#like no….i can’t. don’t make me. it’s too painful it’s too much.

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KÖNIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & König have been chosen as unwilling participants in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 144k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, Protective!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE WARNING II

First Part of This Chapter Here

You blink to get your blurry vision to focus, studying Price’s face to try to figure out if he’s serious.

His expression stays even, and the moisture is sucked from your mouth at once.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Price crosses his arms over his chest, his stare unwavering. The stone look he gives you makes your heartbeat twice as fast, your stomach already twisted into knots.

“I think you know that’s not going to happen.”

You’re trying to sound tough, but the words ride a nervous laugh and your nails are digging into Konig’s arm hard enough it’s surely painful.

“It’s not up to me,” Price says.

Konig makes a few slow steps forward, taking your hands and subsequently your body with him. The sound of Konig’s dress shoes fill the spaces between tense beats until he’s nearly chest to chest with Price, forcing him to crane his neck to hold Konig’s stare.

The air in this hallway squeezes around your ribcage, seemingly impossible to pull air into your lungs.

Price holds his ground, refusing to take a step back and not so much as blinking at Konig through his squint.

“Boy, I suggest you don’t do anything stupid.”

Konig is silent, dawning that half-lidded, icy stare, and the seconds stretch into what feels like hours. You tug Konig’s arm, urging him to pull away before this gets ugly, but he ignores you.

“You both told me you’d do exactly as I say. You promised me you wouldn’t make this any harder on me,” Price warns.

“I didn’t realize that meant I was agreeing to leave her side,” Konig shoots back, his tone just as cautionary.

Your stomach is already bubbling at both the thought of being separated from Konig and his threat of confrontation. Your breath is stuck in your throat, suffocating on the idea of two men you love -

Oh, ew. You love Price?

Gross.

“Okay, okay,” You say, aiming for a casual tone to wave away the tension, but the panic in your slurred, drunken voice rings true. You sidestep to wedge between them both, but neither of them fold, so you just end up smushed between their chests.

“Why do we have to sleep in our own rooms?” You ask.

You’re forcing yourself to not jump to the defensive for once, forcing your fear out through your nostrils in short puffs of breath. Testing out the taste of being the voice of reason for once.

“Capitol orders,” Price says sternly, his fingers tightening around his biceps, not taking his eyes off Konig.

“But why?” You try, your back still pressed firmly to Konig’s chest with a consistent, but ultimately useless nudge. You might as well be trying to push a boulder uphill.

“Doesn’t matter,” Price says, “What I say goes.”

You get the feeling if Konig wasn’t sizing him up, he’d be more willing to tell you why.

After a few more agonizingly slow beats, Price huffs, finally taking his eyes off Konig to meet your stare. Your sloped brows and lopsided lips softens both Price’s features and his tone, and he finally takes a step back.

“Have I ever led you astray?” He asks.

You swallow, your eyes darting to the side.

“Do you trust me?” He adds.

“I can’t do it,” You squeak with a shake of your head, “I can’t do it, I’m sorry.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, got it?”

His eyes harden again when he looks to Konig, still standing tall and proud behind you. Price tilts his head, with a raise of a brow.

“I won’t let anything happen to either of you.”

His gaze bores into Konig for a few more seconds before he looks back to you.

“Oh, kid,” He tutts, and shoos away his stare for a moment, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His request has the opposite intended effect, your lips pinching further together and your eyes swelling a little more.

Price sighs, and closes his eyes, a slight contemplative sway in his feet.

“You think I like doing this?” Price huffs, “It’s not up to me. But you both need to trust me when I say doing what you’re told will keep you out of trouble.”

The final word is paired with a raise of his brow and a slow nod of his head.

You’re still trying to figure out why.

To make sure you and Konig don’t stay up all night?

To make sure you and Konig don’t put on another show for the suite that’s definitely being taped?

… To keep you from planning a rebellion?

“Just suck it up for a little longer, and then we’ll be home, and you’ll be free to handcuff yourselves together.”

Price rolls his eyes and waves his hand.

“Now get to bed.”

“No.”

A sharp breath is sucked through your teeth, head whipping to Konig as you give a tug on his arm.

“It’s not up to you,” Price says, his voice icy once again.

“Yes, it is.”

When Konig takes another step towards Price, you try to hold him back, but Konig’s arm shoots out in front of you in a familiar fashion.

“If you want us to be apart, you’ll have to make us.”

Price licks his lips, his forehead creasing when he raises a brow and gives a set of slow nods.

“That what you want?”

Konig doesn’t say anything, his jaw tightening and his fists clenching at his sides.

“Alright,” Price says.

Price stares at Konig for a little longer until he turns on his heels and walks off.

Konig closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale once Price is out of earshot. He faces you, his strong hands squeezing your shoulders. They slide down your arms before clasping both your hands tightly in his.

“I won’t let them,” He says insistently, “I won’t let them.”

All you have for him is a shaky nod before gently prompting an embrace. Your body is limp in his tight hold, breathing in his scent in remedy to the heart slamming against your ribcage.

You’re truly torn.

Every instinct and ounce of fear in your weak body wants to dig your claws into Konig and never let go. What’s left of your rationality wants to listen to Price, because he had a point, he’s never once steered you wrong and you know that you and Konig are on more than thin ice as it is.

Leaning into your instinct is making you feel dirty, like you’re an addict fighting to keep the morphling flowing through your veins. Going against Price feels wrong, but anything other than keeping Konig at your side is heart-wrenching. Every instinct in your body begs you to keep a minimum one hand on him at all times, and the idea of letting him out of your sight seems entirely impossible. Just the thought oozes dread that swallows your body head to toe, condensing into a powerful sickening feeling in your stomach.

When Konig pulls away, he keeps a hand intertwined with yours, and wordlessly leads you to your bedroom, clicking the lock behind him. He faces you, meeting your stare with those soft blue eyes, a faint relieved laugh leaves his lips. He pulls you snug into his front, strong arms wrapping around your shoulders and holding you tight against this core.

Your limbs still feel as sturdy as jam, your grip on his waist light. It feels so wrong to be out of his sight, but for some reason being alone with him is making you nervous again.

When he pulls away, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, the skin underneath his touch inflamed.

He moves a gentle palm to your jaw, his fingers sliding up the side of your face and getting lost in your hair. He gives you a smile, a grin with crinkled, shimmering eyes, and you can‘t help but smile back, suddenly relieved he chose to defy Price.

He presses his lips to yours, and bends at his knees to meet your level, picking you up by your sides, carrying you to the bed without breaking the kiss. He plants his legs on either side of you when he sets you down on the silken covers.

He’s looming inches from you, you’re attached to him, but you still feel miles away.

Out of it.

In your head.

“Konig?”

“Ja?”

His breaths are shallow when he pulls away, dreamy eyes trained carefully on yours.

Your lips twist, brows pinching.

You have something to tell him, but you don’t know what it is. Your brain is trying to come up with the thing you’re supposed to say in a situation like this, but you’ve got nothing. There’s never been a situation like this.

What do you say to the boy who has killed for you, what do you say about the suffering you both have wrought and endured, about the twenty-two dead tributes and the star-crossed lovers that killed themselves to be together?

And now you are together, finally. Together and alone, and you can’t find the words.

You do your best.

“I’m… not okay.”

His smile fades, and he nods, looking away with a harsh swallow.

“Me neither.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He leans down and presses his lips to yours. A single, tender, lingering kiss before he lays at your side with a sigh. A heavy forearm drapes over your waist, his firm chest pressed to your shoulder.

“I love you,” He mumbles.

“I love you, too,” You whisper, so soft it almost gets lost to the air.

He gives you a few kisses on the top of your hair before he rests his chin on the crown of your head, a content hum behind his lips.

There is no knock, there is no bang, only the quiet ting of metal on metal before the door is swung open and slams into the wall. Both you and Konig shoot to a sit to see a band of peacekeepers, dressed head to toe in their standard white uniforms, pouring into your room and rushing straight for you.

You’re already pleading, but it does little to stop their gloved hands from reaching out to swallow you both.

“No, no!”

You cling to Konig, your arms locked around his waist with a deathly grip as you bury your head into his stomach. He jostles you with each swing of his arm, a grunt tearing from him with his powerful shoves.

Your voice is nothing short of desperate, wails and pleas to keep him at your side.

“No, no, no, please! Please!”

A peacekeeper wraps their arms just under your stomach, tugging on you as they try to peel you off him. You’re fighting with everything you have to keep yourself locked around Konig’s waist, your feet kicking blindly at your opponent and colliding with the durable plastic of their uniforms.

“Stop! Stop it!”

Konig is yanked to his feet and you go with him, the peacekeeper’s grabbing, cruel hands on your waist keeping you from finding a stand. Tears are already streaming down your face, the panic a white heat that engulfs your entire being.

“No, stop, please!”

When they finally tear you from him, you take shreds of Konig’s shirt with you.

The peacekeepers part, a majority forcing Konig towards the door while fending off his blows. Two hang back to hold you, their harsh grip indenting the soft flesh of your arms as you uselessly thrash in their hold.

Konig manages to knock down four of them, but more peacekeepers are pouring into the room until he’s truly outmatched, restraining hands and a blur of white.

“Konig! Konig!”

“I won’t let them!” He grunts in between calls of your name, flashes of his thrown limbs peek through the gaps of peacekeeper uniforms.

“No! No!” Your objections tear your raw throat, tugging as far as your restraint will allow, “Where are you taking him?!”

You kick and scream as Konig is dragged out of sight and down the hall, but you’re useless to do anything about it. You feel so weak - you have since you died, your body sluggish and your mind exhausted.

The peacekeepers don’t acknowledge your demands or objections, keeping your arms held firmly behind your back with harsh grips on your elbows.

A door slams shut down the hall and Konig’s shouts are muffled at once.

You let out a cry of pure frustration, and if you weren’t being held up you’d have collapsed to your knees in a heap. Instead your head lulls limp on your neck, your hair falling in front of your face and clinging to trails of tears and snot, heaving in the peacekeeper’s hold.

Your muttered objections are unintelligible, warbled through sobs and whines.

Price’s shoes announce his presence before he does, his voice gentle and low.

“Hey, hey, s’okay. He’s gonna be fine.”

He must have given the peacekeepers some look or gesture, because they release you. You make no effort to steady yourself, falling face first into his chest, sturdy arms catching you. Your tears and snot smear over his shirt when you shake your head, hiccuping on each hitched breath.

“I can’t do it! I can’t do it anymore!”

“Sh, sh, s’okay,” He says, his words more a vibration against your cheek then they are a coo in your ear.

“No! I can’t do it anymore! I can’t do this!”

He guides your limp body to sit side-by-side on the edge of the bed, his arm slung over your shoulders.

“Yeah you can, yeah you can,” Price says, his reassurances firm but gentle.

His hand strokes your bicep, your shoulders stuttering against his forearm with each hiccuped breath.

“I can’t! I can’t! I didn’t want this! I never wanted this!”

“S’okay, s’okay.”

“I should have died in that arena!”

Your sentence bleeds into a high-pitched whine that tapers out in a fit of sobs.

“No, no,” Price coos.

He loosens his grip, trying to get you to look at him, but you refuse, keeping your face planted in his chest as if to hide from the world, to hide from him.

“I can’t do it anymore!”

“Hey,” He says, “You made it so far.”

Your sniff is muffled by his shirt.

“This is the worst part.”

You can feel his chest expand with the deep inhale he prepared for a heavy sigh.

“You’ll feel better after you get some sleep,” He says with a squeeze, “I promise.”

When you don’t respond, he adds, “It was a big day. One of the toughest. It gets easier.”

Your voice is just a low whine, barely audible.

“Please don’t make me sleep alone.”

He gives a long sigh, his body shifting on the edge mattress.

“Okay, kid. How ‘bout I stay with you ‘til you fall asleep?”

You take a few breaths before you nod, the fabric of his shirt scratching in your ear.

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up, yeah? A shower will do you good.”

You give another nod.

“I’ll wait in the sitting room, okay? Come get me when you’re done.”

He gives a few more strokes over your hair until you pull away, wiping your face with your forearm.

“Hey,” He says, “Everything is going to be okay.”

You want to believe him, but you don’t.

It’s hard to believe him when you watched him tell Summer that she was going to be okay with an axe to her side and her blood oozing from a fatal wound.

You understand the sentiment. He’s just trying to quell you, to keep the emotions from bubbling up and taking over.

You don’t refute the statement. You give a nod instead.

“Atta girl,” He says.

He waits patiently for you to get your bearings, until you rise from the bed and move with slow steps toward the bathroom before he leaves you be.

You’re hasty to peel the dress off. You forget about Konig’s token, the little golden locket flinging from your bust and skirting across the heated tile. When you look down, you catch the tail end of Mabel’s card fluttering to the floor.

You close your eyes with a deep breath before you pick up your things.

Mabel’s card is torn into tiny shreds at your hand before being flushed down the toilet.

Just in case.

Most people take baths in Nine. Showers are a luxury almost none could afford, so the shower you take is quite literally the longest shower you’ve ever taken in your life.

Even if you were a shower regular, you’re sure it would still take the record.

There’s not a thought that runs through your mind while you soak, staring at the glittery gold shower walls through the steam of the hot water with blown, unfocused eyes.

It feels like you’re on autopilot. Your mind has entirely checked out, your movements slow and mechanical as you dry off, brush your teeth, and get dressed. You can hardly lift your feet off the ground as you make your way to the sitting room.

The sight of two peacekeepers guarding Konig’s door makes you start with a sharp inhale and a flinch.

As intimidating as they are, there’s a tiny part of you that’s relieved.

You can’t hear him, but the peacekeeper’s presence is at least a confirmation that he’s in there, that he’s well enough to need to be guarded.

They say nothing as you pass them as carefully as you would a pack of wild dogs, no sudden movements and smushing yourself against the wall to keep as far away from them as possible.

Price sits on the end of the couch, his elbow propped up on the arm. He’s not doing anything but staring off at a wall, absentmindedly stroking his facial hair with one hand and swirling a glass of whiskey with the other.

You don’t approach right away, lingering at the end of the dim hall and trying to decide whether or not you should even bother to announce your presence.

You feel like a child, looking for the comfort of their parent’s arms after waking up from a bad dream.

It’s not too late to go to bed.

It’s the silver tray resting next to him on the end table that keeps you. The decanter, and more specifically, the second glass already topped off and surely meant for you.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hey.”

You shuffle over and curl up on the other end of the couch, using the arm as a pillow, and Price silently hands you your glass.

The whiskey seems much more bearable, somehow. Maybe you’re getting used to alcohol, or maybe the whiskey just tastes that much sweeter after the longest day of your life.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” You ask.

You sound like a child, too.

Price sighs and smushes his cheeks a little tighter on one of the strokes on his beard.

He can’t seem to look at you.

“It’s not for you to worry about,” He says evenly.

He raises his glass back to his lips, his other hand releasing his jaw and dropping to his lap.

You don’t have it in you to push.

You fall back into another silence, nursing your drinks and staring off at nothing.

You do find yourself sneaking glances at his face, though.

Trying to find the young Price underneath the facial hair, the hardened eyes, the wrinkles in his forehead. Trying to imagine the man before you as just a kid, participating in his games and losing the girl he loved.

You know how life-altering these games are, and yet you haven’t once stopped to consider what Price went through or the heavy baggage that have hung off his shoulders since, all while dumping your own misdirected anger and frustration onto him. Making it harder than it needed to be, as per usual.

Price just always seems so stoic. Rational and sturdy and always has the answer. It’s hard to imagine him buckling under the pressure, to imagine what it must be like for him to go on after his victory.

He volunteered with the intention of keeping her alive, and he failed. And now he is strapped with the life of a mentor, watching his kids die year after year, without her, knowing that he chose this life.

“Would you quit looking at me like that?”

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass.

“I just- I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, but-“

You cut yourself off, looking down at the carpet.

“I just didn’t want to bring up any bad memories for you.”

Liar.

“I’m sorry,” You finish, brows sloped and a frown tugging the corner of your lips down.

You’re not sure if you’re apologizing for Summer, or for making it so hard on him all this time. Every interaction you’ve had with him has been recontextualized, and your heart is heavy with guilt.

Price shrugs, “Was a long time ago.”

“She seemed, uhm-”

Your eyes dart to the side.

“I like her,” you finish after a stiff pause.

Price grins at his drink.

“I do too.”

There’s a pause, and you catch the fondness softening his features as he thinks something over.

“We, uh,” He gives a small chuckle, swirling his drink, “A friend of mine took me to one of the old card-dealing rings in Nine way been when.”

He flicks his wrist to the side, as if to say, ‘You had to be there to understand.’

“I hated it,” he says, his brows furrowing, “I was always the more straight-laced type, and I hated the people there. Everyone at home looks worn, yeah? But the Ringers-“

He trails off with a nod, and licks his lips before a scoff leaves him.

“And we’re just two kids as fresh as daisies, obviously not where we’re suppos’d to be. I hated how I always felt like we stuck out.”

He clears his throat, and leans back against the couch.

“But I worried about him. I knew he was going to go either way, and if I didn’t go with him, he’d get himself into more trouble than he would if I didn’t.”

A brow raises mischievously, and the corners of his lips pull back as he stares at the carpet.

“If I'm being honest?”

He scoffs.

“Some part of me craved it.”

He sucks on his teeth, and nods before continuing.

“My parents were as straight as arrows, yeah? They expected what they expected, and everything else was out of the question. So it was thrilling for me, being somewhere and someone I wasn’t supposed to be. Doing something that wasn’t expected.”

You wonder if he forgot you were even here.

It doesn’t even seem as if he’s talking to you. He still hasn’t made eye contact with you, and the gestures that go along with his story, the shrugs of his shoulders, the tilts of his head, the finger tracing circles into the side of his glass - Price isn’t talking to you. He can’t be, he’s talking to himself, the room, he’s just retelling old stories to himself that’ve been sitting on his tongue and circling his mind for decades.

You feel like you’ve walked in on something private.

And while it all feels… off, uncharted territory, his story is soothing. You feel like you’re melting into this couch, your swollen, heavy eyelids can’t help but flutter shut as you listen.

“On every off-harvest Sunday, we’d tell our parents we were going down to the stream to catch rock-dwellers, but we’d really be at the ring.”

“I got pretty good at it, too. Ringers got to know me pretty fast. Either by name or ‘That-No-Good-Cheatin’-Johnny.’”

“All in good fun, though,” He says after a mindful pause, “I never had it in me to cheat. Just played as good as one.”

“Anyway,” He says with a wave of his hand, dismissing his own ramblings.

“I won a big hand, and Timber bet more than was in his pockets. Told me to come by Wednesday to pick up what I earned.”

“So after school on Wednesday I swing by the ring. Timb’s not there yet, so I have a seat, and there she was.”

He hums.

“Slinging her daddy’s moonshine. She didn’t look like much. Disheveled, but as fresh as I was, looked just as out of place in that ragged hole.”

“Now I knew how the Ringer’s must have felt, looking at her face and thinking, ‘Oh, kid, you don’t belong here.’”

Price chuckles.

“‘Til she opened her mouth. Could put a grown man in his place with just her tongue.”

“She walked up to me like we’d been friends for a lifetime. I’d never met her before, but she knew me by name, knew what I was there for. Sat on my table, looked down at me, and said -

‘Let’s make a deal, Johnny. Full deck Trust, I win, and you let me have what Timb owes you.’

‘And if I win?’

‘Two jars moonshine. But I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.’”

Price snorts.

“I hated moonshine. And I’d never played Trust, the Ringers mostly played Seven Card. It was an old game, a bluffing game, more complicated than it needed to be. Played with two decks.”

He lazily throws up two fingers, and nods.

“But I knew just by looking at her that she was everything she wasn’t expected to be.”

‘Deal.’

“She beat me, of course. N’ by the end of the game, the two decks are all shuffled together. So I go to sort ‘em, but she stood up before I could.”

‘Well, Johnny, it’s been fun. I’ll see you next Wednesday. Don’t forget my deck.’

He hums.

“Stuck a two of hearts between my teeth before she packed up my money and left.”

His eyes flick down, and he smiles.

“I got in trouble that night, for coming home late. But you better bet I was at the ring every Wednesday night. Making foolish deals with a girl that knew how to hustle.”

There’s a long silence, his grin fading away. His voice is low and gruff when he speaks again.

“You remind me of her.”

You can’t seem to bring yourself to speak, not nearly in the right mind to think of the right thing to say. You try to lift your head from the arm of the couch, but find it weighs a thousand pounds.

