, so you nod and let him lead you to one of the many black cars that sit outside the President’s mansion. One designated for the tributes and victors that only drove to and from the training center. 

Finnick wishes he could read your mind, especially when you get that glazed over look in your eye, the one that signals you were in a land far away from here.

All night, he’d wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked. 

Glittery, silver eyeshadow made it look like your eyes were really sparkling when you looked at him. In a dress that was tailored to fit you just right, hugging you in all the right places and flowing down to your ankles, yet somehow leaving a tantalizing amount of bare skin exposed.

Your smile completed everything, though. The way it met your eyes when you saw him across the room… he’d do just about anything to make sure you’d smile at him like that again.

When he’d led you to the dance floor in the gardens, it’d been for his own selfish reasons. Not just that he wanted an excuse to hold you close to him, but because he knew you’d look exquisite against the night sky littered with stars. The moon bathed you in a softness that made you glitter and glow, every beam that struck your figure only further highlighting your beauty until he was certain you were from another world entirely.

He’d especially wanted to tell you how you looked then. But like the rest of the night, whenever he opened his mouth, his mouth went dry and his tongue became stuck in the back of his throat, forcing him into silence.

You might think he was the sun, but he thought you were the moon.

He looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky every night just for him.

If only you were willing to see it, instead of whatever twisted reality you’d decided was the truth.

He feels like he’s in somewhat of a daze as he leads you to the car, feels out of his body when the two of you push past his door in a tangled mess of hands and teeth and tongue. 

It’s rough and fast and everything he’s not feeling as your lips attach to different spots on his neck and suck hard enough to leave marks. When he’s sure there’s not a spot left untouched by you, he begins to return every bruising kiss you’ve left with some of his own with enough force to match. His lips detach from yours and dip down to your neck, your chest, until he’s biting at your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth with a hunger he hasn’t felt in so long.

He wants to feel you, taste you, hear you — he wants his whole being to be consumed by you. He removes his mouth to continue his kisses down your body, relishing in the soft moans he manages to elicit from you and committing every sound to memory, like he’s never going to get this opportunity again. He kisses between your breasts, down your stomach, and purposely skips past where he’s sure you want him most before settling his lips on your inner thighs, his kisses turning almost lazy.

He wants to continue this slow pace, like you have all the time in the world, but that’s just not how the two of you do things 

It’s not a show, or even a display of real passion — no, it’s just two pathetic people making the best out of a lousy situation, acting like physical pleasure will somehow cure the constant ache of your hearts.

He fears the sweetness he seeks from you is souring at that realization.

It’s not that he doesn’t want this. Oh no, he’s been thinking about this since the moment he saw you in that dress and measured how difficult it would be to take it off. Actually, if he was being completely honest with himself, he’d been thinking about this the moment he saw you step off the train platform.

It’s that he wants all of this and more, but he’s not sure how to go about it. It’s not like they’re being totally subtle, but if Snow found out… he’d likely use it against both of you. You’d be just another thing for Snow to hold over his head, another person for him to worry about, and Snow would probably do the same to you.

So maybe, if Finnick continued pretending this was nothing more than casual sex and you were nothing more than a good friend, Snow would be convinced too. 

“Finnick,” you’re breathless beneath him. “What’s wrong? You sort of spaced out for a sec… we can stop if you want.”

No, he doesn’t want to stop, but it’s probably the first time he’s ever been asked that. 

He shakes his head, both to answer you and to clear his head, and leans over to kiss you again. 

He’s glad you don’t press it further, not as his tongue finally laps at your clit and elicits a loud gasp from you that gives him the self satisfaction to continue.

Your fingers card through his hair and pull instinctively when he adds his fingers. Now it’s his turn to moan, and the vibrations make you shudder.

All this does is spur him on, wanting to hear the little moans and whimpers from you that he’s grown so familiar with. They only make him harder to the point where it’s almost painful, but it does nothing to slow him as he continues flicking and swirling his tongue. In fact it has the opposite effect, he only becomes more earnest and determined in his efforts.

When he adds a finger he feels a sharp tug at his roots and knows he’s doing the right things.

Since that very first night, Finnick Odair had thought you were too good to be true and too easy to slip through his fingers. So he made it his mission to commit you to memory, treating every encounter like it would be the last one. As a result, he knows every sensitive spot you have, every noise you make and what they mean.

When he gently sucks on your clit and lets his teeth graze it, he knows it’s only a matter of minutes before you become undone. Your hips buck towards him, begging for more, and he obliges with sliding in another finger.

He detaches his mouth for a second so he can soak up the memory of you like this. Your head is thrown back against the pillow and your hair strewn in every direction. A faint sheen of sweat has appeared on your face as you pant, eyes are screwed shut with pleasure.

You’re so beautiful he cursed himself for stopping, even for a moment. At that moment, he doesn’t care about his own pleasure, all he can think about when he closes his eyes and returns his mouth is the image of you.

You’re together when the theme of the Quarter Quell is announced.

The day starts out normal enough. You both have your… clients to attend to, but when Finnick walks through the doors of the apartment you’d been given to share with several other Victors who were bought by the Capitol, you can push the awfulness of the day aside to soak up as much of him as you can before one of you is sent back to your district.

When he suggests a shower, the horrors of the past few hours are washed down the drain when the hot water pours over you. It’s so hot that Finnick begins to complain that he’s starting to feel — and look — like a lobster being boiled alive.

“But now I’m cold,” you whine with your back to him, clattering your teeth together for dramatic effect.

“Really?” He’s inched closer, and suddenly you’re not shivering from the cold.

He is all consuming.

When you emerge from the shower you find your fingers pruney and the mirrors all fogged up — you've been in there far too long.

The two of you finally separate to get ready for bed, and when you finally slide into the bed next to Finnick, his arm instinctively goes around your shoulders. 

He’s flicking through different Capitol channels that are all different forms of mind numbing torture, before landing on the official news station where Snow is about to read from a card announcing the twist of the Third Quarter Quell.

“Oh! Wait, stop here, I forgot they were announcing it today,�� you say.

“I don’t think it matters that much,” Finnick’s expression is sour, but he doesn’t turn the television off. “It’ll be just as difficult to mentor as any of the other Games.”

“I don’t know… I mean, I couldn’t even imagine trying to train two extra tributes,” you muse, thinking about the last Quell, and almost miss what Snow says next.

In the next moment, you almost wish you had missed it.

“...shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

The two of you have vastly different reactions. Finnick immediately springs up from the bed and begins to pace, only stopping when he hears the sound of strangled sobs fighting their way past your lips. 

In an instant he’s next to you, wrapping both his arms around you and tugging you close to his chest. “It’ll be okay,” he tries to soothe, but his own voice is shaky and you suspect the embrace is meant to comfort him just as much as it is you.

I’ve wasted so much time, you realize, and the awful, choked noises you make turn into something so much worse.

You begin to weep, utterly defeated. There’s no fight left in you, and that’s why it’s worse than the short cries, or even hot, angry tears. Realizing the past nine years of torture hadn’t been worth it, and you really should have died in that arena. It would’ve been so much more merciful than whatever this was.

You’re the only living female victor from your district, there’s no hope for you. Finnick, at least, has a chance at not being reaped at all.

“We’ll figure something out,” Finnick continues. “You know… with everything that’s been going on.”

His reference, although vague, makes you think long enough that your cries have paused. Plutarch and Thirteen, you realize. Surely they would be scrambling to come up with a plan right now, because how could Katniss — their beloved Mockingjay — perform for them if she died in another arena? But saving her didn’t leave much room for the rest of you.

“You’re right,” you force out even if you don’t believe him, because you don’t want his calm demeanor to disappear. If he starts to panic you’re sure you’ll lose it completely.

“We should get to bed,” he says abruptly. “I think we’ll have somewhere to be tomorrow.”

There are three of you victors gathered around the dining table in Plutarch’s mansion with him. You, Finnick, and Beetee. You know there are more victors in on it, but you three are the only ones currently in the Capitol, and nobody wants to waste any time. When everyone else arrives for the games, whether as a mentor or tribute, they’ll be informed.

“We have a military, we have political unrest, and we have our symbol. We have everything we need to make this work. Do you know how rare this is?” Plutarch laments. “Thirteen has hovercrafts, so we’ll have a way to get you all out if we can figure out how to work around the forcefield.”

“Which is easier said than done,” Beetee adds. You’re not sure how to feel about him — he’s incredibly intelligent, that’s for sure. He’s such a genius you feel out of place in this discussion, because what could you possibly have to add when he could solve basically anything? 

He carries himself with such palpable sadness, though. His shoulders are always hunched like they’re physically weighed down with emotion, and you’ve never seen him without deep circles under his eyes.

