#since she was thirteen it’s the only way she’s survived. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

FROM EDEN | Chapter Two (2/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a Youtube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings — Mentions of agoraphobia + severe social anxiety, depressive episodes + very brief references to skin-picking. Mental health shaming.

Notes — Lots of dialogue + messages in this one. Next chapter will be posted on (or before) Thursday!

The family group chat was already at thirteen unread messages by the time Francesca mustered the courage to look at it.

Mum: June flights are cheaper if you book now xx

Izzy: I’ll be home that week too! Dad said he’s going to do a BBQ. I’m bringing Zack.

Mum: It’s been ages, Fran. Everyone wants to see you.

Francesca read the messages slowly, one by one, her gut curling with that all too familiar guilt.

She should want to go home for the summer. She hadn’t seen any of them since Christmas. She missed them, in her own way. But the thought of travelling, especially alone — of trains, of planes, of conversations she couldn’t quietly log off from — made her want to disappear.

She opened the notes app on her phone and rehearsed her response:

Hey, I don’t think I’ll be able to come this summer. It’s a really bad time for me, mentally.

She stared at it. Deleted it.

Retyped:

Hey, I’ll have to see. Work is really full on right now.

That one she copied and pasted into the chat. Sent it.

Immediately, three little bubbles popped up. Her pulse spiked.

Mum: It’s only one weekend. I’m sure your little channel survive.

Izzy: Oh come on, Francesca. It’s one weekend. Dad misses you.

Francesca locked her phone and turned it screen-side down on her bed.

Henry stirred where he was curled up against her side, sensing the shift in energy.

She pressed her hand into his soft fur and whispered, “You’d hate it. Too many people. Not enough snacks. Mum will get hay fever and and blame her runny nose on you.”

He blinked up at her. Loyal. Unbothered. Her co-conspirator.

She picked up her phone again. She could feel the heat rising in her chest — a familiar, creeping anger she usually buried so deep that it didn’t even get a name.

Not today.

Her thumbs moved before her brain could stop them.

Has it ever occurred to you that you could come here instead?

She blinked at the snappiness of her outburst, her breath catching in her throat.

Then:

You’re always asking me to come home and expecting me to be okay with the travel. But none of you have been to London since I moved here. It’s just always assumed that I’ll suddenly be fine travelling by myself. Which I’m not.

Her heart pounded. She hovered over the message, the way she always did.

And then she hit send.

Almost immediately, panic flooded in behind the adrenaline.

Too much. Too harsh. She could almost hear the stunned silence that would follow.

The chat stayed still for a minute. Then two. Then—

Mum: We’re just trying to help you, sweetheart. You need to learn how to push yourself out of your comfort zone. You’re an adult now.

Izzy: Lol. Yikes.

Francesca sighed and closed her eyes, pressing her head back against her headboard.

She didn’t regret letting herself say it. Not really.

Even though it hadn’t seemed to make a difference.

She didn’t need to push herself. She had boundaries and that was okay.

Henry nosed her hand with his head, and she scratched behind his ears absently.

“I know,” she murmured. “That could’ve gone better. But still.”

She thumbed through her apps again, not to the chat this time, but Instagram. She found herself staring — almost absently — at Oscar’s profile, her thumb hovering over the follow button.

It wasn’t the same, she told herself. But somehow, it still felt like the same kind of bravery.

She pressed her thumb down and watched the icon shift from Follow to Following.

There. Done.

Her heart beat a little too fast, but she didn’t unlock her phone again. Not yet.

She glanced at the time and let out a quiet, slightly disbelieving laugh.

It wasn’t even eleven a.m. and she’d done two scary things.

She was unstoppable.

—

iMessage — Katie & Francesca

Katie:

You followed him back.

Francesca:

should i have asked for permission first?

Katie:

You’re sassy today

Francesca:

i had to interact with my sister

Katie:

Ew.

—

Like she did every Friday night, Francesca ordered a takeaway — Thai, because she was predictable — and curled up with Henry while she worked through her notifications.

She responded to YouTube comments first. Then Instagram. Then TikTok.

“Loved this rec!”

“Adding this to my TBR.”

“You have the coziest voice, please do ASMR.”

She typed thank yous, sent emojis, liked everything in sight.

By the time she opened her DMs, she was comfortably full and lulled into a rhythm — heart-reacting sweet messages, replying to the odd question about where she got her bookshelf lights.

She didn’t expect to see it.

Didn’t expect him.

An unopened message. From a verified account. Sitting halfway down the screen like it had been waiting for her.

Instagram DM's — Oscar Piastri > Francesca Gold

Oscar Piastri Thank you. Are you a McLaren fan?

And then a few hours later, he’d followed up with:

I just wanted to say I really liked your last video. It made my flight way less boring.

She froze. Actually froze.

Her eyes scanned the messages again, and again, as if they would change.

And then, with dawning horror, she realised what had happened.

She’d sent it. In the process of clumsily exiting out of the app, she’d sent the message congratulating him on his podium.

And he’d seen it.

And responded to it.

His response hadn’t been there yesterday. Had it?

She wasn’t sure. Her inbox was always a bit of a mess, but still—

She let her phone drop to her lap, stared at the ceiling, and let out a sound that was somewhere between a squeak and a yell.

Henry looked up from his loaf position and stared at her.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’m totally fine.”

She wasn’t.

She was an idiot. A fat-thumbed idiot.

She didn’t reply straight away.

Instead, she opened the message thread again. Then again. Then three more times, pacing between her couch and the kitchen like some kind of Victorian ghost haunting her flat.

Henry trailed after her for the first few laps before giving up and flopping down with a lazy sigh.

One sentence. Barely even a thing. But it was him, telling her that he’d enjoyed her last video, after asking her if she supported the team he drove for, and that changed everything.

She drafted five different replies, none of them good.

Too casual. Too try-hard. Too weird.

She threw her phone across the room, onto the couch, and stared at the wall for a full minute before groaning into her hands.

Eventually, after she’d stress-eaten three mini chocolate muffins that she didn’t even like, she picked up her phone and typed, quickly this time, before she could overthink it:

Francesca Gold Thanks. I’m glad I made it easier for you.

And I don’t know much about McLaren. Just cheering for you, I guess.

She stared at it.

It was true. It was honest. It didn’t sound like she wanted to marry him, probably.

She pressed send.

Immediately put her phone face down.

Then picked it back up, just to check.

Then turned it off entirely.

Henry meowed like he disapproved of her cowardice.

She glared at him. “Shut up, Garfield.”

He glowered at her.

—

Katie had arranged for an Uber to pick her up right outside of her flat and bring her straight to the office. No walking, no public transport, no unnecessary variables. Just door-to-door.

It was the kindest version of a nightmare.

Francesca perched on the edge of the back seat, hands curled in her lap, her breath shallow despite the driver's quiet humming and the soft instrumental music playing through the speakers. She had her AirPods in but wasn’t listening to anything — she just needed a barrier between her and the world.

Every red light made her stomach twist tighter. Every bump in the road sent a flicker of nausea through her chest. It felt ridiculous — it was ridiculous — but having self-awareness didn’t make it any easier.

She glanced at her phone without thinking.

And then blinked at the notification she was met with.

Instagram DM's — Oscar Piastri > Francesca Gold

Oscar Piastri I feel special. And kind of like I need to point at Lando and laugh at him

A small, startled laugh escaped her. It sounded foreign in the confined space.

Another message popped up, and her eyes went wide as she realised what was happening; they were both in the chat at the same time.

Oscar Piastri But now I have to ask — favourite driver who isn’t me?

A tiny smile pulled at the corners of her lips before she could stop it. Her fingers moved quickly over the screen.

Francesca Gold I’n very new to the sport, but I have a few favourites, I guess.

Oscar Piastri How new?

She bit her lip.

Francesca Gold

Watched my first qualifying the day after u followed me.

Lol

Oscar Piastri

No way

Really?

That’s really cool, actually.

Did you enjoy it then?

The tightness in her chest eased. Not completely. But enough.

The hum of the road didn’t feel so sharp. Her jaw unclenched.

She leaned her head against the window, let the cool glass ground her, and typed back:

Francesca Gold Sure.

My cat wasn’t so keen.

The three little dots appeared instantly.

And suddenly, the office didn’t feel quite so far away.

Oscar Piastri

The ginger one?

Francesca Gold

Haha. Yes. His name is Henry.

Oscar Piastri I like cats :) Sry, gtg. Being glared at for being on my phone in a meeting.

Francesca stared at the message, her fingers tightening around her phone like it might float away if she let go.

He was messaging her when he was supposed to be working? Like, at work-working. With people. In a meeting. While probably wearing a team shirt and doing serious, important racing driver things.

Her heart did this awkward little somersault in her chest.

Francesca Gold

Have fun.

—

The Uber rolled to a stop outside the sleek glass building, and Francesca's heart started thudding again, loud and clumsy in her chest.

But before she could spiral, the door swung open and Katie’s familiar voice filled the car.

“There she is,” she said brightly, reaching in with one arm to haul Francesca up like she was a tiny dog and not a grown adult. “I was starting to think you’d made the driver turn around.” She leaned between the front seats and said, “Cheers, mate. Have a good day.” To the driver.

“I considered it,” Francesca muttered, tucking her phone into her coat pocket and willing the blush on her cheeks to cool.

Katie narrowed her eyes the moment they stepped onto the pavement. “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not—blushing,” Francesca lied, immediately and unconvincingly.

Katie stopped walking. “You are!”

Francesca shot her a warning look but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her mouth. “You’re being so dramatic.”

Katie just grinned, triumphant. “I’m right. You were blushing.”

Francesca shook her head, her fingers twitching inside her coat sleeves. Then, quieter, she said, “Thank you. For organising the car. And… for understanding. About all of this.”

Katie blinked at her like she’d just announced that she was moving to the moon.

“Babe,” she said simply, “you don’t thank people for turning on a light in the dark. It’s just what you do.”

Francesca swallowed hard.

And then Katie, who never could leave a moment un-teased, added, “Now will you please tell me what made you blush?”

She exhaled slowly, pressing her knuckles to her lips.

Then, deadpan, to Katie: “He said he likes cats.”

Katie blinked. “He? Who’s he?”

Francesca just smiled down at the pavement.

Katie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to be unbearable, aren’t you?”

“I’m already unbearable.”

“Well. At least you’re self-aware.”

—

It was late, and the empty pizza box sat open on Francesca’s coffee table was like a monument to their gluttony. Henry had given up trying to sneak crusts and was now dozing on the back of the couch like a furry gargoyle, his tail flicking every so often.

Katie wiped her hands on a napkin and leaned back with a contented sigh. “Okay, we should eat like this every week. I don’t care if it gives me cheese-induced nightmares.”

Francesca laughed softly, tucking her legs beneath her and cradling her thin-stemmed wine glass close. “Hard agree.”

Katie nodded, then tilted her head, studying her. “How are you doing? With everything, I mean.”

Francesca took a breath. Then another. She watched the wine swirl in her glass, the way the lamplight caught it and made it look warmer than it was.

“I’m… okay,” she said eventually. “Some days are harder than others. Today wasn’t the worst.”

Katie didn’t press. Just waited.

“I still haven’t been out on my own for months,” Francesca added, quieter now. “And I get panicky just thinking about having to travel home. I hate how heavy it all feels, sometimes.”

Katie reached for the bottle and topped up both their glasses, like that was the kind of answer that required more wine. It probably was.

“It’s okay to feel heavy,” she said. “You’re the one living with it. You can feel however you want.”

Francesca’s eyes stung.

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s just exhausting. Like, I feel like I’m never doing enough.”

“Don’t say that,” Katie said firmly. “You’re successful. You’re kind. And you’re working really damn hard to get better. I know you are. Not just the therapy, but the medication, and the whole posting more of your face thing? Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She said. “I think you’re really bloody brave.”

Francesca smiled, brittle and small. “Tell that to my family.”

Katie rolled her eyes and raised her wine glass with a thin, vexed smile. “I hate your family. Let’s toast. To boundaries.”

Francesca clinked her glass with Katie’s. “To wine.”

They drank in silence for a beat, and then Katie smirked. “And to Oscar Piastri’s stupidly pretty face.”

Francesca choked on her sip, her face heating immediately. “God. I can’t even look at a picture of him properly without blushing.”

“So don’t look. Just keep messaging him and pretend he’s a normal boy with a normal job and a slightly ridiculous gluten allergy or something.”

Francesca frowned. “You think he has a gluten allergy?”

She hadn’t seen any mention of one on his wikipedia page.

Katie shrugged. “It feels like something rich men have.”

Francesca giggled, shaking her head at her best friends ridiculousness.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you keep checking your phone every five minutes.”

Francesca scrunched up her nose in embarrassment and let her head fall back against the couch. “I’m pathetic.”

Katie grinned. “No, you’re not. But if you’re going to keep dm’ing Australia’s golden boy, I feel like I deserve to live vicariously.”

“He’s not—” She stopped herself, huffing out a breath. “He’s just… nice. And funny. And—”

“And gorgeous,” Katie supplied with a smirk.

Francesca covered her face with her hands. “He’s so gorgeous. It’s actually rude.”

Katie let out a delighted cackle.

“But,” Francesca added, quieter this time, “he’s from another planet. Like, look at my flat, and look at me. And then think about his world. I can’t even make myself go to the shop most days, and he’s flying around the world, at the top of his sport, walking red carpets, getting papped at airports…”

Katie sobered a little, her eyes kind. “Yeah, but he followed you. And he’s still here.”

“I know,” Francesca whispered, resting her glass on the edge of the table. “But what could actually come of this? Realistically? His fans already hate me. Twitter made that very clear.”

There was silence for a beat.

Then Katie shrugged. “Okay, then maybe it’ll mean nothing. Or maybe… you just keep talking and see what happens. You don’t have to map out the next ten years right now.”

Francesca gave a small, tired smile. “I wish I could think like that.”

“You will,” Katie said confidently, nudging her shoulder. “Maybe not today. But eventually. And until then, I’ll be here to eat carbs and overanalyse his emojis with you.”

Francesca chuckled, leaning into the familiar comfort of her best friend.

—

After Katie left, Francesca moved around her flat in a soft, post-wine haze — putting away clean glasses, tucking the pizza box into the bin, flicking off the overhead lights in favour of the warm lamplight she always preferred. Henry had already curled up in his usual spot at the foot of her bed, purring faintly. The perfect white noise.

She changed into an oversized T-shirt, made herself a cup of peppermint tea she’d probably forget to drink, and slid under her duvet with her phone in hand — mostly to scroll aimlessly until she eventually fell asleep.

Instead, she found a new message waiting.

Instagram DM's — Oscar Piastri > Francesca Gold

Oscar Piastri Hi again :) sry for earlier Do you have any book recs for a birthday gift? It’s for my sister. I forgot to plan ahead. And you seem like the right person to ask.

Francesca stared at the message, then at the time: 11:42 PM. Her heart did that familiar, silly twist, and she pulled the duvet a little higher around her.

Francesca Gold hi. it’s fine any idea what she likes?

The reply came almost immediately.

Oscar Piastri Umm. She reads a lot Sometimes romance. Sometimes thrillers. She’s smarter than me. Is that a genre?

Francesca let out a fond laugh, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t startle Henry. She could picture him typing, awkward but earnest, and it was too endearing for her peace of mind.

Francesca Gold not a genre but i can work with that

She paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. There was something oddly intimate about choosing a book for someone else. Like passing along a tiny piece of yourself.

She thought for a moment, then started typing again.

Francesca Gold okay — can i send you a link to a list?

Oscar Piastri Yes. 100%

Francesca Gold *goodreads list named ‘Oscar’s Sister’*

Oscar Piastri Found them all on amazon. Thank you! Should i tell her that her birthday books were chosen by her favourite booktuber? Haha

She stared at the first message.

There was no reason for her to be surprised. He was a professional athlete — of course he had money — but the list she’d thrown together in less than five minutes had at least twenty books on it. Twenty.

And he’d gone and bought them all.

She shook her head, incredulous.

Francesca Gold if you want what if she doesn’t like them?

Oscar Piastri Figured if she doesn’t like some, she’ll just lend them to me

Francesca when was the last time you read a book? be honest

Oscar Piastri Pre-prema days probably

She stared blankly at the words.

Francesca Gold i have no idea what that means. sorry

There was a short pause, then:

Oscar Piastri Cute :) Before I joined F1, I was in the lower formulas. I was with a team called Prema. That’s the last time I remember reading a book.

Cute. He’d called her cute.

She reread the message at least four times, just to be sure she hadn’t hallucinated it.

Nope. Still there.

She was blushing so hard it felt like her face might actually combust. It was ridiculous. Entirely inappropriate. She was a grown woman — a grown woman who’d once had a panic attack in a Tesco Express and was currently hiding under a weighted blanket like it might save her from the implications of the word cute.

This was uncharted territory. Dangerous, flirty territory. And the worst part?

She kind of liked it.

—

A week later, Oscar sat in front of the McLaren media backdrop, posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded beneath the bright spotlights. The interview had been going on for ten minutes. Same questions. Slightly different wording.

And then:

“Last one for you, Oscar — what’s something you’ve been enjoying lately? Doesn’t have to be racing-related. Music? TV? Podcasts?”

Oscar paused for a beat, lips twitching. “There’s this YouTuber I’ve been watching. She talks about books.” He shrugs, playing it off as casually as he can. “It’s kind of calming. I’ve been into that lately.”

He moved on to the next question, pointedly ignoring the deer-in-headlights stare from Lando.

—

Francesca hadn’t tuned in to watch any of the driver press conferences. She had too much editing to do and not enough time to get it all done before her deadlines.

She was knee-deep in timestamps, captions, and a particularly annoying bit of background noise she couldn’t quite scrub out when her phone buzzed once.

Then again. And again.

And then Katie texted her in all caps.

iMessage — Francesca & Katie

Katie: OSCAR. MENTIONED. YOU.

Katie: LIKE OUT LOUD. IN FRONT OF ACTUAL PEOPLE.

*link*

Feeling numb, she clicked the link and watched the 10-second clip.

And then she watched it again.

And again.

“There’s this YouTuber I’ve been watching. She talks about books. It’s kind of calming.”

No name. No direct reference. But the moment hung in the air like a secret someone had shouted through a megaphone. She almost laughed at the expression on Lando’s face — pure astonishment.