His words linger in the heavy air during another long pause.

“Y’know,” He says, his head lifting, but still avoiding eye contact, “I always wanted kids, but uh- well, y’know.”

Half his face pinches, and his glass flicks to the side, as if to suggest he’s not going to get into the never-ending list of tragic reasons he will never have kids.

He clears his throat, but his words end there.

You barely manage to keep your eyes open. Drowsy doesn’t even begin to cover it, the world is so fuzzy, you can’t get your eyes to focus no matter how hard you try. You have no choice but to succumb to your droopy eyelids.

The half-drained glass in your hand is weighing down your wrist, the whiskey threatening to slosh over the rim and onto the couch.

Price reaches over and gently plucks the glass from your hand, as if he had known your arm was just about to roll limply on the cushion.

There’s one last thought, barely coherent, foggy beyond the haze.

Your words are a slur, no differential between the end of one word and the beginning of the next.

“P’ Some’ in m’drin’?”

Price gives a long, heavy sigh.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

————————

You most certainly do not sleep tight.

You sleep in the hedge maze.

Trapped by both barbed hedge walls, and more pressingly, Titan’s brute arms.

Pinned in his harsh hold, his chest pressed to your back, holding your jaw in place. The echoes of his laughter in your ears as he starts from the top. Forcing the vivid image and harrowing sound of a sword piercing through a neck into your line of sight. A series of punctures through the soft flesh of a gut, of a girl in shock, repeatedly forced to stab herself in her own stomach. The start of a canvas of stains on a spear that end with the blood of its owner’s life.

You can’t move, you can’t even scream, paralyzed in Titan’s hold and unable to look away from the gory slaughter and the corpses that pile up in the plush grass.

Titan lifts your arm, his hand cupped around yours and threatening to crush your bones to dust.

He winds your arm back, and by time he forces it forward, a dart lies in the center of your tightly clasped hands and Willow’s body hangs limply in front of you, her exposed, bloody muscles and fat inches from your face. Her pained moans linger in your ears long after she takes her final three breaths.

Titan puppets you, your limp arms entirely at his mercy as he gouges out Sapphire’s eye and puts her stained spear straight through her middle.

Titan’s sardonic laugh pushes his chest further into you with each hitch of his breath. His fingers find your jaw, his nails digging into the flesh of your cheeks to keep you from looking away.

There he is, in all his glory.

The love of your life, sweeping Eleven off his feet and throwing him at the ground. Breaking his neck against the platform settled in the lush grass.

Smashing One’s skull against a ginkgo tree suddenly sprouted in the center of the plush grass, and discarding him heartlessly on the ground.

Beating Four unconscious, paralyzing him and stealing the clothes off his back, leaving him to dry up in the heat of a brutal desert sun in a patch of boiling sand.

Slicing Sage’s neck while promising her he’ll add to his already lengthy kill count.

Titan’s fingernails are digging into your cheeks hard enough to draw blood, pressing his lips to your ear, his laughs deafening you.

Konig’s eyes lock onto you from beneath his hood, ravenous and devoid of any emotion other than hatred. He breaks into a full sprint, his menacing stare never leaving you. The impact steals your breath, and forces a thousand blades through the flesh of your back.

You can’t even beg for mercy, on the receiving end of his full strength behind every punch as he beats you to a pulp. The deafening shatter of your cheek bone reverberates through your entire body, momentarily interrupting the howl of Titan’s cackle behind you. Impossibly, Konig’s figure morphs into Titan’s face with each strike, becoming more swollen and pulpy with each hit he lands.

Konig doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, rhythmic punches breaking your nose, knocking your teeth loose, blinding you with your own blood.

The final strike shoots you up from the mattress, screaming before you have even opened your eyes.

Immediately your head snaps to your door. The heavy thuds echoing throughout your bedroom makes you jump out of your skin, each one a hammer to your chest. The sheets ensnare your limbs as you frantically scramble away from threat.

Your door splinters into a thousand shards, rubble falling on Konig’s shoulders and crunching under his feet as he smashes through your door.

“No, please no, Konig, no!”

“Was ist los?! Was ist los?!”

You’re still transitioning back to reality, thrashing to break free from the blankets as you struggle backwards.

Your wide eyes dart over him, his chest heaving and brows pinched as he approaches.

It’s the hurt in those sad, tear-welled blue eyes and the slump of his shoulders that snaps you out of it. A crushing guilt that drops on your ribcage and steals all the breath from your lungs.

“Are you okay?” He asks through huffed breaths, his palms still displayed in surrender.

You try to swallow the dryness in your mouth, looking down to the mattress.

“Yeah,” You croak, “Just a nightmare.”

He takes a baby step forward, his question hesitant.

“Can I lay with you?” He asks.

Your eyes flit to the limp, uniformed arm splayed out in the hall, the splintered door, the torn, thick restraints cuffing his wrists and ankles before finding the mattress again.

You nod.

The tangled blankets warp under his weight when he crawls onto the bed with you. Carefully, gently, trying to befriend a trembling fawn.

He lays himself down on the edge of the bed, and tentatively offers his side with a raise of his arm.

After a pause, you take his offer. Crawling over to him, nuzzling your cheek into his chest and curling your body into his warm side. He lets you get settled before his arm wraps snug around you.

Your gaze lingers on his knuckles, freshly split and smeared with blood.

You lay a loose fist on his chest, running the nail of your thumb along your bottom lip.

“I think Price drugged me,” You mumble.

“They gave me something too,” He says.

There’s a brief pause, the sound of Konig’s heartbeat in your ear as your fingers trace a wrinkle in his shirt.

“Is it just me, or is this the worst?”

Konig scoffs, an amused hum following.

“Yes, it is the worst.”

Your smile quickly fades.

“Do you think it would have been better if we both died?”

Your head follows the billow of his chest on a slow, deep breath.

The silence that follows his exhale speaks volumes.

He catches this, and goes to remedy it, but the hitch in his voice betrays him.

“It’ll get easier.”

You sigh, closing your eyes as his chest rocks you, breathing in a deep breath of his soothing scent.

“You were right,” You say.

“Hm?”

“About death. About it - being like sleeping.”

He hums again, his fingers lost in your hair, absentmindedly playing with the locks.

“It wasn’t too bad,” He says, letting a strand of your hair slide through the gaps in his fingers, “I missed you, though.”

You give a soft laugh, and rub his chest.

“I missed you too.”

You sigh.

“I want to go home.”

Konig gives you a kiss on the top of your head, a few strokes over your hair.

“I know,” He says, “Soon.”

He rests his cheek on your head.

“You are my home,” He mumbles, “You always were.”

You roll your eyes with a huff.

“Would it kill you not to be so disgustingly in love with me for two minutes?”

“Oof,” You add with a wince, “Don’t answer that.”

You can feel the vibration of his amused hum on your cheek, another kiss on the top of your head.

There’s another lull as he plays with your hair, the tingle on your scalp drawing a content hum from you in return.

Your question is asked through a cozy grin.

“You know we’re fucked, right?”

“I had my suspicions.”

“What are we going to do?”

Konig kisses the crown of your head again.

“If you don’t know, I certainly don’t.”

Your lips rub together as you think on it.

“Suicide pact?”

Konig’s chest lifts your head when he scoffs.

He kisses your head again.

“I would miss you too much,” He says.

“What the hell happened?!”

You and Konig both suck in a breath through your teeth.

Busted.

Konig’s strong arms snake around you and tighten, as if he knows you’re about to be taken away again, and he vowed to never let it happen twice.

“Are you two out of your fucking minds?!”

Price’s rage is unlike anything you've ever seen from him.

You’ve never heard him raise his voice this loud before, so unrestrained. Normally his anger is filtered through grumbles and grit teeth and slick comments, but he’s got actual veins bulging out of his forehead, his voice booming throughout the suite.

“Why is it always so difficult with you two?! How many times do I have to say it?!”

“You drugged me! Trying to cop a feel, pervert?!”

The redirective accusation stuns him, his face twisting into a grimace and his rage dissolving into disgusted confusion at once.

“What? No!”

“I’ll guess I’ll have to take your word for it!” You say with a flare in your voice, “How convenient I don’t have memory of it!”

“It was just,” Price rolls his wrist and tosses his words nonchalantly, “Look, I knew you were going to have trouble getting to rest after everything, so-”

“Bullshit, pervert!”

“Alright!”

He grunts and lowers his voice to a grit.

“I did it because the only time you two don’t cause trouble for me is when you’re tied up or unconscious - I can hardly clean up one of your messes without you making another one for me! And to be honest with you, I wasn’t crazy about being forced to listen to you both cry and scream because you lost your fucking teddy bear.”

He shrugs with a smug squint.

“So I drugged you.”

His eyes crinkle and his lips pinch in a challenging smile.

There’s a tense beat, your lips folding in.

You could cut him so fucking deep right now.

It’s on the tip of your tongue, sharp, serrated, dangerously intoxicating, just begging to be spit in his direction.

If you can’t handle that, maybe it’s best you never got the chance to be a father.

But you swallow it.

With clenched teeth, snarled lips, and narrowed eyes, you swallow it, and settle on the next best thing.

“You old fuck.”

“I’m not even that -“

Price’s head tilts to the side, cutting himself off with a deep breath and a close of his eyes. When he speaks, his tone is reset - urgent, but not harsh.

“Do you have any idea what’s at stake?”

Yeah, actually, you do. You know exactly what’s at stake, and he’s standing tall and annoyed at your side.

But you’re both still in the arena, and it’s a bit hard to worry about behaving when your bodies are still coursing with adrenaline, when you’re still fighting and killing and dying, every decision based on animalistic instinct without room for thought.

And you know deep down it’s already too far gone. You don’t inspire the rebels and get away scot-free. You don’t get to make the Capitol look foolish and get granted leniency.

Price must know this on some level too.

But of course he’s not going to throw in the towel. He’s just doing what he’s supposed to be doing, what he needs to do for himself, because he’d never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t do everything he could.

Maintaining some semblance of control in a world where he has none.

But frankly, it’s getting fucking annoying, because if the shitstorm is approaching, what could any of you do to stop it, and what use is stifling yourself if it’s all going to go sideways anyway?

“I know about District Eight.”

Price studies you. He swallows through a slow nod, his words picked deliberately and his voice suddenly grave.

“So you know how serious this is.”

“District Eight?” Konig asks.

His question goes ignored.

“I know how fucked I am. And I know there’s not much you can do to change my fate.”

Price takes a step closer, and jams his forefinger towards the floor.

“I’ve pulled miracles this past week, sweetheart. And all you two have done is make it harder on me.”

Price’s brows raise, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening and his finger jabbing in your direction.

“Your actions do not just affect you. Do you understand me? This isn’t self-destruction anymore, Juliet. The potential casualties lie in the thousands.”

Your mouth has gone dry, and your confidence is draining through your shoes at an alarming speed.

“And there is still a chance to fix it - but I can only do that if you behave. So if you two could play by the rules for a couple more days, that’d be fucking fantastic. And at this point, I’m one smart-ass comment away from drugging you both until we’re back in District Nine. So, go on, what do you have to say?”

You click your tongue, jaw cocked and glaring at the ceiling with such intensity you wouldn’t be surprised if it spontaneously combusted under the heat of your stare.

“That’s what I thought.”

Price snaps his fingers.

“I want both of you cleaned up and sat for breakfast in ten minutes. Ruby’s going over the agenda - you will listen to her and you will be respectful.”

He waves over his shoulder before brushing away loose rubble from the doorframe, stepping over sprawled limbs and disappearing down the hall.

You and Konig share a look.

He doesn’t look as nervous as you’d expected him to be.

His lips are warped, and his brow creased, but he looks more concerned about you than he does about himself.

You snatch an outfit for yourself from the complicated closet, both of you moving to Konig’s room to get ready, side-stepping limp and groggy peacekeepers. The weight of your scolding hangs heavy, following you both wherever you go.

After Konig spits out his toothpaste, he mumbles to the sink.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

The bristles on your teeth stop their scrubs as you meet eyes.

When you go to garble the words through a mouthful of toothpaste, you can’t seem to get them out.

How do you confess to the love of your life that his head is on the chopping block because of you?

He huffs before he looks away, cleaning his toothbrush under the faucet stream. He wipes his mouth off with a towel, and tosses it just a little too roughly back on the counter.

“I’m sorry,” You gurgle.

You spit your mouthful into the sink.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

All of it.

He sighs at the following silence.

“I’m not as stupid as you both think I am,” He mumbles.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“I can’t protect you unless I know what’s going on.”

Your voice picks up a hopeful waver, a cautious smile on your lips.

“I - I don’t know. I think it’s your strong suit.”

He huffs, and you know you won him over when the corner of his lip twitches up, but it fades quickly.

He looks to you again.

He’s giving you another chance.

You don’t take it, and he doesn’t push.

The energy is off at breakfast, the air as heavy and as cold as steel, even though Price is radiating a wordless, frustrated heat that sears your skin.

Cheerful as always, Ruby doesn’t seem to notice or care. She also doesn’t look like she’s hungover in the slightest, either she’s incredibly resilient when it comes to her liquor, or incredibly skilled at hiding her hangovers.

You consider shortly after that maybe you and Konig have been unconscious for longer than one night. You stifle this thought as soon as you can, but it doesn’t stop the unease that’s lapping up the walls of your guts.

Ruby waits for plates to be loaded and for Konig to finish dragging his chair next to yours before she chimes today’s schedule.

“Victory Tour! Busy, busy few days! Not a moment to waste!”

You and Konig do as you're told, listening respectfully as Ruby outlines the Victory Tour, silently picking over your breakfasts.

This is going to be like pulling teeth.

For the next few days, you’ll be living on the train. Shipped from district to district, standing in front of every last citizen, forced to look the families and friends of the tributes you killed in the eye as you accept your ingenuine praises and distasteful plaques from people who secretly despise you.

They’ll start with District Twelve, and you’ll work your way through all the way to District One. They’ll skip District Nine, where The Capitol will spring for a huge party upon your eventual arrival back home.

Twelve is an okay start, you think.

You don’t even remember what the kids from Twelve looked like, not even their names, and you and Konig had absolutely no part in their deaths.

Eleven will not be as bearable.

The trip to Twelve will be more than a day’s journey, it’s one of the farthest districts from The Capitol. It’s somewhat relieving, since you’d really like to put this off as long as you can.

There isn’t even time to digest, almost as soon as breakfast is cleared Ruby pushes the three of you to the elevator.

Little words are exchanged as the team makes their way to the train station, herded onto the extravagant train once more.

It’s weird, but you almost feel nostalgic for the train ride you took before the games. Your heart aches and longs to be the girl you once were, before games and kills and suicides and threats and unrest.

You and Konig still aren’t allowed to be alone in your rooms, so you both opt for the lounge car instead. You spend most of the ride with your head in Konig’s chest, his arm slung around your shoulders and keeping you flush to his side.

Basking in silence or listening to Ruby as she chatters on while you both offer little input.

You switch between having your eyes closed and staring blankly out the window, watching the landscape whiz by.

You’re not sure, but you think you even doze off a few times. It never lasts long, your eyes snapping open at every intrusive, vivid sound that tears through you. The snap of a neck, the moans of the maimed, the squelch of an eye, the pierce of an abdomen, the shatter of a cheekbone.

There’s still a weird, stale air between you and Konig that won’t go away. You refuse to let each other out of your sight, but you can’t seem to find anything to say to him, and he doesn’t have much to say to you.

It doesn’t feel necessarily malicious - at least it’s hard to interpret it that way when his arm is locked around you and pressing you flush to his side with such strength you’re afraid he might leave bruises on your hips. He always squeezes you a little tighter when you flinch in his strong arms.

You wonder if he sees the twenty-two extra passengers, too. If he feels their lifeless eyes and knows of their listening ears.

Meals are eaten, more interrupted naps take place, and eventually the sun sets.

It hasn’t been explicitly said, and you’re still having trouble pin-pointing why, but it’s obvious Ruby and Price are taking shifts babysitting, switching off to make sure you and Konig aren’t left to your own devices.

“You know, you two are going to have to get some rest eventually. We can’t have you exhausted during the tour debut!”

Ruby sings her gentle nudge with a cheeky grin, entirely oblivious to the fact that the mere suggestion of separating yourself from Konig makes your heart beat at triple its normal speed, forces sweat to bubble up from your pores, and fills your insides with dread.

“Soon, Ruby,” You mumble.

Liar.

Konig gives you an extra tight squeeze with a kiss on your head, and you bury your face back into his chest with the full intention of sleeping here tonight.

As bedtime creeps up on you both, Konig turns on the bench so his back is to the train wall, and repositions his legs so you’re nestled between them. You rest your head on his shoulder, your side flush to the front of his torso. His strong arms wrap around your waist, his clasped hands resting on your hips and keeping you close.

Protected by his strong arms, soothed by his scent and the rise and fall of his chest - you actually manage to get a few hours of sleep in.

It’s still not enough, and your muscles aren’t crazy about the whole ‘not sleeping entirely horizontally’ of it all, so when breakfast rolls around, you’re both exhausted and sore.

Your movements are slow as you pick at your meal, taking plenty of breaks to bump your arms against Konig when you stretch out your sore limbs.

“First stop today!” Ruby says, “After breakfast we’ll get the prep team on you and get you to the Justice Building. The speech will take place on the verandah, super simple, the Mayor will read a speech in your honor, and you’ll give a speech in return! Oh, yes, and don’t forget to thank them when they hand over your plaques, too!”

The speech you’ll read is scripted by The Capitol, some flimsy thank you to the districts for giving up their children in sacrifice and thanks to The Capitol for the honor and valor and blah blah blah.

It’s all bullshit, and everyone knows it.

It’s just a way to rub the salt further into the gaping wound the games leave behind, to parade around The Capitol’s fresh set of lap dogs to the overworked and underfed. Incentivizing division and tension in the districts while also reminding everyone of The Capitol’s unwavering grip.

They might as well hang banners that say, ‘Your Children Died So These Two Ungrateful Idiots Could Survive!’

“Romeo’s reading the cards,” Price says once plates are nearly cleared, jamming a fork in Konig’s direction.

You’re next up to be held at fork-point.

“And you will not say a word. Understand me?”

“What? Why?”

Price’s face pinches and his fork clatters across his plate when his arms throw down.

“Does everything I say have to be questioned? Just do it.”

He huffs, picking up his fork and stabbing into his ham.

“Well!” Ruby says, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning!”

“The bench,” Price corrects gruffly.

He shoots an annoyed glance at you and Konig.

You roll your eyes, but you do feel bad. It’s embarrassing that you can’t seem to handle a night alone without Konig, and that Price has to sacrifice a good night’s rest just to keep you from throwing a tantrum.

The ungrateful brat from District Nine.

Making it harder than it needs to be, as per usual.

The prep team collects you once you and Konig have had time to digest. You both are dressed in modest black outfits, as is customary for the Victory Tour, before being handed back off to Price.

For whatever surely malicious reason, The Capitol doesn’t want the districts to know much about each other. So you and Konig can’t help but near the windows to get a good look at the outer-most district as the train begins its smooth stop.

You get quick glimpses of the run-down houses, the people making their way to the district square.

District Twelve is somehow more drab and dreary than District Nine. Everything is gray.

Gray and dilapidated, and all of the people look even more worn down than the people back home. Everyone has an empty look in their eyes, fixated on a point in the distance and shuffling along with little life in their weak steps.

When you look away from the window, you find your brows creased and lips warped in something of pity, sitting back in your spot with a slump in your shoulders.

Maybe Nine doesn’t have it as bad as you thought.

You and Konig share a look, and his face projects nothing but anger. His knee bounces and his fists tight.

You’d think you’d be used to being in front of so many people by now, having spent so much time broadcasted to all of Panem, but knowing so many loathing district eyes will soon be staring at you folds your stomach with dread.

Ruby wastes little time once the train docks in its station, herding you both to the old, deteriorated Justice Building with her well-meaning shoves and guiding hands.

You have nothing much to do as you wait for the ceremony to begin, little to distract you from the crowd waiting behind the massive doors to the verandah. You can’t help but shuffle from foot to foot. Your fingers are already trembling, the bouquet of white roses you’ve been given jitters in their perfect arrangement.

Minutes before you’re to go on stage, you flinch when Price grabs you by the shoulder with a tight squeeze.

His head tilts down, his brows raise, and a strict, pointed finger is held inches from your face.

“Listen to me. You don’t say anything. You keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?”

Your eyes dart around his stony, intense expression before you offer a shaky nod.