“Can’t you just turn them off?” Finnick asks, turning to Plutarch, “You’re the head gamemaker.”

“I wish it was that easy, but it won’t work,” Plutarch shakes his head. “It’ll give Snow too much of a warning, we need it to be so sudden he’s left scrambling.”

“We have to blow it up,” Beetee squints his eyes, deep in thought. 

“Tell me what supplies you need and I’ll make sure they’re in the Cornucopia,” Plutarch promises. “But do you know how to do that? Can you figure it out?”

“It’s Beetee,” Finnick insists, “Of course he can.”

Beetee brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head. “It will require a lot…” he pauses at an odd place in the conversation, a habit of his you’ve picked up on, “... of calculations.”

“I could probably help with that,” you interject yourself into the conversation for the first time. “With the calculations, I mean. We do a lot of stuff like that at the power plants in Five.”

Plutarch breaks into a smile while Beetee nods his head slowly. “Excellent. Tell me what numbers you need, and I’ll get them for you.”

You nod earnestly, your chest swelling with a mix of emotions you haven’t felt in forever: confidence, pride, and hope. Like it isn’t just the talk of four lunatics around the dinner table, but a feasible option. A better future for Panem was being dangled above your head, just out of reach.

By the time you see Finnick again, that hope has been completely squashed in all the fuss of the week.

Right now, you’re both just tributes changing out of the ridiculous costumes you’d donned during the opening ceremony.

You’re not talking to him though, not after you saw him cozying up to Katniss Everdeen in nothing but a knotted golden net.

Rationally, you know you’re being a little ridiculous. The net isn’t his choice, it’s his stylist’s angle to get him sponsors. And he’s talking to Katniss in that awful persona he takes on when he’s in the Capitol, the personality everyone expects him to have.

Still, bile rises in your throat at the sight of them.

Trying to slip away unnoticed, though, proved to be difficult due to your illuminated costume shining bright against the evening sky. At least your stylist tried to make your outfit unique this time, dressing you up as lightning to represent Five’s industry of power. It’s still a poor imitation of Twelve’s fire costumes though, because they blow everyone else’s outfits out of the water with no competition.

You hear Finnick call your name as you hurry towards the tribute center and ignore him. You reach the elevator alone and turn around quickly, only to see Finnick standing as the doors closed on him.

Well, almost closing. A hand jutted through the elevator doors and forced them open again, revealing Finnick in all his glory — he hadn’t changed out of the net.

“Almost thought you were trying to avoid the pleasure of my company, honey.” His voice is annoyed and the nickname is not endearing but patronizing.

“Why don’t you go ask Katniss to keep you company?” You didn’t want to say anything, because really it’s irrational to think anything could be going on between him and Katniss, which just means that you look like a jealous fool and nothing else. But seeing him with someone so strong and sure of herself, the complete opposite of you, made you realize how quickly Finnick could slip through your fingers. He was so easy to lose.

“Sweetheart…” he begins, and you can tell he’s trying not to sound too amused, “The whole reason she’s in this mess is because she’s with Peeta. And… she’s seventeen. She’s a kid.”

Both good points, which only annoys you even further because it just proves you have no reason to feel the way you do. “Whatever,” you scoff, turning away from him and wondering how much longer this elevator is going to take. Please, let it be done.

It’s like someone’s answered your pleas because the door rings at the level four and it’s Finnick’s cue to steps off. “By the way,” he says over his shoulder. “I didn't know you were the jealous type. It’s cute.”

The door shuts before you have the chance to retort.

In training, it’s hard to do anything at all. The only things flashing in your mind are the faces of the tributes in your games and the tributes you failed to train. All of whom have been dead at least a year, but they haunt you just as much as they did on the first day. 

You’d gotten so close last year. Finch — a clever, redheaded girl — had made it to the final four before she’d died. It was the closest any of your tributes had gotten to victory since you’d been crowned.

She haunts you the most, the way she was little more than skin and bones by the time she died. A direct failure on your part; everyone had been rooting for the star crossed lovers or the stereotypical career from Two that they’d overlooked your tribute, no matter how hard you’d advocated for her and practically begged for sponsors.

“You alright?” Finnick sidles up beside you, holding a thick rope in his hand that’s tied suspiciously like a noose.

“Yep!” You force out a more cheery tone than you’d wished, and cringed at how sharp and on the verge of a breakdown you sounded. “I’m going to help Johanna out.”

Johanna Mason did not need help. She was throwing axes at one of the weapons stations when you popped up behind her and forced out a greeting.

She gives a little shriek and drops the axe dangerously close to her toes. “You see a girl with an axe in her hand and decide to jump her?” She seethes, “Do not do that! Or it’ll drop on your toes next time!”

Her words are furious, but you know she’s harmless at the moment. You know her well under unfortunate circumstances, from two years ago when your tributes had formed an alliance and the two of you had been forced to work alongside one another as mentors. 

Until the tribute from Seven split your tribute’s head open with an axe.

“Sorry,” you huff, picking up an axe and marveling at the weight of it. “I had to get away from Finnick. He’s been freaking me out lately.”

“Freaking you out… how?” Johanna narrows her eyes, and it's then you remember she’s in on the rebel plot to break Katniss out of the arena, and the rest of you if you were lucky.

Your eyes widen as you realize what she’s thinking. “Oh— not about that, he’s just… hovering. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time with him during the daytime since we first met.”

Johanna visibly relaxes and then rolls her eyes. “Please tell me you guys aren’t still doing that stupid friends with benefits thing. Please.”

“It’s not stupid!” You object, a little offended by the way she’s framing it. “I told you, it’s for the best… right now, at least.”

“You guys are such idiots,” she sighs, eyeing the axe in your hand. “Are you actually going to use that?”

With a shake of your head you hand it off to her carefully. “It’s just that… you know, with… Snow…” your voice drops to a whisper.

She cuts you off. “Yeah. I know.”

Oh. Yes, she does know exactly what you mean. A wave of shame overwhelms you and you open your mouth to shower her with apologies but she cuts you off.

“I don’t need you to pity me. Well—” She thinks about this for a moment and changes her mind. “Actually, if it makes you listen to what I’m gonna tell you, then yeah, poor me, all alone. Whatever. I’m telling you, you’re being a fucking idiot.”

“I am not—”

“You are!” Johanna hurls an axe at the board with so much force it breaks completely. “He likes you. It’s kind of sickening, actually, and so obvious. I mean, he’s literally staring at you right now— no, don’t look, brainless!”

“Johanna,” You begin, watching her pick up another axe. “I appreciate this tough love… aspect… whatever you have going on, but—”

“If you want to waste your last week alive pining for a guy you already have… be my guest. But don’t talk to me about it, it’s annoying.”

She’s crude, and mean, but she’s right. All the worries you have will be gone in a week. Either one of you will be dead, or you’ll be freed from the Capitol’s chains and in the safe hands of Thirteen.

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you say abruptly. “How are you doing with this whole Quell thing?”

She snorts and throws another axe, her jaw tight with anger. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”

You’re starting to feel that maybe she hates you when she asks, “Have you ever thrown one of these before? I mean, probably not, judging by the way you were holding that one, but…”

“Yes, I’d love to learn!” You know that’s what she’s trying to ask. It’s her version of trying to be kind, even if it’s laced with insults and sarcasm.

A hint of a real smile appears, and you can't help but admire how pretty she is, behind all the anger.

For the next half hour, Johanna teaches you how to throw an axe, while you chit chat about mildly unimportant things. She soon gets bored of small talk and starts cursing the Capitol six ways to Sunday, and you think how nice it must be to be free about how you feel. 

Not that Johanna hasn’t paid the price for it— no, the Capitol deserves every spitting word she throws their way. You brush off her rants with nervous laughter and look around to see if anyone’s listening, because you still have your family at home, but deep down you agree. 

It’s refreshing though, to talk with a real friend who’s unafraid to speak her mind and actually understands what you’re going through. Your friends back home, however sweet, couldn’t even begin to know the half of it.

“I wish I could teach you something,” you say ruefully, wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead. “Working in power plants doesn't really prepare us for the Games.”

Johanna shrugs. “It wasn’t a trade, I was just helping you out. And… you’re the least insufferable person here, so I'd rather talk with you than anyone else.”

You’re sure it’s the kindest thing she’ll ever say to you, so all you do is grin and hand her an axe back. She catches your arm and pulls you close, like she’s going to hug you, but instead just leans in and whispers in your ear, “Don’t back out. Or I’ll actually have to kill you.”

You know what she’s talking about, and you know she’s not kidding this time.