Her Instagram notifications were already spiralling. A few thousand new followers. Two brand accounts she’d never heard of trying to DM her. And someone had already screen-recorded the moment and posted it to Twitter.

“BOOKTUBE GIRLIE IS BOOKTUBING INTO OSCAR PIASTRI’S HEART”

“he’s so real for watching a comfort girl on youtube before bed”

“get her name now i want to see her tiktoks before the algorithm ruins it”

Francesca blinked at her phone.

Oh. That was… better than last time, at least.

Then again, they had no idea who she was yet. They were just blindly trusting their idols opinion. As soon as they looked further into her channel, watched a few videos, they’d realise that she wasn’t exactly… normal.

She swallowed thickly.

Her phone pinged with a message.

Katie:

You okay?

Francesca:

Yeah

—

Instagram DM’s — Oscar Piastri > Francesca Gold

Oscar Piastri Sorry. Hope that wasn’t weird Reckon I should’ve checked with you before I did that

She inhaled sharply, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Francesca Gold bit overwhelmed tbh but i like that you like my vids enough to actually talk about them

Oscar Piastri I really do Do you have any new ones coming soon? I'm travelling a lot over the next few weeks

She buried her face in her hands, sighing loudly.

Because she was smiling.

—

She wasn’t expecting it.

She’d woken up later than planned, face smooshed into her pillow, hair doing some kind of modern art sculpture around her head. Her phone was tucked under the duvet with her — a terrible habit — and she blinked at the bright screen as it buzzed once in her hand.

Oscar Piastri sent a voice message.

Her heart stopped. She stared at the notification with shock.

A voice message. At 8:13 a.m. On a Friday.

“No,” she whispered aloud, already flailing to sit up, which only caused Henry to jump down from her legs with a dramatic mrrrow of protest. “Henry. He’s sent us a voice note. A bloody voice note.”

Henry didn’t react.

She hesitated for a solid minute before pressing play, holding the phone just close enough that she could hear it, but far enough away that she could easily throw it across the room if she needed to. You know… precautions.

Oscar’s voice filtered through the speaker, low and rough with sleep, the edge of a yawn tangled in his tone.

“Morning. Sorry for the voice thing — texting felt like too much effort and I’m not awake enough to type properly yet. Just wanted to say thanks for the book ideas. She loved them. You’ve officially saved my status as Best Brother Ever.” There was a beat of silence, and then he added, quietly, “Hope you slept okay.”

And the message ended.

Francesca stared at her phone. “No.” She whispered.

Henry, now settled beside her again, chirped.

“No, Henry. You don’t understand. That was his morning voice. That’s like... illegal.” She choked out, feeling like she’d been turned inside-out.

Henry purred and rubbed his head against her phone.

She stared at her cat with bewilderment. “Oh my god. You like him. You like his voice.”

She pressed a hand to her chest and fell backward into her pillows.

“What do I even say to that?” she muttered to the ceiling. “Do I... send a voice note back? No. That’s psychotic. I don’t sound like… sexy. Not in the morning. Not any time.” She panicked.

Henry meowed again.

Before she could do anything, her phone lit up again—this time with a FaceTime call.

“Katie, no,” she groaned, but her thumb betrayed her and answered anyway.

Katie’s face appeared, framed by her usual messy bun and a spoon hanging out of her mouth. “Hey, I’m eating yoghurt and I just had a feeling.”

Francesca stared at her, incredulous. “What kind of psychic yoghurt-fuelled sixth sense do you have?”

“The kind that goes off when you ignore my morning text.” She squinted. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Francesca wordlessly switched to the Instagram app and tapped to replay the voice note.

Katie leaned in, eyes wide. The moment Oscar’s gravelly morning voice hit the speaker, she dropped her spoon and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Oh my god,” she said, slow and reverent. “He sent you a bed voice note?”

“Don’t call it that.” Francesca hissed, absolutely mortified.

“What else do you want me to call it? He sounds like he literally just rolled out of bed and thought, ‘You know what? Let me send Francesca a little audio kiss to start her day.’”

Francesca curled into a tight ball of limbs. “Oh my god, shut up. He was thanking me for the book suggestions. It was innocent.”

“Babe. That voice was not innocent. That voice had vibes.”

Henry meowed from where he was curled up once again, clearly in agreement.

“Oh god,” Francesca muttered, forlorn at this turn of events. “Even Henry likes him.”

Katie beamed. “Because Henry’s got taste. Also, side note—you need to respond.”

“I can’t respond! What if I sound like a frog? What if I say something weird? I almost told him he has a nice voice and then realised I’d have to move to another country out of embarrassment.”

“If you don’t respond, I will,” Katie threatened, sitting cross-legged in her chair like she had all the power in the world.

Francesca’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

Katie raised a perfectly groomed brow. “I literally have your login, Francesca. Try me. I’ll tell him you fainted from the sheer sex appeal of his voice. I’ll sign it off with sparkles.”

Francesca gasped. “You are evil. Actual evil.”

“Not evil,” Katie said sweetly. “Just a manager who refuses to let her best friend fumble a flirtation with, arguably, the hottest F1 driver on the grid.”

Francesca hung up on her.

Rudely. Desperately. With the kind of energy reserved for someone trying to escape a burning building.

Then she went back to the Instagram app, thumb hovering over the little microphone icon. She stared at it for a full minute, heart pounding, brain spinning, stomach flipping.

She cleared her throat. Twice.

And then, because thinking only made things worse, she closed her eyes… and spoke.

“Hi, um. Sorry—voice notes are terrifying, but you sent one first, so… fair’s fair?” She winced at her own voice. “Anyway. I hope your sister really did like the books. If she didn’t, that’s totally okay. You don’t have to pretend. I won’t be offended. Probably.”

Her cheeks were on fire now. She forced herself to keep going.

“I also Googled Prema. I knew you’d won F2 and F3, but I had no idea what teams you’d driven for. So…” She laughed under her breath, light and awkward. “Anyway. Thanks for the voice note. You—uh, have a nice voice. Okay. Bye.”

She hit send before she could stop herself, phone clutched to her chest.

Henry turned to stare at her.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, flopping sideways. “You’d be a mess too if a ridiculously handsome Australian race car driver voice-noted you.”

Her phone buzzed almost instantly, a message that time. Thank god. She wasn’t sure how much more deep, manly Australian accent she could handle.

Oscar Piastri I definitely win for most awkward voice note. Yours was cute. Also, she loved the books. You’re 1 for 1.

She smiled so hard it hurt.

Francesca Gold what’s her instagram user?

Oscar Piastri @hattiepiastri

Francesca Gold <3 thanks

—

Instagram DM’s — Francesca Gold > Hattie Piastri

Francesca Gold Hey! Sry if this is weird, just wanted to say happy late bday and I’m really glad you’re enjoying the books. I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I threw a bunch of genre’s together and just hoped for the best.

Hattie Piastri

Oh my god, HI! First of all, I just want to tell you how much I love your videos. I’ve been subscribed since your channel was like, 2 months old haha.

Thank you so much for helping Oscar out. He’s a useless gift giver, but I know he tries. He was really happy to be able to give me something I actually liked this year. So, yeah. Thank you.

Francesca Gold

I was scared you'd hate them all. I'm glad you didn't. :)

—

Francesca Gold just followed Hattie Piastri

—

iMessage — Hattie & Nicole

Hattie:

Oscar has literally met his soulmate and has no idea

He’s such an idiot omg hahahahaha

Nicole:

Come downstairs. I need to know everything.

CHAPTER THREE

517 notes · View notes

sinsofsummers · 2 years ago

Text

sensational

6.9k | joel miller & f!innocent!reader part two

this comes from this request. a few liberties were taken with the details (the reader knows that sex exists, but not much else), just fyi!

summary: thanks to becoming an orphan at age 13, you've lived the rest of your life oblivious to all the world can offer. now that you're in jackson, joel miller ignites something in you that only he can give answers to. warnings: slight angst (mentions of parent loss), innocent!fem!reader, age gap (joel is 56, reader is 25), kind of pervy!joel, smut (18+, mdni!!!), fingering, grinding, reader watches old pornos with joel, slight praise kink, no use of y/n. note: i planned originally to have this be just one part, but even though it ends in a way that i like, i could maybe be convinced to write a second part teehee (part two coming soon!)

You used to love the rain. The way it cascaded down your skin in little droplets, cleansing your body from a hard day's work, and the way it made your hair look so perfectly disheveled.

You craved the rain, until it became nothing but a reminder of the night your parents died.

It had been years at this point, but you would never quite forget how young, and small, and unsuspecting you'd been when they told you to run. How cruel, that time might pass, you might change, but with one smattering of rain, you returned so swiftly to the worst night of your life.

The three of you had been living alone, making your way...somewhere, but they never told you where. Your parents' only wish was to keep you safe, that much was clear. So it shouldn't have been a surprise that upon an ambush by at least ten clickers, after both your parents had been infected, that they'd insist that you run.

"Please, darling," your mother had pleaded, a lump in her throat as she formed the words. "Don't make me beg. I need you to run. Promise?"

Your father was somewhere else, but you could hear him yelling in the distance, in a fight for his life. You were too young, even at thirteen, to understand that those were the sounds of a dying man.

"I'll be right behind you," she'd choked on the last phrase, and in hindsight, you knew she was lying. But in the moment, you'd believed her. You couldn't see the bite she was hiding on her arm, her fate already sealed. "I'll come for you, my love," she insisted, "but I need you to go. Head for the woods."

It was the last time you saw her. You'd turned tail and had run as fast as you could for the woods.

The last thing you heard was a gunshot. A single shot, echoing around you in the trees. It may have been impossible to know, but you didn't need to turn back. Your parents were dead.

If you hadn't found Jackson, who knows how long you might have lasted. Nearing your twenty-first year, you'd proven valuable to the community, and they'd welcomed you in. Jackson was the first home you'd had since you were five.

It hadn't occurred to you that you were years behind your peers in terms of...well, everything, until you met Joel.

Rugged, tan, and sporting a perpetual frown paired with an ever-present crease between his brows, Joel Miller was your patrol partner. You weren't exactly sure why, and he didn't seem particularly pleased about it, but then again—he never seemed particularly pleased about anything.

It hadn't struck you as anything to be proud of, or to boast about to the other young women in Jackson, but they certainly loved coming up to you and expressing their jealousy when they felt so inclined.

"What's he like on patrol?" they'd ask, their eyes wide and lips curled in smirks as they waited for any insight you could give them on his mysterious personality.

All you could ever say over the next four years was a quick, "He's quiet."

Maybe that was why the two of you worked well. He wasn't much of a talker, and after you'd lost your parents, you hadn't been one to waste any breath on conversation, especially when you had survived alone with your own thoughts for almost eight years.

Silence was your mutual understanding. No talking meant no questions, and no questions meant no problems.

And this worked. Until it didn't.

-- -- --

It started like anything started. Quietly, hardly a bother, until it sank into the marrow of your bones and demanded that you address it.

More literally, it started in your shoulders. You'd been on patrol with Joel, a quiet, "Let's go," his only words to you that morning. They were his only words to you every morning, and that day was no different.

Patrolling with him was easy. Like you'd said—no talking, so no problems. You rode next to each other on your respective horses, and there was nothing more than a glance or two toward each other when necessary. It was the only form of communication that the two of you shared.

His big brown eyes had always startled you, looking so inviting in the contrast of the white snow during the winter, but they never showed you more than he allowed you to see. And all you saw of Joel was his dedication to sleep, patrol, eat, and repeat.

You hadn't felt the desire to look that closely at him until some of the girls in Jackson asked you how big his hands were, or what he looked like up close.

"You know," one of them had crooned, not realizing you were unsure of their intentions, "what does he look like without that big old coat on?"

You'd shrugged. "Why should I know?"

Another one wiggled her eyebrows. "Doesn't it get...lonely out there? Nothing but you, the snow, and a big man like Joel to keep you company?"

The faces of those girls, the glint in their eyes, it was something you couldn't quite decipher, as much as you wished you could. So one day, you'd asked the man himself what it all meant.

When you said it for the first time, it was so quiet that you could hardly even hear yourself.

Joel grunted, the only indication that he'd heard you.

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn't find a reason why. This was just Joel. He seemed to know everything there was to know about life; surely he could help you understand this. "Why do the girls in town keep asking me what it's like to patrol with you?"

He didn't answer for a second, but then shrugged. "They botherin' you?"

"No." You weren't quite sure that was true, and knowing him, he could probably hear the lie in your voice. "They're just kind of...belligerent."

His eyebrow cocked. "S'a big word," he mused. "Sure you know what it means?"

Your cheeks grew hot. "Yes," you insisted sharply. "I do read, you know."

He murmured a response, but the wind carried it away from you. You rode in silence for a bit longer before he said, "Don't let those girls get in your head. I think they just wanna get a rise outta you."

"A rise?"

Joel nodded and brought his horse to a routine stop. This was where the two of you always stretched your legs. He reached up to help you down your own mount and set you on the ground gingerly. "You know," he said, as if you should know, but with no regard for the fact that you didn't. "You're still kinda new here. Seems they're still pretty dead-set on embarrassin' you."

"I'm not embarrassed," you insisted again. "I just...is there a joke I'm not getting?"

"Any reason you chose to talk so much today?" was his only answer, which made your stomach clench.

There was no reason for you to be offended, as it was your typical routine to remain quiet unless absolutely necessary, but you couldn't help the way your lips curved downward. "Sorry," you mumbled, "forget I asked."

He was quiet again as the two of you walked at least two hundred paces, stretching out your sore muscles in the snow. It used to be comforting, the silence. It wasn't maddening, it didn't ever bother you if Joel was in his thoughts. You weren't even sure at times if he had any. But all that had changed now; his brow creased more than it usually did, and you wanted nothing more than to ask him what he was thinking.

Joel was the one constant in your life now. Maybe it was a—well, probably it was a trauma response from losing your parents, but you couldn't help it. You didn't need much from anyone, just someone to stay. Joel was strong enough to take care of himself and was smart enough not to make any rash decisions. As far as you could tell, he'd stay.

So how could you be so embarrassed by asking these questions?

"I forgot how long you said you were...alone out there," his grunting voice filled the space between you once more. It was quiet, and he sounded hesitant, as if he wasn't sure how to speak.

"Since I was thirteen," you said mechanically, so familiar with others in Jackson asking the same question.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath. "And you're how old?"

"Twenty-five," you said, feeling oddly small in his presence.

He shook his head. "That's a long time to be alone," he muttered, blowing out a breath.

You huffed. "Yeah, well, I survived. And besides, I've been here for four years now, you know."

"I know."

Again, the silence. Infuriating.

Then, you couldn't help it. "What's...'spooning,' and why do those girls ask me if we've done it?"

Joel stumbled, reaching out for balance. His hand found purchase on your shoulder, and you caught him awkwardly. "You don't even know what spooning is?" He sounded incredulous, as if you'd asked a juvenile question.

The warmth from his hand was astonishing, and distracted you from your embarrassment, if only for a moment. It sank through his glove into your coat, and down toward your skin. Something about the weight of his hand on your shoulder, even for a second as he removed it quickly, was enough to send you spiraling.

Your face burned. "Never mind," you said quietly and mounted your horse again. How stupid could you get? You scolded yourself. You'd ventured too far into this conversation, and now you didn't know how to get yourself out of it. "I was just...never mind. We should get back."

He nodded, but his face still looked somewhat pinched. "Yeah. S'getting dark."

The sun was still up. No intention of sinking beneath the horizon for at least a few hours. You rode again in uncomfortable silence, this time letting it fill the space. You foolishly thought that maybe if you were quiet long enough, he'd forget that you'd made a fool of yourself, that you'd exposed yourself to the truth: that you knew hardly anything about...anything except for survival instincts.

When Joel spoke again, it surprised you. "I didn't mean to tease ya," he said. "It's just kind of a surprise that you're not...that you don't..." he looked over at you, and there was some type of pleading in his eyes, as if he were begging you not to make him say it.

"That I don't what?" you said dumbly, hoping you didn't sound as childish as you felt.

He pondered his next words carefully, and then he hummed, "If you want, I could...teach you some stuff."

"Like spooning?" You felt a warmth in your face as you watched his shoulders hunch with a soft laughter. Your own shoulder burned where he'd touched it, and something bloomed in your gut.

He chuckled. "I don't know about all that," he said, "but I'll help you get...back on track. Would hate for someone to take advantage of your...innocence." It sounded sinful, the way he said it, and the something in your gut pulsed.

"You don't have to," you shook your head, but you didn't even believe the words as they came out of your mouth. "I'll just ask someone else."

"Darlin', don't trust anyone else to give you straight answers. I'm older'n half of everyone in Jackson, anyway." He flashed you a look. "I'll help. Whatever you want to know."

You bit the insides of your cheeks, your stomach turning strangely. "Anything?"

He nodded dutifully, but his eyes had already left yours. Joel Miller, ever the professional. "Whatever you want."

-- -- --

Joel liked to consider himself someone who would never again suffer the shock of surprises. After having lived through and seen more shit than any normal person could, he thought he'd experienced it all.

That is, until her pretty lips had opened and asked him to teach her about all she'd missed. Until she asked him to teach her.

He hadn't really seen her as the picture of innocence until he'd heard how long she'd been alone, surviving with no one and nothing besides her own thoughts and the clothes on her back.

The least her parents could do was teach her how to shoot, he'd thought when he first met her. It was a curiosity that was quickly resolved, as she'd proven herself valuable to Jackson.

Tommy had wasted no time putting them on patrol together. "It'll be good for you," his brother had reasoned when he brought up concerns. "You know, to talk to someone out there. I know she's on the young side, but you don't gotta fall in love with her." He'd flashed an apologetic smile when Joel had scowled. "You're scarin' everyone, Joel. Bein' all quiet and shit...it's—"

"It's what?" he'd asked gruffly. "I don't do it on purpose. I'm a grown man."

This was all true, and he very much didn't do it on purpose. With no one around whom he deemed worthy of his conversation, Joel Miller had become the quiet, introspective version of himself that everyone decided to become scared of all of a sudden.

The way he saw things? It wasn't his fault everyone in Jackson was boring. Or childish.

But her. With her unmistakable will to survive and those eyes that could burn fierce with ire one moment, and soften with curiosity the next...it was only a matter of time before he agreed to do whatever she asked.