He holds your stare for a few more seconds before he huffs, and lets go of you.

Konig gives your locked hands a squeeze.

“Ignore him,” He grits.

It’s clear he’s not talking about Price’s directions so much as he is talking about his tone.

As the doors to the Justice Building open, your breath catches in your throat.

Even though there’s thousands of people gathered before you, it is eerily silent. You can hear your own footsteps.

You stare down at your shaking flowers, trying to rid the audience from your view, but it’s useless. They’re impossible to ignore, your entire body aflame with thousands of hollow stares. You’re crushing Konig’s hand with yours, a pool of sweat between your laced hands.

They’ve set up two pillars in the crowd. Each has a screen displaying the faces of the fallen tributes from Twelve, and on a platform below stands their loved ones.

You try so hard not to look at them as the Mayor begins his speech.

But your eyes can’t help it.

The two tributes from Twelve both have ashen skin, hollow cheeks, and the same weary stares as the thousands of eyes before you.

You find the family of the girl tribute beneath her giant headshot. A grandparent, a father, a sister and a brother, all of their faces puffy and wearing fresh sorrow. The father and the sister shed tears, and the grandfather dawns that same vacant, beaten-down look the rest of the crowd wears, fixated on a point in the distance but not at all focused on it.

The brother stares at you, though. His fists clenched at his sides and his stance wide. You meet his eyes, and his chin lifts, staring down his nose at you.

You have to look away when you feel the prick of tears in your eyes, because you know what he’s thinking.

You stand where she could have.

Breathing and alive and not at all grateful.

The brat from District Nine who didn’t even want the victory in the first place.

Konig is prompted to read his speech, and you’re surprised about how well he’s handling this. He stands tall, proud, and intermittently looks up from his cards to meet the crowd that you can’t bear to see. His harsh voice broadcasted over the speakers doesn’t waver.

You find yourself looking up at him, watching him with something of awe in your eyes.

Maybe Price was right, because you certainly wouldn’t be able to get through this without a shake in your voice, and you’d be lucky to do it without bursting into tears.

He wraps up his speech, and you don’t look up from your flowers as the crowd gives the most unenthusiastic round of applause you’ve ever been witness to.

Konig accepts the victor plaque as you splinter rose stems under your unforgiving grip, and then it’s over. The moment the massive doors to the Justice Building close behind you, you let out a huge, shaky breath.

“Good job,” Price says, so stiff you’re not even sure if he’s being genuine.

The Mayor of District Twelve stops by to give pleasantries, and shortly after you’re ushered back to the train, on your way to the next stop.

You’ll have little time to prepare, the journey to District Eleven will only take until the late afternoon.

District Eleven.

The blood of the boy from Eleven is smeared on both yours and Konig’s hands, and you will have to stand before his family as the Capitol’s puppets you are.

You feel as if you should make some sort of acknowledgement. But what would you even say? There is nothing you can say that will bring him back, nothing you can say that will unsnap his neck and return life to his eyes.

Their son is gone.

And it is your fault.

Best to keep your mouth shut.

Your stomach is full of lead the entire trip, not even Konig’s chest can quell you.

And it is as brutal as you expect it to be.

As soon as you catch Eleven’s giant headshot, his eyes angry and scared and devastated and full of life, you burst into tears. You spend the entire duration of the speeches with your back towards the crowd, both your shoulders and the bouquet of flowers at your side stuttering as you sob into your tightly pressed fingers. You try to stop the tears, to hold yourself together, but trying to force it down is only making it worse.

The entire nation watches you cry, cry over a death that was your fault.

District Eleven must hate you. Disgusted with you for mourning a death that you were responsible for, a desperate bid for their pity.

You wish for the cracked cement beneath your feet to swallow you whole.

While you are in shambles, Konig doesn’t seem to be affected standing before the family of the boy he killed without a second thought. His hand rests on your convulsing shoulders, giving you soothing strokes while he reads from his cards. And while you can’t see him, his voice doesn’t falter.

When Konig’s speech ends, it takes everything in your power to keep from shouting your useless, nasally apologies to the crowd. To tell them how sorry you are. Instead you bury your puffy, tear-stained face in your hands until you’re back in the Justice Building.

As soon as you’re out of sight, Konig pulls you into a tight embrace, smushing your cheek against his chest and smearing your snot on his suit.

“I can’t do this.”

You shake your head in his chest, incoherently babbling as you gasp and choke on your own sobs and whines.

Konig gently rocks you in his arms, a light sway and a hand rising to stroke over your hair.

He doesn’t bother to lie or coo at you, he just holds you close until you’re ushered back to the train station, and he holds you close all the way to District Ten.

You arrive the next day numb and exhausted, and spend the entire ceremony staring at your shoes and clinging to Konig’s arm, trying to keep the girl from Ten out of your eyeline, trying not to think of her shocked face as she was stabbed mercilessly, repeatedly, until her stomach was torn to shreds. Trying not to look at the families of the tributes that follow you wherever you go with their listening ears and lifeless eyes.

Trying not to cry.

You seem to be on autopilot on the ride District Eight, disconnected from the world around you, slumped in on yourself with your head on Konig’s lap, forcing yourself only to focus on the tingle on your scalp as he plays with your hair.

You don’t snap out of your trance until breakfast when Price makes you. He reaches over the table and snaps in front of your face until your eyes return to focus.

“Listen to me. Under no circumstances will you speak on that stage today. Got it?”

It’s on him, really.

He was the one who woke you up, who dragged you back to reality, who returned thoughts to a brain that was previously broadcasting only static.

And while you nod in blank agreement, you’re thinking about Willow and the boy from eight and his girlfriend.

About poison darts and bread and tresses of curly hair.

Ribbons and unrest and girls with big fat mouths.

You’re thinking about a district who was so disgusted by a display The Capitol endorsed they encouraged a tribute from another district to eliminate their own.

It is customary for the victors to give a few personal words to any tributes you allied with, and while you didn’t ally with Willow technically - it feels as if you allied with the entirety of her district, and it feels so, so wrong to stay quiet about it.

Surely Price would be okay with just a thank you.

You can only assume he wants to keep you from inspiring them further, but you don’t see how a quick thank you could hurt.

So when it’s Ruby’s turn to babysit, you excuse yourself to the restroom before wandering to Price’s quarters.

You have to work up the courage to knock, and your stomach reaches a boil by the time Price swings his door open. He lets out a sigh and stares down at you without even tilting his head. He crosses his arms over his chest, raises a brow, and waits for you to ask what he already knows you’re going to ask.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words don’t come out right away, your lower lip stammering as you coax the words up. When you find them, they sound much meeker than you intended them to be.

“Maybe I should say something.”

It’s like he was spring-loaded, because as soon as you finish your sentence he’s already bordering on a shout.

“This will not be a discussion. It’s out of the question. You will not say anything.”

“But you didn’t even-“

“I said no! Romeo reads the cards, and nothing more. End of story!”

He points a finger over your shoulder in the direction of the lounge car.

“Now go! I don’t want to hear another word from either of you for the rest of the trip!”

You swallow and nod at your shoes, heading back to the lounge car with a slump in your shoulders.

You all but collapse into Konig’s lap in a pathetic little heap.

And that is where you stay.

You don’t have the sense to hide your bewilderment at the round of applause you receive upon your debut on District Eight’s verandah.

They’re cheering. Cheering and whistling and waving and shouting.

This does not feel like a crowd forced to celebrate, like the other district’s with their weary clapping and their heads hung low. It’s like a Capitol applause, not a district applause.

District Eight is genuinely happy to see you.

The distressed, flustered mayor has trouble settling the crowd to begin the ceremony, the start of his speech interrupted by their excitement and their chants.

You catch a few members of the crowd’s stares, confusion plastered on your features as you dart around from face to face, some shouting, some waving, some smiling.

When it’s Konig's turn to read from his cards, you notice on your brief glances around the crowd that they’re not looking at him.

Every eye in the crowd is trained on you.

After Konig wraps up the speech, it becomes clear that they are expecting you to say something, and their faces fall a little more with each passing second you don’t speak up.

They’re expecting you to speak on what happened, to thank them for the gifts.

The ungrateful brat from District Nine.

Your face doesn’t soften until you catch sight of Willow’s mom.

She meets your eyes, and time seems to slow. Her mouth is parted to release sobbed hiccups and her palm presses to her stuttering chest.

And her tear-stained cheeks are framed with tresses of curly hair that remind you of the tree for which her daughter was named.

You do not think before you do what you do next.

You don’t think of Price’s explicit instructions, The President’s threats, or Mabel’s dire warning.

A grating feedback blares over the speakers when you lurch for the microphone.

“Wait, wait! Really quick, I just-“

You take a deep breath.

“I wanted to express my thanks. Again. I- I know it’s not, uhm, customary for districts to - to send gifts to anyone but their own tributes. So - thank you for going, uhm, against the standard to- to help me. And Willow. And- and thank you. For the bread. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You give a weird, awkward curtsy at the crowd upon the end of your shaky, impromptu speech, and take a few steps backward from the mic.

There’s a pause as your eyes dart around the crowd, trying to figure out if your words appeased them.

And something happens.

A gesture that fills you with a spark of hope, stomach-dropping dread, humble honor, and deep, desperate regret all at the same time.

Almost perfectly in unison, the crowd lifts their arms into the air, their open palms pointed toward the sky, wrists angled back to give you a clear view of Willow’s ribbon.

Thousands of them.

And you know that the ribbons on these wrists mean something different to these people than the people in The Capitol.

It is not a fashion statement.

It is a symbol of rebellion.

And you are their martyr.

——————————————-

“What did I say?! What did I say?!”

Price is yelling, his fist tight at his sides as he paces in front of you.

“I - I didn’t - I didn’t think I was saying anything wrong - I had to say something!”

“No, you didn’t! I told you - I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut!”

“What did I do wrong?!”

Price lets out an exasperated noise, his arms throwing out to suggest it’s obvious.

“You were yourself! What did I say, kid?! You play their fucking game, and you shut the fuck up for a few days!”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Konig cuts with a pinch in his brow, “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Price stops his pacing to point in Konig’s direction.

“This doesn’t concern you, boy,” He grits.

“When it concerns her, it concerns me.”

“What should concern you - “

Price starts with a cautionary tone and his head cocked to the side, taking a few slow, commanding steps in Konig’s direction. Konig holds his ground, though, and Price’s advance triggers something of a defensive behavior from him. Konig's shoulders set back, his arms just slightly extended at his sides and his chest puffed out.

“ - Is both of you being executed for treason, entire districts being leveled, and thousands of corpses at your doorstep.”

“And you really think that her giving a thank you speech is going to be the difference between a rebellion or not?”

“She’s the reason there’s unrest in the first place.”

Konig crosses his arms over his chest.

“No, she’s not. And you know it.”

Price blows out a huff of air, looking away from Konig to mutter something under his breath. Price turns on his heels and throws one last statement over his shoulder before he marches out of the car.

“Tell it to The President.”

The car goes uncomfortably silent after the doors zip closed behind Price.

Konig is the first to speak.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” You stammer, “Thanks.”

Konig hums low.

“What did I do?”

Your question is rhetorical, because you know very well what you’ve done, and you know your words will have catastrophic consequences.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” He says.

“But I fucked us.”

Konig takes a deep breath.

He closes the distance between you, and places two gentle palms on your arms.

“No,” He says, “You did the right thing. You always do.”

You just barely manage to stifle the groan and eye roll, because his reassurance is absolutely useless. The pedestal you stand on in his mind warping his perception of just how incompetent and selfish and destructive you are.

You don’t get into it with him.

Instead, you step into his arms and put your head on his chest.

And that is where you stay.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! <3 Next (arguably more exciting) chapter will be here very very soon ;)

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[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 35

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 32, part 33, part 34

“So, how’s living in the mansion?” Eddie asks. Stabbing at the Jello cup with a fork instead of trying to eat it.

“Don’t think it’s officially a mansion. It’s just a big house.”

Eddie looks at him skeptical. “Same thing.”

In all fairness, it hasn’t been all that bad. It’s been an adjustment, sure. Any move would do that. Especially one where he barely knew the roommate. But he’s been sleeping better than he has for weeks. Been taking better care of himself. Can do laundry without carting himself to the laundromat and shelling out a handful of quarters. There’s a kitchen where he can start cooking in again. A real couch to sit on and a table to eat at. He forgot how much he missed stuff like that.

“It’s fine,” he says. Really downplaying it.

Eddie nods, seeing through all of Wayne’s bullshit. His stubborn air to automatically dislike anything that he didn’t do or buy himself.

“And living with Steve?” Eddie asks with hesitation.  

Steve keeps to himself well. Gets up for work and leaves peacefully. Never making a big fuss, or really alerting Wayne that he’s there too much. He’s quiet. A little too quiet sometimes.

Sometimes Wayne will wake up and there’s coffee waiting for him in the kitchen. One time he walked in after a shift and Steve left him some food in the fridge. And there’s always a note on the kitchen island letting Wayne know where he is. So, there’s nothing to worry about.

“Also fine,” Wayne responds.

Eddie almost sighs a breath of relief. Like he was hoping Wayne would like Steve. Would get along with him without a fuss. Like he hasn’t been more than cordial with Steve ever since Eddie woke up. They’ve already gotten along better that Wayne would have guessed.

But there was another layer to this. Wayne can approve of Steve as a friend, he certainly seems capable of doing that. The more that Eddie is secretly wanting though, that he’s not so sure.

Steve’s a fine kid. Just one with a reputation. Heartbreaker of Hawkins High. The one that every girl wanted to be with. Who got with everyone he could. It could be an exaggeration. It could be a bunch of bullshit rumors. Wayne wouldn’t, or really want, to know. Steve’s personal life is his personal life. He’s not inclined to share it.

But if that personal life comes back around and hurts his boy. Well, Steve should know what would happen about that.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Eddie suddenly averts his eyes. Finally eating the now massacred Jello.

“Because I know you, and I’ve seen this look before. Didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now.”

Eddie clicks his tongue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Because he does. But it wouldn’t hurt for him to be wrong sometimes.

“No, you don’t.” Eddie slams the Jello down on his tray as hard as he can. Just letting gravity assist him in making a point. He looks at Wayne with that anger in his eyes that Wayne would really like to avoid.

They don’t need the first disagreement they have since Eddie’s accident to be in a hospital.

“Alright then,” Wayne backs down. “How’s the physical therapy going?”

That starts a new rampage. But one with frustration not directed at Wayne. The doctor taking the fall of what Wayne started. Eddie getting frustrated at the way his limbs keep failing to do the things he once was able to. The way they stiffen up when he strains them too much. Or how the pain can just start shooting through and never stop. Not just for hours, maybe a day or two. Where the pain meds can’t seem to dull them enough where Eddie can stop thinking about it.

It's hard to watch. Has been and will continue to be. There probably won’t be a day where Eddie will be the way he used to. Constantly in some sort of pain. Reminded of the moment his life changed forever.

The visiting hours end, and Wayne has to leave. It never gets easier, leaving. Just marks another tally of the endless line of days Eddie’s been in the hospital. It seems endless, anyway. Even with the talks of being discharged, it still feels like there’s no hope.

He tries to find it. Tries to keep the candle lit for more than a few seconds. It doesn’t always work. But he’s trying.

No matter how many times Wayne opens the front door of the Harrington house, it still doesn’t feel real. He’s been staying there for a week now, and each time the key slides into the lock, it feels like a dream. Or a really cruel prank.

But it’s real. All of this is.

“If you get more flour in my hair, I swear to God,” Steve’s voice echoes down the hall.

“Well than stop making it so easy for me,” Robin’s voice, if Wayne’s remembering correctly, follows.

He unties his boots and places them on the floor mat by the front door. Being very careful to follow the one major rule that Steve had when it came to the house. It was easy enough to follow. He wanders down the hall and into the kitchen. Walking into a mess. Different measuring cups and spoons scattered around the island, small piles of flour and other dry ingredients surrounding it. A pile of dishes in the sink. The slight smell of something that was burnt.

Honestly, he likes it better this way. Reminds him of home.

“Hi, Mr. Munson,” Robin chirps. Eating chocolate chips right out of the bag.

“Oh hey,” Steve looks up from bowl he was mixing. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Wayne nods hello. “What are you making?”

“Chocolate chip cookies,” Steve explains, looking toward Robin. “Because someone wanted cookies but didn’t want to do it herself.”

“We didn’t have any chocolate chips in the house,” Robin shrugs. Pouring another handful of chips into her mouth.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Didn’t believe it the first time and I don’t believe it now.”

He turns around to grab the baking sheets, leaving an opportunity for Robin to steal the spatula out of the bowl. Helping herself to raw cookie dough. Steve sighs when he turns around.

“Shouldn’t you also be scared of salmonella, Miss ‘Rabies is like my number one biggest fear?’” he snarks, searching in the drawer for an ice cream scoop.

“Rabies and salmonella are two very different things.” Robin continues to eat the batter off of the spoon. “How’s Eddie?” she asks, directed toward Wayne.

“Better,” he says with more confidence than he feels. Not being able to ignore the way Steve perks up when Eddie’s name is mentioned.

“That’s good,” Steve says. The gentle click of the ice cream scoop filling the break of silence.

Wayne nods. Feeling the need to cross his arms. “Yeah. The doctor says if he keeps his progress steady over the next week, he should be able to come home.”

Steve and Robin look at him with mirrored hope.

“That-that’s really good,” Steve smiles. “It’ll be nice seeing him outside of the hospital.”

“And hiding,” Robin adds. Throwing the spatula in the sink.

Wayne nods. Still feeling out the awkwardness of these interactions. “I’m going to turn in, just wanted to say hello.”

“Let us know if we’re being too loud. I can always kick her out.”

“Hey.” Robin slaps Steve’s arm.

“Night,” Wayne leaves the room. Swallowing a laugh.

tag list (closed): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

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@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

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@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

"The Last Temptation": One Megathread to Rule Them All - Clues and Speculation, PART 2

6) Galadriel's conflicted feelings for Sauron 

Well, she hates him and wants to kill him, destroy him, causing him to be dead for good, right?

Right?

RIGHT?

Okay, I’ll just let Morfydd explain how Galadriel is feeling these days: 

It would be like if you had the most intense type of synesthesia, and then you met someone else that had the same type of it, but then you find out they’re the worst person in the world. But you can’t undo that feeling of what it was to be understood and connected in that way. 

I think they’ve made a mark on each other in whatever, however, that turns out. And that’s very significant when someone’s managed to actually make you question the way you think of things and the way you think of yourself... and I think they were both so lonely when they met.  

Galadriel is heartbroken, and understandably so. She’s grieving the loss of her friend Halbrand. She thinks she has been played for a fool, and the connection they shared was a lie, and another one of Sauron’s deceptions, the cruel and cunning sorcerer. She's haunted by this moment, as we’ve seen on 2x02:

Everyone who has been deceived by someone they cared about can relate to this. Yes, Galadriel is sad and depressed, but she’s also angry and probably feeling a little bit humiliated and ashamed of herself for falling for Sauron’s lies. She’s going through all seven stages of grief. And so, she wants to destroy him, and make him pay for deceiving her, and manipulating her into caring this much about him.

She’s so obsessed with finding and defeat him, it blinds her (as we’ve discussed on Part 1).

The realization of having been played for a fool, pains her so much, here she is, in 2x06, emphasizing with Adar and oversharing.

And so, when she’ll go to seek out Sauron in the finale, she wants to kill him. Like 100%. No doubts there. She resisted him once, she will resist him again and again, because after her little chat with Adar (and probably with Celebrimbor in 2x07) she’s confident in herself. She’s prepared. She knows Sauron will bombard her with lies and visions to manipulate her. And since promises of power aren’t enough for her, there is nothing he can tempt her with. Like Adar said to her in 2x06, there is nothing he can give her, because she’s fully aware of his manipulations.  

My guess is that she’ll probably use Adar’s theory (Morgoth’s iron crown + Nenya) to try and slay Sauron. That, most likely, will be her plan of attack.  

7) The "Last Temptation"

As we’ve seen on the trailers, and with no surprise whatsoever, Sauron and Galadriel duel for a moment when they are, at last, reunited in 2x08.

Galadriel is looking at him full of anger and hatred, ready to destroy him, and his lies and deceptions. Sauron, on other hand, is just rejoicing he’s able to be in her presence again. From the interactions we, the audience, saw of him with Mirdania throughout the season, Sauron probably thinks dueling counts as flirting.  