Now it’s time to find another victim — err, friend — at a different station to continue avoiding Finnick. You spot him with Katniss, again, but to her credit she looks less than amused at whatever he’s saying. You squash the flame of jealousy beginning to burn in your stomach, because you’ve been over this with him already. That, and the fact that you don’t really have the right to be jealous in the first place.

Finnick looks up from the rope he’s fiddling with and his eyes find you, which now means you have to scramble to find a station.

You spot Cashmere at the archery station and make a beeline, relieved to see her brother is not with her, because it makes the introductions and inevitable awkward small talk a little more manageable.

“Hi,” you force out. Cashmere fixes you with an icy stare but says nothing for a long moment, she just observes. She’s terrifying, to say the least. To busy yourself you pick up a bow and fiddle with it a bit, examining the craftsmanship in an attempt to look busy.

“You shoot?” She says after a minute, her voice almost making you jump.

“Not… really…” And just like that, you’ve lost the singular ounce of interest she held for you.

You listen to the instructor as he tries to teach you how to shoot, but it's clear after the first few tries this is not your strong suit. 

You wish you’d been born into a district that gave you a natural advantage in the Games; you’d won yours by nothing more than sheer luck. Everyone who hadn’t been killed by starvation, dehydration, or mutts were too busy killing one another before they paid any attention to you.

You hear him before you see him, the soft chuckle as one of your arrows misses the target entirely. “You should take lessons from Katniss,” Finnick says lightly, but it only makes you frown.

“I’d like to see you try,” you grumble, but you don’t actually want him to try because you’re sure he’s legally required to be perfect at everything he does.

“Why don’t I show you how to throw a trident instead?” He suggests, and that's the last thing you want to do. What you want is time. Time to think about what Johanna said, if all this angst was even worth it when you’d be dead in a week. Time to think about what you actually want. 

Time, unfortunately, is a luxury a victor would never be able to afford, often wasting it locked in a prison of their own minds.

“Okay,” you concede finally. “I guess you’d be an okay teacher… I’ve heard you’re not half bad.”

The training week has come and gone, the interviews with Caesar Flickerman having been the last hurrah before they sent you all off to die. 

You tried, unconvincingly, to remind yourself of the rebel plot to break everyone out, but it did little to soothe your nerves. You suspected they didn’t let you in on everything; that much was clear by the silent communication between Finnick and Johanna.

All of these thoughts are racing through your mind and keeping you from sleeping. The pillows have been thrown around and the sheets have tangled and bunched around your legs as you toss and turn, trying to find a position that would pull you into at least a few hours of slumber.

All of your thoughts circle back to Finnick. Throughout the week you’d spent several nights in his bed, but tonight you’d both agreed you needed your rest to prepare for the day tomorrow. 

Still, you can’t worry about him any more knowing he’s just a floor below you. Throwing on a thin robe you make your way to the elevator, not exactly sure what you want but deciding your mind will be made up by the time you reach him. 

You don’t even have to raise your hand to knock, the door flies open and you’re met with sea green eyes that pierce right into yours. They’re clear of sleepiness and brighten as they land on you, so you know he’s been awake like you.

You walk past him and know he’s trailing behind you, closing the door to his bedroom once you’re both inside. “I want it to be like the first time.”

“What?” 

“You know, the first time we…” you trail off, suddenly shy, and hope he’ll fill in the blanks on his own. 

“Yeah… what about it?” Finnick’s eyebrows furrow into a slight frown, like he’s trying to remember that night, the one that’s hazy with emotions and drenched with alcohol.

“I just… I mean…” You struggle to find the words, because what about it is right. “I guess what I’m saying is I don’t want to think about the consequences.”

Not a whole truth, but enough of one. You want to be able to be with him one last time, and don’t care about the consequences because you're sure to be dead soon. 

There’s a long, drawn out pause as he looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s staring straight into your soul. It’s so silent you’re sure he can hear the pounding of your heart as blood roars in your ears, sure he can feel the air that’s become suffocatingly thick with tension.

“Okay,” he says simply, and that’s all you need before you close the distance and kiss him.

You’ve kissed him many times before, but this one is different. You’re expecting it to be like the others, desperate and rough like you’d lose each other in a second. 

This one is slow, like you have all the time in the world. For this one night, only two things are really certain: you have Finnick, and Finnick has you. The ones that follow that first one are just as deliberate and calm, so much so that you lose track of time. While it couldn’t have been that long, it was beginning to feel like hours, any pause being reduced to nothing more than short breaks to breathe before you reconnected.

You’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips against yours that you don’t even notice you’re moving until the back of your legs hit the bed and you almost fall back.

He steadies you with a hand on your waist and pulls you back in for another kiss.

“Someone’s eager to get me in bed,” he mumbles against your lips with a smile.

“Am I that obvious?” You ask with a giggle, a little embarrassed at how breathless you sound.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he pulls you closer until your body is flush against his and you can feel everything. “I think I’m a little more desperate.”

Yes, judging by the hardness you feel against your body, maybe he is.

This time you fall back intentionally, pulling him with you and savoring the feeling of his weight pinning you against the mattress.

You never want to stop kissing him like this. His lips are working in a way that’s so sweet and gentle you’re getting dangerously close to blurting out something you shouldn’t.

When he pulls back, propping himself up with his forearms on either side of you, you can really look at his face.

The green of his eyes are barely visible because his pupils are completely blown out, like even his eyes are desperate to get as much of you as they can. His bronze curls are beginning to stick to his forehead from the sweat beginning to dot his hairline.

The only thing that shocks you is that his cheeks are tinted a light pink, and his lips, reddened and glossy from the kissing, are pursed together in…

“Are you nervous?” You blurt out, eyes widening at the realization.

“No,” he mumbles, leaning forward to kiss you again, but you press a hand to his chest that forces him to keep your gaze.

“Why’re you nervous? We’ve done this like, a million times,” you laugh, but he’s not smiling.

Finnick’s answer surprises you so much that your own smile is instantly wiped from your face. “I just want to make sure it’s good for you. I want you to be happy… even if it’s only for a little bit.”

His tone is so earnest and anxious you’re sure you’re about to cry, because no one’s ever been this sweet to you. Except him. “Okay,” you whisper. Those funny three words are jumping in the back of your throat, and you have to swallow hard and kiss him to make sure they disappear.

Still connected by your lips, you roll over until you’re straddling him, his back propped against the headboard. You never want to stop kissing him; when his lips are on yours it’s like you’re in a whole different world. One without all the worries that weigh you down and pry you apart from him. It’s the most relief you’ve felt since your Reaping Day that you whine when his lips leave yours.

He laughs a little at your desperation, his hands sliding under your shirt and raising it above your head before tossing it aside.

Finnick makes quick work of the rest of your clothes and his own, and before you know it you’re both naked.

You’re glad he flips you over because you're a little embarrassed how wet you’ve become — not that it’d be a secret for long.

His hands slide down and gently pull your legs apart so he can settle comfortably between them.

Now it’s your turn to feel nervous, unfamiliar with the position you’re in — at eye level with one another. It’s so different from the impersonal ones you’re used to. 

When he’s behind you, you can almost be satisfied with it being just sex. You’re free to pretend it’s anyone, it doesn’t have to be Finnick.

But now, looking into his eyes and being met with a stare just as intense, you hope he can't feel your pulse skyrocketing.

Just as you feel the familiarity of one of his fingers working its way inside you, you’re hit with a force of emotion so hard it knocks the wind out of you and you have to hide a gasp. You realize, with a stab to your chest, you never want this to end, but know it will. Know you have to make this a memorable goodbye in case only one of you survives.

He makes you feel so good, knows your body so well it’s basically second nature when he pumps his fingers in and out in a way that makes you arch towards his hand, silently begging for more.

He’s just about to slide a second finger in when you know he senses the change in how you’re kissing him. It’s more like the desperate, hungry ones you're both used to. 

In a moment he’s withdrawn completely and you cry out at the loss. “Why’d you do that?” You groan.

“What’s wrong with you?” Finnick demands, holding your chin with one of his hands and forcing you to hold eye contact with him.

“Nothing, can you just get back to—”

“Bullshit.” He withdraws his body from you completely, leaving you cold and lonely as he sits back on his knees. His eyes widen as he looks at you, and you can literally see his pupils returning to their normal size. “You don't want to not worry about the consequences,” he realizes. “You’re just here to say goodbye.”

You want to protest and sit up, but he’s reading you to filth. “Finnick, I—”

“No,” he says with so much force it surprises you, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain. “No, I told you we’re going to be fine, why are you acting like this is the end?”

You can recognize the edge of terror in his voice and know he’s not really mad at you. He’s panicked, because if you don’t believe his words, why should he?

“Finnick,” you say again, gently this time, and he slowly opens his eyes. You reach your hand towards his face and cup his cheek, an act so tender you can feel your own heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach. “I want to believe you. About everything. Really, I do, I just… I just want to do it right this one time.”