He should have seen it coming, especially considering her past. Every time he thought of just how...unsuspecting she was about...everything, he had to shake his head, clearing it of any thoughts that threatened to take advantage of her.

But being ignorant of spooning. He had to clear his throat every time he thought of what that might mean for himself in this particular arrangement. If she knew nothing of something so...palatable, he could hardly help himself when thinking of what else she might be unaware of.

He tried to be patient, and he tried to be respectful, but at the end of the day, he was Joel Miller. From the moment she looked at him with those wide eyes, he was lost.

-- -- --

"What I would give to give that man the ride of his life," one of the girls next to you hummed at breakfast the next morning, her eyes presumably glued to Joel, who'd just come into the cafeteria. You didn't look up at him, instead casting a confused glance toward the girl who'd spoken.

"Ride where?" You cursed your quick instinct to ask questions, as the girls erupted into a fit of giggles. Face burning, you looked down again at your plate. "Never mind," came your almost instantaneous response. You were getting used to having to apologize for your ignorance, and people rarely—especially not these girls—offered their kindness.

One of the other girls snickered. "Why don't you ask him? I'm sure there's nothing much to talk about out there anyway," she said, smiling widely. Her next words were nothing short of a drawl, the complete essence of mockery. "'Joel, what's it mean to ride?'" she pinched her face in what you assumed was an impression of you, and it only made your eyebrows furrow despite your stomach sinking in utter horror.

And then there he was. He'd called your name, and now he was standing behind your left shoulder, hand outstretched to save you.

You were sure his hand had never looked quite as appealing as it did now. The calluses on his palm were raised and visibly rough. For a moment, you stared at his fingers and wondered what they might feel like against your cheek.

Swallowing a lump in your throat, that something arose in your gut once more before you heard him murmur your name again.

"Come on," he grunted, but there was a gentleness to it that made the hair on the nape of your neck stand on end. "Time to go."

The girls at your table were silent when you took his hand gingerly and let him lead you from the cafeteria. You noted the swift wave of cold that hit your hand as soon as he dropped it, just a second later. Clasping your hands together, you hoped in a fit of desperation that you might preserve some of the weight and warmth of his touch on your skin. It failed.

"Thanks," you said later, when the two of you were outside the community's borders. Jackson felt a bit too stuffy for any real admissions of gratitude, you'd decided. It turned out to be a good conclusion when you felt the delicious churn of your stomach at the idea of being alone with him once more.

I'm sure there's nothing much to talk about out there anyway, one of the girls had said. Doesn't it get lonely out there? You were reminded of another's teasing, and this time your cheeks burned at the memory. Nothing but you, the snow, and a big man like Joel to keep you company.

He was big, you considered. When he stood next to you, his frame was almost larger than life, and his shoulders were sinfully broad when you watched him walk in front of you on previous patrols. The sheer size of him was enough to send you into a heady descent.

As usual, Joel didn't answer for what felt like ages, and you'd begun to wonder if he could see where your train of thought had led you. Then:

"You could have told me they were bein' that outrageous," he grunted, keeping his eyes forward. "I woulda helped you out sooner. S'no fun feelin' left outta everything."

It was...odd to hear such words come from a man like Joel. Although, you reminded yourself, you'd hardly spoken to him in the four years that you'd been in Jackson; who was to say he wasn't normally like this? A quiet, brooding older man, yes; but maybe he was naturally like this. One to offer his help.

"If you wanted to help, you would have made an effort four years ago." You let your words hang in the air. You didn't mean for them to come off sharp; it was simply the truth. "I don't need your help," you added, tightening your hands on the reins of your horse and swallowing roughly. "It was fine. I am fine."

He flashed you a look as if to say, is that so? You couldn't help but notice the way the corners of his eyes creased, the only sign of amusement. It was all you could do to keep your eyes on him, although you weren't sure how you were going to explain the way your mouth went dry at the sight of his big brown eyes.

"Besides," you insisted quietly, "you're not my dad."

Joel cleared his throat. Looked down, shoulders tense. Inhaled. "No," he said decidedly. "No, I'm not."

Emboldened by this clarification, you inquired, "So what did those girls mean earlier? Riding, I mean?"

If you could have guaranteed the image of Joel's eyes going wide in surprise to remain in your head for the rest of your days, you would have done it instantly. His forehead was creased as his eyebrows lifted, and despite his position facing away from you, you could see it all.

The way he seemed to wrestle with himself before answering, the way his hands seemed to clench in his gloves. "So, uh..." he started, and then paused again. Mustering up whatever courage he needed, Joel finished, "Well, ya see, when a man and woman love each other very much—"

"Joel." Oh. You couldn't help it when a breathless chuckle left your lips.

He was silent, and when he finally answered, it wasn't a question. "What."

"I'm not fucking stupid. I know how reproduction works."

Joel's chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, and you couldn't ignore the look of complete relief that washed over his rough features. "Thank fuckin' Christ. Didn't know if I had it in me for another sex talk. I'm too old to be doin' this."

"Believe it or not, my parents did leave me with the basic information." Swallowing roughly, you continued. "And I know...I know that men usually...take. It's an assertion of power, from what I've...seen."

He shook his head. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised that you've run into your fair share of dirtbags, even in the middle of the world goin' to shit." He ran a gloved hand through his hair, and you secretly enjoyed the way it stood up. "Anyone ever, you know...take...from you?"

Hearing your own words regurgitated back to you left you feeling fluttery. Shaking your head, you got down from your horse; you'd reached your typical resting spot. "No," you said firmly. "They never wanted me."

Joel nodded. "S'good," he said, and it bothered you to no end that you couldn't understand the emotion in his voice. "So..."

By now he was standing next to you, closer than you were used to, judging by the way his coat sleeve bumped yours as the two of you walked, stretching your legs. "So," you said, thinking up a way to make this conversation less awkward. "I just hate feeling like a kid again. I'm twenty-five, for fuck's sake. There's more than just survival when it comes to living. I just want to know what I'm missing out on," you confessed with a hand on your stomach.

When Joel brushed by your side again your stomach flipped. And what the fuck is that about, and why do I keep feeling it? You asked inwardly, but you were too nervous to ask. Bombarding Joel with questions, especially after you'd just started talking to him on patrol after four years, seeming to be the wrong path to take.

He shrugged, eyebrows still furrowed in thought. "There's nothing to miss if you don't know what you're missin'."

"Yes," you admitted, "but that doesn't stop any of those girls from making me feel like I'm..."

"Innocent?" he murmured, and you thought you weren't meant to hear it until he turned to look at you.

Those big brown eyes, they just won't quit, a voice nudged you in your head.

"I don't want to be innocent," you groaned, throwing your head back. "God, not in the sense that they see me in. Sounds like a damn curse."

The sound of his rumbling laughter, however quiet, sent a shock down your spine and you nearly tripped in the snow. "There's pros and cons, I s'pose," he offered. "It's like I said: I'll help you get back on track. If that's what you really want."

"It is." You stopped walking, took a look around at the landscape, otherwise empty with the scattering of trees. You swallowed, pressed one. "So...riding. It's a part of reproducing, then?"

He chuckled again, but this time it didn't come off as demeaning. It was like he was teasing you, but good-naturedly. "Let's not jump too far ahead of ourselves, yeah? Start with somethin' smaller. Then we'll work our way up."

Joel's eyes were piercing when he held yours in his gaze. If someone watched this conversation, you were sure they'd be able to see the blush blooming on your cheeks.

"Learnin' takes time, ya know," he mused, his growling voice nearly a hum that could have warmed you from the inside out.

You'd made it to the edge of the woods now. This was normally where you turned back, heading for home. But neither of you moved. The bubble of something pulsed again, and you swallowed roughly before whispering hoarsely, "So where should we start?"

-- -- --

If Joel were a better man, he might have warned her what the curse of innocence in a young woman could be. He might have shook his head, stepped back, and told her to ask someone else. He might have taken the reins and turned the two of them back toward Jackson.

If he were better, he wouldn't have stepped closer to her. If he were a better man, he wouldn't have looked into her sparkling eyes and let the question slip. Fuck it all.

"You ever been kissed, darlin'?"

-- -- --

You swallowed. Don't make a fool of yourself, you begged yourself before answering with a quiet shake of your head. "Not many contenders out there. Not any good ones, anyway."

He'd leaned closer to you with his question, and now you could practically see each line of age in his face. Joel's expression was unclear; he could have been pleased with this information or...or maybe there was pity in his eyes. "No," he said with an understanding nod. "No, I suppose there wouldn't have been."

He lifted a gloved hand to his mouth and you watched as he traced it along his lips. The gray strands in his hair glinted off the sunlight, blinking pleasantly in your eyes. That something pulsed once more in your stomach, and there was a sort of realization that came with it.

Joel, you thought. Joel is making me feel like this.

"Will you kiss me?" The words were out of your mouth before you could reel them in.

But instead of laughing, or scoffing, or giving any sign of mockery, Joel Miller inhaled quietly. "You know how much older I am than you?" he asked.

You nodded. "We're both adults, Joel. Besides," you felt a ghost of a smirk come to grace your lips, a feigned confidence coming to save you in this moment of truth. "I thought you told me to ask you these questions."

He sighed. "You're right."

"So? Will you?" you asked, with a small, "please?" coming out afterward.

He moved slowly, something you were equally thankful for as you were frustrated with, but his forehead met yours soon enough. His eyelashes brushed against your cheek, and he let out a shaky breath, letting it fan deliciously across your face. The knowledge that he was just as nervous as you were was not only a comfort; it was perhaps the most attractive thing you'd ever known.

And when you lifted your chin, just a hairsbreadth from his lips, your eyes fluttered closed, waiting for him to meet you in the middle. It only took a moment before he was closing his mouth over yours, and Joel Miller was kissing you.

He was gentle, of course, but there was something restrained about his kiss, the way he slowly slotted his lips over yours as if you might crack under any more pressure. It only made you want more, more, more...

You pressed your hands to his chest and curled them into fists, tugging his jacket to lessen the distance between your bodies even more. You didn't know how you were doing this, how you'd managed to find confidence in what could have easily been a humiliating experience. Your first kiss at twenty-five? With anyone else, it might have been a nightmare.

With Joel, it was turning out to be the most delightful dream.

"So soft, baby," he pulled back to whisper against your mouth. "These lips are so soft for me."

You hummed your response and pulled him back to you, letting him see that you wanted more. That incessant pressure was building, and it wasn't until he had his arms sliding around your waist that you forced yourself to pull back, head spinning. "Joel."

He blinked. "What? Too fast?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, darlin', you're just so—"

"No, that's not it." You managed a weak smile, but the look in his eye, the question and the undeniable desire—is that what it looks like?—quivering in his brown irises, nearly made you collapse. He waited for you to continue, his hands never leaving you, a courtesy you were grateful for. "I feel...hot." Your cheeks warmed. "Um, there's this...pressure."

His lips closed in a tight smirk, and he squeezed your hips. "Where, baby?" he murmured, and you could have sworn you saw stars outlining his head at the sound of the pet name. "Show me," he cooed.

"Um." You paused, unsure of just how. But with his hands on your waist, his heavy, warm touch melting you on the spot, you took one of his gloved hands in yours and guided him to your stomach. "Here. Kind of."

"Yeah?" he said, and you forgot about the cold. About your horses waiting to be mounted, about your other responsibilities in Jackson. All you could see were his dark eyes that had somehow grown darker as you pushed his hand down, down, down...

"Fuck, babygirl," he cursed, and let his hand rest on the crux of your thighs, just barely pressing on the source of the tingling sensation. If anything, it made it worse, and you let a breathy whine fall from your lips. "You're gonna be the death of me, huh?" he groaned.

You couldn't form words. Just one kiss (a very good kiss, mind you) and a heavy hand on your core was all it took, apparently. You could hardly look anywhere but his face, your mouth dropping open as your hips moved of their own accord, grinding into his hand before you realized you were doing it. "Joel—" you whimpered, and he pulled his hand away.

There wasn't enough time for you to feel jilted, as he tugged you back to your horse and practically launched you onto it himself. "We're goin' back," he said firmly, "now."

Swallowing, your throat dry and rough, you pressed a hand to your cheek, feeling the heat swimming under your skin. "Did I do something wrong?"

You could hardly see him shake his head as he mounted his own horse, looking back at you to make sure you were following him. "'Course not," he called over his shoulder. When you caught up with him, the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder, he continued. "Look, darlin', f'I'm gonna be givin' you your first kiss and makin' you feel that good..." he sighed, his dark eyes finding yours. "I'm not doin' it in a fuckin' snowbank."

-- -- --

The entire ride back to Jackson was painfully long, silent but for Joel's mumbled directions, despite the fact that the two of you had taken this same route countless times in the four years that you patrolled together.

Your eyes were trained forward, and you knew his were as well, but it took everything in you not to glance at him even for a second. If you did, you were afraid that the pressure building in the crux of your thighs would never go away.

It would be unfair to say that you were completely unaware of what might happen when you got back to Jackson, but you still didn't know much, which left a nervous bubble rising in your gut. It wasn't like there were any books left in Jackson that you could read about it, or any movies that Maria would allow to remain in the community's borders.

Again, you got a wave of feeling like this should have concerned you, or at least made you a little anxious. But with Joel pulling ahead, his strong back the only thing you could look at, you felt the knot of tension release in your stomach. This was Joel. After four years—even four mostly silent years—of working together, you felt like you...knew him, somehow. That he couldn't possibly lead you astray.

Sure enough, when you were both within the borders, horses returned safely to their stables, the tension returned. Or had it ever really dissipated?

Joel hovered close to you as you left the stables. "Let's go, darlin'," he breathed, a gloved hand on your lower back as he guided you.

"Where?" you said, and you hoped it didn't sound as desperate as it did to you, the pressure getting worse. "I need—"

"I know, baby, I know," he cooed gently, his head on a swivel as if looking for anyone who might stop you. "We're goin' to mine. I've got the perfect lesson planned for ya, alright?"

It was all you could do to nod and let him push you forward through the snowy streets. If only those girls could see you now.

Once inside, you took a breath. There was no one around, and once the door closed behind you, the silence felt all the more heavy. "Ellie?" you asked, if only in courtesy.

He shook his head, and you bit your lip when you saw him smirk. "Just us, doll."

Joel shed his outer layers, and when he stood in front of you, you realized that this was the first time you'd seen him without his coat. Without his gloves, aside from that morning.

Your eyes snagged on his fingers, and you swallowed roughly when you saw the way they twitched, as if in anticipation for something. Or maybe he was holding himself back, you considered. His jaw did seem to have an impatient clench to it. Hands rough like you knew they would be, it didn't take long for your mind to wander into thinking of what it might be like to feel those hands on your skin.

With any luck, he'd give you the sweet release you craved, however it would unfold.

"See anything you like?" he teased, and your cheeks warmed.

"Sorry," you fumbled for a response, your eyes dropping. You'd meant to clear your head, but then your eyes were caught on his thighs. Specifically how hard the seams on his jeans were fighting to remain unripped. "Um, a lesson, you said?"

He nodded, reaching out a hand to take your own coat off, leaving you in the sweater and pants you'd had on all day. You were sure your hair was knotted and would be for days, but he only smoothed a hand down your face, letting you lean into his touch. His fingers were still cold, but your face was hot and it offered a dizzying sense of relief.

"I could never teach you all this," he murmured, his thumb rubbing back and forth in an absentminded swipe across your cheek. "Not without getting...distracted," he finished, pressing his other hand to your waist. Underneath the thick layer of your coat, his hand felt like a hot iron scorching your skin, despite there still being a few layers of clothes between your bodies.

"Distraction is okay," you breathed, lifting a hand to cup his on your waist. "Right?"

He shook his head, a chuckle lifting from deep in his chest. "Not tonight," he whispered. "Tonight, I want to stick to the plan."

"Which is?"

Wordlessly, he removed the hand on your waist and entwined it with your own, tugging you toward the living room where an old television had been placed on a rickety-looking shelf. "Sit," he directed, and you did so without hesitation. He paused, biting back a smile at your eager cooperation, and adjusted himself.

It occurred to you that as much as you were affected by him, he was experiencing a similar effect from you. His pants, already tighter than sin, seemed to have become even tighter, as a bulge began to grow while he stood just a few feet from your face.

"Joel—"

"No, no," he waved a dismissive hand and went to the television to grab something. He came back with something you recognized: a VHS tape. "Don't worry 'bout me, sweets. Tonight's just for you."

"We're gonna watch a movie?" you asked, trying to ignore the way your heart sank a little. You had been hoping that the two of you would kiss some more, and maybe even...you didn't even know the name for it.

"Not just any movie," he grinned, putting it in to watch. The video started. "A special one."

When the scene opened on a man and a woman in the throes of passion, you gasped. "No way," you whispered. "I thought Maria—"

He shrugged, sinking down on the couch beside you, his knee bumping yours. "She must've missed this one," was all he said.

The woman looked to be enjoying herself, as her scene partner kissed her neck, dragging his tongue from the dip in her clavicle to the curve of skin where her neck met her ear. A cartoon-ish moan left her lips, but you didn't pay it any mind. The sight of it made your thighs clench together subconsciously, the lick of pressure rising again in your center.

"Joel—"

"Shh," he said gently. "C'mere, darlin'." With no more than a heavy hand on your waist, he tugged you closer to him, situating you over his lap. "Comfortable?"

You almost said no; you knew that this wouldn't be an acceptable seating arrangement in the cafeteria (or anywhere public, for that matter), but when his hands landed on your thighs, you nodded swiftly. His fingers curled around your skin, and you could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through his fingertips, poised as if he might spread your legs from where they were squeezed together between his own thighs.

Something hard and solid nudged at your core, and you couldn't help it when you leaned back into his chest, head tilting back to rest on his shoulder. A breathy moan tumbled from your lips, and your stomach fluttered when you felt his chest rumble with a chuckle.

"That quick, baby?" he whispered, his breath fanning over your neck. "You really are a sweet young thing, aren't ya," he teased, pressing his nose to the joint between your jaw and your neck, "fallin' apart for me already?" He rocked his hips forward, his bulge pressing harder against you, and it nearly sent you into a spiral.

You swallowed, your throat dry. The sounds of the movie seemed far away as you opened your eyes and looked at his beard, peppered with gray and scratching at your chin when he leaned over you. "Joel," you whispered, bringing your hands to cover his own on your thighs, "I-I want to know everything." You'd never meant anything more fervently, more desperately, than this.