Anyway, I don’t know for how long the showrunners will drag the fight, but it will stop, because the Halbrand form will be back, back again (like we were teased in 2x04): 

And this is not just “any” Halbrand: this is King Halbrand, the “I felt it too” Halbrand in all of his glory. My bet is Galadriel is prepared for this, and won’t fall for it.

But Sauron brought the big guns this time, and there is a plot twist. And I believe this is the scene that, according to Magda Walma aka “the Polish reviewer”, will make “Tolkien fans” (aka lorebros) lose their minds, the scene which caused her to believe Celeborn won’t ever be in “Rings of Power” and that someone in the production might have fallen on their head.

They might leave it ambiguous, however, Morfydd saying “they’ve made a mark on each other in whatever, however, that turns out” makes me believe the showrunners might have made it explicit, and reveal the truth of it. And that’s why the Tolkien purists will lose it.

My guess is Sauron will tempt Galadriel with what she least's expects: the truth. And the truth is their connection was real, and not a part of his schemes (the season pretty established he’s in love with her).

Now, I don’t know if there will be a kiss or not, because the mere notion of Sauron in love with Galadriel is enough to mind blow the lorebros. However: if this was a one-sided thing, why would the Polish reviewer believe that Celeborn will never be casted? So, here’s my two cents: Galadriel feels the same way, and this scene either explicitly states it or highly implies it.  

Now, I don’t know how Sauron will prove his love for Galadriel, honestly. I don’t think visions are enough to put that point across, and from what we’ve learned from the director of the finale, I don’t think there will be any deception involved in this scene. So, he’ll probably prove himself through some selfless action (which is a bit odd, but I don’t see how he could convey his point in any other way without looking/sounding manipulative): he either saves her, surrenders himself for her to kill him, or whatever.  

8) The Aftermath

As we’ve seen in Part 1, all foreshadowing points towards Galadriel succumbing to Sauron’s temptation.

Erasing all of that for a “she resists him at the end” or a rehash of S1 finale would be stupid, to be honest. And I know many criticize “Ring of Power” writers, but one thing they do well is building-up the season and the foreshadowing/clues (example: Sauron/Halbrand in S1).  

The question is: what happens next? 

Galadriel snaps out of it, for whatever reason: either Nenya, or Elrond (remember the promise? Turns out, he’s unable to keep it); 

She sacrifices herself to save Middle-earth/stop the battle, and goes with Sauron (somewhat unwillingly but believing she might “keep him in check”);

She willingly goes with Sauron/joins him, in “full Dark queen” mode;

Any other scenario where Elrond is forced to choose between stopping Sauron or saving Galadriel; only see it happening if it’s from afar and not him actually intervening, because that would remove Galadriel’s agency (and I don’t see the show going there). For instance, Galadriel is injured for some reason, and Elrond has the chance to save her, but choses to save the Elves instead, or something like that).  

Alright, that’s it. That’s the clues we’ve got. Let the debate begin. 

Just don’t mention Celeborn (it’s confirmed he’s not in Season 2) and the stupid fake leaks.

[zayne-li]

Frozen Blood

Cross posted on ao3

Rating: Mature (for violence and blood)

Length: 3.3k

Pairing: Zayne/MC (not explicitly, but it's implied)

Warnings: Angst, hurt/little comfort, blood, violence, MC goes into shock, character death

Anyway what if dawnbreaker turned into an abomination and we had to do a boss fight against him by ourselves

--

His hand is nearly frozen in your own, and it feels different than the way it normally does when his Evol is acting up. It's not cold like ice, it's cold like death, though he's still breathing, albeit shallowly.

“Zayne,” you're almost desperate as you squeeze his fingers. He may not be your Zayne, but that thought is the furthest thing from your mind right now, because he's right here in front of you, and you have never, never seen him in this much pain. The black crystals spreading from his palm, to wrist, to surely his arms and possibly more beneath the black coat looks almost like frostbite, painful and bleeding because you know that the ice is not external. It's internal. Its source is his heart, and it seemingly can no longer be contained within, trying to scrape and tear its way out of his body. “Zayne listen to me.”

Thus far his eyes have been unable to meet yours, fixed on the ground like he's afraid to look at you. But at your insistence, they flicker up towards you, dark and almost lifeless, with none of the spark you're used to seeing. He says nothing, and instead tries to pull his hand from yours. You don't allow it, tightening your grip, trying to have enough faith and determination for the both of you, because this Zayne… since you found him just a few days ago, seems like he's given up far before he ever met you.

“I'm going to resonate with you–”

“No.” He is firm as he says it, and tries once again to pull his hand from yours.

“It's going to–”

”No.” This time it's more broken, and he sets his jaw, physically moving further away, as much as he can from his seated position. “It's too late. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The blackened crystals beneath his clothes are spreading, faster than before, you can tell by the way he whimpers and looks back away. His breath is visible in the unnatural frigid air around the two of you.

And then… a sharp cry from his lips at the same time as you watch one of the crystals shoot out from somewhere between his ribs. The crack is sickening, wet, and the crystal brings with it a torrent of blood. Zayne doubles over, and in your own shock, is finally able to yank his hand from you own as he curls it around his abdomen, face contorting into a grimace.

Panic wells up in your chest, sticking to your throat as your eyes go wide, and you see another shard burst from his hunched back, the angle making it almost look at though he’s been impaled all the way through. Crimson red drips from the jagged tip, staining his clothes an even darker black, and plopping far too loudly onto the pavement. It echoes in your ears as his breath shudders, crackling in his lungs with every inhale. Labored. It’s like he can’t seem to get enough air.

“Zayne, let me–”

”Get away from me. Now.” It’s almost a snarl, weakened only by the shaking of his voice. His eyes find yours only long enough for him to try and get his point across, like some kind of wounded animal.

Your own breath is growing faster, terror like you’ve never felt tightening in your chest, your vision narrowing down only into this moment, and it’s like you’re frozen. A pit settles in your stomach as your mind races.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t. I don’t know what to do. What do I do? My Zayne would know. He would be calm. Why can’t I…?

You blink hard a few times, trying to calm your breathing, your ears swimming with the sound of dripping blood and another sharp, agonized cry as Zayne lurches away from you, onto all fours, his arms shaking as another crystal tears its way out of his body, this time right from the center of his chest. His breathing starts to sound wet. Did it puncture a lung?

And then, a different kind of horror grips your heart as you hear the oh so familiar sound of his evol, like a bright burst in your vision, though the makeshift dagger of ice looks more like the black shards piercing his body than the brilliant, clear blue you know so well. Zayne sets his jaw, teeth grinding together as he twists it in his grip. He’s holding it so tightly you see a drop of blood squeeze from between his fingers.

He’s pointing it at himself.

“Don’t–Zayne!” You lunge for him as you realize what he’s about to do, grabbing his wrist with both of your hands in an attempt to stop him, which he hadn’t seemed to have expected, and as a result the two of you come crashing down onto your sides on the pavement, his eyes wide with shock and likely more pain from the impact. Almost immediately they squeeze shut as his brows pull together, and the ice in his hand fades away in a puff of frost. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” You want to shake him, you feel sick, this has to be a nightmare, this can’t– this can’t be real.

“I–nnnh– I told you,” His voice still holds that growl that you’re entirely unused to, having never heard the Zayne you know speak in such a tone, “It’s too late, you need…” He sucks in a wet, gurgling breath, and you instinctively move back up onto your knees as his back arches, the sickening crack of bone making you flinch as you watch another crystal force its way through his stomach and ribs. Your vision is starting to blur with tears you didn’t know you were crying, and angrily, you wipe them away. Now is not the time. You need to be calm. Collected. You need to fucking do something.

Anything.

He’s weaker now, and so distracted by the pain in his body that he is incapable of resisting the way he had before when you place a hand on his shoulder and try to resonate with him. Below you, he’s almost seizing, his muscles contracting and releasing as he curls in on himself, like an animal trying to protect its wound. The fingernails on his other hand scrape against the road and start to bleed, though it’s hard to tell with the pool already spreading beneath him.

Where you can normally feel the rising tide of energy from him, raging and at times almost overwhelming as you siphon some of the backlash from his evol, now…

You feel nothing.

Why can’t you feel anything?

Is it… What is this? What’s happening?

“Get away.... Please.” Zayne’s voice has grown weaker. He’s begging you.

“I’m not leaving you, Zayne, why can’t I resonate with you?!” Your fear starts to morph into rage. Anger at him, for not explaining what the hell is going on, anger at yourself, for being too useless to help him before it got to this point, and anger at fate itself, for bringing you both here, to this point in time.

“Because I’m not–”

He never gets to finish that sentence. Instead, his words morph into an unbearable scream of pure agony, the sort of sound you’ve only heard from the dying. It chills you to your very core in a way that snow and ice never could.

Later, you’ll realize that those were the last words you ever heard from him.

As a human.

But as the sound of his scream starts to warp, you realize his body is changing too. More black shards of the horrific crystals pierce through his skin, one after another, blood pooling around his twitching body until his clothes are torn to shreds, and you realize that the very shape of him is being distorted, twisted into something alien. Something you recognize all too well.

Pure shock keeps you rooted there, on your knees beside him as you watch it happen right before your eyes.

The look on his face in that moment is something that will haunt you for an eternity, you think, half covered in the shimmering, rocklike material that is indicative of… Your brain can hardly process what it is you’re seeing.

And then the screaming stops, though it continues to echo in your ears for seconds afterwards still. He starts to stand. First with one heavy hand on the ground, clunking onto the pavement. Then up onto a knee. The crack of bones and the sound of his shallow breath can no longer be heard. The only thing left of him is one side of his face as his form continues to twist minutely. It’s contorted in blank, empty rage.

You scramble back, rolling over to avoid a shard of ice the Wanderer tosses at you as it comes up to its full height. Even taller than Zayne had been. Using the momentum, you push yourself up onto your own feet and run a few steps away, though you don’t want to leave your back exposed for too long. The sound of its heavy feet sound behind you as it takes slow steps forward, and without thinking, you grab for the sword at your side, bouncing against your thigh.

Your mind becomes utterly blank, every thought erased as shock and adrenaline has your limbs taking over without any conscious thought. It’s entirely muscle memory. You’ve done this a thousand times. You know exactly what to do.

“Because I’m not–”

You drop into your stance, legs shoulder length apart, knees bent, sword held in front of you, and duck as the Wanderer aims another ice spike at your head. Okay. For now, its movements are sluggish. Is that because it’s not finished transforming yet?

“Get away.... Please.”

It puts both hands out in front of itself, rocky and grey, glowing blue light showing through the cracks, claws long and sharp, and a torrent of small icicles fly towards you, forcing you to step to the side, and slowly, it continues to advance. The one hazel eye you can still see does not blink, staring at you with an unseeing gaze, the human half of its mouth twisting almost like it's trying to say something. What could it possibly have to say?

“It's too late. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, banging against your ribcage. You force yourself to take deeper breaths, realizing that you’re nearly hyperventilating. Underneath your feet is the pool of his blood, splashing as you twist to the side to avoid another attack, forced to bat away one of the shards with the flat of your blade.

What am I supposed to do?

You can’t keep asking yourself that question. You need to act. You know what you have to do.

He’s–it’s getting closer, inexorable, immovable. Its attacks are coming faster now, ice forming beneath your feet as if to trip you, or possibly to trap you, distracting you from the icicles that speed past you as you dance away. The blood on the pavement is frozen. There’s something meaningful in that you realize, but before you can pursue that thought any further, your brain shoves it out of sight.

Right now you need to survive.

One grazes your thigh, tearing your clothes and leaving a razor thin cut that stings more from the cold than the pain. The Wanderer starts to form a blizzard around the both of you, obscuring your vision, and you’ve kept so much distance between you and him–it, that in the swirling snowflakes whipping past, you can barely see it anymore. Is it using the blizzard to camouflage itself? How?

You twist around, trying to remain alert, to catch sight of it, and though you hear it coming, you fail to react in time as one of its freezing daggers embeds itself into your side. You roar. Not from pain, but from frustration.

“If… If I end up doing something that hurts you… Don’t go easy on me.”

There.

You see it, in the artificial storm, a vague shadow, the rocky form covered entirely in snow, helping it blend in. It seems to realize that it's been found, because it roars, an ugly sound, and you match it, holding your sword up near your face, over your shoulder as both of you charge towards one another. Your blow is sweeping, from above your head and down to your opposite hip, catching on its arm as it forms a barrier of ice to protect itself, though your strength is enough to have it cracking off.

There’s no more hesitation. You immediately strike again, stepping back with one leg and then forward again to put more force behind the stab you aim right at its chest, pulsing with a glowing blue light that acts almost as a bullseye. The Wanderer roars in pain and stumbles, And without thinking, you pull back, easily stowing your sword back in your sheath as you realize you’ve been given an opening. Your feet find their stance with ease as you reach for the energy you’re so used to drawing from, familiar as breathing while one arm stretches out in front of you, and the other pulls back as if to shoot a bow. Too late, you realize you’ve made a grave mistake. There’s no one here to resonate with. The Wanderer takes advantage of your lapse in judgment and shoots another volley of tiny, piercing icicles at you, forcing you to roll to the side, but it's also spread a thin layer of ice at your feet, and you slip to the ground, the icicle in your side lodging deeper and causing you to scream.

Frost bursts from the Wanderers palm shoots forward and starts to trap your foot onto the ground, in its ice. The other hand shoots more spikes at you, which you narrowly manage to throw off with the flat of your blade once more. You can’t avoid all of them though, and your skin stings where they manage to graze you, a few embedding themselves into your arms.

It looms over you. Terrifying and beautiful. You can’t get your foot free. Your evol is useless when you’re alone.

And you’ve never felt that more than at this moment.

”Zayne–” You don’t know what to do. His eye flashes with brief recognition, and then it’s gone again. You can’t recognize him. You just wish–

Something whizzes past your head, making your hair flutter with the wind it causes.

The Wanderer is forced back.

There’s another blow.

You’re not sure what you’re seeing, but after a second it registers.

Embedded in the glow of its chest is an icicle.

Blue.

Clear.

Your breath catches in your throat.

There are footsteps behind you. Like someone running. All the while more and more shards of ice are flung almost haphazardly at the Wanderer, and it continues to grow weaker, unable to fight back much with the force of the barrage being forced upon it.

It drops to a knee.

One of the icicles hits it in the head. And then another.

It makes a sound almost like pain, and it’s close enough to you as it starts to sag down further that you’re almost making eye contact with that single hazel eye, though it still seems as if it’s more… Looking past you than at you.

You swallow thickly and reach for your sword with nearly trembling hands, sticky with blood, and before you can falter, you pull it out and scream as you slice through its neck.

The Wanderer lists forward, like it's about to fall on top of you, but disappears in a burst of sparks before it actually does. The only thing left behind are the particles in the air that float like tiny stars, and the brilliant cerulean Protocore at your feet, dropping onto the road right on top of a puddle of frozen blood.

There’s bile in your throat. You can almost taste it.

The footsteps come to a stop, and you don’t realize anyone is in front of you until he’s right in your field of vision, kneeling down and taking your shoulders in large, warm palms.

“Hey, hey can you hear me?” The voice is so familiar…

Your vision blurs and you blink away the tears as you look at Zayne. Intact. Right in front of you.

You must be hallucinating.

You’re too exhausted to care, the strength in your limbs failing you as you almost go limp. He quickly adjusts to hold you securely in his arms, and were you more aware of your surroundings, you might notice him examining you for injuries, his lips thinning as he takes the state of you in.

“... I just need you to nod if you can hear my voice.” He sounds faraway, like he’s speaking to you through water, or a wall maybe.

Though you’re not sure what the point is, you nod weakly, and that at least seems to lessen some of the tension in his shoulders. The hallucination of Zayne moves into a squat beside you and hooks one arm around your shoulders, and the other beneath your knees, lifting you with ease, his expression determined and certainly worried.

He feels warm. You clutch at the fabric of his coat, and curl into his chest, barely aware of wherever it is that he’s taking you. He doesn’t ask what happened, though he’d like to. His first and foremost priority is making sure you’re okay.

“... The Protocore…” You manage, your voice rasping as you blink and realize it's still back there, on the road. Zayne’s mouth twists, you see a muscle twitch in his jaw.

“That doesn’t matter right now. Let’s get you patched up first.”

“Zayne, please.” Your voice is small, and pleading, and it causes him to pause for a moment, looking down at you with a concerned, puzzled expression. He doesn’t know why something that insignificant would matter to you right now.

His arms tighten their hold on you, and he stops in his tracks, taking in the distressed look on your face. He seems to be fighting his need to ensure your safety, and his natural obedience to your whims. You must not have gone far yet, because he turns and only takes a few steps before it comes back into your field of vision. You start to squirm in his arms, and reluctantly, he sets you down. Yes, you’re injured, and in a severe state of shock, but you’re not incapable of standing. Your brain is still blocking any pain that you should be feeling.

Zayne watches on in confusion, brows furrowed as you bend down to pick up the blue Protocore, looking at it like it’s something delicate and precious, held carefully in both of your palms.

“Okay… We can go.” There’s not much emotion in your voice, but you refuse to relinquish it as you lean into Zayne’s side, one of his large palms wrapped around your waist in case you need his support as you both head towards his car, parked not far away.

He doesn’t ask… Not yet… But the eerie sight of that Wanderer has the question lingering on the tip of his tongue as he gently settles you into the passenger seat and then reaches into his backseat for a first aid kit. Zayne efficiently and tenderly cleans and dresses your wounds for you, the Protocore glowing ominously between the two of you, and more than once he finds himself glancing at it.

... Who was that?

He’s afraid he doesn’t even need to ask to know the answer.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, violence, abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: I am tireddddd.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Professor Smith dresses you in a set of pajamas; white with blue stripes. They’re not your size, you assume they might be his. You’re not sure. You’re too woozy to think about much more than your throbbing hand. 

He lays you in the hotel bed as you shake uncontrollably. You’re freezing cold but he keeps touching your forehead and saying you’re burning up. How can that be when you can’t get warm? 

Your lashes flutter between glimpses of him pacing and sitting on the edge of the bed. When all is dark, you see his shadow beside you. His breathing suggests he’s asleep but you can’t tell. He’s up again as a halo of light shines around you. The lamp limns his figure as he pets your cheek. 

“Sweetheart, shh, you’re alright,” he coos, “no need to cry.” 

You’re crying? Why? You can’t remember. Your mind is a bubble of fractured thoughts and vague scenes. You can’t make scene of much between the visions of this man. 

“Fever’s broke,” he lays a wet cloth over your brow. “Very good. We’ll be off in the morning, won’t we?” 

“Mom?” You murmur in confusion. 

“Mm, let’s take one step at a time before all that, yes?” He caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Back to sleep.” 

He shuts off the light and you’re cast into grim blackness. His weight jostles the bed and you feel him spread out next to you. The bed is more than large enough for you both. 

“Professor,” you croak weakly. “What’s...” 

“In the morning,” he girds. 

You accept it, “sorry.” 

“Never be sorry,” he reaches over to squeeze your arm lightly.  

You lay in silence. Your eyes close on their own. You are completely drained. You sink down into a solid void that suffocates away all light and life. When you awake again, you’re alone. You might think it was all a dream if it wasn’t for the bright hotel walls. 

You remain as you are. You don’t have the energy to get up. You lift your hand and look at the bandage wrapped around it. It feels better and your fingers aren’t swollen. You bend them. It still hurts. 

The door opens and you drop your arm. You squeak at the pain. 

“Sweetheart, is all well?” Raymond rushes over, a tray in his hand. “I was only meaning to fetch some of the complimentary breakfast before we depart.” 

You blink and shake your head, “fine. I’m... fine.” 

“I hope you like coffee--” 

“Coffee?” You whimper and close your eyes. “Coffee...” you mutter. “I went to get coffee and...” 

“Yes, that fiend meant to attack you. You see, I did not come without purpose. How could I sit back and see you neglected?” 

“You don’t... I don’t know... you.” 

“Hush, hush, you must be hungry,” he insists. “It is good to eat. You are weak from the infection still. You must take care--” 

“My mom--” you look at him. 

He sucks in air and his jaw tenses. He steels himself and his fingers twitch. “Yes, a woman who allows her own daughter be abused.” 

“She... she couldn’t stop him--” 

“She should not bring the beast home with her,” he snips. “Please, you would not survive in such an environment.” 

“Why... would you come here?” 

He exhales and his eye bats, as if he can’t control it. “Why wouldn’t I after what I witnessed? Then you would not answer. I had half a suspicion you were dead.” 