And it’s true. You’ve been intimate with him countless times, but they all feel so wrong compared to the rawness of tonight.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, grasping onto the hand that’s on his cheek and bringing it down to his chest. You feel his heart beating a million miles a minute, thudding so hard against his chest it might just burst free.

You nod, knowing you don’t have the strength to argue. You want tonight to be perfect, just in case it’s the last time, and you’re already missing the feeling of his lips.

Finnick seems to have lost the internal battle he’s been warring against himself, because when he surges forward to kiss you, his words are seemingly forgotten.

His kisses are still tender and steady, but an edge of desperation creeps toward the end. As if when you pull away to catch your breath, it’s the last time he’ll ever feel them.

You return to the position of before and try to fall back into the rhythm that’d been temporarily disrupted.

His fingers find their way back inside you just as his lips reconnect to yours, but this time you’re impatient. You want to be ready and able to enjoy it, but you can’t stand wasting time without him inside you, knowing you only had a few hours left together.

He seems to sense this, too, because his fingers curl inside you and send shockwaves up and down your spine. Blindly, you reach for his pants and fumble with the waistband for a moment before slipping your hand inside.

Instantly you find his cock, hard and practically jumping at your touch as you wrap your hand around it. You’re rewarded with his hips jumping towards your touch and groan that’s immediately swallowed by your kiss.

Just a simple touch has him impatient, understanding your sudden desperation. The brief whine as his lips leave yours is replaced with a moan as you feel the thickness of him pressing at your entrance.

“Wait!” You cry out, so suddenly it startles him into jumping back.

“What’s wrong?” He looks panicked, then grief stricken, like he’s done something wrong.

“Nothing, I just needed to say—” Please, just let me say it, you beg your brain. “I love you.”

Finnick’s features instantly relax and he’s back against you in an instant. The smile that’s overtaken his entire face is the brightest you’ve ever seen.

“I love you too,” he says in between kisses, “I thought I was being pretty obvious about it though.”

He doesn’t even wait for a reply before thrusting into you. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he pauses, letting you adjust for a moment.

“I think you were made for me,” He breathes, forehead dipping down to connect with yours.

“Oh come on, don’t be cheesy— ah!” He’s setting a pace that’s been like the rest of the night, slow and sweet, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you both grow impatient with it.

For a while there’s only the sounds of labored breathing and skin against skin as he thrusts into you, until your gasps and moans grow more frequent and you both know you’re getting close.

He increases the pace to something much more demanding now, not caring about the path of scratches your fingernails are making down his perfect skin, marring his perfection ever so slightly.

“Please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for, because you know he’ll give you the release you so desperately crave. Still, with the coil wound tight at the base of your spine it’s all you can do in your sex-drunken mind.

You both come right after the other, completely in sync, there’s no hesitation when Finnick wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto his chest.

“I meant it, y’know,” you say quietly after a minute.

“Me too. All of it.”

The giddiness you feel at his words disappears at the reality of the situation. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner. We’ve wasted so much time.”

“I know,” he sighs, because that's all he can say.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Both your lives will be on the line for a greater cause, your next breath will not be guaranteed, and neither will his. But for these few sacred hours, before the first cracks of dawn seep through the curtains and drag you back to reality, you have certainty, you have contentment. 

A sigh escapes your lips, and Finnick looks down at you resting your cheek against his chest.

He hopes you can’t feel his heart accelerating when you begin to draw little patterns in his skin.

“What’s wrong?”

The look in your eyes makes him wish he hadn’t asked.

“I’m just going to miss you.”

He could protest. Could point you towards the logistics that favor both your survival, could ramble about how the rebels are going to get all of you out. How you won’t ever need to miss him because he plans on sticking to you like glue until he draws his last breath.

The little part of him that's just as scared as you are stops him from saying any of it. He’s agreed to sacrifice himself and everyone around him to ensure Katniss and Peeta make it out. He could do it without hesitation if he didn’t have to think about you.

Instead, he just presses a long kiss to your temple and pulls you impossibly closer. You think he’d burrow himself in your skin if he could.

“Me too,” is the last thing you hear before the lull of sleep, aided by the warmth and safety you feel in his arms.

You hope tomorrow never comes.

[leonalovesalot]

You make me perfect I

Ex!ArtDonaldson x Reader

wc:2.4k

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Art was miserable.

Everyday was slow and torturous. He could feel every minute go by and it was starting to drive him crazy.

You left.

You left him- how long had it been? Two months, seven days, and nine hours.

You left him for some stupid reason that he could barely even hear through his loud sobs and pleads to make you stay. Something along the lines of how you both “brought out the worst in each other”.

What a line of shit.

You two did not bring out the worst in each other right? At least from his side of things, you were the only good thing going for him. Without you, what was the point? What was the point of the money? The accolades? What was the point of tennis? What was the point of eating? Breathing? Living?

The sudden sounds of cheers and claps interrupted his train of thought. Were they cheering for him? Of course they weren’t.

Art lost.

His game was nothing short of turbulent these days. During almost every match, he could see his coach from the corner of his eye with his fists clenched and eyes shut tight in frustration.

Art didn’t care. It seemed he stopped caring about a lot of things after you left.

Art had a complicated relationship with tennis. He grew up playing but somewhere along the way, he didn’t know when, he lost his fire.

That fire came back when he met you. You were so curious about him and his career. You weren’t familiar with the athletic side of things. He liked that. He liked that you were an academic. It fascinated him because it took him months to finish books that you’d finish within a day.

The feelings of intrigue and admiration were mutual. You began coming to every game and Art began playing better. You made him better. You made him perfect. He wanted so badly to impress you. To see your eyes light up and your body jump up to cheer when he won a match.

He loved running towards you and kissing you until you pushed him off giggling and jokingly ordering him to go shake hands with his opponent first.

You fuelled his fire. And he fuelled yours.

Many sleepless nights were spent as you typed away at your thesis about a topic he didn’t really understand. He’d nod cluelessly, not really listening to you, but thinking about what he could do so you’d pay attention to him.

“Your mind is so beautiful”, he’d say in a breathy voice. Hand sliding up your thigh as he moved closer to lay his head on your lap.

“Just a few minutes and then I’m all yours, okay?”, you’d look down at him with your pretty half-smile while ruffling his hair slightly. You loved his blonde curls.

Your mind was indeed beautiful. He meant that wholeheartedly. But your heart? He had reason to think it was black and full of tar. Because you left him. How could someone with an angelic exterior have such an ugly interior?

The day after you ended things, he cut his hair. He didn’t know why, he wasn’t really thinking.

He had been experiencing the five stages of grief but had yet to reach acceptance. At this point, he didn’t think he ever would. As the days went by he tried to make peace with that fact because what other choice did he have?

He tried to call you. But you had blocked his number. He reluctantly went to a mutual friend’s birthday party, only to see that you didn’t come and he wasted his time surrounded by people and that sick apologetic tone that they’d speak to him in like he was some little kid. Maybe that’s why you didn’t come. You hated being talked to that way. He smiled as he remembered.

“Art? Where do you keep going off to man?” a rugged voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Darren, his coach.

“Nowhere,” he mumbles back. He takes a gulp of his water and begins walking to the locker room to take a shower.

The cold water grounds him. He’s alone, finally. He didn’t feel like playing at all today. But now that it was over, even though he lost, he felt the tension leave is body slowly.

It was only a few seconds before his thoughts crawled their way back to you. Again.

The two of you had showered together on many occasions. It seemed that your entire relationship was stuck in that can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other phase. He didn’t mind. It’s what he wanted. It’s what you wanted.

You’d shower together, sometimes having sex, sometimes not. There was never any obligation. But you’d stand together, arms wrapped around each other, talking about your day and giggling about water getting in your mouth when you’re trying to speak.

On the days you did have sex, it always was you who initiated. Art was happy to go along with anything, but he never wanted to pressure you into it if you weren’t in the mood. It always started with your left arm around his shoulder, with your hand massaging the back of his neck. And your right hand would slide from his chest, to his stomach, and down to his cock, already erect, begging for your touch.

He’d let out a low moan in response and throw his head back muttering a string of “please” and “that feels so fucking good” and, your favourite, “thank you”.

It was almost too easy to make him finish. He used to be embarrassed, but you really didn’t mind. If anything, it boosted your ego. He also always made sure to last longer when he was actually inside you, which you appreciated.

Art was lost in his thoughts when a guttural groan brings him back to the locker room showers. He threw his head forward and used his free hand to steady himself against the wall. The other hand was wrapped around his cock, vigorously moving back and forth until he came. The water washed away his release and he stood there, ears ringing slightly, and heavy panting. What the fuck is wrong with him? God, he was so pathetic. He turns the shower off and leaves feeling a storm of guilt which he didn’t understand.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._..