If you'd known how addicting this could feel, being so close to him, feeling his hands on you, perhaps you would have been embarrassed at the way your hips began rubbing yourself on his lap, hoping for—you didn't even know what could be after this. You just knew that the way you felt was the most intense thing you'd felt in your entire life, and you wanted to keep feeling this way, as long as you could.

Joel tutted, squeezing his hands on your thighs. "Oh, look at you," he groaned, a deep, carnal noise that made your chest constrict, "you're a natural, doll." His lips brushed your shoulder, and he darted his tongue out to lick a small strip up your neck.

Your heart swelled with the praise, and it was all you could do not to squeeze your eyes shut. "Please," you begged quietly, as if someone might hear you.

"I know, baby, I know," he crooned, dark eyes locked onto your own as his hand crept closer—to your waistband—closer—unzipping your pants—closer...there.

Your hips lifted from his lap with the heady sensation of his fingers pressed to a bundle of nerves between your legs. "Joel—!" you squeaked.

You felt him smile against your cheek. "So wet," he murmured, "so slick for my fingers, baby." He began rubbing that spot in tight circles, a slow, torturous pace. "Let me know when you're gonna come, yeah?"

"When I..." you trailed off. You'd never...how would you know? "I don't..."

Joel hummed in your ear, rocking his hips again and releasing a guttural groan. "S'okay, pretty girl," he reassured you, "I'll be gentle. Lemme know when it feels like it's too much. "I've gotcha."

You were too far gone to doubt him. This was Joel. He wouldn't let you fall, as much as you felt like you were going to slide to the floor at the feeling of his hand coming up from your leg to caress your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingertips. A strangled mix between a cry and a moan left your lips, and with one more kiss to your brow paired with a quick swipe of his finger over your ever-sensitive bud—

Something gave way and you jerked your head back, digging into his shoulder. Your legs spasmed and you squeezed your hand over Joel's, holding his hand in place underneath your panties.

"Fuck, doll, just like that," he encouraged you. "Look at you, eyes rollin' back for me. Shakin' like a good girl." His hips tensed beneath you and you felt his chest shudder as he released a punishing moan. "Got me feelin' like a damn teenager, comin' in my jeans."

His fingers stilled, but his hand didn't move. Your legs slowly stopped shaking, and the solid mass beneath you was softening. You let out a sigh, your eyelids fluttering closed. Your cheeks were flushed, you could tell; but this time, it wasn't embarrassment that brought the warmth to your face.

"You okay?" he murmured, carefully removing his hands from their places on you. "Feel alright, darlin'?"

Your head turned, nestling into the crook of his neck. Nodding quietly, you shifted in his lap. "I...I didn't know it could be like that," you shivered.

Joel paused the video, the living room falling quiet around you. Swinging a hand under your legs and tugging you to a more comfortable position over his lap, he raised his fingers to his lips, glistening with the remnants of your desire. Your jaw slackened when you watched him open his mouth, lapping at the tips of his fingers.

"Trust me, doll," he said with a glint in his eye. You whimpered in anticipation as he reached to brush a strand of hair from your face. "I've got so much more to teach you."

tysm for reading! you made it to the end! part two is in the works posted!

6K notes · View notes

colouredbyd · 2 months ago

Text

The Nightingale: The Volunteer

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: She was thirteen when her name was called. He was fourteen when he took her place. Now, years later, she’s standing there again as tribute of the 70th Hunger Games.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, mentions of injuries, physical exhaustion, corrupted goverment, talks of death, mentions of weapons, typical hunger games violence. hurt/comfort childhood friends to strangers to lovers trope

word count: 5.3k

authors note: okay so here is part 1 of my new series The Nightingale. I have mostly all the parts written and drafted and i cant wait to post them!! this ones probably my favourite work and i hope you all love it 🌷💖

next part series masterlist main masterlist

The 65th Hunger Games

“May the odds be ever in your favor!”

They say it like a promise. Like a prayer. As if luck can shield you from the way a name sounds when it’s yours. As if odds have hearts to sway or hands to hold. But the odds have never favored girls with music in their bones or boys with shadows stitched to their heels. Not in District 7. Not in a world where survival is currency and love is a liability.

My name was still ringing through the square when he said it.

“I volunteer.”

Two words. A blade through the silence. He said it like it hurt. Like it was the only thing he’d ever meant. I turned, too slow, too stunned, just in time to see the peacekeepers pull him away—too young, too slight, too sure. Fourteen and already breaking for me. He didn’t look back. Not once. That was the worst part. Like if he looked, he’d stay. Like if he stayed, he’d shatter.

They asked him for his name. And when he gave it, the crowd swallowed it whole.

Regulus Black, District 7. Volunteer.

He gave them his body. He gave them his future. And all I could do was stand there with my name still echoing through the cold. All I could do was live.

And I’ve been paying for that mercy ever since.

District 7 was not made for softness. It bore no patience for delicate things, no mercy for children with bright eyes or steady dreams. The forest ruled us long before the Capitol did. Trees older than our blood whispered warnings in the wind, and if you didn’t learn how to listen, you disappeared. Splinters and silence shaped us more than schooling ever could.

Our homes were wooden, creaking things. Roofs that leaked in the spring, floors that sang in the winter, walls thin enough to hear your neighbor crying through. We were born with sawdust in our lungs and calluses on our hands. Most children learned how to swing an axe before they could write their names. Hunger made us practical. So did grief.

But even here, where beauty withered quickly, I learned to sing.

Not loudly, not for attention. Never in the open air, where the wrong ears could turn anything tender into a weapon. I sang in the moments in between — under my breath while stacking bark, or alone beneath the hanging branches of the sycamores. My voice belonged to no one but the trees and the boy who found me.

Regulus Black.

He wasn’t from my part of the district. He didn’t have the look of the lumber families. His hands weren’t made for chopping, but for stringing arrows. He was quick-footed, sharp-eyed. Quiet in the way that felt like a storm waiting to happen. The first time I saw him, he was crouched by a stream, soaking a cut on his palm, face turned to the sky as if listening for something.

I sang that day without meaning to. Just a soft hum carried on the wind.

He didn’t move, didn’t look at me. But when I paused, he said, “Don’t stop.”

That was how it began.

We weren’t quite friends at first. We were survivors in the same stretch of woods, careful not to scare each other off. He taught me which berries not to eat. I showed him how to twist pine needles into thread. He hunted. I sang. He used silence like a blade, and I used music like a balm. Somehow, between stolen hours and shared shelters, we made something sacred.

I learned he had a brother, though he rarely spoke of him. I learned that he hated the sound of axes. I learned that no one taught him to shoot — he taught himself, because no one else would.

He learned that my mother once sang lullabies before her voice gave out. He learned that I dreamed of light, of being heard. He learned that my hands shook when I was afraid, and I was afraid often.

We made a hideout deep in the woods, past the northern logging zone where few dared to go. It was barely a lean-to of branches and tattered cloth, but to us it was untouchable. Safe. He carved my name into the bark of the tree beside it, tiny and crooked. I braided wildflowers into his sleeve when spring came.

He never asked me to stop singing.

He said once that my voice made the forest feel alive again. That it reminded him of the world before it became cruel. I told him his arrows did the same. We didn’t say it aloud, but we were everything to each other. When the world took and took, we found ways to give.

Regulus was the only boy I knew who looked at the stars like they owed him something. He wasn’t reckless. He was angry in a quiet, careful way. The Capitol hadn’t taken everything from him yet, and so he fought in the only ways he knew how. He hunted for food he’d pretend he hadn’t found. He watched Peacekeepers with a stillness that bordered on dangerous. He protected me without saying the word protect.

I remember one night, cold enough that my breath came out in clouds, I asked him if he thought we’d ever get out. He didn’t answer right away. He just handed me a sliver of wood he had carved into the shape of a bird.

“When you fly,” he said, “take me with you.”

I wanted to believe we would stay like that forever. Two ghosts beneath the trees, untouched by the Capitol’s reach. But District 7 does not allow dreams to grow roots. The Games come for all of us eventually.

And when they did, he didn’t let me go.

He volunteered for me before I could even open my mouth.

Year Of The 64th Hunger Games: Memories Of a Nightingale.

It was a quiet afternoon beneath the hawthorn tree where we spent most of our stolen moments together. The world seemed to slow down there, away from the ever-watchful eyes of the Capitol and the bitter weight of the district. I hummed a song, soft and low, as the breeze played with my hair, the familiar melody slipping between the branches. Regulus sat beside me, his hands moving over the wood in his lap, carving another weapon—sharp, pointed, and useful for a world that demanded its people to be sharp, pointed, and useful.

“You’re always making those.” I said, trying to keep my voice light, teasing him as I watched him work.

He didn’t look up, his brow furrowing as he pressed the knife into the wood. “The Capitol won’t care if you’re singing or carving stars, Starling,” he muttered. “They just care if you’re useful.”

I watched him in silence for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than I wanted to admit. Regulus wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t mean I liked it. “ Well yeah, but you will always protect me right, shadow?” i teased

“Always, (Y/N).” he whispered.

Picking up the smaller, discarded pieces of wood, I shaped them carefully with my own knife, trying not to let the sharp edges of the world touch me too much. I carved stars, tiny pieces of hope I could hold in my hand. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I handed him one, a rough star with jagged edges, as I had done countless times before.

“Here,” I said quietly, my voice almost a whisper. “For you.”

He paused, looking at it for the briefest of moments before taking it from my hand. “It’s perfect, Starling,” he said, his voice soft in a way it rarely was. “Thank you.”

I smiled, even though my heart ached with the weight of it. These stars were the only things I could give him—things he didn’t ask for, things that might not mean much, but still, they were mine to give. And he accepted them.

Regulus had a way of making me feel seen when the world seemed to be looking the other way. He was hard on everyone, but with me, he softened. He wasn’t perfect, far from it, but when he called me “Starling” in his quiet way, it made me feel like I was something precious, like I mattered in a world that told us every day we didn’t.

He’d come to the Lovegood’s house often, though we never said why. His family was falling apart—his brother Sirius, gone, lost to the Capitol after a run-in with the Peacekeepers. His mother, too far gone in her own grief to care for him. He didn’t say much about it, but I could see it in his eyes whenever he stood at the edge of the field, looking out at the horizon. That same distant look when I spoke of my father, when the Capitol had taken him for no reason other than the injustice of trying to survive.

I’d been taken in by the Lovegoods family after that, a kindness I didn’t deserve, and Regulus would come by to check on me. He never said it, but I knew. His visits, though brief, were the only comfort I had. He wouldn’t stay long, always had something else to do, something else to prepare for, but his presence was enough.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” I asked him once, my voice barely more than a breath, as he walked away from the small house after one of his visits.

He turned back to me, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Starling,” he said. “Where would I go without you?”

“It’s too quiet,” I whisper, even though I know he hates it when I say things like that.

Regulus doesn’t look up from the sliver of wood in his hands. He’s crouched in the dirt beneath our tree—our tree—carving a blade out of pine like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. “The forest’s always quiet,” he says. “You just hear more when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You are.” He says it softly, almost like it’s a compliment. “You always are, little bird.”

I pretend the nickname doesn’t twist something warm in my chest. He’s the only one who calls me that. The only one who makes it sound like something alive. I never asked him why, but I think it’s because I sing. Because even in this broken place, I keep letting music fall out of me like it might matter.

I reach down and pick up a smooth, flat twig from the dirt, running my fingers over it. I used to make little stars from the scraps Regulus left behind. Carve them with bits of broken glass and shape them with my thumbs until they looked just right. I give him one almost every week. He never throws them away.

“Do you think they’ll ever find Sirius?”

He pauses. I watch his jaw tense before he answers. “No.”

Just that. No. No hope, no softness. Like he already buried his brother the second he disappeared. Like he’s preparing to bury me, too.

I look away, up at the branches of the tree we always come back to. It’s bent at the middle and knotted at the roots, but it still stands. That feels important somehow. Like a promise.

When the silence thickens too much, I do the only thing that makes it bearable—I sing.

A soft lullaby, the kind I hum when my nightmares wake me. It sounds hollow in the open air, but Regulus doesn’t tell me to stop. He never does. Not since that night after Sirius vanished, when he found me crying under this tree and asked me, in the smallest voice, to sing until it stopped hurting.

When my voice trails off, I hold out the little star I’d been shaping. It’s not perfect—none of them are—but it’s mine.

“For you.”

He takes it carefully, like it might break. “What’s it for?”

“Protection,” I say, even though I don’t really believe in it anymore.

“You already gave me that.” He glances up, and his eyes look too old for thirteen. “Every time you sing.”

I watch him tie the star to the worn leather cord around his neck. It disappears beneath his shirt, close to his heart. I think if I asked him, he’d say he keeps them all. Every single one.

“You’d better not lose it,” I say, trying to tease.

“If I did,” he says, voice low, “you’d haunt me.”

“You already do,” I shoot back, smirking a little.

We fall into that quiet again. But it’s different this time. Not empty. Just full of things we don’t say. Things like: I miss my dad. I hate the Capitol. I’m scared they’ll take you next.

I live with Pandora’s family now. My father was shot in the square last winter—for stealing a sack of flour to feed us. And Regulus—he flinches every time a Peacekeeper passes, like he knows the way grief lingers after someone’s ripped away.

We’re only twelve and thirteen. But under this tree, we get to be something else. I sing. He carves. I make stars. He wears them. He calls me Starling, and I call him Shadow, because he’s always there—quiet, sharp, watching. Like something the world tried to break but failed to kill.

I think we’re still learning how to survive. But here, for now, we’re still learning together.

My dress is old. I’ve worn it every Reaping Day since I turned twelve. The hem is frayed, the collar softened by too many washes. It smells like cedar and time, like the chest we keep it in and the quiet ache of years I’ve outlived. It holds the dust of survival. It remembers the names of the girls who didn’t.

The square is a silent wound—rows of children dressed in borrowed hope and trembling silence. Somewhere, a baby cries. Somewhere, a mother prays. We all stand still, pretending not to see the peacekeepers, the cameras, the Capitol flag snapping like a threat above us.

Regulus finds me in the crowd. He always does. Even now, with a hundred heads between us and a hundred fears stronger than steel, his eyes find mine. Like the first crack of sunlight through winter branches—sharp, warm, and far too much.

He doesn’t smile. He never smiles on Reaping Day. But he gives me a nod. Barely there. A flicker of something constant in a world that won’t stop changing. It means: I’m here, I’m watching.

And sometimes I think it means: I’ll burn this whole world down if it tries to take you.

He’s fourteen now—taller this year, stronger too. His knuckles are bruised, as always. His mouth looks carved from stone. There’s always something dangerous behind it. Cold to everyone. Except me.

Always, always me.

I think of the tree on the hill—the one with the crooked branch we used to climb when we still believed in things like forever. When the Games were something that happened to other districts. Before Sirius disappeared into the woods and never came back. Before my father was dragged out in the night for saying one wrong sentence too loudly. Before we started sleeping with our shoes on, just in case we had to run.

That was when Regulus began making weapons from bones and bark. And I began shaping stars out of splinters. I gave him one once—a crooked little thing carved from pine and etched with a trembling promise: come back to me. He wore it like a secret. Still does.

I see it now, just peeking out from under his shirt. Pressed against his heart.

The name is called, but I don’t hear it. Static. Or silence. Or maybe just the world stopping all at once.

I blink. A breeze moves past. A bird overhead breaks the sky with its wings. I think someone gasps, or maybe that’s just me trying to breathe.Then I hear it.

A sob. Sharp and sudden. And it comes from beside me.

Regulus.

His eyes aren’t on the stage, they’re on me. Not with confusion. Not surprise. Just pain. Like he’s already grieving something. Like he knew this would happen. And I understand.

The name.

My name.

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way his jaw clenches. The way his fingers curl. The way he looks at me like he’s memorizing something he knows he’s about to lose. My knees don’t buckle, not yet atleast. I just stand there. Cold. Hollow. A girl-shaped shell in an old cedar-scented dress.

Then someone whispers my name, and the moment shatters.

I hear my own voice—screaming, cracking, raw. It rips through my throat like broken glass. No one moves to help.

Except him. Regulus takes one step forward. Then another.

“No,” I choke out, already knowing it’s useless.

“I volunteer!” His voice cuts the air cleanly, like a blade through silk. “I volunteer as tribute!”

And everything goes quiet.

No applause. No cheers. Just silence. Like the whole district just watched something sacred snap in half. The Peacekeepers hesitate. They’re not used to this. Boys don’t volunteer. Not for someone else. Not for love. But the one in charge—he knows who Regulus is. Of course he does. Everyone does. So he nods once, grimly, and lets him pass.

I try to run to him. I do. But arms hold me back—too many hands, too many strangers. I scream and fight and sob, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s already walking. Already stepping into the fire.

And when our paths cross—when the tide of the crowd forces him forward and drags me back—his hand finds mine.

Somehow, in all the chaos, he reaches for me.

And I reach back.

His forehead presses to mine. Just for a second, one heartbeat. All they allow.

“You’ll be okay, star” he whispers. “You always are. I love you so so much”

But I shake my head, crying so hard I can barely speak. “Don’t do this. Please. Regulus, please.”

His lips brush my temple like a goodbye. Like a secret.

“Please don’t watch the game.”

Then he’s gone.

They drag him onto the stage. Announce him as District Seven’s male tribute. The speakers blare with artificial applause. His name echoes off the stone buildings like it belongs to someone else.

Come back to me.

But deep down, I know, he won’t.

The Games didn’t end the day Regulus was taken. They only began.

For me, they never stopped. They just changed shape.

When the hovercraft disappeared into the clouds, it felt like he had been erased from the earth. One second he was beside me, breathing the same air, the next he was a name on a list and a face in a Capitol broadcast. I stayed in the square long after the crowds faded. Long after the Peacekeepers stopped watching. Until my legs gave out and the dust soaked through the knees of my dress. Until I could no longer feel the place where his forehead had pressed against mine.

The first night was the hardest. The silence roared. I kept hearing his voice in the creak of the door, in the wind against the windows. I pressed the pine star against my chest so hard it bruised. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I just waited. Like he might walk back through the door and say it had all been a mistake.

And then the Games began.

They dress him in silk and shadow, like a prince carved from storm clouds. They oil his curls and line his eyes with gold. They ask him to smile, and he does—not like he used to, not the secret, crooked one he saved for me. This one is sharp. Public. Practiced.