“I’m sorry, I... didn’t mean to worry you but... it’s not your problem.” 

He hums and set the tray on the night stand. He offers a cup of coffee, “are you so used to being forgotten that you cannot accept kindness?” 

“No, it isn’t... I’m sorry.” 

“And the apologies. No need for it. I am not admonishing you. I am merely offering advice.” He takes your good hand and makes you take the cup. “There is much more you need to learn than accounting, I gather.” 

You frown and look at the dark coffee. 

“If you prefer milk or sugar, I grabbed some of each,” he explains and gestures to the tray. “Of course, you shouldn’t drink that in bed else you might stain the sheets.” 

“Oh, yeah,” you push the blankets back and move carefully. 

The pajamas brush against your stomach and you look down. You’re reminded of the day before. Naked in the tub. In front of him. You’ve never been so exposed before. You slump your shoulders and go to the table and sit. 

You look down at your burnt hand and bring up to examine the bandage again, “thank you...” you raise it higher. 

“Certainly. And who wouldn’t see to the festering infection? Are you not concerned that not even your own mother cared for that matter?” 

“Can we not talk about her?” You sniffle and rest your hand in your lap. “You should take me home.” 

“Home? That is no home. Now, you should eat. Keep your strength up so you can heal properly.” He girds. 

You nod and take a cautious sip of coffee. You’re still reeling, maybe even slightly delirious. You set the cup down again and lift your chin. You look at his neck, not his face. 

“Why?” You ask. 

“Why...” He echoes as he sits across from you. 

“Why help me?” 

He takes a packet of sanitizing wipes and uses them to clean the cutlery. You watch his diligent work. Everything he does is precise and purposeful. And cleanly. He seems to detest the thought of dirtiness and yet you can only feel like filth next to him. 

“Well, it should be a question, should it? It is humane. Decent. So, I shouldn’t need to name the reason for it.” He lays down each piece before he sets to claiming a muffin, then a scoop of the scrambled eggs, and strips of bacon with sausage too. “Though if you insist, I will give one. Firstly, let us underline that point. What you need, what you want, I would be more than willing to supply, but then, circle around to your query; why should I help you?” 

He takes the rest of the cutlery and wipes it then hands it to you. He makes you up a plate as he continues, “you, sweetheart, have great potential. I’ve seen it. And that would be spoiled all for a poor foundation. Now that is not your own doing, mind you, you cannot help where you come from, and more admirably,” he sets the plate before you, “you were fighting against it and so I only thought to lower the ladder for you.” 

You blink and focus on the food. You’re not very hungry. You feel slightly queasy but you would hate to be ungrateful. All these questions already make you feel so.  

“Thank you,” you croak and make yourself look at him. “Really...” 

You don’t know how to say it. You already feel pathetic and you don’t need to sink further. No one’s ever been that concerned about you. No one ever tried to help you. Most people just laughed, called you names, or pushed you down themselves. 

“Please, don’t trouble yourself very much, eh? I have the means to help. It would be selfish not to. A sort of passing the torch. I wasn’t born to wealth myself, or peace. Life can be a war on its own,” he gives a gentle smile beneath his thick beard. “Oh, and I did take some clothing from your home before our flight. I was able to use the hotel laundry. It should suffice, though I hardly trust their cleaning staff.” 

“Yes, sir,” you answer. 

“Raymond, please,” he corrects you. 

📓

Professor Smith, or Raymond as he insists, drives you across the city. He turns in the car at the rental place then leads you into the train station a block away. He’s patient, not hurrying you, and he pays for your ticket and his. You feel guilty for the expense. 

As you sit and wait on the platform, you fidget. You chew your lip and curl your fingers, the burn stinging beneath the bandages. 

“Are you well?” He checks in. He does every now and then. 

“Um, yes...” you look at the tracks, “I’ve never been on a train.” 

“A first, very exciting,” he muses. 

You nod and let your eyes wander. You’re nervous but too much to ask what makes you so. He moves so his leg is against yours. 

“Your hand?” He prompts. 

“It’s feeling better,” you assure.” 

“Very well.” He sits back and puffs out through his nose, “we will go to my home. You can recover there and when you feel up to it, we will go over your last assignment and see you through the course--” 

“Professor-- Raymond,” you sputter as you face him. “You don’t have to do all this.” 

“I am not a man who does things he doesn’t wish to,” he replies. “I’ve explained myself enough. It is unacceptable to me to let you return to where I found you. I couldn’t allow you in such an unsafe circumstance. Especially after what I witnessed.” 

“It-- he just yelled, that’s all.” You murmur. 

“Is that all? He had nothing to do with this?” He points to your hand. 

You shrink and shake your head. He clucks. 

“You are honest and so you are a poor liar. What I saw was more than yelling, sweetheart. You will not convince me otherwise. I know, this is a peculiar situation, but it is your way out,” he says, “tell me, you never thought of it.” 

Your lack of response is enough of one. Your eyes are hot, and your mouth is dry. Your leg jiggles restlessly. 

A lull rises as the chatter of others rolls through the platform. Soon, you hear the whine of metal on metal, and a bright beam shines from the tunnel. The train speeds through and grinds to a stop.  

You follow Raymond’s every move. When he stands, you stand. As he grabs his bag, you go to do the same but he has it in hand first. He gestures you ahead of him. You reluctantly approach the train. 

“The second from the front,” he instructs from behind. “I’ve our tickets.” 

You follow his direction. You’re good at that. As a professor, he’s just as good at giving orders. As you approach the waiting attendant, he reaches around to hand over the tickets. The woman in her uniform tears of the ends and hands them back. 

You step onto the small metal footstool and then climb the stairs of the train car. You pause as he puts your bags into the netted caddy near the front. He urges you on with another point and recites the seat numbers. You find them and stare at the row. 

“Would you like window or aisle?” He tucks away the tickets. 

“Mm, what do you like?” You ask. 

“Please, have the window. You did say it’s your first,” he insists. 

You duck your head and sit. He lowers himself next to you and slips a bottle from inside his jacket. He pops the cap open and offers it quietly. You glance over at the sanitizer. You don’t want to be rude so you put your unbandaged hand out. He dollops it into your palm, then his own, and puts it away. 

He rubs his palms together and you sanitize around your bandage and your uninjured hand. You sit back and look out at the platform. He’s a very stringent man but you might only think so because you’re used to no rules at all. He’s thorough too. He seems to think of everything.  

You look at him but think better of asking what you want to. He catches your glance before you can turn back. He shifts toward you, leaning on the outer armrest. 

“Go on,” he urges, “you can say whatever you need.” 

“Sorry, it’s nothing.” 

“Please,” he opens his hand encouragingly. 

You drop your eyes and wet your lips. You’re going to sound so dumb. “Do you really think I could... I could do something? Like you? Like... like... accounting?” 

He chuckles softly. It’s not mocking or mean. It’s soothing. 

“I do believe so,” he says. “You needn’t fret. Let yourself time to heal, then all that will come after.” 

You sniff and sit back. You don’t know if you agree with him, but you’ll try. That’s all you can do. It’s what you should do after he’s gone to all this effort. 

[bbernard-03]

Begin Again

˚｡ ❀ ˚｡The Beginning˚｡ ❀ ˚｡

Summary: The weight of it all finally gets too much, and the decision is made, but will the kind words of a stranger be enough to shine a light into the blinding darkness?

Warnings: use of y/n, mentions of suicidal thoughts/suicide

thank you @bernardsbendystraws for proofreading and being the best <3

**i do not consent to my work being copied, used for inspiration, or republished**

prologue <- -> next part

----------

Two weeks ago, I was prepared to take my own life. The decision made, the plan in place, the letter… almost written. The plan was halted when a brown-haired, ocean-eyed stranger reminded me why life was worth living. Why my story was worth completing. Matt spent hours with me that night discussing everything from dreams and fears to thoughts and memories. He breathed life back into me, and I will never be able to repay him for that. 

Today, I was walking down the streets of the small town I had escaped to, facing the daily challenge that Matt had so graciously deemed upon me: Do something for yourself. After much deliberation and argument, I walked towards an ice cream shop I used to love as a kid. The happy memories were plagued with the dark events in the years that followed. I paused as I approached the double doors, taking a shaky breath. I took out my phone and typed out a message.

Y/N:

I can’t do it. 

I stared at the screen, watching the bubbles appear almost instantly in the bottom corner. 

Matt: 

Yes, you can. Remember, there are things worth living for. You’re working on finding them. 

I sigh and gnaw at my bottom lip. 

Y/N:

I’m trying. I really am. But I don’t think I can do this. It’s too much. 

Matt: 

Look up, sweetheart. 

I lifted my eyes and saw Matt standing a few feet away with a comforting smile as he approached me. He placed his hand on my shoulder, his thumb gently caressing the bare skin. 

“You can do this. You have to do something for yourself. Ice cream is a treat, right?” He asks softly, his words firm and encouraging. 

“Yeah, ice cream’s a treat. I just..” My voice trails off as I stare at the ice cream parlor before me. “I just haven’t been here in a very long time.” My voice is soft, filled with nostalgia and a hint of pain. 

“Do you want to try something else?” He offers gently. Despite my stubbornness and hesitations, in the past two weeks, he has never once lost his patience with me. 

“No,” I say softly. “This used to be my favorite place.. This is for me.” I say with as much confidence as possible, which isn’t much. He smiles softly at me. 

“Lead the way.” 

I shakily grasp the door handle and pull it open, the familiar scent filling my nose as I step through the door, Matt following closely behind. 

“Oh, our little Rainbow!” A voice exclaims from behind the counter. My head snapped up as I saw Belinda, the older woman who runs the shop. 

“Mrs.B!” I exclaim happily as she rounds the counter and crushes me in a hug. 

“It has been too long, my girl. You’re all grown up. Let me look at you!” She states and holds me at arm's length as she examines every part of me. “Your hair is longer.” She says softly. 

“I decided to grow it out.” I smile softly. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs.B.” 

“I love it; it suits you and makes you look like an adult.” She smiles widely and then notices Matt. “And who’s this?” She asks with a slight smirk on her face. 

“This is Matt,” I say with a smile. “Just a friend, Mrs.B.” I giggle and turn to Matt. “She tends to romanticize everything.”

“I can’t help being in love with love!” She exclaims with faux dramatics. “You want your usual, Rainbow?” I can’t help but smile at the fact that she remembers my order despite it having been almost ten years since I’ve set foot in the shop. 

“Yes, please, Mrs.B. One for Matt too,” I say sweetly. 

Five minutes later, we’re both sitting at a small booth in the corner of the shop, sipping strawberry milkshakes. I hum lightly along with the music and glance around at the parlor. Nothing had changed in the last decade and it’s oddly comforting. 

“What’re you thinking about, hm?” Matt asks, looking at me curiously. 

“Just how much nothing has changed here. It’s.. comforting.” I smile softly at him. 

“How often did you use to come here?” He questions gently. 

“Every day, every summer.. Until I was 13.” I glance around again as if trying to memorize every detail. 

“Why’d you stop?” His question, seemingly innocent, creates a heavy pit in my stomach. 

“Mom and Dad got divorced that spring. Nobody was really up for family vacations after that.” I say quietly, omitting most of the details, unsure if it was for his or my benefit. Matt looked at me curiously, almost instantly knowing there was more to the story but choosing to pick his battles in breaking down my walls. 

“I’m sorry that happened,” he spoke softly. “This seems like a very special place, especially to you.” 

“It was.. Is.. This town, this shop, it was the focal point of my childhood. The happiest memories I have.” My voice was dripping with heartache as I recalled all the years spent here before my family crumbled to pieces. 

Matt and I sat in comfortable silence for the rest of the visit. The only sound being the hum of the machine and occasional conversations between Mrs.B and customers. Despite the ache in my chest remembering the happy moments, I can’t help but feel a sliver of relief that I’m here. I’m making new memories, happy ones. I look at Matt, a small smile on my face. He was the reason I was here. 

“What?” He asks with a soft chuckle. “Do I have something on my face?” He wipes around his mouth. 

“No,” I giggle. “I.. I’m just.. I feel a little better than okay right now.” My words are met with Matt's bright smile. 

“I am so glad, sweetheart.” He reaches across and squeezes my hand before pulling it back. He’s made sure to respect my personal space these past two weeks, never having physical contact with me more than necessary. Another fact on the list of why he’s the best person I’ve ever met. 

“I’m grateful for you,” I say simply. He looks at me, and I can see the happiness on his face. 

Once we finish our milkshakes, we begin the stroll back. The air swirling around us, the hint of saltiness from the ocean soothing every ache in my soul. I take in my surroundings inch by inch. A flower had bloomed more than it was yesterday, I saw a new face pass by us, a little girl hugged her Mom after getting a toy. Joy. A feeling I had almost forgotten existed. 

This was where I was meant to be. I think.

[cece693]

Enemy (Edward Cullen x Werewolf GN! Reader)

Summary: Imprinting was supposed to be a good thing, not for you though. Fate seemed to be mocking you by having your imprint be a leech—Edward Cullen, to be more specific.

tags: gender-neutral reader, reader is a werewolf, post-Eclipse, Edward is your imprint, mentions of wanting to be dead, no established relationship

You were on enemy land, yet you didn’t care. Let them come. Let them do their worst. Maybe it’d be a mercy, a reprieve from the torment you’d been living. The trees around you stretched endlessly, their branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of ghosts, haunting you with every step you took into Cullen's territory.

Imprinting on a vampire—it should’ve been your death sentence. An abomination, they called it. The whispers, the disgusted glares, the sneers from your packmates. Your family wouldn’t even look you in the eye. So, why not wander where you weren't wanted? Why not provoke those you should be avoiding?

A snap of a twig echoed through the forest, and you halted, every muscle tensing. You knew he was there. You always knew. It was a curse, this damn imprinting, a cruel joke from the universe to force you to feel everything for the last person you should.

“Edward,” you spat, the bitterness in your voice impossible to hide. “I know you’re watching me. You may as well come out.” Silence stretched and then he emerged—graceful, quiet, like a shadow having been given a form. His golden eyes were fixed on you with such an intensity, it made your blood boil.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he said, his voice irritatingly soft, like he actually cared about your wellbeing.

A laugh escaped you, the sound harsh and bitter in the stillness. “And where should I be, huh? With my pack? My family?” You took a step toward him, your fists clenching at your sides. “Because let’s be honest, they’d prefer me dead. I imprinted on a vampire, Edward. That makes me as good as a traitor to them.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, defiance burning in your eyes. “And you—you hate me, too. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Edward’s expression tightened, but he didn’t break eye contact. That infuriating calm, as if nothing could shake him. It only fueled your anger. “I don’t hate you.” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t lie,” you snapped, shaking your head. “I know you do. How could you not? I broke up your happy little life with Bella, didn’t I? You were supposed to be with her, not be tied to…” You gestured toward yourself with a bitter laugh, “…whatever this is.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—pain, perhaps regret—but it was quickly replaced by his usual composure. “Bella and I were never meant to last,” he said with great honesty in his voice, catching you off guard. “We loved each other, but things changed. We changed. It was my choice to let her go.”

“Your choice?” You scoffed, narrowing your eyes. “Then why are you even here, Edward? Why bother with me? I’m just a mess—your sworn enemy, for crying out loud. If you hate this as much as I do, then do us both a favor and end it.”

He moved so quickly that you barely registered the motion. One second, he was standing a few feet away, the next he was in front of you, his hand gripping your arm with a surprising gentleness that left you frozen. His eyes bored into yours, a fire burning in their depths. “I told you, I don’t hate you,” he repeated, his voice edged with a hint of frustration. “And you’re not a mess, not to me.”

“You’re…” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. “You’re my imprint. I didn’t ask for this, nor did you, but here we are. And I…I can’t stand to see you like this. I won’t lie and say it’s easy,” he admitted.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. We can’t change what happened, but we can try to make something of it. Maybe we start with being friends?"

You barked a laugh, though it was devoid of humor. “Friends,” you echoed, tasting the word like it was foreign. “You think we can be friends?”

“It’s a start,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “And maybe, in time, it can be more. If we both want it to be.”

The vulnerability in his words caught you off guard. You expected pity, maybe even indifference, but not this—this honest hope that things could be different. You let out a shaky breath, feeling some tension drain from your shoulders. “Alright,” you murmured, the fight leaving you. “Friends…We can try.”

A small, tentative smile crept onto Edward’s lips, and for a moment, warmth spread through your chest, easing some of the ache that had settled there. It wasn’t a solution, not by far, but it was a beginning.

[austinswife]

ALWAYS YOUR SECOND CHOICE - ‘Buck’ Cleven

PART 01 || 02

SYNOPSIS — After walking away from Gale “Buck” Cleven, leaving behind the love you thought you had, Buck is sent on another mission during the war. Though you thought your relationship was over, a letter from Buck arrives before his departure, forcing you to confront the unresolved emotions and the difficult choices you’ve made.

WARNING(S) — Themes of heartbreak, regret, and unresolved tension, emotional turmoil, reflection, potential reconciliation or heartbreak.

𝜗𝜚 ALL FEEDBACKS, IDEAS SUGGESTION — TO AUSTINSWIFE

The days had dragged by since you walked away from Buck, the man you thought you would spend your life with. You had never imagined your relationship would come to this—a painful, confusing ending that left you questioning whether it had ever been real at all. The ache in your chest was constant, a dull pain that never fully went away, no matter how hard you tried to push it down.

It had taken every ounce of strength you had to leave him, to walk out the door and force yourself to believe that you deserved better, even if your heart hadn’t fully accepted it. You had convinced yourself that you were doing the right thing, that staying would only mean more heartbreak. But now that he was gone—off to war, with no guarantee that he would return—the uncertainty felt suffocating.

Every day, you found yourself wondering where he was, what he was doing. If he was safe. If he was thinking about you the way you were thinking about him. But you tried to push those thoughts aside. You had made your choice, and you had to stick to it. There was no point in holding on to false hope, not when the pain still ran so deep.

One morning, as you were finishing up chores on the farm, the mail truck arrived. You didn’t think much of it until you saw the letter, your name scrawled across the front in Buck’s familiar handwriting.

Your heart skipped a beat as you stared down at the envelope, your hands shaking as you carefully tore it open. For a moment, you weren’t sure if you could bring yourself to read it. What could he possibly have to say after everything that had happened? But curiosity—and the unresolved feelings you still harbored—won out.

You unfolded the letter, the familiar weight of his words pressing down on you as you began to read.

Y/N,

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone on another mission. I don’t know how much time I have left to write, but there are things I need to say—things I didn’t say when you stood in front of me, tears in your eyes, asking me to choose you.

I know I hurt you. I know I’ve let you down in ways I can’t even begin to explain, and I don’t blame you for leaving. You’re right—I haven’t made you feel like my first choice, and for that, I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.

When I was with you, everything was easy. You never asked for anything more than what I could give. But that’s what makes it worse, doesn’t it? You deserved so much more, and I failed to give it to you.

I don’t know how to fix what I broke, and the truth is, maybe I can’t. You told me that you wouldn’t be waiting for me when I came back, and I understand. You deserve more than the man I’ve been. But I need you to know something, Y/N. I need you to know the truth.

I love you.

Maybe I didn’t show it right, maybe I didn’t say it enough, but I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than her. And I know what you’re thinking—why didn’t I prove it? Why did I always run to her?

I don’t have the answers that will make this right. The only thing I can say is that I’ve been a fool. I was trying to hold onto the past because it felt like something I needed to protect. But the more I held onto her, the more I realized I was losing the one thing I couldn’t live without—you.

I’ve been selfish, and I didn’t see it until it was too late. I know I may not get the chance to make this right. I don’t know what’s waiting for me out there, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you this.

If I don’t come back, I need you to know that I never stopped thinking about you. About us. About what we could’ve been if I hadn’t been such a coward.

I wish I could be there with you right now, telling you all of this face-to-face, begging for your forgiveness, but I can’t. I just hope that when this war is over, and if I’m lucky enough to come home, there’s still a chance. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s broken.

If I come back, I want to try to be the man you deserve.

But if this is the last letter you ever get from me, then I want you to know that you were the love of my life, Y/N. Always. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.

Be safe. Live your life fully, even if I’m not there to see it. You deserve that and so much more.

Yours always, Buck

You stared at the letter in your hands, Buck’s words blurring as tears welled in your eyes. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected him to say the things you had been so desperate to hear when you were still together. The apology, the confession of love—it was all there, written on the page like a final plea for your forgiveness.