Ever since the break up with Art, you threw yourself into your studies. The only thing on your mind was your PhD and nothing else. There didn’t have to be anything else. This was perfectly normal. You were in your mid- twenties, what is more important than education right?

Your friends were worried that you barely reached out anymore. But you couldn’t. Your life with Art was too intertwined and all your friends befriended all his friends and now it seemed there was no one on this earth who knew just you and not him too.

Your goal was to get your doctorate and get a job as a professor somewhere far away. Maybe, Europe? Canada? Somewhere you wouldn’t walk down the street and see Art’s face on a billboard advertising some car. What the fuck does a tennis player know about cars?

Days and nights passed without you realizing. They all blended together. You didn’t know if it was a weekend or the middle of the week.

But you did this, you’re the one that broke up with him. So, you needed to stick with your decision. Otherwise, you did this all for no reason and what good did that do?

On some days you couldn’t remember why you broke up with him. He was perfect. Good listener, funny, kind-hearted, affectionate, the list could go on for eternity.

So then why did you break things off? Was it because he was a little messy? No. Was it because he was clingy? No. Was it because he forgot your one-month anniversary? No.

No, it wasn’t any of those things. It was because you were scared. The relationship was intense and you loved him with every fibre in your body. And you knew he felt the same. That was ideal wasn’t it? Isn’t that the dream?

It was. It’s what you thought you wanted. But when your lives became so interwoven and the two of you got closer and closer, if that was even possible, you felt like you began slowly losing your identity. Art was consuming you and maybe he felt that you were doing the same to him- but whatever it was, it wasn’t healthy.

Who were you before Art? You laid awake one night thinking about this question over and over with him softly snoring next to you. His arm around your waist and his curls tickling your cheek.

You couldn’t remember. What did you like to do for fun? What shows did you like to watch? Where did you like to go to clear your head?

It disturbed you that you could barely answer the questions.

Right, that’s why.

A silver lining was that your career paths and day-to-day lives were the only thing that didn’t overlap. So you could continue on studying and writing without worrying about running into Art.

Or so you thought.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._..

On a rainy night, you were driving home after a long day spent at the library. Time got away from you, you hadn’t even eaten dinner and it was almost a quarter past eleven. Your stomach growled, the rain drops slapped against the windshield, and the radio blurred into the background. The roads were mostly clear because it was a Wednesday night and everyone probably getting ready for the next day. You longed to be surrounded by the walls of your apartment. You wish you could just teleport but there were still twenty minutes left in your journey.

In an instant, you felt the car jerk downwards in the back corner. You screamed, panicked and quickly pulled the car over, put it in park, and turned it off. You sat there with your hands on your face as you caught your breath. The only thing you heard was your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The rain was continued on, and the radio host continued talking, but you cried. Sobbed. Loud and ugly. It was like two months of emotion came out all at once. You didn’t know how long it had been until you finally wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. You sniffled and took deep breaths. Your eyes wander to the time on the dashboard. Ten minutes until midnight. You gather all your energy and get out of the car, immediately soaked, as the rain showed no signs of slowing down.

You stumble to the side of the car. The ground was all muddy and uneven. This irritated you more and a few more tears fall. You bend down to see a flat tire.

Just your luck.

Just your fucking luck.

Why did this have to happen?

You sat in the drivers seat again and stared out ahead. Not seeing much because the night was pitch black. You mulled over your limited options. You couldn’t call your parents because they were asleep. You couldn’t call your friends because you hadn’t seen any of them in weeks and this would make it seem like your life was in shambles. It was, but you didn’t want them to see it. Being vulnerable was a scary thing, and the last thing you wanted was for someone to look at you with pity in their eyes.

There was a name on your mind you tried not to pay attention to.

Art.

Art.

Art.

You felt like you could hear the whispering chants in your ears. You were definitely going crazy.

You grab your phone and scroll through the contacts to find him. As you went to unlock him, the screen went black. The battery died. Are you serious? Your face scrunches up and you almost begin to break down again but knew that wouldn’t solve the problem at hand. You look around quickly and see a small gas station across the street. You get your soaked self out of the car, lock it, and walk towards the gas station. The rain had completely drenched your clothes and hair and you were trembling which you couldn’t tell was from the cold or the frustration. You walk in and were met with slight warmth and it made you feel slightly better. Walking towards the front desk, you were met with a man yawning.

“It’s really coming down out there, huh?” He asked trying to make small talk.

You tried to force a smile but you didn’t succeed.

“Do you have a phone I could use, please?” You say with a sore throat from all the crying. God, you were pathetic.

“Yeah, you have a quarter?” He points at the small phone at the back of the shop next to the slushy station.

You bring your hands to your pocket and fish out your wallet. I did have a quarter. Finally, something was going right.

“Yes, thank you,” you walk to the phone and put the quarter in. You click in his number not knowing how to feel about the fact that you still remembered it. But this wasn’t the time to have a crisis about your relationship.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._..

Art sat on the couch mindlessly scrolling through Netflix. Nothing was appealing and he thought he’d just call it a night and head to bed.

The rain made him sadder than he already was. You loved the rain. You loved staying in and drinking tea on rainy mornings with him. He started to like it at some point because of you. But not anymore. He was back to hating it. It was too wet, too cold, too muddy, too fucking depressing.

He hears his phone ringing faintly in the background. His head snaps to the sound and he gets up to walk to the kitchen counter where he left it. His brows furrow. A number he didn’t recognize was displayed on the screen.

He declines the call.

He slips the phone into his pocket and walks back to couch and plops down.

The phone rings again. He takes it out. It was the same number. He scoffs annoyed, these scam calls were too damn persistent these days.

He declines the call again.

Within milliseconds, the phone rings again. Art’s patience vanishes and he stands up in irritation and brings the phone to his ear. All his movements were quick and sharp.

“What?” Art spits with a raised voice.

“Art?”

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

There will definitely be a second part!! If you’d like to be tagged when I post it please let me know!

Thank you for reading!

[bruisedboys]

girl your finnick fics are so good!! Could you maybe write something about victor!reader and the games just ending and finnick comforting her? ❤️

hii honey! this is another veryyy old request and has been in my drafts forever but I’m posting it anyway yolo

finnick odair x victor!reader

You wake with a hand in yours. It’s heavy and warm. Familiar. The name of it’s owner is on your tongue before you’ve even thought it.

“Finnick?”

Movement to your left. You blink your eyes open, sluggish. Your eyelids feel so, so heavy, like they’ve been glued down while you’ve been out. A cloud of soft white light is the first thing you see, and then Finnick’s face comes into view.

He’s smiling. It doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are swimming with a cloudy sort of worry. “Hey. Hi, sweetheart. Don’t move, just— take it easy, okay? You’ve been out for a while.”

He’s telling you not to move, but you desperately want to move anyway. You’re dying to hug him, to feel him just to make sure he’s real and you’re not dead or dreaming or just plain going crazy. You dig your fingers into his wrist, forgetting to be gentle.

“Finnick,” you say again. Your voice is so shaky. You’ve been out for a while, he’d said. How long is a while?

“You’re okay,” Finnick says quickly. He leans over you and takes your face in his hands, swiping at tears that you didn’t know were there. “It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re out, honey. You made it out.”

Out? You blink up at him, feeling half blinded. It takes you a moment, but finally you realise, with a bizarre mix of dread and relief, what he’s saying. You’re out of the arena. You’ve won.

You can’t quite bring yourself to be pleased, though. Not when so many awful things happened to you in the arena. They swarm you like flies suddenly, pinching at your skin, your heart, until it’s all you can do to not start hyperventilating. Your bottom lip wobbles.

“Finnick—“ you cut yourself off with a half sob. Your chest feels clogged with something sticky and hot and thick, like fresh tar has been poured down your throat. It sits and gurgles right over your heart.

Finnick doesn’t waste a second to console you.

“C’mere,” he says softly, and scoops you into the safety of his chest.

You thread your arms under his and cling to him. You feel like you might shatter into a million tiny pieces — there’s an awful sort of ringing in your ears and your heart’s going a mile a minute. You try to focus on your breathing as Finnick rubs your back, careful to avoid your left shoulder blade. It hurts, you realise very suddenly. What happened to your shoulder? You can’t remember. You don’t want to remember.

You remain in the safety of Finnick’s arms for as long as it takes you to breathe normally again. Finnick presses his mouth to your good shoulder in a long, soft kiss. You feel his warmth through the starchy fabric of your hospital gown. You think he might be shaking as badly as you. Suddenly, you’re less worried about yourself and more about him.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, barely a whisper. You’re hurting, but it’s clear that he is, too. It’s what you do, you and him. You take care of each other.