They made a spectacle of him. The youngest tribute in history. Fourteen ears old with coal under his fingernails and defiance in every bone. The Capitol ate it up. They loved his sharp mouth and quiet rage. They played it on every screen. They slowed down the footage when he killed. They called him a prodigy. A miracle. A monster.

I watched every second.

He was brutal. Smart. Unforgiving. He used a branch sharpened to a point to slit someone’s throat and didn’t flinch. He snapped a boy’s arm in half to take his knife and then turned it on a girl who had been hiding in a hollow tree. He moved like he had already died and was trying to take the rest of the world with him.

But every night when the anthem played, I saw him reach for his neck. Just for a second. Just a flicker of his hand to make sure the pine star was still there.

And then he won.

He stood on the pedestal, soaked in blood and silence, while they crowned him. I thought he’d cry. Or scream. Or refuse to smile. But he did smile. Not the one I knew. Not the soft one, not the kind one he saved just for me. This one was razor sharp and hollow and made of teeth. I knew in that moment I had lost him.

He never came back.

Not once.

They said he was too important now. Too dangerous. Too fragile. They said the Capitol had plans for him. They dressed him in silk and poured him into interviews like he was made to be adored. He became a myth in a gold suit. The boy from District Seven who never looked back.

I wrote letters. Dozens of them. Hundreds. I carved them into bark and stone and silence. I whispered them to the wind. I buried one beneath the tree on the hill where we used to play. I lit another on fire and watched the smoke rise like a prayer.

He never answered.

The years passed like ghosts. They didn’t walk. They floated. They haunted.

The first one is the hardest. I scream into my pillow every night until my throat bleeds. I run through the woods until my legs collapse. I break every wooden carving I ever made.

I stop singing.

The second year, I start collecting scraps of Capitol broadcasts. Trying to spot him in the background. Some days I do. Always perfect. Always polished. They paint him like a storybook villain—fierce, loyal, unreadable. The Capitol’s golden boy. The Capitol’s ghost.

He mentors the new tributes. Sends them to their deaths with silent eyes. He wins sponsors with a tilt of his head. He never speaks of home. Never speaks of me.

By year three, I begin to hate him for it.

Every Reaping Day I wore the same dress. Every year it smelled more like death and dust. Every year I stood in the crowd and waited for a miracle that never came. I would search the Peacekeepers’ faces, hoping to see his. I would beg the stars to send him back to me.

I waited so long I forgot how his voice sounded when he said my name.

The Capitol paraded him on Victory Tours. His eyes stopped looking like eyes. They looked like glass. Like mirrors that only showed what the Capitol wanted them to reflect. And he looked right into the cameras and told the next batch of tributes to fight hard. To be brave. To survive.

Not once did he mention the tree on the hill. Not once did he say my name.

He belonged to them now.

And I hated him for it.

I hated him for surviving when my father hadn’t. I hated him for smiling while I screamed into my pillow every night. I hated him for choosing silence. For letting me rot in a house full of ghosts. For becoming everything we promised we’d never be.

But I never took off the star.

Not even when it cracked down the middle and the edges splintered into my skin. I wore it like a scar. Like a wound I wanted the world to see.

Because no matter how much I hated him, I loved him more.

And that was the cruelest part. Loving someone who no longer existed. Loving someone who never came home.

I am no longer twelve, or thirteen or even fourteen. I am now seventeen. Five years since the boy with storm-gray eyes and a wooden star around his neck walked into the Hunger Games and didn’t die.

Five years since he stopped being mine.

Five years since I was anything other than the girl he saved.

Time moved differently after that. Like honey left in the cold. Slow, thick, impossible to swallow. The days passed but left no mark. Just the dull echo of what used to be.

I still live in District Seven. Not the quiet outer woods where we used to hide, but in the Victor’s Village. A house built for him, empty and too large. It stares down at me from the hill like a monument to something I didn’t ask for. We were allowed to move in once he won, though he never came back to see it. He never came back at all.

Sometimes I imagine the moment he won—when he killed the final tribute. They say he didn’t hesitate. That it was quick, clean, merciless. The Capitol loved him for that. Crowned him with gold and blood. They gave him a nickname. The Porcelain Wolf. Beautiful. Fragile. Deadly.

I stopped watching the Games after that.

They say Victors get a choice. To return. To mentor. To disappear. Regulus chose to stay. Chose the Capitol. Chose them.

He didn’t write. He didn’t visit. He didn’t send a single word. But I saw him.

On screens. In newspapers. Draped in velvet and black silk. Face sharper, eyes colder. His hair always perfectly combed. A Capitol woman on his arm, sometimes two. He smiled with his mouth, not his eyes.

I kept the wooden star in a box beneath my bed. I didn’t touch it. I couldn’t.

They made him a symbol. A weapon wrapped in silk and sorrow. President Barty Crouch Sr. personally invited him to every gala, every celebration. Said Regulus Black embodied the strength of the districts and the civility of the Capitol. Said he was an example for all future tributes.

His son, Barty Crouch Jr., a golden boy of fire and cruelty, followed Regulus like a shadow. I saw them together once on screen. Laughing. Drinking something deep red. Their eyes matched.

That night I vomited until I saw stars.

But I wasn’t alone in the dark. Not always.

Pandora came to me that winter. She was odd in the way trees are odd—twisting, reaching, growing toward something no one else could see. She moved like a whisper and spoke like a song, full of strange dreams and endless wonder. Her family had fled the Capitol years ago and settled here, quiet and kind.

We became unlikely friends. She never asked me about Regulus. She just let me sit beside her in silence until I was ready to speak again.

She once told me I had a voice made of stitched-up stars. That when I sang, it made the woods pause to listen.

I laughed for the first time in years.

Together, we made a sort of life. I worked in the lumber fields part-time. Helped her sell pressed flowers and herbal remedies in the market. We made plans, silly and impossible—like running away to District Thirteen if it even existed. Or crafting a new kind of life where no one could own us.

I almost believed it. Almost.

But Reaping Day doesn’t care about dreams.

It came with smoke in the sky and the scent of metal in the wind. Everything felt too sharp that morning. The way my braid pulled at my scalp. The way my dress clung to my ribs. Five years later, im here, standing again in the same square for the 70th Hunger Games.

I stood beside Pandora in the square. Her hand found mine. It was warm and shaking. The stage was the same as always. Wood splintered and stained. A microphone that crackled like bones. The stage was the same as always—warped wood, splintered and stained with a thousand yesterdays. The microphone still crackled like dry bone snapping under a boot. And the Capitol escort stood painted and powdered, her lashes dusted in silver. A wax doll in velvet gloves. Her smile was too red.

“Ladies first! Now, now, for the female tribute of District Seven!” she sang, voice too bright, too clean for this place.

Her hand dipped into the glass bowl. Time stretched, the world felt like it was holding its breath.

She pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it with a painted smile. She read the name.

Silence.

Then Pandora screamed. A raw, animal sound, tearing itself out of her throat. Mary shouted something from the row behind us. Somewhere near me, someone sobbed. I heard it all like it was underwater—muffled, distant. My own breath barely reached me. Everything narrowed to a point of pain. The world didn’t spin. It stopped. Froze just long enough to crack.

Pandora’s nails were digging into my arm now. “No. No. No,” she whispered, over and over again, as if saying it could change the name on that slip of paper. As if it could undo the horror stitched into the silence. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t even speak. My voice was gone, swallowed by the shock.I couldn’t move.

I was twelve again.

I was thirteen.

I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.

Now I was the girl they would kill.

My name echoed through the square, again and again, like the beat of a funeral drum.

No one volunteered. Not this time.

Of all the names. Of all the girls. Of all the slips of paper folded and dropped into that glass bowl like prayers no one answers. It had to be mine. Again.

As if fate had been holding its breath all these years, biding time like a vulture waiting for the heart to slow. I had already been chosen once—called by death and spared by a boy with stars in his eyes and fire in his voice.

I was supposed to die at thirteen. And maybe I should have. Because at least then, he would have been there. Regulus. My Regulus. His hand in mine, his voice the last sound I’d hear. At least then, I would have gone knowing I was loved.

Back then, he wasn’t yet a Capitol trophy, draped in velvet lies and stitched smiles. He hadn’t learned to hide behind applause or kiss the rings of monsters. Back then, he was still real. Still mine.

If I had gone then, it would have been with someone waiting for me on the other side.

Now—now there’s nothing but ghosts behind me and a spotlight ahead. Maybe this is what fate wanted all along. It wasn’t mercy four years ago. It was a delay. A cruel postponement. A way to drag me through grief, through loneliness, through the slow death of remembering.

Because no one escapes the Games. Some of us just take longer to get there.

authors note again: why tf are the first chapters the hardest to write??

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black angst #regulust black fluff #regulus black x reader angst #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader fluff #hunger games au #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders fluff #marauders angst #marauders x reader angst #marauders x reader fluff #regulus arcturus black

184 notes · View notes

delilahsturniolo · 1 month ago

Text

⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . angst, romantic tension, mentions of weapons

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: FRIEND OR FOE?

read other parts here!

you run like the ground’s on fire.

the forest blurs. branches whip past your face.

the sound.

that sound.

a tidal wave of snarls and screeches and dragging limbs. zombies. too many. “how many are there?!” nick yells, panting, dodging trees. “is it a birthday party?! are they multiplying?!”

“not the time for jokes, nicolas!” chris shouts, somehow still clutching lieutenant whiskers like he’s a sacred relic. matt’s hand stays locked in yours as he pulls you through the brush, faster, harder, refusing to look back. “we’re not gonna make it like this,” he says, voice tight. “we need higher ground, something, anything.”

“what about that lookout tower we passed?” you gasp. “half a mile back! there was a trail sign!”

“you remember that from the map?” he asks, breathless. you shoot him a look. “i have a great memory under life-threatening pressure, apparently.” he actually huffs a laugh, and it’s stupid, but it makes your heart flutter. even now. even here. “alright,” he says, tightening his grip on your hand. “lead the way.”

the tower’s old. splintered. half-eaten by moss and time, but it’s standing. barely. and it’s the only chance you’ve got. you all clamber up the creaking ladder, one by one. matt sends you first. won’t even argue about it. you hate how fast you’ve gotten used to him doing that. always putting himself between you and danger. you make it to the top and immediately spin around to help the others. nick follows, then chris, hauling lana and lieutenant whiskers. matt’s last.

but just as he reaches the platform..

a hand grabs his ankle.

“matt!” you scream.

he kicks hard, almost slips. the ladder shudders dangerously under him. a zombie’s halfway up now, snarling, jaw unhinged like it’s already tasting blood. he pulls himself up with a grunt and you grab his arm, yanking him the last few inches onto the platform. the second he’s safe, chris kicks the ladder hard and it snaps sideways, collapsing in a tangle of rot and wood. you all collapse against the railing, gasping.

below you,

dozens of them.

they swarm the base of the tower, clawing, moaning, reaching. eyes glassy and wrong. a sea of death. and you’re stranded above it. “well,” nick wheezes, “this feels like a bad time to mention i’m scared of heights.” lana hasn’t said a word since you got here. just watches the swarm like she’s already seen the worst the world has to offer.

you sit beside matt, legs shaking, adrenaline wearing off like a bad drug. he doesn’t speak. just stares down at the crowd of the dead below you. you hate the way his shoulders look right now, tense. tight. like they’re carrying too much. so you break the silence.

“you okay?”

he doesn’t answer for a moment. then..

“i thought i was gonna lose you.”

you turn toward him. “but you didn’t.”

“not this time,” he says, voice quiet.

you reach for his hand again. this time, he doesn’t just hold it. he brings it to his lips. kisses your knuckles. then rests his forehead against yours.“you scare the hell out of me,” he whispers. “good,” you whisper back. “we’re even.” he laughs, just once. but it sounds real. then it fades. and what’s left in its place is everything. everything you haven’t said. everything he’s too scared to admit. “what if this is it?” he says, eyes still closed. “what if there’s no safe zone? no future?” you don’t answer for a second. because you’ve been thinking the same thing.

but then you pull back and look him in the eye. “then we make one,” you say. “wherever we end up. just… us. the people we’ve got. the things we’ve survived. we build something. even if it’s small. even if it’s stupid. we build.”

his jaw tightens like he’s fighting off emotion. you see the flicker of it there, in his eyes.

love. hope. fear.

he kisses you again. softer this time. slower. like it’s a promise, not a question. and just as your lips part..

bang.

a single gunshot cracks through the trees.

everyone freezes. nick grabs his weapon. chris shields lana, holding his cat. “what the hell was that?” you crawl to the edge, scan the woods. your breath catches. figures. not zombies. people. armed.

matt’s next to you instantly. “soldiers?”

“they don’t look military,” nick says, aiming his rifle carefully. “they’re headed this way,” chris adds. “fast.” matt’s voice lowers, serious and cold. “they’re either here to help… or finish what the last ones started.” you grip your weapon, heart hammering, the sun’s beginning to set, the dead are still below, and now the living are coming too.

no way off. no way out. not yet. and you realize…

this is it. you’ve survived the monsters. now comes the worst part.

surviving each other.

105 notes · View notes

mendessi · 4 months ago

Text

things i say when you sleep | chapter one

multi chapter bodhi durran x fem!oc word count: 4.9k summary: Ania crosses the Parapet into the Riders Quadrant, and finally meets with the marked children of those who got her parents and brother killed. Bodhi Durran is quick to remind her that she's marked too. tags: slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, mentions of death, she falls first he falls harder, majority canon compliant, some canon deviance, eventual smut, angst with a happy ending, additional tags to be added

AO3 masterlist

one | two | three | ...

Observant.

The words I had always heard used to describe myself. I spent my whole life watching, and observing those around me in their day to day. I always needed to know everything. I could never let it go if I couldn’t perfect it first. I intend to carry this strategy across the Parapet. I picked it up as a child and had no choice but to refine it after my parents and brother died at the end of the Apostasy. It’s how I survived the training that led me to this winding staircase.

I listen carefully to the conversations happening in front of and behind me, but I never engage with the chatter. I don’t care to learn the names of anybody on this staircase. Maybe I’ll care once we live to transition from candidate to cadet.

I am here because I have to be. Not because I want to be.

The shimmering relic crawling up my arm earned me a one-way ticket straight into the Riders Quadrant should I make it across the Parapet.

My heart thumps against my chest as the top comes into sight, three riders clad in all black keeping post. I keep my eyes on the stairs, taking one step at a time, my knuckles turning white from the grip I have on the straps of my rucksack.

“Next.” The rider recording names says. “Name.” He speaks quickly, with no time for niceties. He’s been here all morning watching candidates fall to their deaths. I could be next for all he knows.

“Ania Alistair,” I reply. I step around him when he nods his head.

My jaw clenches at the sight of the rider standing at the opening to the Parapet. He’s certainly grown since the last time I saw him six years ago. He’s grown into his height, his shoulders broader, his cheekbones and jawline now more prominent. He had bulked up, surely a result of being a rider. His eyes meet mine and his eyebrows raise, if only for a moment. I knew I would see him here, I just didn’t think this soon.

“Xaden,” I say his name. I am not the thirteen-year-old girl he last saw in Calldyr.

“Ani.” He replies, looking down at me as if testing the waters. “I was expecting you.”

"Don't call me that."

The day that was now known as the rebellion had ended, I had been following my older brother, Beckett, in Aretia. He had become so secretive, him and all of his friends. I wanted to know what they were and why he kept them from me.

There had never been secrets between us before, and ever since Tyrrendor had begun a secession it felt like there was a brick wall between them. Our parents had been in another fight, the fight that ended their marriage and I didn’t find it fair that he had left me behind.

Our mother didn’t agree with the Apostasy and wanted to take Beckett and I to Navarre to declare our loyalty. Her mother was a rider, how could we ever betray that? My father was Fen Riorson’s best friend and right hand man and believed that keeping us in Aretia was the safest option. He had an extremely active role in the Apostasy.

I crept behind the wall watching as Beckett engaged in a deep conversation with Xaden and his cousin Bodhi.

Fen had always said that with Xaden first in line to the throne, he was betrothed to a Poromish girl named Catriona, and Bodhi was betrothed to me because he was second in line. At a young age, I never understood why I of all people, but Beckett and Xaden always teased us about it.

“Ania, I know you’re there.” Beckett had called out. I rounded the corner with a frown and looked between him and his friends.

“Hi, little Alistair.” Xaden greeted me, turning his body away from Garrick. Bodhi gave me a small wave and I couldn't help the way my cheeks flushed.

His friends were some I had spent my entire life around. I saw them more than I saw my friends. They’d been around for as long as I can remember. Fen and Talia had held me the day I was born, a great family friend to my parents. Even Xaden, at three years old, had held me. My father eventually got caught up in whatever it was that led to the Apostasy.

“You can’t be here, Ani,” Beckett said as he approached me, lowering his voice.

“No, you don’t get it. Mom and Dad are fighting again. But it’s bad this time, Dad is packing our things. Our things. Not just his.” I lowered her voice to match his, glancing over at Xaden and Bodhi, too occupied in their conversation to overhear.

“Something is happening, you have to go home.” He said as he placed his hands on my shoulders with a firm grip. Anxiety swam in his eyes and I could almost sense it radiating off of him.

“Come with me.” I could feel the tears prickling my eyes. “I’m scared.”

He took a deep breath and then looked to Xaden and Bodhi, “I’m going to walk her home. I’ll be back in less than twenty minutes, I swear.”

“Safely.” That was all Xaden said and we were off. Beckett kept my hand in his, tugging me quickly through the streets.

I knew Navarre had not been happy with us but my parents had assured us that we were safe here. Until my mother decided otherwise, but I trusted that they’d never put us in harm’s way.

When we arrived home, our entire home looked like it had been ransacked. The bookshelves were thrown to the ground, and books were scattered across the living room. Our rooms were torn apart as well as if someone had been looking for something.

“Ani, stay behind me,” Beckett said quietly.

I gripped the back of Beckett’s tunic in my hand as we approached our parents' rooms and as he pushed the door open a scream ripped through my throat. I ran to my mother’s lifeless body on the floor ignoring Beckett’s objections. The blood that spilled from my mother’s throat seemed nonstop, covering my clothes as I sat in it, my hands covered in it as I tried to stop the bleeding.