But what hurt the most was knowing that he had only come to these realizations after you had left, after it was too late. After you had walked out that door, heartbroken and certain that you could never come back from the betrayal.

Your thoughts drifted back to that day, the moment when you had finally confronted him. You had stood there, spilling your heart out, telling him how much it hurt to feel like a second choice. You had reminded him about the time you were in the hospital—how sick you had been, how scared. You had asked him to come, needed him by your side more than ever, but he couldn’t.

You understood that he couldn’t leave the base. You had accepted that… until Marge called. She had needed him, and without a second thought, he dropped everything and ran to her. That had been the breaking point—the moment when you realized you couldn’t keep being the one left behind.

"It hurt so much, Buck. Too much for me to handle. I don’t even know if I’ll ever heal from this, because the more I love you, the more it hurts."

You had said those words through tears, your heart breaking even as you spoke them. And now, here you were again, crying over the same man, the same wounds.

But his letter… it was different. It wasn’t enough to erase the hurt, but it was something. It was the truth, finally. He had admitted to everything you’d been afraid of, and while that should have made it easier, it only made it more complicated.

Because despite everything, you still loved him. No matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you told yourself that you were done, you couldn’t stop loving him. You couldn’t turn off that part of your heart, no matter how hard you tried.

Buck had said he didn’t know if he’d come back. The thought of him not returning from the war sent a wave of panic through you, an emptiness settling in your chest. What if this was the last letter you ever got from him? What if he never came home?

You couldn’t shake the feeling of dread, the uncertainty of war hanging over both of your heads. But there was something else there too—a small, fragile flicker of hope. He had said that if he came back, he wanted to try. He wanted to be the man you deserved.

But could you give him that chance? Could you let yourself hope for a future where things would be different, where you wouldn’t always feel like second best? Or would the wounds run too deep to ever fully heal?

You didn’t have the answers. Not yet. All you had was the letter, and the words he had written—I love you. More than her.—echoing in your mind.

For now, all you could do was hope he came back safe. Hope that maybe, one day, you could have the conversation you had both been too afraid to have. And maybe, just maybe, you could find a way to rebuild what had been broken.

But for now, you would wait. Not for him, but for clarity. For a future where you could make the choice that was right for you.

It had been weeks since Buck’s last letter—weeks that felt like an eternity, stretched taut with fear and uncertainty. Every day that passed without word from him made your heart ache, the silence becoming more unbearable than anything you could’ve imagined.

The last letter from him had left you reeling. It had been filled with apologies, admissions of his failures, and confessions of love, all wrapped up in the kind of raw vulnerability you hadn’t seen from Buck in the months leading up to your breakup. And now, there was nothing but empty space where his words should’ve been.

You had told yourself you were done with him. That after everything—the constant running to her, the feeling of being second best, the hurt that had built up like a wall between you—there was no going back. You had told yourself that walking away was the right decision. But your heart… your heart didn’t seem to care.

It had been weeks of trying to distract yourself, of throwing yourself into the farm work, keeping busy, and pretending that you weren’t waiting for him. But every time you saw the mail truck drive by, your heart would skip a beat. Every time you saw the sky, clear and blue, you’d think of him up there, flying, and you’d wonder—where was he? Was he safe? Was he thinking of you?

And then, one cold afternoon, just as the sky was turning gray with winter clouds, the letter came.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t even sure you could handle it—but when you saw the envelope with his name scrawled across it in that familiar handwriting, something inside you twisted. This wasn’t like the other letters. The paper was worn, dirt-smudged at the corners. The handwriting was different—uneven, hurried.

Your hands trembled as you tore it open, your stomach churning with both fear and hope. The moment you read the first line, your breath caught in your throat, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

Y/N,

I don’t know how this letter will reach you, but I hope to God it does. I’m writing from a German POW camp. My plane was shot down on our last mission, and I’ve been captured. There’s no easy way to say this, and I hate to think of you reading this, worrying about me even more than you probably already do.

I’m not hurt, not really, just tired. Tired in a way I can’t explain. But I’m alive, and that’s something, right?

I think about you every single day. Even more so now that I’m here, in a place where everything seems so far away and unreal. But you—you’re always with me. I still have your picture, the one you gave me before everything went wrong. I keep it tucked in my left jacket pocket, right over my heart. I put it there the day you left, and it hasn’t moved since.

There are nights when I pull it out and just stare at it, thinking of you, wondering if I’ll ever get the chance to see you again. I remember how it felt to hold you, how you laughed, how you’d roll your eyes at my stupid jokes. It’s what keeps me going, even here, even now.

I know you might still be angry. Hell, I’m still angry at myself. I keep thinking about what I did, about how I didn’t deserve the love you gave me. But it’s all I have now—your love. Even if you don’t forgive me, even if I never get to fix what I broke, I want you to know that carrying your love with me is the only thing getting me through this.

I’m not asking for forgiveness in this letter. I’m not asking for anything, really. I just wanted you to know that if I make it out of here alive, it’s because of you. I’m still fighting to come home to you.

I love you, Y/N. I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say.

Yours always, Buck

The letter fell from your hands as you pressed your palm to your mouth, tears filling your eyes as you let the words sink in. He was alive. He was still out there, somewhere, thinking of you, carrying your picture in his jacket—next to his heart.

He had been shot down. Captured.

Your heart pounded in your chest, fear coursing through your veins as you tried to imagine what he must be going through. A Prisoner Of War camp. The thought alone sent chills through you. You didn’t know what conditions he was in, how dangerous it was, how much time he had left. But he was alive. And that was something.

But more than that… he still loved you.

I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say.

You stared down at the letter, reading and rereading those words, your chest tight with emotion. All this time, you had tried to convince yourself that you were done, that you had moved on, that walking away from him was the right choice. But deep down, you knew the truth.

You hadn’t stopped loving him.

Buck’s words brought back memories—memories of the man you fell in love with before everything became so complicated. The man who made you laugh, who held you when the world felt too heavy. The man who could make you feel like you were the only person that mattered, even when everything else was falling apart.

But those memories were tangled up with the hurt, the betrayal, the constant running to her. You had wanted to be his first choice, but it had always felt like you were second. Even now, those wounds hadn’t healed. You didn’t know if they ever would.

But in this moment, none of that seemed to matter. All that mattered was that Buck was still out there, still fighting to come home. And if he was still fighting… maybe you could too.

You had never written him back after leaving, but now, for the first time since you’d walked away, you felt ready to speak. You pulled out a piece of paper and sat at the small wooden table, the pen feeling heavy in your hand as you began to write the first letter since you had said goodbye.

Buck,

I don’t even know where to begin. I’m sitting here, rereading your letter, and all I can think is, thank God you’re alive. Thank God you’re okay. I’ve been so afraid, Buck. I’ve been terrified that I’d never hear from you again, that I’d never get the chance to say what’s been in my heart since I left.

It’s hard for me to put into words how I’ve felt these past few months. You hurt me in ways I didn’t think were possible, and I won’t pretend that those scars have healed. But reading your letter, knowing that you still carry my picture with you, knowing that you’re fighting to come home to me… it’s brought everything into perspective.

I still love you, Buck. I never stopped, not even after I walked away. It hurt so much because I loved you so much. And that love hasn’t gone away. I can’t deny it anymore.

When you told me you were running to her because she needed you, it felt like a betrayal. Like I would always come second in your life. I needed you too, Buck, but you weren’t there. And that broke me. I won’t lie to you—it still breaks me.

But despite all of that, I’m sitting here writing to you because my heart refuses to let go of you. You’re still a part of me, even now. And I want you to know that if—when—you come back, I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting for you.

I’m not ready to say I forgive you, not yet. There’s still a lot to work through, a lot that needs to be said between us. But what I can say is this: I love you. I’ve always loved you, and I’ll keep loving you, no matter what happens.

So come back to me, Buck. Please, come back safe. We’ll figure the rest out when you’re home.

Yours, Y/N

As you finished the letter, you folded it carefully, your hands trembling with a mixture of hope and fear. The fear of losing him again was overwhelming, but the hope—the hope that maybe, just maybe, you could have a future together—was enough to keep you going.

You sealed the envelope and handed it to the postman the next day, your heart heavy with all the things left unsaid, yet lightened by the chance to say what truly mattered.

The days after sending the letter passed slowly, the uncertainty gnawing at you as you waited, hoping for some kind of word—some kind of sign that Buck was still holding on. You pictured him pulling out your photo, keeping it close as he faced each day, and it gave you the strength to keep going.

You didn’t know if he would get your letter, didn’t know if he would make it back to you. But the one thing you did know was that love—your love for Buck—was still there. And no matter how broken things had been, no matter how much hurt had passed between you, that love was still worth fighting for.

Now, all you could do was wait. Again…

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Diesel Is Desire, You Were Playing With Fire

A/N: It's still day six of @nessianweek, right? Just posting a teensy bit later than I intended! 😬 Anywho! What better way to celebrate Lady Death and the Lord of Bloodshed than the two of them being hot and covered in blood? And simping about it? Am I right? Hope everyone enjoys!

Read on AO3

The pounding in his head seems to radiate from the left side, a constant thrum near his temple and gnawing straight through his mind. It has a low ringing still niggling in his ears, has pressure building behind his eyes, as Cassian slowly opens them. The instant flare of light leaves him wincing, but as his eyes adjust, he realizes just how dim it actually is around him, most of the light spilling in from torches in the hall beyond.

Dim and damp.

There’s a cool dampness that clings to the air around him, to the stone pressing against Cassian’s cheek. With a soft grunt, he tries to push himself up into a seated position, only to find his hands bound, metal scraping and tugging at the skin of his wrists when he tries to move. He rolls over enough that his gaze can follow the chain of the shackles up and into the stone wall. Some more shifting brings his attention to the rope tightly bound around his wings, and he dares to test out the strength of the restraint, grunting in frustration when there's no give.

“Well, look who’s finally awake.”

A hand digs into Cassian’s hair, tugging against the wound there until he’s yanked up and into a seated position. He blinks a few times against the pain and comes face to face with the hard, brown eyes and arrogant sneer of Maelor.

Of course.

Of course, this male decided to pick back up the mantle that Kallon and his little band left behind. Cassian still remembers when Maelor was a youngling in the rings, over throwing punches and refusing to follow any orders.

“Are you finding your accommodations comfortable, General?”

Cassian hums, making a big show of looking around the room. He notes just how small the room is, the single exit along the opposite wall. The metal bars of the door look sturdy, but the rust on the hinges look promising.

“You could consider hanging some art on the walls,” Cassian drawls, flicking his gaze back to Maelor.

The male looks unimpressed with the comment, eyes flashing and teeth pulling back over his bared teeth. Cassian bites back a smirk. It’s too easy to get a rise out of the male. Barely through the Blood Rite means the male is still too green, still unseasoned about this sort of thing. And probably too stupid to have really thought through this little plan beyond the rage Maelor is letting get the better of him.

“But I suppose I’ve seen worse,” Cassian continues, shrugging his shoulders as much as his restraints will allow. “Than wherever here is.”

Maelor snorts. “Nice try. As if I’d tell you that. I’m not stupid.”

Cassian bites his tongue around his disagreement, against pointing out the obvious. “Can’t be too far from the western steppes where I was patrolling. I presume that’s where you attacked.”

“You didn’t even hear me coming,” Maelor tells him, puffing out his chest like a preening child. “You’re losing your touch, Lord of Bloodshed.”

“Still, we both know you don’t have the strength to carry or fly me that far, so let me guess, an old converted cellar in the deserted Wirmlowe camp?”

Maelor’s fists clenching is the only confirmation that Cassian needs. “It doesn’t matter. You’re still the one in chains. Still the one who will pay for your crimes against the Blood Brothers.”

“Blood Brothers? Really? That’s the name you decided on.”

The sound of the back of Maelor’s hand across his cheek is loud in the small space, ringing off the stone walls around them. Cassian chuckles at the display, another blatant show of the untampered emotions from an inexperienced warrior.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Cassian tells him, working his jaw against the sting. “Nes likes my pretty face.”

“I don't have time for this,” Maelor mumbles, spinning on his heel and stalking back toward the door.

“There’s still time, you know. To let me go and pretend this whole thing never happened,” Cassian calls after him, shaking his head solemnly as he leans casually against the wall. “I mean it's your life on the line, but…”

Maelor whirls back around, that sneer back on his face. “Your precious High Lord isn’t coming for you.”

Cassian chuckles again. This male really is more stupid than he looks. “Oh, it's not Rhys you have to worry about.”

As if on cue, the door behind Maelor’s back explodes off its hinges, the force sending the male flying to the ground, the metal bars crushing him against the stones. Silver flickers and floods into the room, those flames echoed in a pair of eyes now standing in the open doorway. Now narrowed firmly on Cassian.

There’s no stopping Cassian’s grin at the sight. He’d felt that familiar warm thrum in his chest as soon as he’d come to. Felt that gentle tug that informed him the other end of that golden thread was drawing closer. And now here she stands, silver still simmering and weaving at her fingertips, leathers clinging to her frame, and hair pulled away to show off the sharp angles of her face. To give Cassian the perfect view of one of his favorite expressions painted across her face.

“One night. One date night, and you had to get yourself kidnapped.”

“Hello to you too, sweetheart.”

Nesta steps further into the room, moving lithely over Maelor’s body with ease. “If you didn’t want to go to the ballet tonight, you could have just said.”

“You really think this was my doing?” Cassian asks, holding up his bound wrists in emphasis. “Think this is what I want?”

The left side of Nesta’s lips lift up into a smirk, the blue of her eyes sparking in that way Cassian’s always loved. “Well, we both do know how much you love to be tied up.”

“Only when it’s you doing the tying.”

Nesta rolls her eyes, but there’s no hiding the fondness in her expression. It has Cassian’s grin stretching wider across his face, has warmth bubbling between his ribs. She finally turns her attention toward Maelor’s body, crouching down and rooting around until she locates the keys on his person. As she focuses on unlocking the shackle around each of Cassian’s wrists, he can’t help but stare at her face, especially so close to his.

All these years and it’s still such a problem for him, tracing the planes of her high cheekbones, the faint freckles that he knows are echoed more prominently across her shoulders, each dark eyelash framing a pair of icy blue eyes. Gods, he’s truly the luckiest male, and he’s sure his dopey smile only reflects the sentiment.

The shackle on Cassian’s right hand releases, and he winces slightly, taking a moment to flex his fingers and turn his wrist. It’s at that exact moment that shouts echo from above them, what sounds like thundering steps growing closer and closer.

“Didn’t you check the whole perimeter before storming in here?”

Nesta sighs through her nose, pressing the key into Cassian’s freed hand. “If you’re going to critique my rescuing, then you can rescue yourself next time.”

She pushes back to her feet, unsheathing Ataraxia. She resets her stance, lifting her sword aloft and readying for the rebels that come storming into the room. Four males by Cassian’s count, and the Mother only knows how many more there could be on the way. Each one wears a sneer, wears a look of pure rage and blood lust, and it’s all directed at Nesta.

Directed at his mate.

Cassian swears softly under his breath. He focuses his attention on unlocking the shackle around his left wrist, even as the clanging reverberation of metal on metal bounces off the walls around him. When he’s finally free, he scrambles toward Maelor’s body, unsheathing the male’s blade and jumping to his feet.

He’s quick to turn his attention toward the first male he sees in front of him. He’s as unseasoned and undisciplined as Maelor, the male’s tell before he strikes forward obvious. It’s almost too easy the way Cassian is able to parry the strike, and he sends the male’s sword skittering across the stone before he sinks his own into the Illyrian’s gut. When the male drops to his knees, Cassian finishes the job, the feel of warm blood across his knuckles all too familiar.

His eyes flit around the rest of the room, finding Nesta squaring off against two males. For a moment, he can do nothing but stare, but watch his gorgeous mate. Her feet move with all the grace and lithe speed of a dancer, parrying and dodging each male’s attempted strikes against her. Ataraxia arches through the air as she slashes across one of the male’s chest, blood splattering across her leathers, her cheek. She turns fully toward the other male, preparing to square off solely with him, but it means she doesn’t see the third male now approaching her from behind, in her blindspot.

There’s no stopping the red that floods Cassian’s vision, instincts roaring through his veins and clawing through his chest.

He rushes forward, the weight of the sword in his hands, the swing of it, second nature to him even with the unfamiliarity of this particular blade. The male crumples into a pile of limbs and blood, and Cassian turns back toward Nesta with a winning grin, his mate having already disposed of the other Illyrian male.

“You’re welcome.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at his teasing drawl, but then those eyes are widening. She lunges forward, and there’s a soft, gurgling grunt right by Cassian’s ear, the distinct sound of metal sinking into soft flesh. He turns his head and meets the unfocused gaze of a fifth male, Nesta flicking Ataraxia upward to finish the job before pulling it free.

“You’re welcome,” she mocks back, that teasing smirk back on her face. “You’re losing your touch in your old age, General.”

Cassian chuckles, reaching his non-sword hand up and trying to wipe the blood from Nesta’s cheek. It’s unfair really, the way she looks even more beautiful with the streak of red across her skin, the splattering that reaches up toward her brow. With the silver still simmering in her eyes, Cassian thinks he might be falling in love all over again.

He leans down, bumping his nose against hers. “Careful, Lady Death.”

“What the fuck?”

Cassian pulls back, turning just as three more males come rushing through the door and into the room, more footsteps still echoing from above. Cassian almost wants to laugh. How big could this rebel group be? There couldn’t really be that many males that wanted to follow Maelor of all people.

Either way, Cassian and Nesta reset their stances, settling back to back with their respective swords raised. It’s a practiced dance between them, the way they move so in sync. With every offensive strike forward that Nesta takes, Cassian takes a defensive parry back. They spin in place together, taking on and felling each Illyrian that dares to raise a sword against them.

Despite the familiarity of a sword in his hand, the weight of the borrowed one is not, the balance not quite right either. One lucky swipe by the male he’s facing, and the sword in Cassian’s hand goes sailing out of his grip. He quickly switches to hand-to-hand, landing a strong uppercut that knocks the male unconscious. Shaking out the throb in his knuckles, Cassian spins back toward Nesta, placing his hands on her shoulders to hold her steady.

“What are you doing?” Nesta gets out between gritted teeth, still swinging Ataraxia.

“I need a weapon. Hold still.”

Cassian shifts his hands up into Nesta’s hair, finding the dagger disguised as a hair pin that he knows is always hidden out of sight there. He pulls the dagger free, the golden brown strands of Nesta’s hair tumbling free down along her spine. Her hair sways and glints from the torch light with her every movement, and Cassian has to remind himself of the situation they’re currently in before he gets distracted again.

“You know,” Cassian begins, whirling back around and using the dagger to take down another male. “As far as date nights go…”

“Don’t you dare,” Nesta seethes, sweeping out a male’s feet from under him and driving Ataraxia into his chest.

“I’m just saying that–”

“Mother save me, you would be enjoying this.”

Cassian sinks the dagger into the neck of the Illyrian in front of him. “Can you blame me?”

With the last of the Illyrian rebels a crumpled heap against the stone floor, Cassian is able to return his attention to Nesta, to sweep his eyes over her and really take her in. Her hair hangs like a curtain around her face, framing it the way Cassian loves best, even with the blood now making a mess of the strands. There’s still blood on her face too, contrasting with the bright blue of her eyes, sparking and flaring with the adrenaline and magic still coursing through her. With Ataraxia still clutched in her bloodied hands and the Illyrian leathers clinging to her frame, she’s a dream. And with the half a dozen males slain by her hand at her feet, Cassian is almost embarrassed to admit how aroused he feels.

His mate. His wife. His Nesta.

“I’m only a male after all.”

Nesta rolls her eyes, but she sheathes Ataraxia, stepping closer into Cassian’s space and pressing up onto her toes so she can wrap her arms around his neck, pushing the rope from his wings and finally freeing them.

“Just so you know, this doesn’t actually make up for tonight.”

Cassian chuckles, sliding his own arm around her waist and tugging Nesta’s body flush against him, right where she belongs. “I’ll have Rhys see if the ballet can do an extra performance. Just for you, sweetheart.”

“Good. It’s the least you could do after I rescued you, you big bat.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies @freakingata

[typicalopposite]

Thanks @priincebutt for the tag 🫶

slowly making my way through chapter 7! 🫠 sorry this has become my whole personality lately 😂 this is my main fic at the moment!