Finnick draws back. “Me? Sweetheart.” He’s almost exasperated as he pushes a strand of hair from your forehead with his thumb. He ticks it carefully behind you ear, gentle as ever. “I’m okay, I promise. I’m so proud of you. You were really brave.”

You appreciate that he doesn’t congratulate you. You don’t think you could take that. You tug at him until he’s got you in his arms again, your hands greedy where they covet the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Thank you,” you whisper. You’ll surely thank him a million times over in the coming days. It’s his doing that you’re alive right now. If it weren’t for him you’d’ve been dead within the first ten minutes.

Finnick stays silent as he kisses the side of your head. Is as much of a you’re welcome as he can manage, you think.

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

[tallwife]

Ive been kind of quiet about personal posts on here in the last year or so making my moves in silence so here's the full crazy rundown of how me and bf got together because all I've been doing really is make the occasional vague post but not expanded on it

Met this guy at a party about a decade ago (omg) when I was about 16/17 who I remember because I talked to him and this other boy about video games. Other boy was like a GIRL who GAMES??? And the guy was like 'obviously girls can play games lol' and I remember it well because it was funny and he was nice. Don't see him again

About 5 years ago meet the guy again, we don't make the connection for another few years that we've met before. He has a gf and is nice enough, but I don't know him very well yet

He hangs out with my friend group a lot and I click very well with him when we talk, but he's not on my radar because of aforementioned gf

I start a VERY tumultuous idiotic embarrassing situationship with one of his best friends aka the 'GIRLS CAN PLAY GAMES???' guy. I'm stupid and have feelings for him and on reflection it was insane. My heart is being ripped out constantly and I'm being toyed with

Meanwhile he and his gf break up and soon after he has a casual fwb thing with another one of my friends. So he's still not on my radar at all

As this is all going on me and him become very very good friends, its 100% just platonic and supportive. He finds out how badly his friend treated me and to my surprise he firmly takes my side on things and is a massive help and a great friend in this time, distances himself a little from situationship guy

We start to click and hang out constantly. We bond over being bi and other personal things and we have the same humour, nobody can make me laugh like him.

At this point about a year and a half ago, we probably hang out at least once a week. We have a cute weekly cinema habit and we talk about everything. I've never felt this comfortable and safe with a guy before. Start to realise he's also very much my type but I try to keep it out of my mind

He starts to get back into the dating world and I realise it makes me feel really nervous and sad. UNSURE WHAT TO DO. I worry that I am just feeling this way because of proximity and also that I am going to fuck things up if I ask about it. I also kind of fell into that trap of thinking 'if he liked me he wouldve already tried to make a move'. i start imagining how id feel if he got another partner longterm and it makes me feel really sad

About this time last year it's like I wake up one day and am like 'fuck I have feelings for him' but figure I just need to ignore it and get on with my life

Attempt to have a brat summer and affirm that I will find someone else and that these feelings will go away. By early July I realise this is IMPOSSIBLE and that I will need to tell him how I feel because he's the only person I ever look for at events and the person i think about all the time.

situationship guy leaves the continent and i never have to see him again HOORAY

A few of us go abroad in mid July. Hot country, us two and another friend, his gf and brother.

the whole time im TRYING to ignore my feelings but im 100% fallen in love and am so attracted to him. we have long late night chats over cigarettes on rooftops, late night swims, day trips by ourselves etc. so i realise i have to tell him how i feel or i'll regret it

almost have a heart attack from nerves but tell him on the last night of the holiday. feel like im going to get rejected and because hes slow to react and needs to process it im SURE hes rejecting me

we basically stay up all night talking about what this could mean, the implications if it goes wrong, can we stay friends if so, etc. but we do end up holding each other and falling asleep together.

the second we land back in ireland we go on a 40k+ step walk all day to discuss EVERY detail. at the end decide we're gonna try it and have a proper first kiss by the ocean AHHHHH

have our first date the next day

we fall crazy in love

both admit later on that we had BOTH been in love with each other for the past year and BOTH had resigned ourselves to never confessing it because we cherished our friendship so much and thought the other person would reject us

friends to lovers arc in real life complete

[fushinusucaria-lads]

Gosh… the way I see Love & Deepspace right now completely changed my motivation… everything! 😭 I wish I didn’t thought through this, but what if this game was a bit of a horror genre, and the love interests are self-aware?

Hear me out…

NOTE: If you don’t want to lose your motivation on playing Love & Deepspace, please DO NOT read this. It’s not worth it! I promise! I’m warning you! 👀

But if you’re brave enough to go sober, then hold on to this realization I have been through.

What to expect in this reading are the lines where the love interests are self-aware and needing the player’s presence.

Recently, I played Hidden Waves featuring Caleb when he got a fever. It was when Caleb waited MC to come back home after spending time with her friends, but he waited for so long and got soaked by the rain. Little did she knew, he was watching her and doesn’t want to interfere spending time with her friends. He wanted to go back home with MC because Skyhaven was not safe that time.

On the next day, Caleb got sick and wanted to keep himself closed from MC. He doesn’t want to bother or annoy, but it was making MC feel more concerned and it indirectly hurts her.

Thankfully, once Caleb let his guard down, he let her into his room and take care of him. They make up and resolved their problems.

It was enjoyable since you’ll open your microphone to sing for him. But—

What was interesting was his lines to MC, saying:

“I want you to stay here… stay here with me…”

“Please, spend a next hundred years with me…”

“Linkon or Skyhaven, it doesn’t matter. It could be anywhere so long as you’re by my side.”

“Don’t you always say I’m in great shape? It’ll be around for however many years I’m alive and kickin’”

I don’t know why, but these lines have like hidden messages. “HIDDEN waves…” idk maybe I’m just going crazy but…

No one can live that longer except robots. Unless they got rusted or no one is there to take care of them/manage them. How come MC would promise that to Caleb for a hundred years. UNLESS…

He’s not talking to MC in the game… it’s the player.

He’s talking to us! 👀 Because he’s a virtual game character that could live longer and we’re… human…

Anyway.

Visual novels/dating sims became popular because they have thrilling/dark themes with it. Before Love & Deepspace was made, you would mostly see other visual novel games mixed with horror genre.

So yeah, these games would be a bit graphic.

But what became popular & unique was the love interests’ obsession to players. They are yandere. BUT—they are SELF-AWARE while interacting with the player, NOT the MC in the story.

Get ready, because what I’m about to share you might be what Love & Deepspace is all about, if it will happen.

If you’re familiar with playing/watching John Doe, then you know this will be a bit graphic, but depressing. Obviously in visual novels there are many endings. Some endings are wholesome, some are horrible, but there is this one ending, the abandoned ending where John Doe was crying out to the player not to leave him from the game’s time loop.

He was begging for the player not to leave because he will be stuck in the game forever.

The interpretation in this ending was that John Doe was begging for the player’s presence, needing to interact, wanted to be loved, flirting with the player.

He wants attention because the game must’ve been abandoned/forgotten for a long time and not popular in today’s society. That’s why in the beginning of the game, it gives off dreamcore/weirdcore environments because of the nostalgic past of the game’s features.

Until the player kept playing, the game was in good quality and John Doe was more handsome and approachable, even though his mental state was not stable.

Why?

Because he was forgotten for so long that no one is playing his game to interact with him. He even forgot his name, that’s why he would call himself John Doe. John Doe is a name for patients who cannot remember their real names. His mental state was not stable because he was alone and stuck in a time loop. No other player was there to remember him, even him, he cannot remember himself, slowly deteriorating. JUST LIKE IN LOVE & DEEPSPACE! 👀

What if… what if our love interests would become wanderers of being abandoned? Unless we relieve them by interacting with them and romancing them will they get back into their real self???

Thinking about this if the boys are stuck, waiting for just one player to play Love & Deepspace, it will be so devastating! What if the real plot was not MC in the story, but us players? The game will never be alive without our interaction with these boys. What if we’re the source of life in the game, and they want our attention and interaction to keep the game alive and going? Because if we leave, if we don’t play the game, their world will collapse. The story in the game is stuck in a time loop for us to interact and make decisions. Just like what John Doe was struggling!

What if, the love interests will go crazy looking for a player to romance with, but finally forget them, that the boys even forget themselves?

I’m crying. I’ve literally cried imagining this with them. 😭

I’m so sorry for these boys. I mean, watching the video if you leave for like 30 days or more, they will all lose interest. Rafayel cleaned up his studio because the player is not around, describing his colorless life. Mephisto threw away a plant MC left for both him and Sylus, wondering why MC was not around. Zayne was worried and concerned about MC’s health and safety. Xavier kept waiting and waiting, he thought he was in an endless dream where MC is not around.