“Beckett!” I cried out. “Please do something. Did Dad do this?”

“No.” He breathed out. “This wasn’t Dad.”

Fight or flight took over and he grabbed me by my tunic, shoving me into the closet. “You have to stay here, do you hear me? Don’t go anywhere until I come back for you. I will come back for you.”

Beckett never came back. But Navarrian infantry did.

When Xaden saw me in Calldyr for the executions of our parents, he shielded my eyes so that I didn’t have to see. He and Bodhi stood on either side of me until we were split up to go to our designated foster homes. They both fought against the guards, trying to ensure that I’d stay put with at least one of them. I wasn’t.

From that day forward, whether it was his fault or not, I blamed him for the death of Beckett. My parents too, even. My mother wanted no part in this rebellion. My father had been captured after he fled, leaving Beckett and I behind, and now had been executed right in front of me and the rest of the rebellion kids. I knew for a fact that Beckett had left me in that closet to run after Xaden and Bodhi.

I hated them all.

My shoulders twitched slightly as thunder boomed across the sky. Xaden noticed it, however. “Good luck.” Was all he could say to me.

I made it across without so much as a slip despite the downpour of rain. Once in the courtyard, I study it carefully from my place against a pillar. I have no interest in making any friends here. I’m here because I have to be, not because I want to be. I’d much rather be with the healers, like my mother. I observed the other cadets around me, taking note of who seemed to be a potential threat in size. It was hard to tell in any other way, too soon. I wasn’t terribly short, simply average. I had been lucky enough to be fostered in a home that trained specifically in hand-to-hand combat. If you count the fake sparring I used to participate in with my brother and his friends, then I’d say extra training. Though it didn’t matter the amount of training I had, that could only help so much if my opponent was bigger. I was told stories by my grandmother and in this moment I am replaying every single one in my head. It is just how she described it.

I watched and watched, observing those who came into the courtyard after crossing the Parapet.

Observing others is what got me this far. So long as I stayed quiet and didn’t make any enemies, I could make it Threshing and bond. I just need to remain unseen.

After being placed into Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing, I once again took note of those around me. My new squamates. Most notable was the petite girl with silver hair, to who I caught on quickly was Violet fucking Sorrengail. The girl’s mother oversaw my father’s execution and probably had a hand in my mother’s too. If that wasn’t bad enough, my squad ended up being moved into Xaden’s wing.

My bed unfortunately was positioned right next to my squadmate, Rhiannon, who was placed next to Violet. The two already seemed acquainted before they even crossed the Parapet, but I didn’t bother asking how they knew each other. I opened my journal, leaning against the flimsy headboard, and began writing about my first day in the quadrant.

“Hi,” Rhiannon says, though I’m not sure if she’s talking to me. “I’m Rhiannon. You can call me Rhi. We haven’t officially met yet.”

With a small sigh, I shut my journal and turn to face Rhiannon, “I’m Ania.” Don’t make enemies.

“This is Violet.” She gestures to Violet who sits on the edge of her bed.

“I’m Violet.” She offers a short wave.

I hum in response and then turn back to my journal, drawing out one of the dragons I had seen today. Gods, they were incredible.

“I just figured you know, we’re in the same squad, so we’ll be spending a lot of time together. We should get acquainted.”

“Consider us acquainted,” I say in the nicest way possible. I can see out of the corner of my eye the shared look between the two girls, but I keep a snide remark to myself.

After morning formation the next day, I quickly decided that while maybe attractive, my squad leader Dain Aetos was particularly annoying. As I watch from my place back one and to the left, it's easy to catch on that Dain and Violet have a history. The sort of history I couldn’t quite figure out, but with a few more interactions I could pin it.

As the Second Squad made our way into Battle Brief, I felt someone reaching for my wrist. I’d done so good at keeping my relic covered, I don’t think anyone even suspected I was what they call a Marked one. My defenses automatically up, I turn on my heel, shoving my forearm into the person’s throat, using my weight to shove them against the pillar.

“Not bad, Ani,” Xaden says, gently removing my arm from his throat. "I taught you well."

“Don’t sneak up on me like that. And don't fucking call me that.” I snap, as I take a step back. "You didn't teach me anything."

“Tell me, why is it you’re so jumpy? You’re not hiding something are you?” He glances down at my covered arm. “It’s July, why are you wearing long sleeves?”

“None of your business,” I reply, tugging my sleeves down over my hands.

“I understand you’re not fond of me, but regardless, I’m in your corner whether you like it or not. I can help you here.” Xaden’s voice lowers.

With a glance around, I catch Violet staring, but she quickly averts her gaze when she realizes she’s been caught. “I don’t need your help, Xaden. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I’m your wingleader, though I doubt you need reminding. We grew up together, Ania, so trust that you will be watched over.” Xaden takes a step forward. “There’s no date set in stone, but you’ll be meeting with me and the other Marked ones in the woods-“

“I’m sorry?” I practically fume.

“I’m speaking, Ania.” He snaps and I almost flinch. I’ve only ever seen him angry once in my life and I have no intention of seeing it again. “Just do me a favor and try not to be a pain in my ass.”

We certainly are not kids in Aretia anymore.

Without another word, he stalks off and I have half the decency to not flip him off behind his back. He didn’t even finish his conversation which pisses me off even more as I follow the rest of my squad into Battle Brief. Who the hell does he think he is? Grabbing my wrist and demanding I meet him and the other Marked ones. And for what exactly? I haven’t seen him in six years and he was hardly the boy I remembered. If I can just keep my distance from him and the rest of the Marked ones, I will be just fine.

Battle Brief was hardly anything I found interesting. I simply took notes, didn’t ask any questions, and observed. I paid attention to who paid attention, Violet Sorrengail was annoyingly one of those people. Of course, the girl was smart. Ridoc Gamlyn was a class clown, who I kind of hate to admit was actually really funny.

I had always accelerated in school, far more than anyone in my class. It was something I prided myself on, something my parents were proud of too. I remember the days when Beckett, Xaden, and Bodhi would ask me questions as if I were some sort of lexicon just to see if I knew the answer. I always loved knowing more than others. I met my match in Violet Sorrengail.

I sat next to Rhiannon and Violet (unfortunately) when it came time for assessment in the sparring gym. I didn’t feel any special sort of way about it, I’d either get my ass handed to me or I would take the victory. Something in me told me that I’d come out on top as I watched the other first-years spar. I had a particular skill when it came to hand-to-hand thanks to my foster home.

I can’t help but eavesdrop on Rhiannon and Violet’s conversation taking place next to me. As much as I want to hate Violet, just like the rest of the first years, she and Rhiannon both seemed to have good heads on their shoulders. They were nice which was hard to come by at Basgiath. You’d think these two had known each other for years the way they acted, but I was struck with surprise to find out that they had only met before crossing the Parapet. It had always been hard for me to make friends and maybe that was my own fault, my own incessant need to exclude myself. Things now remained how they always had been.

I begin short-handing into my notebook quickly as I watch Ridoc and Aurelia spar, recording each of their fighting habits. I’d done so for every person who stepped on the mat, mentally tucking their patterns into a drawer in my head to use the day I had to spar with one of them.

“What are you doing?” Rhiannon asks, turning her head to look at me. Ever so nosy.

“It’s assessment day,” I say, my eyes not leaving Ridoc and Aurelia on the mat, despite my hand rapidly scribbling into my notebook. Gods, I can’t wait for the day I hold lesser magic, I can stop using these annoying quills. “I’m assessing.”

“That looks like chicken scratch,” Violet says leaning over Rhiannon to look at my handwriting. She wasn’t wrong. I had to write quickly to keep up with what was happening in front of me, so words were cut short, often abbreviated to one letter or number. The only legible thing was the title at the top of the page, Ridoc & Aurelie next to today’s date.

I slam my notebook shut and pull it close to my chest, “Well, it’s not for you to read. Do you two know anything about privacy?”

“I was just curious.” Rhiannon shrugs before getting called to the mat to spar with another first-year in our squad, Tynan, after Aurelia had her tooth knocked out. Just after Jack Barlow snapped a kid’s neck. Avoid him at all costs.

I can feel Violet’s hesitation before she moves closer to me. “I think that’s a pretty neat way of keeping track of-“ She stops at my side eye, “It’s strategy. I get it.”

I take a deep breath, debating on if I wish to reply to her. If I do, she’ll know that I’m just as smart as she is. “When I was in training, my instructor taught me that each move gets a number or letter.” I open my notebook and allow Violet to take a look. We both turn to Rhiannon as I write quickly. “One, one, two, five, four, three, five, six.” That was the combo she just threw. At least that’s what I was taught, it may be different here.”

“That’s… really smart actually.” Violet’s brows furrowed as she read over the notes I had taken for the day. “Where did you train exactly?”

“That’s none of your business.” I close my notebook and shove it into my bag, along with the pesky quill and topped ink pot.

“Too personal. Got it.” Violet turns her focus back to Rhiannon and doesn’t try talking to me again.

“You.” Emetterio says with a finger pointed at me, “And Cadet Hollis.”

I stand from the bench and step onto the edge of the mat rolling my shoulders.

“Good luck,” Rhiannon says as she takes my seat on the bench. “She’s a second year.”

That’s hardly a problem. I ignore her and take my place in the center of the mat and take a deep breath, drowning out everyone standing around the mat. I just need to track her fighting patterns and then counter them. Simple. I can do that.

Cadet Hollis, who I believe is named Quinn, joins me in the center of the mat and takes her fighting stance. I step my right foot backward and raise my hands, ensuring my face is blocked.

She moves first, taking a series of swings and kicks at me to which I slip each one much to her surprise. I track her pattern, it’s all the same, all within such a short spur of time. One, one two three, two. That’s a common pattern she follows, one of the first I learned, when she’s not trying to get her hands on me. When she takes another step with her left foot and I’m sure she’s gonna do the same thing, I slip her first throw and swing a rear hook directly into her jaw causing her to stumble backwards.

“I know what you are, Ania,” Quinn says as she bounces on the balls of her feet closer to me. Her voice is low, just loud enough for me to hear it. “They’ll all know it too. Stop hiding it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I seethe through clenched teeth as she unsheathes a dagger. I unsheathe mine too, the only one I brought with me. If she wants a knife fight, then she’ll get one.

“It’s July. You’re the only one wearing long sleeves.” My brows furrow. Xaden must’ve talked to her about me. She lunges towards me and I sidestep enough to dodge a deeper cut than what she gives me. I hiss through my teeth but I don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me scream in pain. I feel the blood trickling down my arm as I clench my dagger so tightly that my knuckles turn white. “Why is that Cadet Alistair.” It’s not a question.

"Alistair?" I hear the whispers on the side of the mat but I force them out.

She lunges again but I’m ready. My arms wrap around her waist as I slip under her swing. I’m behind her now, my hands wrapped around hers above her head as she tries to fight my grip. I manage to pry her fingers from around her dagger, knocking it to the floor and before she can reach for another, I drop the one in my hand and catch it under her arm. I slam the hilt into her ribs eliciting a scream from her. I kick her in the back of her knees and she falls to the ground. I give her too much grace, thinking she’ll yield but she kicks her leg directly back, connecting with my kneecap. I fall to the ground and she’s on top of me in a second, both of us rolling around for dominance. I fall onto my back finally with Quinn in a headlock.

“Yield,” I say, but it barely comes out above a breath. I know for a fact she hears me.

“Stop. Hiding.” She strains to reply.

She raises a hand and for a moment I think she might be tapping out. Instead, her fingers dig into the slit on my tunic from her earlier cut and directly into the gash where she drew blood. I cry out as I feel the skin at the edges of my wound splitting wider, but I refuse to let go and so does she. She pulls down with her fingers and my sleeve rips completely off. I hear the gasp from my squamates and I realize Quinn’s intention. I roll over and release, her, standing to my feet quickly, my relic now on full display. I stand over her and grab her shoulder forcing her to roll over, my feet on both sides of her ribs. I grab her collar into my fist and lift her back off the mat, making sure she’s making eye contact with me before I punch her directly in the nose, hard enough that I hear the bone crack.

“Ruthless.” I hear Ridoc whisper.

“It’s always the quiet ones.” I hear Violet say.

“I yield,” I say through a heavy breath as I release Quinn’s collar, shoving her back into the mat.

I don’t bother to look at any of my squamates, not caring to see the shock on their faces as I exit the gym and head to the healers.

I knew I couldn’t hide this Gods forsaken relic forever, but more than a day would’ve been nice. I can still remain unseen and keep to myself. I can still avoid creating enemies.

I can hardly bare the idea of returning to the shared dormitory and find myself sitting in the courtyard against one of the pillars. It's past curfew but I hardly find it in me to care. I just need a breather after today.

My first day here didn't exactly go as planned but I will prevail and move forward. It's impossible to survive here without the thickest of skin. I need to focus on what I can control. What I can control is that I earned a victory today at the assessment against a second year.

Ruthless. That is what Ridoc had called me. I hope that reputation doesn't stick.

I take a deep breath and look up at the night sky. Gray clouds scatter the sky and the stars look so bright. It reminds me of-

"They're not as bright here as they are from the roof of Riorson House." I don't have time to finish the thought. I go to stand, expecting Xaden to come out of the shadows. "It's past curfew."

"Bodhi," I say from the awkward crouching position I'm in.

"It's fine." He says before he sits next to me. He has the decency to leave some space in between us as he looks up at the stars. "I won't tell the wingleader."

I take the moment of silence to truly look at him. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen him since becoming a cadet, though I can't complain because I made it a top priority. I still associate him and his cousin with Beckett's death. The last time I'd seen him he was an awkward fifteen-year-old still growing into himself. I hate to admit but he was much more handsome now. He still has that familiar warmth and softness to him. His dark curls are much more tame than they had been when we were teenagers, his brown skin now clear from any blemishes. He was... beautiful. Younger me wouldn't mind the silly idea of being "betrothed" to him.

"I'm glad you made it, Ani." He says quietly. I don't correct him.

"I didn't have a choice, did I?" I roll my eyes tugging at the grass sprouting through the cracks in the concrete. "It was this or death, so."

His mouth moves but he doesn't speak. I can tell he's choosing his next words carefully, "I saw you spar today."

"And?" I say. I don't know if I don't care or if I want to know what he thinks.

"You broke Quinn's nose." The corner of his mouth twitches up into a small smile.

"Don't act like she didn't deserve it." I grimace.

"Hey, I didn't say she didn't." He laughs and I turn my head to catch the sight. He always had a great smile. "You fought well. We were all impressed."

"Who's we?" I ask, looking down at my hands that are now folded in my lap.

"Everyone that had a chance to watch it. There are a lot of good fighters in the first years, but none can take out a second year the way you did today."

I nod my head slowly. I know I'm good, I'd been told before by my instructors, but hearing it from others doesn't do so much as boost my ego. Hearing it from Bodhi feels... different. Somewhere deep inside me, I feel a sense of validation that I didn't know I was looking for.

"I don't think anyone will be challenging you that's for sure." He hesitates again and I can almost feel that he's about to piss me off with his next words. "Xaden hasn't been taking the best approach with you, has he?"

"What, so he sent you instead?" Of course, this is about Xaden. The rage returns. "Let me make something clear-"

"Ani." He stands up just as I do and I'm almost shocked at how much he towers over me. There was a short period of our lives when I was taller than him.

"I want not a single fucking thing to do with you or him or anyone with a damned relic on their arm. I'm here because I have to be, not because I want to be so don't think for a second that just because we're all in the same place again things will be like they were in Aretia."

"Hey." His voice is sharp as he grabs my left arm into his hand pulling it up in between our bodies as he steps towards me, "You have a damned relic too in case you forgot." His pointer finger touches his thumb around my wrist and I'm made aware of just how much he's grown.

"And I shouldn't." I yank my arm from his grip. If only my mother would have gotten me and Beckett to Navarre safely before the Apostasy. If only she would've been able to declare our loyalty. She and Beckett would still be here.

"There is so much that you don't understand. Let us help you. Please, Ani." His voice is softer now, an emotion I'm not familiar with swimming in his eyes.

"Just stay away the hell away from me. I won't ask twice."

I turn on my heel and walk away from him. My hands shake with anger and I clench my fists to try and control it. Ever since my final days in Aretia, I have become such a resentful person. I never had this issue as a child, I never even threw temper tantrums and now it's all I wanted to do. I had a happy childhood aside from my parents' end of their rocky marriage. I was always a happy and pleasant child. I hated feeling this way. I needed to be in control.

Focus on what you can control.

I take the deepest, shaky breaths I can muster until it doesn't feel so hard to breathe anymore. I take one more for good measure before entering the dormitory as quietly as possible.

Just remain unseen, keep to yourself.

Don't. Create. Enemies.

previous | chapter two

#bodhi durran #fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #bodhi durran x oc #iron flame #the empyrean #onyx storm #bodhi fourth wing #bodhi durran fic #bodhi x reader

147 notes · View notes

girlberrie · 8 days ago

Text

no, she doesn’t know what she’s missing , pjo dr .

May, 2006.

Anäis

Watching Percy Jackson is the most boring thing ever.

Yes, it is quite rude of me to just talk about him like this, but come on. You’re a demigod! You must have something going on… right? Yeah. Not with this kiddo. Its not his fault, of course, because he doesn’t know my mission here, and I would rather he didn’t know. Chiron was already hesitant to let me come to Yancy with Grover, it wouldn’t do so well to fuck it up immediately because I caught Percy Jackson's attention. But… I didn’t think watching Percy Jackson on a mission genuinely just meant watching him… I thought there would be more action involved. I usually have a more hands on approach to these kinds of things… literally. And Chiron made it seem like a big deal!

Which is funny now, because this scrawny ass kid really doesn’t seem like much at all right now. He’s got a pretty pathetic life going for him… which is not his fault! But it is dreadfully boring. I was climbing lava walls and punching Clarisse’s death spear out from her hands and having one-sided conversations with pegasi only a couple months ago. Now I am back in mathematics class. So I know Percy Jackson is definitely not having the time of his life. No. He needs a bit of a nudge to have some more excitement in his life. Or maybe a shove………

Hey, I’m not the bad guy for wanting the guy to have some more fun, alright? He looks like he needs a good run… running away from monsters. You never know! Mortal danger might cause his life to flourish!