“Kinard!” Captain Collier calls from his office, nearly causing Tommy to drop the laptop he has meticulously balanced on his (extremely, dreadfully, embarrassingly) large belly. He has long since been able to comfortably do anything at his desk— the bump getting in the way, and sitting at an angle hurts his constantly aching back— so he has been using the bump instead… God knows it sticks out far enough anyway. He lifts the laptop off, and sets it on the table; crumbs from the bag of chips he was eating topple from his shirt to the floor when he stands. He frowns at the mess and grabs the broom he keeps close by (this happens often) and sweeps them into a pile. “Tommy?” Collier repeats softer this time, poking his head out of his office. 

“Uh, come— coming Cap!” He tries in vain to bend and reach the dustpan. He holds on to the desk for support but he feels like he’s going to tumble forward every time he starts to lower himself. Then he sits back down and tries again… still with no success; he even tries to flip it onto the broom and balance it up to the desk.

“Let me,” Collier says, now beside him. He takes the broom then bends down and sweeps the crumbs into the dustpan. After he throws the crumbs away he straightens back up and sits on the edge of Tommy’s desk. “Tommy…” he says again, and just from the look on his face, Tommy already knows what he’s about to say. “Listen. I know you want to work up until you deliver, but I really think it’s time.” Tommy can feel his mouth pulling down and Collier sighs.  “Hey… come on, don’t do that.” 

Tommy is trying desperately not to humiliate himself by ‘doing that’— i.e. crying— but it has gotten so much harder lately. He feels huge, and heavy, and tired, and sore all the time! All that meshes together and has made him somehow even more emotional. 

“What did you do to him, Cap!?” Lucy gasps, walking into the hanger. 

Collier sucks at his teeth and pushes off the desk. “I didn’t do anything but suggest he make these last weeks easier on himself.” 

“Well,” Lucy says… more so to Tommy. 

“Not you too, Luce?!” Tommy feels his pout deepen. 

Lucy laughs, and comes up behind him, squeezing and massaging his shoulders before wrapping her arms around him. “Don’t get me wrong, work will suck without you, and I am going to miss you so much; I don’t want you to leave…” she says. “I just want you to get some rest… you know the whole cliche you better sleep while you can because you won’t once baby is here— except you’re gonna have two babies keeping you up, and I honestly can’t remember the last time you’ve come to work and not looked exhausted… you’re overdue for some rest.”

Tommy would argue, except he knows he can’t; she’s right. The twins are growing beautifully, which makes him so happy and relieved… and massive, and miserable. He isn’t upset at the weight he’s gained, he is confident in himself enough to know he can lose it once they're born (and honestly even if he doesn’t lose a single pound, he is so happy both babies are healthy and thriving he wouldn’t care). However, he’s not been allowed to lift above his head since he announced the pregnancy, and getting something from lower than his waist at this point is damn near impossible. Lacey says he shouldn’t be carrying anything more than 15 pounds; and between the twins using his bladder and his lower spine for kickboxing practice, he is either in the bathroom or pacing the hanger trying to ease the back pain. 

He’s exhausted from the lack of sleep the pain is causing, and he needs help doing pretty much anything that’s not sitting and typing, and that is not something they even need him at the station to do. Collier has been trying to convince him to work from home for a couple months… Tommy’s just— Hell even he’s not a hundred percent sure why he’s holding on to working for so long… He looks past Collier and Lucy at the helicopter’s, and he can’t even fly at the moment, but it’s been nice being near them. Watching them take off, watching them come back… he misses it. He’s going to miss this, and his team. “You’re probably right…” he finally admits. “I guess I should take advantage of the last few weeks of calm.” 

Lucy smiles, and hugs him. “Good for you; you have more than earned a break,” she says squeezing him. “I’m gonna miss you, Kinard.” 

“I’ll miss you too, Luce,” he replies, voice soft and shaky. 

“Hey,” she says, pulling back to wipe the tears that are starting to fall from both their eyes. “This is not a forever goodbye, okay? I am going to come by and get my baby fix every day I have off… you’re gonna be so tired of me!” 

“Never,” he laughs.

Tagging: @onthewaytosomewhere @30somethingautisticteacher @judymarch15 @nine-one-wanton

@bidisasterevankinard @kinardsevan @somethingaboutfirefly @bucksxkinard @mmso-notlikethat

@sunnywithachanceofbi @herrmannhalsteadproduction @marvelousbuckley

And anyone else who wants to share their writing 🫶🫶

[paddockletters]

chihiro | trent alexander-arnold

request:Can you please write something for Trent inspired by chihiro something angst when Trent becomes distant toward the reader (gf or wife ) and less attentive . But she still gives him all of her but soon realizes that it breaks her, and it breaks her more because he hasn't realized pairing: trent alexander-arnold x reader summary: You find yourself in a heart-wrenching struggle as Trent pulls away, leaving you to question your worth. Despite your devotion, his distance shatters your spirit. As you confront the painful truth, a life-changing decision awaits, forcing you to choose between love and self-preservation. warnings: angst, gaslighting author's note: i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you liked it, ... Well, as I always say... english is not my first language so sorry me if there are mistakes —feel free to tell me— and my requests are open!👀

I’ve been feeling it for a while now—the distance, the way Trent pulls away without even realizing it. At first, I thought it was just me being too sensitive, that maybe I was expecting too much. But as the days went on, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. He was no longer the person who used to look at me like I was his entire world. Now, it felt like I was just... there.

I remember the early days, the way he used to hold me so tight, like he was afraid I’d disappear. I’d catch him staring at me with that boyish smile of his, and he’d say, "What? Can’t I look at my girl?" I’d laugh and tell him he was ridiculous, but I loved it. I loved the way he made me feel seen, loved, important. That version of Trent feels like a distant memory now.

Now? Now he barely looks at me.

The other night, I tried to talk to him—really talk. I had been holding it in for too long, trying to give him space, hoping he’d notice on his own that something was wrong. But he didn’t. So, I brought it up, carefully, not wanting to start a fight.

"Trent," I said, sitting on the couch while he scrolled through his phone, "I feel like we’re not… us anymore."

He glanced up, brow furrowing for a moment before looking back at his screen. "What do you mean?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just… I miss you. I miss how we used to be. Lately, it feels like you’re a million miles away, even when you’re sitting right next to me."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I’ve been busy. You know that."

"I know, but…" I hesitated. "It’s more than that, Trent. I feel like I’m losing you, and I don’t know how to fix it."

His response was so simple, so dismissive. "You’re overthinking it."

Overthinking it. That’s what he said. And maybe I was, but it didn’t change the fact that I felt like I was pouring everything I had into this relationship while he was barely giving me scraps in return.

I gave him a small, sad smile, hoping it would break through his detachment. "I’m not trying to push you away, I just want… I just want us to be close again."

Trent shifted uncomfortably, clearly not in the mood for a deep conversation. "We’re fine. I don’t know why you’re making a big deal out of this."

The silence that followed his words was suffocating. I remember how my chest tightened, and I had to fight back the tears threatening to spill over. Why couldn’t he see it? Why couldn’t he see that I was breaking right in front of him?

There was a time he would come home, exhausted from training, and still find the energy to cuddle up with me on the couch, kissing my forehead, telling me about his day. I remember one evening after a tough match, he had pulled me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me, and whispered, "You’re the best part of my day, you know that?"

But those days feel like they belong to a different lifetime now.

Another night, I cooked his favorite meal, hoping it would spark something between us—bring him back to me. He came home late, as usual, tired and distracted. He barely glanced at the dinner I’d spent hours preparing.

"Thanks," he muttered, barely looking at the table. He grabbed a plate and sat down, eyes glued to the TV, like I wasn’t even there.

I sat across from him, pushing my food around my plate, trying to find the courage to say something, but the words died in my throat. It wasn’t just that he was distant; it was like I had become invisible to him.

When did it get this bad? I wondered, feeling a heaviness in my chest. The love I had for him was still there, burning painfully bright, but it was slowly killing me to keep holding on when he wasn’t holding on to me.

And then came the night it all fell apart.

I couldn’t sleep. I had spent hours lying next to him, staring at the ceiling, my heart aching with the weight of everything left unsaid. I needed to say something, to make him understand, but I didn’t know how.

I slipped out of bed and went to the living room, sitting in the dark, hugging my knees to my chest. I must have been there for a while because, at some point, Trent came out, rubbing his eyes.

"Why are you out here?" His voice was groggy, but there was no concern in it. Just exhaustion.

I looked up at him, tears already spilling down my cheeks. "I can’t do this anymore, Trent."

He frowned, confused. "Do what?"

"This." I gestured between us. "Us. Whatever this has become. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. I’m breaking, Trent, and you don’t even see it."

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "What do you want me to say? I’m doing the best I can."

"But your best isn’t enough anymore," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I’ve given you everything—my love, my time, my heart—and I’m still left feeling like I’m not enough. Like I’m the only one fighting for us."

He sat down across from me, sighing heavily. "I don’t know what you want from me."

"I want you to care," I said, my voice breaking. "I want you to look at me the way you used to. I want to feel like I matter to you again."

There was a long silence. I stared at him, hoping—praying—that he would say something, anything, to make me feel like I hadn’t lost him completely. But all he did was look away, rubbing his face in frustration.

And that was it. That was the moment I knew. He didn’t have it in him anymore, and I couldn’t keep pouring my love into someone who wasn’t willing to do the same.

"I love you," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "But I can’t keep hurting like this."

He looked at me, his eyes finally softening, but it was too late. "I don’t want to lose you."

I smiled sadly through my tears. "You already have."

That night, after Trent and I sat in silence, I knew it wasn’t just a phase. It wasn’t going to change overnight or even at all. The weight of it all was too much, and I didn’t know how to carry it anymore. My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone, scrolling through my contacts. I needed to talk to someone—someone who might understand.

My thumb hovered over my best friend's name, Jess. I hadn’t told her much about what had been going on, mainly because I didn’t want to admit how bad things were. But now, it was like the dam had broken, and I needed to get it all out.

I hit call.

She picked up after a couple of rings, her voice groggy. "Hey, what’s up? It’s late, everything okay?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to steady my voice. "Not really."

Her tone shifted instantly, becoming more alert. "What happened? Is it Trent?"

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. "Yeah. I just… I don’t know what to do anymore, Jess. It’s like I don’t exist to him. I love him so much, but I feel like I’m losing myself in the process of holding on to him."

There was a pause on the other end. Jess wasn’t one to sugarcoat things, but she also wasn’t the type to push unless I was ready.

"Has he said anything about how he feels? Have you guys talked?" she asked cautiously.

"We tried. Well, I tried. It’s like he doesn’t even see the problem. He keeps saying I’m overthinking it, that I’m making a big deal out of nothing. But it’s not nothing, Jess. It’s killing me."

There was another silence, and then she let out a deep sigh. "Babe, you deserve someone who sees you, who cares enough to put in the effort. I know you love him, but if he’s not giving you anything to hold on to, what are you supposed to do?"

I leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. "I don’t know. I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I want to believe things will get better, but he’s so... distant. Like he’s already gone, and I’m the only one holding on."

Jess’s voice softened. "Have you thought about what would happen if you walked away?"

My breath caught in my throat. I had thought about it—many times. But actually doing it? The idea felt like ripping my own heart out. "Yeah. I’ve thought about it. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to let him go."

“You are. You’re stronger than you think,” she said firmly. “But don’t make any decisions until you’re sure. Give it some time, see if he changes. But if he doesn’t... you deserve better, and you know that.”

The next day, I found myself dialing a number I hadn’t used in a while—Trent’s mom. She and I had always gotten along, and part of me wondered if she could help, if maybe she’d seen this side of him before.

"Hello?" Her warm, familiar voice answered, and for a moment, I felt a little less alone.

"Hey, it’s me," I said quietly.

"Oh, sweetheart, it’s so good to hear from you! How are you?"

I hesitated, my voice catching in my throat. "Not great, to be honest."

She paused, clearly sensing the heaviness in my tone. "Is everything okay with you and Trent?"

I let out a shaky breath, the tears I’d been holding back finally spilling over. "I don’t know. I feel like I’ve lost him. He’s been so distant, and I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know what to do anymore."

She was silent for a moment, and then she sighed. "I’m so sorry, love. I’ve noticed he’s been a bit off lately, but I didn’t want to interfere. You know how he is—sometimes he gets so wrapped up in his own world that he doesn’t realize how it affects the people around him."

"Yeah," I whispered, wiping my eyes. "But I feel like I’m breaking, and he doesn’t even see it."

“Have you told him this? Really told him?” she asked gently.

"I tried. I told him how I felt, but he just brushes it off, like I’m overreacting."

There was a long pause before she spoke again, her voice soft. "I know he loves you. He may not show it the way you need right now, but I know he does. But if he’s not making you feel loved, if he’s not making you feel like you matter, you have to think about what’s best for you. You can’t keep giving and giving until there’s nothing left of yourself."

Her words hit me like a punch to the chest because they were the truth I hadn’t wanted to face. I couldn’t keep pouring everything I had into Trent if he wasn’t willing to meet me halfway.

"I don’t know what to do," I admitted, my voice breaking. "I don’t want to lose him, but I can’t keep living like this."

"No one can tell you what to do, love. Only you know what’s right for you. But whatever you decide, you deserve to be happy. Don’t settle for less than that."

That night, after talking to Trent’s mom, I lay in bed next to him, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on my chest. The silence between us was louder than ever, and for the first time, I wondered if this was how it was always going to be. If I was going to spend the rest of my life feeling like a ghost in my own relationship.

I thought back to the last time we’d had a real conversation—weeks ago, maybe more. I had asked for space, told him I needed some time to clear my head, to figure things out for myself. I had been so overwhelmed by everything then, but I thought that maybe stepping away, even for a little while, would make me feel better.

"I need to be alone for a bit," I had said quietly, standing in the doorway of our bedroom, my hand still gripping the edge of the doorframe.

He’d looked at me, his face unreadable, but nodded. "Take your time."

It had been a relief at first. I had gone for a long walk, let my thoughts run wild as I tried to make sense of what had been happening between us. I’d told myself that once I came back, we could figure things out, rebuild what had been crumbling.

But when I returned that night, the house had felt different. Colder. Like something essential had disappeared. And Trent… he wasn’t there in the way I needed him to be. Physically, yes, he was there. But emotionally, mentally? It was like he had already checked out. I had walked back into the same room, into the same life, but somehow, I was the one who felt lost.

Now, as I lay beside him, I could still feel that same emptiness between us. I rolled over, my back to him, blinking back tears as I whispered, "I miss you."

He didn’t respond. I don’t even think he heard me.

And that’s when I knew—I had taken a break, hoping to come back to something familiar, something that we could still fix. But instead, I had returned to someone who was already gone.

Weeks passed after that night. The silence between us only grew, consuming every corner of our relationship. I kept hoping—foolishly—that maybe something would change, that Trent would look at me the way he used to, or that he would finally notice the cracks that had been widening for months. But nothing came. No words, no apologies, no acknowledgment of the distance that had turned us from lovers into strangers.

One morning, I woke up and knew. It was like the weight of everything had finally sunk deep enough for me to let go. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep waiting for him to realize how much this was breaking me. So, I packed my things in silence. The room felt eerily calm, like it knew what was coming before I did.

Trent was at training, and for the first time, I was glad he wasn’t there. I didn’t have the strength to explain myself again, to beg for him to see me, to see us—the version of us that once existed. I left him a note on the bed, my hand trembling as I wrote the words that had been festering inside me for weeks.

"I can’t do this anymore. I gave you everything I had, but somewhere along the way, you stopped giving me anything back. I love you, Trent, but I love myself too much to keep breaking for someone who doesn’t even realize I’m shattered. Take care of yourself. Goodbye."

I walked out the door, my chest tight with pain, but for the first time in months, there was also a small sense of relief. I hadn’t felt this light in ages, even if it was paired with heartbreak. The hardest part was over. I was leaving.

"I guess this is it," I had said, my voice barely a whisper.

Now, weeks later, I sat in my new apartment, staring out the window as the city buzzed below. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe. The space around me was mine, filled with my own choices, my own life. But the ache in my chest was still there, lingering like a bruise that hadn’t quite healed.

It took time—too much time—but I finally realized something that had been staring me in the face all along. I had been waiting for him to notice me, to care enough to fight for us, but Trent had already made his choice. He’d been gone long before I ever walked out that door.

And now, after everything, I was the one who was finally gone. And for the first time in weeks, I realized… I wasn’t going to come back.

Then, one evening, while scrolling through my phone, I saw a text from a number I almost didn’t recognize anymore. It was Trent.

"I didn’t realize until now. You were gone, and I didn’t even notice. I’m sorry… for everything."

I stared at the message for a long time, feeling the tears pool in my eyes, but I didn’t reply. Because now, it was too late.

He had finally realized. But I was already gone.

[aestheticpearl]

— 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐞

✧·˚what happens when xanthus turns you but you never wanted to be turned in the first place?

“what have you done to me?”

your eyes hurt with the bright lights that didn’t seem so bright moments ago, but then again you could barely feel your body moments ago, then all of a sudden you felt your once numb body feel so intensely that it was painful.

you lock your eyes with xanthus, his lips and fangs smeared with blood that you can tell if it’s yours or his, deep down you know it’s a mixture of both. you don’t want to accept that though, you don’t want to accept the reality of you being turned and now stuck as an immortal being.

“what did you do? what have i become?” you look down at your hands, they have a paler complexion that frightens you.

xanthus moves cautiously as if to not spook you, almost as if you’re a skittish baby deer that’ll bolt at any second.

“love, i had no choice—” his voice is soft as he cautiously reaches out to you, only for you to pull back almost immediately.

“how could you? you should’ve just let me die.”

“no!” he doesn’t mean to shout at you and he certainly doesn’t mean for you to flinch at his tone. “…no love please understand.”

“you’ve doomed me to an eternity of a life i do not want to live.”

“you don’t mean that, you’re confused.”

tears freely flow down your face as you come to terms with your situation. stuck as a vampire for the rest of your time on this earth, forced to drink the blood of the living, the thought of it almost makes you hurl.

you seek xanthus’ comfort but he was the cause of all this distress, but you feel beyond conflicted and these emotions are only intensified with this new you.

“i need you to be away from me.”

“i’m not leaving you love.” xanthus only backs away from you but his eyes never leave your figure.

it’s silent for undisclosed amount of time until you speak up.

“…i’m hungry.” you sniffle. “i don’t want to be hungry.” a hiccup. “i’m scared.”

xanthus moves close to you and gets down to your level.

“i’m right here love, i can find you something to eat okay?”

“i don’t want to drink blood.” you cry out through tears. “i’m not a vampire, i’m a human.”

xanthus’ crimson eyes are filled with empathy for you as he recalls feeling the same way when he was first turned. he does his best to comfort you by pulling you into an embrace.

“i know love, i’m sorry. i’m so so sorry.” he pets your hair as you cry into his arms.

you hate how comforting his embrace is and how it puts you at ease, like your body recognizes him. you want to be mad and scream and shout at him for doing this to you but you just can’t bring yourself to do so.

“you’re not going to go through this alone love, i will stay with you forever i promise.” he holds onto you tightly. “i love you, i don’t need a bond to tell me that.”

the bond. you had almost completely forgotten about the bond and then it suddenly hits you, xanthus had felt your death and had to push through the pain and emotions to turn you. he’s grieving you as much as you’re grieving yourself.

you look up at him and wrap your arms around his neck in a tight embrace that he returns with a passion.

“i’m sorry love, i understand if you don’t forgive me.” xanthus can feel his own tears prick his eyes, but he does his best to stay strong for you.

“if there was any other way i would’ve tried it i swear, i never wanted this for you my love. i just couldn’t let you slip through my fingers like this, i’m sorry.”

you’re scared and your whole body seems to be shaking with sobs or hunger, but you can’t really tell what it’s from and some how that scares you more.

“just please don’t leave me.”

your silence scares xanthus more than he’d care to admit.

“okay.”

i feel like i have too many xanthus posts but i just can’t help myself with vampire tropes man😔

.love always <3 pearl

.masterlist

[urdreamydoodles]

Love your works!!!! And I love Mr. Pickles!!!

May I ask for headcanons if reader dies in their arms?

Asking for: Emma Frost, Charles Xavier, Jean Grey, Piotr Rasputin, Beast, and Illyana Rasputin

No pressure ofc!!! Thank you!!

And have I mentioned that I fucking love your works?!?!

X-Men x Reader (Part.1)

You die in their arms (Part.1)

In the heat of battle, you succumbs to fatal injuries in the arms of your partner. Each X-Men, torn apart by grief, reacts to the devastating loss, facing the crushing reality that their greatest power cannot bring back the person they love most.