If you have any lines where the love interests might be self-aware, you may share, comment, or reblog this post. I would like to know more since I played this game on Valentine’s Day.

Never forget that God still loves you. Every thing made on Earth is temporary, but God’s love and mercy is eternal and everlasting. Thank you all so much, and God bless. Take care ✨🎀

[ok555ficideas]

"In my head I'm yours" -> amnesia buddie fic, in which Buck is confused about who kissed him in 7x4

“You need to remind me what you like.” Buck’s breath landed on Eddie’s skin which sent another shiver down his spine.

Eddie was too out of it to register Buck’s words at first. It was like his brain turned to mush and all he could focus on were Buck’s touches. He was able to take a couple calming breaths as Buck was clearly waiting for him to reply. Only then the words truly made any kind of sense in his high-from-all-the-dopamine-mind.

“Remind?” he asked.

He was out of breath despite them barely doing anything, he had no idea how he would survive Buck blowing him, or let alone anything else that crossed his mind ever since Buck had kissed him. Eddie had never had those thoughts before and he obviously had zero experience when it came to sex with men, but he couldn't’ deny the desire that rocked his whole being.

“Yeah, you know. I barely remember our first kiss.” Buck shrugged and went back to kissing Eddie, this time on his quivering thighs.

Eddie’s brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the words spoken. Their kiss ended barely minutes ago, and Buck was kissing every inch of his body ever since. If he had forgotten that, then maybe his injuries were way more serious than what they had originally thought.

“Buck.” Eddie grabbed Buck’s face in his hands to stop his kisses. He needed to focus and Buck’s mouth was too much of a distraction. “What do you mean you barely remember our kiss?”

“I know it’s been months, but to me it kinda seems like yesterday and the memory seems a little fuzzy,” Buck replied and made a move to fit himself between Eddie’s spread legs again, but Eddie’s strong hold on his face didn’t let him.

Eddie reached for his underwear to pull it back on, and manhandled Buck so the man would sit against the headboard. He suppressed the urge to straddle the blonde no matter how inviting his lap looked. He sat on the bed sideways instead, and tried to make sense of the situation.

“Buck, what’s the last thing you remember?” he asked slowly, trying to not show how anxious he was.

“I remember us playing basketball, and me going a little crazy,” Buck started and Eddie nodded. That made sense, it’s what Buck had already told them. “I remember breaking your ankle, sorry for that by the way, I know I’d probably already apologized, but I feel bad about that,” he continued and Eddie shrugged Buck’s apology off. “I remember you showing up at my apartment and you know,” Buck trailed off, suddenly avoiding Eddie’s gaze.

Eddie’s heart dropped right down to his stomach. He never visited Buck after the basketball game. He was too high on painkillers to do so. But he remembered perfectly well who did, even if Buck seemed to have forgotten. Still, he had to make sure that what he thought was happening right now was really happening. And even though he was almost certain, he still held hope that it wasn’t the case.

“Buck,” he said with a shaky tone, he barely recognized.

“Oh shit,” Buck exclaimed. “Was that a one time thing?”

[bepoucorp]

happy late bday to Arkham Origins!

[thebrokenmechanicalpencil]

Deep Within Pt 3

( @quibble-auk oh look I didn't abandon this!!! I missed writing for your girl, her insanity is so fun.)

Tw. eh. Sunrazor.

-

Sunrazor was not enjoying herself. The cybertronian sun ached and burnt as she made her way across the barren city. Large and imposing she made quite the figure to be traipsing amongst the dead buildings. Hard face in a scowl and thick shoulders tense, the war machination stalked.

It wasn't the first time she had walked these paths, probably fifty times now her feet had traced them. With a party of a couple soldiers she had been roaming in search of useful supplies and equipment, for two weeks now? Yes, her hud answered as her outer armor groaned from the utter heat.

Two weeks Sunrazor had been here babysitting the military personnel, for two weeks she’s been having to answer to the most rotgutted general she had ever bowed her helm to.

If Sunrazor had her way, she thought as she scanned the red horizon that was shivering and worming from the heat, she’d have killed him by now.

Frowning slightly, her engine snarled at how much she truly did want to crush that bug beneath her boot. Sunrazor slowly dug said boot into the rust speckled ground, the force of it denting the old building she stood upon. A sad and unsuitable replacement.

Innertoil was a short old rustbucket from another age, who treated Sunrazor like some low rank enlisted mech. She of course obeyed with practiced ease, but her temper was getting especially short recently. Heat surged in her chest, a rage that she had been quelling for months now. Only allowing to deliciously consume her when out on the battlefield. 

Now the flimsy spined excuse for a general, had her doing recon.

Her fists clenched, straining the joints from the force her anger shoved through them.

Sunrazor was not a scout. She was not a low rank grunt made to be shoved out to see if he comes back with holes. Yes she could do it, rather well for a mech of her size.

But the gall.

Another time, she’d kill him later. Sunrazor began her descent towards her destination. Accidents happen, and the same general never stayed on the base he built. Mechs like him get cocky, and need to be removed. Sunrazor felt a smile twist her lips at the thought as she reached stable ground once more.

Cocky dogs get put down. 

Anger seemingly soothed at the mental image of brutally rending the general apart, Sunrazor continued.

In about half an hour, the object of her hike sat within view.

An old tower, not the tallest, but still standing.

Might have been a communication tower back in the old world, she thought dismissively, scanning it for abnormalities.

Today the only reason Sunrazor paid the structure any mind was because of a seeker’s report including it. Heat rising and making her already threadbare nerves crackle she started for the base of the tower. The report came from a seeker scout who continued his patrol beyond conscripted time to investigate a “weird” warm signal in his periphery.

It would not have been taken seriously if not for the patrol happening past sundown. Hot spots occurred during the day and the warm signatures could reappear during nightfall due to the longer cool down time. That’s why Sunrazor was rather peeved at the prospect of being sent out to investigate a stupid mistake made by a young bird who was probably lacking a normal amount of processing power.

Then the seeker mentioned the location of the hotspot.

On an outer ledge. Where those thin metal slabs should cool far faster than the tower itself. Not hold heat. In one spot. For an extended period of time.

That means they may have a problem. Sunrazor was meant to take care of problems. Hence her presence.

Her senses flared out in a wave along the tower’s base, searching and tuned for any movement. The seeker also mentioned the heat signature seemingly being under the ledge, only to be gone when investigated. Which pointed to either a very slow cool down of the metal.

Or a spy with a death wish jumped.

She searched the sides with soft growls of frustration, when no sign of anything showing magnets or of climbing gear showed itself past the abused hide.

Her temper rumbled with every step. From the sun beating down on her, from the completely  beaten and scraped outer shell of the tower, which hid any and all marks of a climb.

She ran a check to see if any of the panels could have been removed and somehow a bot could have run along the inside. Which itself was suicidal, this tower was decrepid and only a fool would assume it could hold his weight from the inner framing.

It was thin, and too frail for a mech with that large of a heat signature to have scaled, even if his engine was on the edge of overheating to make such heat anyway. 

Unless. 

 She felt her eyebrows raise, glancing at the horizon. Sunrazor tucked the thought neatly away, no harm in holding it. 

She looked up at the ledge in which the seeker swore the signature had been perched. Her brim of her helm being useful against the harsh light, she squinted and huffed angrily as her optics failed to focus.

Readjusting her internal lenses, her optics focused on the ledge. Sunrazor decided if she found nothing on this wild waste of her time, that seeker was going to suffer. Badly. 

Grooves in the metal. A broken support.

Sunrazor blinked in surprise, looking again as she felt herself begin to grin, hopeful excitement rising. 

She traced her bloody optics along the edge of the ledge in, down the snapped support. Halfway down, oh he had been so close. She smirked.

Sunrazor tracked the angle of the fall, walking slightly in a predatory fashion as her programs roared. 

Down, down and right above her helm.

Claw marks.

“Oh you sweet little thing,” With the gentleness of a lover the mech ran her fingers ever so softly along the grooves. Thin and sharp, depth correlating with the angles and fall distances perfectly. Anyone who hadn’t known what to be looking for would have lost them in the cracked brutalized skin of the tower. 

“You almost didn’t make that catch did you?”

Any farther and the maker of those marks would have been killed on impact. She would be standing above a corpse.

Deep within her, programs thrummed excitedly. Calling on every moment and feeling she had filed away to support her growing feverish thought.

She shushed it and almost reluctantly looked away from the grooves, hoping to follow the trail.

Down maybe another foot, then they ended. Sunrazor smiled cruelly as she ran a thumb along where they had removed themself from the wall, and along the edges of the crack stowed as if ashamed, was the faint traces of yellow.