Anyway. I’ve been watching Percy Jackson since winter break ended. I’ve been lurking. Because that is all that I’m allowed to do. Its definitely creepy. I hope he hasn’t noticed. I’ve been told my staring usually feels like I am dissecting all of your childhood trauma without even saying a hello. Wouldn’t want the brand new addition to camp to feel like I’ve figured him all out… yet.

Because I have (I think?). In fact, let me tell you.

Here is all that is going on in Percy Jackson’s miserable, ignorant little life:

Number 1: He is best friends with Grover. Its very sweet, the way they’ve become attached. Its not surprising, the goat dude is ridiculously easy to befriend. It may be the (and I say with the utmost kindness and respect) cute patheticness he displays, with the endearing clumsiness and the flushing-to-his-ears when he hears the smallest compliment. Both Grover and Percy Jackson are so similar if you drew a Venn diagram of their personalities there would only be the intersection part. A dam(n) circle. Though I think Percy Jackson may be a bit confused with all of the quizzing Grover has done about greek monsters, but he’ll know soon enough that its for the sake of his survival.

Number 2: He has the most mindfuckingly annoying bully. (EHEM. Nancy Bobofit). I suspected she was a monster disguised as a snotty ginger thirteen year old before I realized that’s just how she is. I am genuinely relieved that I don’t have to deal with her. She might be the worst thing I’ve come across, and I’ve come across angry gods, angry monsters, and Mr. D crying because he misses getting drunk (Note: this means Nancy Bobofit may actually come from the depths of Tartarus. And that’s a really bad thing). I don’t understand how Nancy Bobofit and Percy Jackson got into this much beef in the first place, which is the only bad part of not watching Percy Jackson since the start of the school year. Maybe they’ve been transferring schools every year and keep tumbling onto each other, which has ended up in a rather hostile relationship between the two. Maybe its generational family feud. Maybe she really is a monster and the mist is being an asshole about it to me specifically. Who the fuck knows?

Number 3: He can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. I thought it was really sad that he kept getting into trouble all the time. I pitied him, to be frank with you. And then I started taking Latin with Percy Jackson and I realized. No. No, this boy has a death wish. He can’t help it. Its like whenever there is a chance of getting into trouble, he is put in a cartoonish fist fight in his brain against his very logical self that wants to stay the fuck silent and the illogical Percy Jackson wins by completely demolishing logical Percy Jackson each time. At least its incredibly entertaining to watch from the sidelines. I can’t imagine being the person that actually gives a damn about this kid. It would take decades off of my life, just seeing him get that flinty look in his eye before opening his big mouth to get himself into big trouble.

And that’s it. Its pretty sad that all he has going for him is one (1) friend, one (1) bully, and a knack of talking himself into trouble rather than out of it. I’m annoyed by it. I want to know more about him but there is literally nothing else to know, it seems.

Oh, and he is very good at opening water bottles. Grover told me he dislikes plastic ones. Its admirable of him to be environmentally conscious, I guess.

Grover must be having a field day with him.

I certainly am not.

This last week I intensified my lurking by 47% because I yearn to know more… I know I said I believe he has a miserable, pathetic, and ignorant life but there is something more to him. I really don’t want to say it this way, but his eyes shine. And they’re blue as fuck, so they shine shine. And Grover said he smells like the sea breeze, which simultaneously rings very loud alarms in my head and intrigues me a shit ton.

Grover also told me to take the staring down a notch, because I am “scaring him”. Ha

Percy

Anäis Anestis keeps staring at me and its pissing me off now. Like can she not? She stares and she doesn’t talk to me. Does she think I don’t know who she is? Oooohhh, because I do. Its difficult to not know a person named fucking Anäis Anestis. What is this, a high fantasy book?

Well, I don’t actually know her. More like know of her. People keep talking about her, but she doesn’t seem to notice (how nice). Or she does but pays them no mind, which is honestly impressive, because they talk a lot. She just has this presence that sets me on edge. The first time she walked into the Latin classroom I actually got chills, and I wasn’t even looking at her. (Not that I would’ve gotten chills if I had looked at her… I don’t mean it that way. She’s not all that. Maybe she could be when she grows up, but its not like I’ll stay at this school long enough to witness that).

And the presence thing (which I will dub the evil aura from now on) only gets worse when she stares. Its overwhelming, and not in a nice way. Its like I can feel her stare crawling on my skin. I first thought she was a mind reader that was unfacing all of my locked up childhood trauma. And then I realized that her eyes are a dark purple under sunlight and the first thought went flying away and I spent the entire week confused. Who has purple eyes? Who the fuck is this girl?

I would be flattered that the girl with purple eyes that is the talk of the entire school spends all of our shared classes staring at me like she is Superman with his x-ray vision (And isn’t that a disturbing thought) but I am spending most of my energy on being concerned for myself. What if she is a psychopathic murderer? Ugh. She should just kill me now if she is.

I just don’t get what is so interesting. Grover is being weirdly tight-lipped about it too, which has me extra concerned for myself because I think they know each other. I saw them talking in a dark corner after a hellish P.E. class once.

And I think Anäis Anestis saw me see them because she caught my eyes after Grover left in a rush and smiled evilly. The evil aura came crushing down on me hard after that, which actually confirms that she is some villainous mastermind to me. You heard it. Its decided now. And you wouldn’t call me deluded for thinking it if you had to experience the terror of yawning in class and accidentally locking eyes with Anäis Anestis and then feeling the damned. evil. aura.

So basically, Anäis Anestis is scary. And evil. And not in the way Ms. Devil-Spawn-Bobofit is. No, Nancy Bobofit is a bully, straight up. She’s annoying. She will get humbled in high school.

Anäis Anestis? She has gained the attention of all the pretentious dummies that go to Yancy within three months. She parades around alone with at least three girls trying to catch up to her during recess. She never sits alone at lunch. Someone always loudly offers to go watch some silly movie at the cinema over the weekend (Which she always declines. Probably to have more time staring daggers at the back of my head, I guess). But…. she seems incredibly bored all the time too. Like she is meant to do something greater than solve nightmarish algebra problems and learn how to say “Where is the library?” in Spanish. She seems incredibly bored by the people that can’t seem to leave her alone. Anäis Anestis isn’t a bully. She just has an evil aura. And evil purple eyes.

You tell me who is more scary. Nancy Bobofit the I-will-peak-in-middle-school bully? Or Anäis Anestis the charming antisocial girl that stares at me and has an evil aura that keeps me on my fucking toes?

Even worse, she is staring at me a whole lot more this past week. I wonder how much staring she will do when we go to the MET field trip with Mr. Brunner tomorrow. Maybe I could corner her and figure out what has her so interested in me. It will be the prime time for it too, because the annoying boot-licking kids that always seem to have her surrounded won’t be going on the field trip. OK. Plan is decided on. I will confront Ms. Evil Aura tomorrow. I may just pull it off if I am not too put off by her staring.

Maybe I should pray that she will get distracted by the magnificent buttocks of Mr. Apollo.

I don’t know what this is. Baby!PercyxAnäis !!!!!!!! We were just shading each other all the time during the first summer together plsjgşoıksrflcjkahejxo<sgjşdskfk <3333333 I love us. Anyway hope you enjoyed reading because I enjoyed writing.

PS: PLSPLSPLS send asks about this dr I love it so damn much. ok that’s all!!

#sam's percy jackson dr #percy perce perseus ༯ jackson #sam's drs #percy jackson dr #drabble #shifting realities #shifting antis dni #anti shifters dni #pjo shifting #pjo dr #shifting to percy jackson #reality shifting #shifting blog #desired reality #shifting motivation

61 notes · View notes

cocogum · 3 months ago

Text

The Great Wave - Chapter 17 Review

‼️SPOILERS FOR THE CHAPTER‼️

Nothing too major happens in this chapter which I think is a good way to relax a bit from all the serious stuff (and doppelgangers) that we've had to see in older chapters. But sadly, we don't get to see Amalia freaking out over the orphan ouginaks like a customer at a pet smart store (sorry @kirichux looks like it'll just stay a fantasy 😭) Too bad that didn't happen (for now 👹). Either way, it's at least nice to know that Yugo was actually not personally angry at Joris but rather just had a very serious while thinking about daddy Rasalar's face in the last chapter.

OMG LUIS STILL KEEPS CALLING HIM JOJO ‼️‼️‼️

I mean I know that he still does call him 'Jojo' since we also saw him in season 4 calling Joris like that, but I'm just happy to see him addressing him like that even in the Great Wave 💕💕💕💕

And yeah Luis is right, relax you're not acting as Bonta's representative/messenger right now lol Even your shushu has a point which is honestly saying A LOT. You can call them your besties here Joris don't be shy 🥰🥰🥰

And speaking of Yugo, I'm semi glad that the face he made last chapter wasn't meant for Joris. Cuz not only would he have confused the living hell out of Joris but he would have also scared the crap out of these kids.

JORIS IS WORRIED FOR HIS DEMIGOD BESTIE ‼️‼️‼️ OMG RASALAR IS GONNA GET HIS SEXY ASS KICKED ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

(sidenote: I personally see Lilotte as Joris's mortal bestie while Yugo is his demigod bestie. Yeah that's how I think i know it's clever ✨️✨️)

(yeah @geekgirles ur right, these two look so good in that panel 💗💗)

Like Joris is literally hearing that his demigod bestie got poisoned by the dragon who was meant to use him as a vessel. Shit was always personal but Joris knows that he crossed a line when he went for Yugo 🩷🩷

This must be such a weird day for Joris to visit memory lane again. First, he catches a thief who looks way too much like his past best friend. Then, he learns from Yugo and Amalia that the dragon who was meant to use him as a vessel poisoned Yugo.

Who's next on the list that would resurface from the dead and punch his childhood in the dick? His mom??

HAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHAHAAHHAAHHAHAAHAHAHHA-

So uh Atcham really doesn't remember...either he sucks at remembering past faces or he's genuinely tweaking.

No cuz like wtf is going on in his head?? Same with Kerubim. Aren't they aware that they're standing face to face with Lilotte's doppelganger??? Come on, they literally look THE SAME. Fine, maybe Atcham kinda forgot since he had only seen Lilotte a few times BUT KERUBIM DOESN'T HAVE ANY EXCUSES TO NOT REMEMBER!?!?

He literally watched Joris GROW UP WITH LILOTTE. She was literally his best friend! After she died, can you honestly tell me how many more mortals Joris has gotten this close with??? Exactly. Atcham may be dumb for not remembering one of Joris' friends, sure, but Kerubim is the true dumbass here.

Speaking of Lilotte actually, Thirteen is clearly her doppelganger but it would be super ironic if her number (aka name 💀) was meant to be a bad omen for Harigue lol (if you forgot who that was, I don't blame you. It was that disgusting old man's name who slaved these precious kids)

Like her number name literally meant 'bad luck'. And you're telling me that she ended up being the one to bring Joris to his base? Yeah, if that isn't shit luck for that old bastard, then i don't know what is. It's especially ironic for her because that ended up being her lucky number 💕💕💕

ALSO PUPUCE IS ALIVE ‼️‼️‼️ WTF ‼️‼️

She's such a fighter, look at her still moving around with her little stubs 💕💕 It's nice to know that she survived 500 years with Joris and can still manage to run around...Pupuce is a real fighter lol

Also fun fact about her kind, they kinda work like bees: when they attack the player, they instantly die afterwards. So one attack equals immediate death. Looks like Pupuce is a pacifist....💀💀

These two bozos forgot that their asses got handed to them and are now Joris's kids. Yet they don't wanna share their stuff with OTHER orphans 😭😭😭

I swear to god it doesn't matter how old they get they are still lazy morons in each life.

I missed Luis's house magic 💕💕 The dofus movie made his skills look so smooth and satisfying like the motion and the way the bowls would just appear out of thin air, I loved it!!

AND THE CHILDREN‼️‼️‼️‼️

LOOK AT HOW THOSE LITTLE PUPS ARE OGGLING THE TABLE!!! That fucking old man never fed them right, he literally lashed out at them that they should be grateful that he feeds them every once and a while. So for them, seeing as table filled with food without anyone pushing them away or sneering at them is literally like seeing a miracle happening right in front of their eyes.

I bet that some of them still can't believe that they're out of the sewers. Those poor kids must be thinking they probably died or something because ever since Thirteen came back to the sewers, they got saved by a strong important guy that managed to scare the shit out of 'their master', got taken out of the sewers, got told they could just call their rescuer by his first name, got told they could stay at their rescuer's house, got told they could eat his food and sleep at his place, AND got told by their rescuer that he would give them normal names.

LIKE PLEASE YOU CAN'T TELL ME THAT SOME OF THEM ARE AT LEAST DOUBTING THEIR OWN EXISTENCE RIGHT ABOUT NOW!!!

All I can say is please let Yugo's wave not annihilate them and shred them into more pieces than they're already missing 😭😭

I can't tell if they're purposely being petty assholes while having the mental age of a kid. Cuz wtf bro this is like being a mom and showing off your new baby to your other kids only for them to hate the newborn because they'll have to start sharing everything with them 💀💀

I'll smack these two 😃😃

TWENTY-SEVEN STOP YOU DON'T HAVE TO GIVE HIM ANYTHING 😫😫😫😫

Don't get me wrong, it's so cute that he gave his (make-shift 😭) teddy to Joris but the fact that he was thinking about giving him anything at all, especially his TEDDY, was as if he gave him some sort of payment rather than a gift. Because why would he give him his teddy of all things? He's still so incredibly young, he obviously uses it all the time. So to give it away would mean that he's so incredibly grateful, he would see it as his payment to Joris so that he and his siblings would be able to stay here 😭😭😭

STOP IT WOULD MAKE TOO MUCH SENSE!!!! 😫😫😫😫

FIVE HUNDRED YEARS WTF MAN 😭😭😭

He says it way too casually too 💀💀

"Yeah no, he's been a pain in my ass for like 500 years now 🙄🙄 urgh I can't stand him sometimes i swear 😒😒" like excuse me????

I'm waiting for the Joris fans to use this face as their pfps lol

And into the abyss they go...

#not much to say about this chapter #other than to say it was nice #the smiles 🩷🩷🩷#calm before the storm 💀💀💀#im starting to have a bad feeling....#wakfu #ankama #krosmoz #wakfu manga #wakfu the great wave #the great wave #the great wave volume 2 #wakfu the great wave volume 2 #wakfu the great wave manga #the great wave manga #wakfu review #wakfu reviews

72 notes · View notes

pessimisticpigeonsworld · 1 year ago

Text

People in the ASOIAF fandom are very obsessed with passive women they can project onto. The obsessions with the characters of show!Alicent, Sansa, Elia, and Helaena are perfect examples of this.

In the show, Alicent is changed from a woman who actively seeks power and heads the scheming of the green faction into a passive victim who watches and reacts to the men around her. And yet, despite this being a much more boring characterization, the show version is vastly more preferred by her stans. They condemn her book character as simply an "evil stepmother trope" while completely ignoring how their fav is just as blank and tropey as they accuse her book counterpart to be. Alicent stans want her to be the show's blank victimized canvas.

Helaena is someone who the show changed very little in the adaptation, because both book and show Helaena have little impact on the plot other than to be victims of their surroundings. Both women are forced to marry Aegon at thirteen and have his children, go through B&C, and are the least active members of the green faction. The show only added elements to make her more tragic: her dreaming and autistic behaviors. Helaena's character makes her the perfect canvas for certain fans to project themselves onto as she simply exists to be victimized and play the dutiful wife/daughter despite her circumstances, just like the show version of her mother.

Elia Martell is a woman who we know very little about. She died thirteen years before the events of ASOIAF and, unlike characters like Rhaegar and Lyanna, she has no pov characters who think about her enough for us to learn anything about her. The only things we know are that she was loved by her family, was in an arranged marriage to Rhaegar, had his two (confirmed) children, and was brutally raped and murdered by Lannister men. She is an unknown character and, again unlike Rhaegar and Lyanna, has no known active role in the events surrounding the Rebellion. Because of these things, she is, again, the perfect blank canvas for people to project on.

Sansa is, despite being a prominent pov character in ASOIAF, a very passive character. She rarely takes action in her circumstances and simply reacts to them while trying to survive. There's nothing wrong with this, she's a young girl who has never had to fight for anything in her life, it's not unexpected or condemnable for her reaction to her circumstances to be this way. However, her passivity is something her stans obsess over. She is praised for being the "perfect lady" and they project their desires to see her rule onto her and how they view her story.

These women have been chosen by these fans because of their passivity and tragedy. They love that the women have suffered in the name of the "duty" they believe is higher than them. Because they love passivity, they hate the women of ASOIAF who are active in their own lives and fight to better their circumstances. Characters like Rhaenyra, Arya, Daenerys, and Lyanna are all massive influences on the world and purposely chose to challenge the patriarchy. Since they did not take their suffering silently, theses certain fans view them as wrong and hate them. They only love the women they can project on and who simply refuse to fight for better lives.

#anti sansa stans #anti alicent stans #elia martell #anti team green stans #asoiaf #asoiaf fandom #fandom critical #anti alicent hightower

533 notes · View notes

syndrossi · 7 months ago

Note

Oh my god, the au where Daemon and the boys end up in Winterfell has hilarious potential.Ned is frantically looking for a way to hide 2 kids and 2 dragons, Cat is first furious because of suspicions of repeated treason and then terrified because it looks like they're about to commit treason.Robb, Jon, Bran and Theon are dying to find out what these strange children they met on the way back from the execution are.Robert if he finds out about the boy who looks like Rhaegar will be furious, Cersei is absolutely thrilled (she's willing to wait). Daemon who was "thrown" further away from Winterfell goes after his children, which horrifies half the North.I'm especially curious how Viserys and Dany will react to the new Targaryens. Jon Connington better not be told about Rhaegar, he'll have a heart attack.

Any time you throw a bunch of Targaryens and dragons into a world that has zero-to-few of either, it's gonna be a mess. And holy shit, Cersei being "willing to wait" is so horrific but also so in character. 😱 (OTOH, Daemon is also a very handsome man and not dissimilar to Rhaegar, and he's about to be seizing power. In the brief window before Daemon learns about the Lannister treachery and how it killed OG!Rhaegar's children, she might have some ambitions there.)