Characters: Emma Frost, Charles Xavier, Jean Grey, Colossus, Hank McCoy & Magik

First of all, thank you for this message, you are my first request and you have no idea how much it touches me. And secondly, your compliments make me blush, I'm glad you like my work, because personally I've never had as much fun as writing about something as this. Get ready for a LOT of headcanons because I have a lot in store. Above all, don't hesitate to ask for other requests <3 And thanks to you, you inspired me to make your request for other X-Men and X-Women. PS: MR. PICKLES WILL RETURN

Emma Frost

The battlefield was littered with chaos—explosions, screams, and the metallic scent of blood filled the air. You and Emma had been fighting alongside the X-Men, as you had countless times before, but this time was different. This battle had been brutal, and even though you had faced danger before, nothing had ever felt this dire. You had always fought by her side, both of you in sync, but as the fight raged on, you felt your strength starting to wane.

Emma’s voice was sharp and commanding in your mind, as always. “Stay with me, darling. We’re almost through this,” she had said, her mental link giving you strength. But when the blast came—one you hadn’t seen coming—it sent you flying, the pain immediate and overwhelming. You crumpled to the ground, clutching your side, feeling the warmth of your own blood seeping through your fingers.

Emma’s scream tore through the battlefield, her telepathic wail so fierce it silenced everyone for a moment. In the next second, she was at your side, her diamond form shimmering as she knelt down, her hands trembling as they reached for you. The moment her fingers touched your skin, her diamond exterior shattered, leaving her vulnerable in a way she never was on the battlefield.

"Y/N," she whispered, her voice breaking. "No, no, no... this can’t be happening."

You struggled to stay conscious, your vision blurring as you looked up at her, the love of your life, her face twisted in anguish. "I’m sorry," you choked out, each word a struggle. "I tried... I really tried."

Tears fell from her eyes, something she rarely allowed herself to do. She pressed her forehead against yours, her voice shaking. "Don’t you dare say goodbye. Not yet. I won’t let you go."

But you could feel it. The life slipping away, your heartbeat growing fainter. You reached up weakly, your hand brushing against her cheek. "Emma... I love you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Emma’s breath hitched as she gripped your hand, holding onto you as if her sheer willpower could keep you alive. "I love you too," she whispered back, her lips brushing your forehead. "Please... please stay."

But you couldn’t. Your eyes fluttered shut, your body growing still in her arms.

For a moment, Emma just sat there, her mind refusing to accept what had just happened. Then, with a heart-wrenching scream, she unleashed a wave of telepathic energy so powerful that it swept across the battlefield, knocking down enemies, sending shockwaves through everyone’s minds. She cradled your body, her chest heaving with sobs, her mind desperate, reaching out to you, trying to find any trace of your consciousness.

But you were gone.

And for the first time in her life, Emma Frost felt utterly, completely broken.

Charles Xavier

The fight had been relentless, and despite the X-Men’s best efforts, the battle had taken a terrible toll. You had always been the calm in Charles’ storm, the grounding presence he could rely on when the weight of leading the X-Men grew too heavy. But today, everything had gone wrong. You had been separated from the team, cornered by enemies, and though you fought bravely, you had been wounded—badly.

By the time Charles found you, the world had already started fading around the edges. He wheeled towards you with a speed and desperation you had never seen in him before. His voice echoed in your mind, trembling with fear. *"Y/N, hold on. Please, just hold on."*

You could barely open your eyes, the pain in your body making it difficult to even breathe. But you heard him, and you smiled weakly, your heart aching as you felt his mind reaching for yours, trying to steady you, trying to keep you present. "I’m sorry, Charles," you rasped, your voice so faint it barely carried over the sounds of battle. "I wasn’t strong enough."

"No," Charles said, his voice firm, though you could hear the fear beneath it. "You are strong. You’ve always been strong. Don’t leave me, Y/N. I can’t lose you."

You felt his hand grasp yours, his grip trembling. You had always marveled at how Charles carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, always keeping his emotions tightly controlled. But now, there was no control. There was only fear, and love, and desperation in his eyes.

"You were always my strength, Charles," you whispered, your hand squeezing his as best as you could. "I love you. So much."

Tears filled his eyes, his voice breaking as he spoke. "And I love you. You are everything to me."

You could feel his mind wrapping around yours, trying to hold you there, trying to stop the inevitable. He was begging, pleading with you to stay, to fight, but your body was failing. You felt the warmth of his love in your mind, a comfort even as the world started slipping away.

"Please, Y/N," Charles whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Please, don’t leave me."

But you couldn’t hold on any longer. The pain faded, the world grew silent, and your grip on his hand loosened.

Charles sat there, his hand still holding yours, as the battlefield around him seemed to blur into nothing. His heart shattered, and in that moment, all the strength and control he had maintained for years crumbled. He lowered his head, his tears falling onto your lifeless body, and he sent out a silent scream, a wave of raw emotion so powerful that it resonated across the minds of every living person on the battlefield.

Charles had lost many people in his life. But losing you felt like the end of everything.

Jean Grey

The battle had taken its toll, not just on the X-Men but on the world itself. You and Jean had fought side by side, your powers complementing each other in ways that made you an unstoppable force. But this battle had pushed you both beyond your limits. You had been caught in an explosion, your body thrown against the rubble, the pain blinding and all-consuming.

Jean was at your side in an instant, her telekinetic powers lifting the debris off you, her hands trembling as she reached for you. "No... no, no, no," she whispered, her voice cracking as she cradled your head in her lap. "Y/N, stay with me."

You could barely keep your eyes open, the world spinning as you struggled to breathe. "Jean..." you whispered, your voice so weak, so broken. "I... I don’t think I can..."

"Don’t you dare say that," Jean said, her voice fierce but laced with panic. "You’re going to be okay. I won’t let you go."

You could feel her mind reaching out to yours, wrapping around your consciousness, trying to keep you there with her. Her love flooded your mind, a warmth that soothed the pain, but you could feel your body slipping away, your strength fading.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, your hand weakly reaching for hers. "I’m so sorry."

Jean’s tears fell onto your face as she held you closer. "Don’t apologize," she said, her voice breaking. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve always been there for me. Please... just stay a little longer."

You could see the anguish in her eyes, feel the desperation in her mind as she tried to hold on to you. But the pain was too much, and your body was failing.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"I love you too," Jean said, her voice shaking as she pressed her forehead against yours, her tears falling freely now. "Please... don’t leave me."

But you were slipping away, the world growing darker, quieter, as you took your last breath. Jean’s sobs echoed in your fading consciousness, her mind screaming out for you, trying to pull you back. But it was too late.

Jean held your lifeless body in her arms, her chest heaving with sobs. She let out a scream, a psychic wave that shattered the air around her, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. Her grief, her agony, her love—they all collided in that moment, her powers surging uncontrollably as she held onto you, unable to let go.

In that moment, Jean Grey—one of the most powerful beings in the universe—felt utterly powerless.

Colossus

The battle was at its peak, and the sounds of war echoed around you. Explosions rocked the battlefield as Colossus, in his full metal form, fought valiantly beside you. His towering figure was always a source of comfort, an indestructible wall between you and the chaos. The ground shook beneath your feet as you moved to join him, your heart pounding with adrenaline.

But then, an enemy blast caught you off guard, the impact throwing you off your feet. You hit the ground hard, the pain immediate and overwhelming. Blood seeped from your wounds as you struggled to breathe, your vision blurring. You tried to push yourself up, but your body refused to respond. The sound of heavy metal footsteps reached your ears, and you knew Piotr had seen you fall.

His metallic form glimmered in the firelight as he ran toward you, his eyes wide with terror. You had never seen him like this, even in the most dangerous situations. He dropped to his knees beside you, the cold steel of his hands cradling you gently despite their immense strength.

"Y/N!" His voice was thick with fear, a sound you'd never thought you'd hear from someone as powerful as him. "Please, no. Not you. Not like this."

You tried to smile, but the pain was too much. "Piotr..." you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I... I can't..."

He shook his head, his metal features twisting in agony. "Don’t speak. I’ll protect you," he promised, though the pain in his voice told you he knew there was nothing he could do. He tried to stem the flow of blood from your wound, his massive hands shaking.

His metal body was usually unyielding, but now he seemed so vulnerable, so afraid. He held you close, his cold arms pulling you against his chest. "Stay with me, please," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. His entire body trembled as he struggled to maintain control.

Your hand reached up weakly to touch his face, the cool metal of his cheek sending a shiver through your fingers. "I love you," you whispered, the words catching in your throat as darkness closed in around you.

He let out a sob, his steel form shuddering with grief. "I love you more than anything, Y/N. You’re everything to me."

But it was too late. Your breath faded, and your hand slipped from his cheek, falling limply to the ground. Piotr let out a roar of anguish, his voice reverberating across the battlefield. He held your lifeless body close, his tears mingling with the blood and dirt that stained your skin. Even in his indestructible form, he felt more broken than ever before.

Magik

The battle had spiraled out of control, and you found yourself separated from the rest of the X-Men, the air thick with smoke and the sound of clashing metal. You had always admired Illyana’s ability to remain calm in the face of chaos, but this time, the situation was different. The enemies were relentless, and no matter how hard you fought, it wasn’t enough. Then, out of nowhere, a blade struck you, piercing through your side, and you collapsed to the ground.

Before you could even cry out, the world around you warped, and you found yourself in Limbo. Illyana stood before you, her eyes wide with horror as she took in the sight of your bloodied body. “No...” she whispered, her sword clattering to the ground as she rushed to your side.

You tried to speak, but the pain was overwhelming, your vision flickering in and out of focus. Illyana’s hands shook as she pressed them against your wound, trying to stop the blood that poured out of you. “I’ll fix this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I can fix this.”

You had always known that Illyana was powerful beyond measure, but in this moment, she looked small, fragile, as though she was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away. She stared down at you, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she knelt beside you, her hands glowing with the dark magic of Limbo.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispered, her voice breaking as tears filled her eyes. “Not like this.”

You reached up with what little strength you had left, your hand brushing against her cheek. “Illyana,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I love you.”

Her breath hitched as she leaned down, pressing her forehead against yours. “I love you too, more than anything,” she said, her voice shaking. “You can’t leave me. I won’t let you.”

But you could feel your life slipping away, the pain becoming numb as the darkness closed in. You wanted to stay, to hold on, but it was too late. Your hand fell limp in hers, your chest rising for the last time as your heart stopped.

Illyana let out a scream that echoed through the very fabric of Limbo, a sound so filled with grief and fury that it sent shockwaves through the demonic realm. Her magic surged uncontrollably, her power crackling through the air as she cradled your lifeless body in her arms. In her rage, the demons of Limbo cowered, the sky itself trembling in fear.

But no amount of power could bring you back, and that realization shattered her. She held onto you, her tears falling onto your skin, whispering your name over and over again as the world around her grew dark, consumed by her grief.

Hank McCoy

The battlefield had turned into a warzone of destruction, and even though you and Hank had fought together many times before, this battle was unlike any you had experienced. You had always admired how composed and intellectual Hank was, even in the most dire of situations. But this time, the enemy had been too quick, too brutal, and before you could react, you had been struck by a powerful blast.

Your body hit the ground hard, pain shooting through you as you struggled to breathe. Blood spilled from the wound in your chest, and every breath felt like a mountain weighing down on you. Through the haze of pain, you heard Hank’s voice, panicked and desperate, something you had never heard from him before.

“Y/N!” He shouted, rushing toward you, his blue fur standing on end as he dropped to his knees beside you. His large hands were gentle as he cradled your head in his lap, his eyes wide with terror as he took in the sight of your injuries. “No, no, this can’t be happening.”

You tried to smile up at him, but the pain was too much. “I’m sorry, Hank,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t... I couldn’t...”

“Shh,” he said, his voice shaking. He pressed his hand to your wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was no use. His eyes were filled with panic, his normally calm and collected demeanor completely gone. “You’ll be alright. Just stay with me.”

You could feel the life draining from you, the world growing darker around the edges. You reached up weakly, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “I love you,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

Hank’s eyes filled with tears, something you had never seen from him before. “I love you too, more than you’ll ever know,” he said, his voice breaking. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his tears falling onto your face. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t... I can’t do this without you.”

You wanted to stay, to hold on, but your body was failing, your heart slowing with every passing second. You looked up at him one last time, your vision blurring as you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

And then, everything went dark.

Hank let out a strangled sob, his entire body trembling as he held you close. His mind raced, trying to think of a solution, something that could bring you back, but he knew it was too late. You were gone, and nothing could change that.

He sat there for what felt like an eternity, holding your lifeless body in his arms, his tears falling freely as he whispered your name. The battlefield raged on around him, but for Hank, the world had stopped. You were gone, and with you, a part of him had died too.

[sadstrever]

i’m still 114lbs. i feel sick. yesterday was an awful day, i came home and had an out of body chew and spit session. i wish there was more research on this part of ed’s, or just more people who talked about it because i can’t be alone in this. i refuse to believe i’m the only sick person who does disgusting shit like this. anyways the reason why i call it an out of body experience is because it’s almost like binging-just without all the swallowing of food. i came home and immediately started doing it and filled up 1 and 1/2 2 liter bottles with food. i spent 5 hours doing this without even realizing and pretty much emptied out my whole families fridge. the guilt i felt afterwards was worse than a binge in my opinion. not only did i totally waste SO MUCH food, make a huge mess, ended up with disgusting bottles of mush in my room, i also have to face the consequences of my family coming home to an empty fridge. but when they got home they were happy that i “ate.” god i’m such a fucking piece of shit.

anyways after all that i took 4 laxatives to try and get the guilt of wasting the food out of me. i woke up in the morning today in terrible pain but still had to go to class, cuz what am i supposed to tell my parents? “yeah i haven’t eaten in almost a month and basically just threw all the food we have out in the trash and i also took 4 laxatives, can i please stay home tehe?” so i went to 1 class and ended up leaving because the pain was so excruciating. straight from class i went to the gym and somehow burnt 900 calories because i guess that’s what guilt does to me. i had to take the bus 2 hours home afterwards(bus delays and i went to a new further gym location this time), high out of my mind. i’m home now and my stomach hurts but the laxatives finally did their job. i don’t want to keep doing this. 4 years ago i said i’d recover and then i didn’t. since then i’ve forgotten about recovery (with the exception of a few random moments here and there that i block out immediately), i am so used to living in this fucking misery that i didn’t realize how abnormal my reality is. i don’t want to be a bad person anymore. but i can’t stop lol.

this is what bothers me about the girls who romanticize this disorder SO MUCH, when much of the time they haven’t realized how difficult it can become. i know i’ve done this, even now sometimes as a coping mechanism. but man, i’m sick of it.

i have a friend who writes poetry and she wrote a poem about eating disorders that make me so fucking angry. the thing is, i’ve known her for years and she’s always had the best relationship with food out of most of the people i know. she’s naturally pretty thin(not too thin but normal) and she’s very open about her struggles. i know every single one of her stories, i know she’s diagnosed with adhd. that’s HER disorder, that i don’t understand so i DONT write fucking POETRY about it. a few months ago she kind of forced me into opening up about my eating disorder. after i did, suddenly she started writing these stories about her eating disorder-very very very suspiciously similar to mine. i obviously didn’t tell her everything but i told her about how long this has been going on and just my emotions about it. seeing her start to adapt my fucking disorder into her poetry disgusted me. she glamorized the fuck out of it and made me feel so stupid for ever opening up about it. she’s naturally skinny so she got a bunch of support from our friend group from it and i’m just upset man. i’m sick of living in misery while other people can use the idea of living in pain for attention.

i promised my best friend that in 3 weeks i’ll go back to therapy and try my best to recover. it’s not true. man it’s never fucking true. it’s never fucking over. unlike ms.deep-poetry-girl i can’t just fucking write this and log off and then eat a good warm meal and talk to my parents without them mentioning my body. i can’t wake up tomorrow morning and hug them without worrying that they’re gonna feel my bones. i can’t wear shorts anymore without people noticing the bruises. i can’t go to school and keep my focus because i have nothing to feed my brain. i can’t let anyone get close because soon enough they’ll be just like YOU. OR they’ll hate me for not wanting to get better. i can’t love myself like you do because of the disgusting things i do each day. i can’t wake up thinner and suddenly stop hating myself. FUCK YOUUUUUUUU GOD IM SO SICK OF IT GOD. whatever im done. just sick and tired.

[bullet-prooflove]

"And I told everybody I was fine for a whole damn year" with Scola, please? Obviously make it 2 years

Tagging: @kmc1989 @trublu2u @district447 @stelacole @abby-splace

Companion piece:

This Ain't Goodbye - Stuart and you make the decision to divorce due to the revelation about his son.

Every Inch Of You (NSFW) - You and Stuart spend the night together after two years apart.

Escapee - You and Stuart are reunited when a face from your past escapes from prison.

It’s past midnight and you’re sitting inside a safe house, deep in the suburbs staring at the Sylvester Stallone’s frozen features on the TV in front of you because you are positive you can hear someone tip toeing in the hallway outside your assigned bedroom.

It’s a second later you hear Stuart’s light rap on the door. It opens to reveal the man himself standing there in a navy blue t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms. You remember the nights where he wore nothing but black Calvin Klein boxers that clung to him in a way that was almost unholy.

Having a son has changed your ex-husband in ways you never could have imagined. After watching his interactions with Jack you can see he’s softer these days, more patient. There’s a joy in him that you know you never could have given him, even if you had stayed together and Jack hadn’t come along.

You expected it to hurt more, being around the two of them but instead of pain you’re plagued by a sense of wistfulness. You made the right decision by leaving. Your guilt and your bitterness over your condition wouldn’t have created a healthy environment for Jack to step into and he needed support at the time, he needed love and stability. You would have only brought turbulence.

“Can’t sleep?” You ask Stuart and he shakes his head as he leans in the doorway, unwillingly to cross some unseen boundary. Even now he’s thinking of you, of the stress this situation must be causing you. “Wanna watch Tulsa King with me?”

“Is it as bad as it sounds?” He asks as he steps over the threshold, watching as you shift the pillows against the headboard for him.

“It’s pretty fun.” You tell him, resetting the series to the first episode.

“Under the sheets?” He questions, gesturing at the quilt. “Or over?”

You know what he’s really asking.

Do you want me close? Or do you need space?

“I don’t mind.” You tell him honestly.

He climbs under the sheets with you, his shoulder bumping against yours and you’re taken back to last night, the two of you tangled up in one another in a hotel room before he’d received that phone call telling him he needed to leave. You know he must be thinking about it too from the way he unconsciously plays with his ring finger.

“It doesn’t hurt-” You find yourself saying into the space between you. “-seeing you with Jack. I thought it would but it doesn’t.”

“I worried.” He admits, tilting his head so he can study your features. “About what it would do to you being cooped up like this with us. I half expected to find you climbing out the window because you couldn’t take it anymore.”

You laugh then because it’s certainly something you would have considered in the past.

“The old Sasha definitely would have.” You tell him the edges of your mouth tipping up into a smile. “But this Sasha, the one that’s had time and therapy to deal with her issues, not so much. Besides I’m getting too old to shimmy down drainpipes.”

It’s his turn to laugh and you’ve forgotten just how much you love that sound.

“Did it help?” He asks you, rolling into his side and you mirror his posture so the two of you are face to face. “Taking some space, getting some distance?”

“It did.” You tell him as you prop you head up on the pillow. “I wasn’t as focused on the problem, I could look at it objectively in a way I couldn’t when I was here in New York.”

Stuart nods his head in understanding, before he reaches out and tucks an errant strand of hair back behind your ear.

“I’ve told everyone that I was fine for the past two years.” He tells you, his thumb tracing over the blush of your cheek. “And then you walked back into my life and I realised I wasn’t, not really. I was just existing but I wasn’t actually living. I was just being what he needed because I had to be, my life became about him because the rest of it… it’s empty.”

You understand exactly what he means. You’ve enjoyed every single one of your new experiences over the past few years but there’s still this void inside of you, this space that can only be filled by the man who lies across from you.

“I’m back in New York now.” You tell him, your lips brushing over his pulse point as you clasp his palm to your cheek. “They offered me a position setting up a training hub here in the city so maybe we could try again, see where that leads us.”

He smiles then and the expression on his handsome features, it just lights up your entire world even after all these years.

“Oh Sasha.” He whispers as he leans in close, his lips brushing over yours. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

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[pinkspiraling]

oh my god i feel like shit