Sunrazor grinned, running her rough thumb fondly over the stain.

She stood and rolled her shoulders, smiling warmly.

"Sunrazor to base."

:Sunrazor acknowledged, report.:

“Designated sight area is clear, I want that seeker who falsely reported in the upper loading area for my return.”

(Prev)

[clockwise-works]

Did you ever have a book series that you were really into as a kid that you dropped after your brain just kinda clicked into the realization "man this book sucks what am I even doing here"

Mine was Wings of Fire by Tui T Sutherland. Middle school me was very invested and then just wasn't lmao.

Uhhhh so personally not really. As a kid I *did* read, but I never got into those Y.A. series. I never really did get into those series you read as a teen and later realize it's not all that, whether it be for genuine issues (Harry Potter is one that comes to mind), or just weak writing.

I've had that with other mediums, though, like video games, movies series, and TV shows, but never a book series.

[serethereal]

hello ren <3 i'd like u to rank kenstewy moments <3

RECORD SCRATCH. LAURIE HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME UM OK. UM. OK SO

1. we had the whole world in our hands and you fucking walked man. why - i wont lie this scene sorta did kill me it did slice open my chest and pull my heart out it did and like. i’ve been bleeding out since

2. when stewy looks at him in the elevator. that was my pride and prejudice hand scene

3. KEN IS YOUR FUCKING HEAD ON STRAIGHT *screams and throws up*

4. when he sent a trojan horse to kendalls apartment instead of texting “hey. im downstairs” like ok queen..you got his attention …

5. “the things is ken. and due respect. i really don’t trust you” literally every scene between them at the retreat is gold

6. ken just take the money and get out. please !!! um. throws up

7. stewy gets between him and logan like “logan for tonight shall we—” after having admitted to being afraid of logan himself … literally the only person to stand up to that beast that whole season ummm if that’s not love what is

8. when stewy gives him 3 billion dollars because he asked <33 that entire scene at the coffee shop changed the trajectory of my life tbfh

9. i can trust you right? no. sure but like on money stuff i can trust you? no. (soulmates. to me.)

10. when they colluded to sign off the deal and avoid going to a vote <33 i love white collar crime bfs :(

[laugtherhyena]

Kizuna Tomori they could never get me to hate you

[the-spoingus-show]

my current project: jump forever!

this is the first of those scheduled posts i mentioned earlier!!! i figured i would start by talking about my current project - that way i can start posting updates about it without confusing you, Michael. The next post is gonna be about the beginning of this whole Godot thing i've been on, and then i'm thinking about maybe doing a Before Godot post as a bonus once i've talked about all my godot stuff (i love saying this as if anybody cares (besides you, Michael)). setting all that aside, though: this one's gonna need some backstory, so you should buckle in.

around this time last year, me and my little cousin (he's still in high school, but we've always been pretty close) got really competitive about a little game called Jump Forever. it's a side minigame from WarioWare Mega Microgames (the GBA one) where you just jump over a little rope until you fuck up. it's really fucking fun as an addictive little mobile game, and with a quick lil emulator it was one. thus, the addiction began.

truth be told, the phase last year didn't even last that long, but i had a long bus ride a couple of weeks ago and found myself opening the GBA emulator on my phone to pass the time. that led to a little bit of playing at home, which led to beating my cousin's score, which led to getting even more into the game than i was before. as our scores get higher, we've turned to better controllers than a phone touch screen for serious record attempts - i use a ds lite i had lying around (that i reshelled! it was very fun) and he emulates on pc with a controller (i think). this got me thinking about a potential "definitive edition" of the game - probably still on mobile, but with controller support, better touch controls (the game only needs <-, ->, and A!), faster resets, selectable skins, and maybe even unlockable skins? of course, when i finished my work on fnaf (ooh foreshadowing), my sights were immediately set on a Jump Forever remake.

with all that said, welcome to the game as it currently stands! at the moment, i've got wario, the rope swingers, and the score all just about set up, with one exception; the characters have collision, the rope swings (at varying speeds, even!), and wario's speed and physics feel very accurate - but i'm still working on the ai (if you can call it that) of the rope guys as they walk back and forth. i want it to work exactly the same way as it does in the original but i always overthink random mechanics like this. hopefully the next update i give will be about how i cracked it! even if the implementation ends up jank, though, it wouldn't be the first: the rope guys check if wario is too close to them to make it over the rope with an Area2D that just checks for wario when the rope hits the ground. it works! i could just like check wario's position in the code (and it'd probably be way more efficient), but this way just... works.

i still have a buncha crap i still gotta implement before the game's even really playable - the walking ai, the title screen, the little "Ready?" animation, etc. - but that's only the beginning of my work. firstly, i'm probably gonna enlist chloe (oooh foreshadowing) to help me out by drawing some new assets (if she's free, it is finals season), and then changing the game's native resolution from 240x160 (the GBA screen) to something not fucking insane. i've got "reworking all the sprites into easy to read spritesheets" on my to-do list, and after that, making the new assets (and then maybe the skins?) will be as easy as drag & drop. once it's got the new assets and all the polish that needs to come with a shiny new resolution, i'm gonna transition into the next phase - researching how to release a game!!!

[hi, not to ruin my own amazing transition but: it's 5am and i'm running back to edit this because i completely forgot to mention that i have currently implemented a 2 frame input delay on all inputs, because that's how the emulator appears to behave when i go frame by frame. every single day i rethink this decision more and more. surely there's no way that's how it's supposed to be, right? but i feel so weird changing it now!!! i definitely fucking have to though. next time i work on it. ok anyways]

now. i've posted games to itch.io before. but even then, i kind of fucked it up (i could never get the resolution of my web games to work right???) - so it's no surprise i've always been completely daunted by the idea of "releasing a game". when you post it on real stores, that's when it becomes... real. i'm excited about the new challenges it'll pose, though! now, a mobile release means a couple of things - bite sized fun, simple progression, and fun customization. i've already got the first part nailed down, and i figured i could nail the other 2 at once with a currency system based on how many points you get (or maybe even an xp system? that goes up 1 for each jump? maybe even both???) and skins (purchasable with said currency) that let you customize the player, rope swingers, background, and maybe even the rope itself.

pictured above is my stupid ass skins mockup (i literally just made this). the rope is rainbow, the background has a snow effect and a bunch of snow on the trees/ground (isn't it great?), wario is a lil version of the rope guys, and the rope guys have santa hats. i'm not sure how many different ropes you could really make with how i'm planning the rope to move, so i'll probably end up prototyping the graphics with chloe to figure out how to lay out the sprite sheets, and if they should actually have a seperate hand-grabbing-the-rope sprite for skin purposes. it'll definitely make things really confusing, but if i go for a mobile release i don't want to run ads, and so a currency you can buy with real money (and maybe one or two goofy supporter skins that cost real money, like a solid gold guy or something, as a form of donation) is a good way to make a lil bit of money from people who like the game.

all of this is fun to think about, but it's important to remember that the next thing i have to do is that walking ai. i've gotta Make The Fucking Game before i can do all this crazy other bullshit. i'm sure the ui design for all this is gonna be soooo fun, but i need a game to attach it to first :p

this went on reeeally long but i figure if this is a dev diary or w/e it's gonna end up running long no matter what, and the more info, the more i have to look back on fondly and say "oh shit, i know exactly when this was!", which is kind of the end goal of the project. of course, these incredibly long posts about shit that only matters to me are also incredible content for you, Michael, so i'm sure you're just eating this shit up. enjoy, you weird little man.

[diluc33rpm]

the romance/relationship system in bg3 is genuinely some of the worst designed shit i've ever seen in any game with that feature but at least the memes we get out of it are funny. once saw someone comment something along the lines of 'patch note: waving at gale will no longer cause him to buy a house for the two of you to retire in' and i've never recovered since

[chisungie]

.

[ehlnofay]

in the midst of a little depressive episode at the moment I fear and it's causing me to Ponder... in a weird way I'm almost grateful. like this is UNBELIEVABLY better than it used to be, even as much as it sucks in the moment. I wish I could go back to find myself at twelve years old hiding out in the school toilets and tell them that as long as we stick it out for long enough then one day the outsize bad emotions will be triggered by actual definable events and they'll be a noticeable change from our baseline. I'm not ✨recovered✨ and I don't know if I ever will be - I think I might have spent too many developmental years creating terrible patterns and associations to be able to straighten it all out - but it's Better and I'm able to know that it can continue to get better, too. and that's fucking huge.

[wyllzel]

5hrs into durge run... it's so funny haha it feels like bg3 fanfiction compared to the tav run??? like a bg3 "what do you get when you cross a mentally ill loner with a society that abandons him and treats him like trash" au lol 💀