I hadn't thought about them encountering Jon and Rhaegar on the way back from the execution. That's probably too early, since that's when they get the dire wolves, which is roughly two months before Robert arrives. Daemon would surely have found the twins by then and/or wreaked enough havoc with Caraxes in search of them to change the course of Robert feeling safe enough to travel North. But perhaps Daemon is displaced slightly in time as well? That gives Jon and Rhaegar time to settle in, grief-stricken at losing Daemon and the world they'd grown to regard as their own, and vulnerable with their young dragons. Oh, but the heartache of Jon seeing the other Jon with baby!Ghost and feeling the loss of his own Ghost.

Viserys's instability is pretty set at this point, so I suspect he doesn't survive long once he and Dany join Daemon's growing gaggle of Targaryens. (He might even make an attempt on one of the boys to steal one of their dragons.). Since Dany is pregnant and with Drogo at this point, it might be more of a struggle to extract them unless we handwave the book timeline a bit to have Dany's marriage happen not when she's thirteen ffs.

I do think that bb!Rhaegar will be regarded as Daemon's son and not the original Rhaegar because no timeline makes sense there; he can't be Rhaegar's dead son Aegon because the ages don't match up and obviously he's not Rhaegar himself. Even DAEMON being around makes no sense, but people are slightly more willing to accept that he's himself, given Caraxes and Dark Sister. And sure, okay, he has two other sons that history doesn't know about by his first wife. But anyone who knew Rhaegar before and sees him is gonna be making those comparisons, in the same way that Resonant!Jon and Ned's Jon are gonna be compared. Eerily similar, but also noticeably different in ways where their relation to Daemon is clear.

Politically, I think it's a terrible decision for Ned to shelter the boys and their dragons, but given how alike this Jon looks to his own, and Jon himself saying things that only his Jon would know to convince him to protect them--he's going to be torn.

#resonant asks

96 notes · View notes

ilguna · 2 months ago

Text

☼ never getting out pt1 (Reaper Ash) ☼

summary; despite her being sick, dill is reaped for the hunger games. it’s unfair, she doesn’t have a fighting chance, but you do.

warnings; swearing, abuse, starvation, bombing, death, weapon/gun use.

wc; 5.8k

part two.

The worst part about the Hunger Games is remembering a time when they didn’t exist, even if that was only ten years ago. You were eight years-old when they introduced it the first year, and at the time you thought it was a stupid idea, much like your parents did.

No one thought it would last long. The Capitol had just managed to survive the Dark Days, themselves, were they really in any position to be punishing the districts this way? What would stop another rebellion? How would the Capitol react this time, besides destroying a district they couldn’t afford to?

While District Eleven seemed to rally at the idea of the Capitol killing their children, your neighbors were tired of fighting. They didn’t have it in them to go another three years, especially without the help of the District Thirteen, which had been flattened to the ground with Capitol missiles. They were the ones who’d been supplying the weapons for the districts.

As the years have gone by, you’ve gradually begun to fear the idea of getting reaped, the reality of the situation dawning on you sometime last year. A girl from your class had been drawn and pulled away to fight in the Games, and she didn’t return. She wasn’t strong enough.

If you can survive one more year, you’ll have made it.

“Everyone, see your places.” Mayor Mills instructs at the microphone.

You watch as Peacekeepers and a few members of the Justice Building shuffle around the temporary stage that had been built for this afternoon. They’re the only ones not standing where they should be. The rest of you have been standing in these pens for at least an hour.

The beginning notes of the Capitol anthem begin to play over Eleven’s sound system, informing you it won’t be long before you’re live. The crowd around you struggles to sing along to the three verses you’ve only been made to learn recently.

When it finishes, a male’s voice—that you recognize as President Ravinstill’s—begins to talk about the Dark Days. He recites one of the many passages from the Treaty of Treason, as a way to remind Panem that the Hunger Games is a war reparation. They take young district lives for the young Capitol lives that had been lost in the war. The price to pay.

A Peacekeeper behind a camera makes a motion, signaling to Mayor Mills it’s time to continue with the reaping. You watch as he uses a cage with a rotator to mix up the names for the boys, before sticking his hand in to pick out one of the papers. He makes his way back to the microphone.

As he unravels the paper, you can hear someone sigh in the crowd. “Reaper Ash.”

Your head turns to the left, recognizing the name, but not entirely sure why. Your eyes search the crowd of boys on the other side of the aisle, waiting for Reaper to show himself. A tall seventeen year-old materializes, making his way out of the pen to be escorted to the stage.

Once he makes it safely, Mayor Mills moves on to the girls. He mixes the names, picks one out from the bottom, and stops in front of the microphone. “Dill Wilde.”

Your heart drops in your chest, eyes sliding shut as the exhaustion hits your body. You know her, just like you’d known that girl from your class. Except, Dill means a lot more to you, because you’ve been babysitting her since he was just a toddler. She’s like a sister to you.

It was bad enough when she got diagnosed with tuberculosis some weeks ago, she’s been getting worse since then. Mama tried to get her name taken out of the cage, but the Peacekeepers refused. There are no rules about keeping sick teenagers home. Why should the Capitol care?

They won’t take care of her, not like how mama’s been trying. She’ll die in the coming weeks, whereas she’ll have a better chance of living here. Even if it’s not by much.

When you open your eyes, you can see that the girls in the fourteen section have given a wide berth to allow Dill to pass through without catching her illness. She hacks out a cough, holding a handkerchief to her mouth.

You turn to the aisle, pushing past the other girls in the eighteen section. As soon as you step into the dirt path, Mayor Mill’s eyes land on you. “I volunteer.”

Dill’s head snaps up, face contorting. She sucks in a sharp breath, going to object, but ends up sending herself into a coughing fit. You let the Peacekeepers escort you to the stage, where the microphone is passed to you.

“Introduce yourself.” Mayor Mills tells you.

You look down at the metal, and then out to the crowd, where you find mama with her hands clasped to her mouth. “My name is (Y/n) (L/n).”

The microphone is quickly taken away. The Peacekeeper with the camera quickly yells, “Cut!” And then suddenly the undersides of your arms are being grabbed as you’re directed into the Justice Building to say goodbye to mama.

You’re released into a room with a pair of chairs, nothing else. You tuck your dress beneath yourself as you sit, waiting. It only takes a few minutes, the door swings open, mama’s hysterical, pulling you into her arms.

“Why would you do such a thing?” She asks you, crying into your hair. “You know what it means.”

“Dill’s sick, mama.” You tell her, holding onto her dress. “It’s not fair. She can’t compete, not the way I can.”

“You think you have a chance?” She asks you, pulling away to see your face. “You’ve seen the tributes in the past. How sickly they look.”

“I’ll be strong.” You get to your feet. “I’m smart. And I’ve got Reaper.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know him enough, he’s a friend of a friend. I thought I recognized him, and I was right. I’ll be in good company.”

She pouts, “You’re so brave.” She hugs you again. “What will I do without you?”

“Wait for me to come back.” You joke, she laughs.

“That I will, sweetness.” She pets your hair, straightening out your clothes. “Be sure to show them how it is in Eleven, both sides.”

You nod, holding onto her hands. “No need to worry, mama.”

The door to the room opens, your hands are suddenly squeezed tight. Mama looks over her shoulder, mouth agape. “So soon?”

“They must leave now, the train’s on a schedule.” The Peacekeeper tells you.

“It’s okay.” You tell her, “I love you, mama.”

“I love you, my sweet girl.” She tells you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Be brave. I’ll see you soon.”

You watch as she’s rushed out of the room, the Peacekeeper slamming the door behind them. You stare at the door, waiting for them to come back for you, but they don’t for a while. When they finally do, you’re put into handcuffs and taken to a vehicle, where Reaper is already sitting inside.

“Hey, Reaper.” You murmur, adjusting the cuffs in front of you.

“You did right by that girl.” Reaper says back. “I respect it.”

“Does this mean you’ll be my ally?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.

He doesn’t give you an answer right away, mulling it over as you travel closer to the train station. It isn’t until you’re corralled into a cattle car with him, hay dusting the wooden floor, does he give you an answer.

“I’ll be your ally, (Y/n).”

—

The smell of the cattle car would be enough to bring any normal person to tears if they got a whiff of it in passing. When you first got inside on Reaping day, it didn’t smell nearly as bad as it does now, but it’s been two days since then, and you still haven’t reached the Capitol.

As tributes have been picked up in each district, the car began to feel tight. You and Reaper tried your best to stay in a nice corner with a soft bed of hay. It didn’t last long, though, not with people needing to relieve themselves. It was an unspoken agreement for everyone to take care of their needs in your former corner.

The smell was bearable for the first few hours, and then it became putrid as it baked in the heat of the cattle car. You were all hoping the Peacekeepers might allow you to clean it out during one of the many stops the train took on the way to the Capitol, but they were disinterested in your needs.

If they weren’t obligated to feed you, what made you think they cared if your car smelt or not? And while it seems like they haven’t acknowledged the situation, you think they were forced to do something when the Nine tributes hesitated getting in when it was their turn.

They decided to open another car, much to everyone’s relief. As soon as you began to gather yourself to move next door, they informed you the new car was for the remaining tributes yet to be picked up. They then slid the door shut, and it hasn’t been opened since.

So much for getting a breath of fresh air at every stop, now you can’t wait to get to the Capitol. Until then, you each take turns breathing in the outside air from the cracks in the door.

The train begins to slow suddenly, making you believe it’s just another district stop before you get to your destination. You tried keeping track of how many times you’ve come to a stop on the way, but gave up when it exceeded twelve, figuring that you’d get there when you get there.

The sound of a whistle echoing through a tunnel makes you sit up, hopeful. The conductor hasn’t done that before. Usually, he just makes the machine come to a halt, no warning to those who might be waiting for it to arrive.

No one comes to open the door, which is typical and expected. You begin to slouch back against the wooden walls, when finally you can hear the chains on the other side of the door clanging together. You can hear metal hit concrete, before the cattle door is slowly rolled open.

A Peacekeeper stands in the opening, a baton in his hand, which he uses to bang against the doorframe of the car. “All right, you lot, let’s move!” He orders.

Reaper gets to his feet, offering a hand to you. You let him help you up, following him tentatively to the doorway. He takes the liberty of being the first one to step out and onto the Capitol’s train station platform, getting a good look. When he turns back to you, he gives you a sturdy nod.

You carefully hop out of the car, stretching the sleeping muscles in your body. While you tried your best to move around inside, you didn’t have a whole lot of energy to do so. If you’d known you’d be volunteering, you think you would’ve packed a sandwich to bring with you.

Your wrists are sore from the handcuffs they haven’t taken off of you since Reaping day, you’re sure there will be marks when they are removed. For now, you try your best not to struggle too much, keeping close to Reaper.

The Peacekeepers grow impatient with the tributes that are refusing to leave the car. This leaves them no choice but to lean in and start pulling them out. You watch as a pair of children are yanked out by their wrists. As soon as their bare feet hit the ground, one of the Peacekeepers turns his head away from the car, retching.

“Doesn’t smell very good, does it?” You tease. “Imagine how we felt when you locked us inside.”

“Shut it.” They snap.

The next car is unlocked, allowing the tributes inside to flood out. The first is a tall boy, sliding out onto the platform, squinting from how bright the sun is compared to the darkness of the car. He turns back to the opening, offering a helping hand to the girl behind him.

She peeks out, curious on where they are, before she falls forward at the boy. He catches her by the waist, gently setting her on her feet. She pats the boy’s arm in return, tilting her head back to observe the roof overhead, which is made solely out of glass windows.

You watch them for a couple of moments, before your attention is turned back to the Peacekeepers, who seem to have grown frustrated by the blatant refusal. They pull out two more starved children haphazardly, causing the girl to chip a tooth on the platform. The boy is barely able to catch himself, before he receives several violent kicks from the Peacekeepers.

You jerk forward to help them, but Reaper has a tight grip on your shoulder, keeping you in place. “You can’t help them.”

“They’re just children!” You cry, throwing your hands up. “They’re defenseless, how can you hurt 'em when they can’t hurt you?”

They don’t listen, yanking the children to their feet. The Peacekeepers gather together, forcing you and the other tributes to head forward. They bring you to the main entrance, it seems, where a truck—or rather a cage—waits for you. Any hope you had for being treated like you’re human dies at the sight.

“Wrists.” The Peacekeeper demands, you hold them up. He unlocks the handcuffs with a twist of a key, throwing the confinements into a burlap sack, before motioning for you to climb inside the cage.

You go up the steep steps with a hung head, finding the back corner to sit in. The only protection you have from the heat is a thin steel roof, which is hot to the touch. Once everyone’s restraints have been taken, the Peacekeeper’s move to shut the truck door.

They stop when a blonde boy in a bright red uniform holds up his hand, stepping forward to pull himself into the truck with the group of you. Just by the look of him alone, it’s glaringly obvious this boy is from the Capitol, and he’s willingly joining you in the cage.

The door behind him is slammed shut, causing the truck to lurch forward without warning, throwing many of you back. You’re able to grab a bar in time, holding yourself up, but the others fall, trapping each other at the back of the truck momentarily.

They manage to get themselves situated, everyone now has a bar in their hand, besides the girl that chipped her tooth on the platform. But she clings onto the leg of the boy from her district, anyway.

The Capitol boy keeps tight against the door, eyes shifting between you, unsure about the situation he’s put himself in. He seems interested in the colorful girl beside you, the one with the ruffles. In one hand, he grips the stem of a white rose.

The truck begins to slow, allowing another to pass in front of it. The boy shrinks, hunch over, looking out the cage bars to seem inconspicuous. As soon as the car has passed, he stands up tall again.

“What a joke.” You mutter, a few of the others either laugh or smile at his discomfort.

“What’s the matter, pretty boy? You in the wrong cage?” Reaper asks, dead serious.

The Capitol boy stares back, as if he didn’t think he’d ever find himself in a conversation with a tribute. “No, this is exactly the cage I was waiting for.”

This is a terrible mistake, and the boy finds out immediately. Reaper jumps at him, hands wrapping around the boy’s throat as he slams him back against the cage bars, having half the mind to kill him.

The Capitol boy is quick, driving his knee up into Reaper’s privates, causing your partner to fold, a grimace on his face.

“He might kill you now.” You inform the boy, getting to your feet to push Reaper back, not wanting to witness it. “He killed a Peacekeeper back in Eleven. They never found out who did it.”

It’s true, and as terrifying as the news had been when you first heard it from your best friend, you grew to respect Reaper. To kill a Peacekeeper would mean to be hung, there would be no sweet-talking your way out of it. You’d be strung up with that week’s rebels.

The ability to get away with it is impressive. This had to mean he either had no witnesses, or those who did, swore to keep it to themselves to avoid getting him in trouble. All weapons were likely deposited—although, you heard Reaper strangled him—and an alibi was quickly thought up.

“Shut it, (Y/n).” Reaper growls.

“Who cares now?” You ask him. “That works more in your favor, here.”

“Let’s all kill him.” A boy smiles. ”Can’t do nothing worse to us.”

A good number of other tributes agree with the boy, taking a step in, genuinely considering it. They’re not wrong. All the Capitol would do is shoot you for injuring a Capitol citizen, which might be faster than the death that’s coming for you at the end of the week, anyway.

The Capitol boy grips onto the cage bars, attaching himself to the truck. The sight is amusing as well as sad. Does he really think the Peacekeepers will be able to save him now? He came in here on purpose.

“Not to us, maybe.” The colorful girl beside you says. “You got family back home? Someone they could punish there?” This seems to discourage them, the girl takes the opportunity to squeeze between them and the Capitol boy. “Besides, he’s my mentor. Supposed to help me. I might need him.”

“How come you get a mender?” One of the boy tributes asks.

“Mentor.” The Capitol boy corrects. “You each get one.”

“Where are they, then?” You ask. “Why didn’t they come?”

“Just not inspired, I guess.” The colorful girl answers, turning her back to you to face her mentor.

The truck suddenly takes a hard turn to drive down an alleyway, bumping over the uneven stones. You hold on tight to the cage bars to keep your footing, unsure on where you’re going. When the truck begins to back into a dimly lit building, you share a look with Reaper.

This can’t be the arena already, can it?

A hot smell of rotten fish and stale hay hits your nose, which is nothing compared to the cattle car, but still not something you’re happy to be smelling. Your face puckers, burying your nose in the shoulder of your dress.

Two metal doors swing open, a Peacekeeper comes to the back of the truck to open the truck door. You watch as he ducks out of the way, and before any of you can jump out of the cage, the floor begins to rise, tipping sideways towards an open cement shoot.

Those who are at the back of the truck, empty out first. The Capitol boy, the girl with the ruffles, the few tributes who were convinced they wanted to kill the mentor all disappear into the darkness. You squeeze on tight to the cage bars, hoping that if you stay here, you can avoid the horrors below.

A few more tributes tumble out and Reaper loses his footing. You’re one of the last in the cage, and as you begin to think that you could stay here for another couple of seconds—a spray of water targets your hand, causing your fingers to slip. You roll out of the cage, hands waving viciously to try and grab onto something—anything.

You come to a hard stop in a pile of hay, making you roll a couple feet. Dizzy and sick, you struggle to get to your feet, feeling the sun beating on your back. Wherever you are, there is no roof to protect you from the heatwave the Capitol is experiencing.

The first thing you notice is the stretch of sand and the several unnatural rock formations that twist in the air. When your eyes adjust to the light, you look higher, to a dry moat, and another set of cage bars beyond it. And this time, there are faces peering inside.

Did they really deposit you into a zoo?

Reaper motions for you to join his side, behind one of the rock structures. You move quickly, head turned away from the cameras you noticed when you were surveying the area.

You turn your back to the bars, facing one of the cement walls. “What’s the plan here?”

“Kill the Capitol boy, right in front of his people.”

“What about your family?” You ask.

Reaper half-shrugs. “Too many of them to kill them all.”

You open your mouth to object, because that’s really no way to think. But before you can, he’s already starting towards the Capitol boy, as well as several other tributes. They come together to form a circle around him, closing in to kill.

While you don’t approve, you do admit that it’s a little gratifying to watch the terror cross the boy’s face. This should teach him not to be smug, especially since all it takes is getting stuck in a zoo cage for him to realize that he’s just as human as you are.

His breathing begins to quicken, hands balled into fists at his sides, eyes jumping from face to face, sweating dribbling down from his temple.

“Own it.” The girl with the colorful ruffled dress tells him, she’s currently tucking the white rose behind her ear.

It takes the Capitol boy a second to register before he turns around, going to her. He makes a show of doing a large bow before extending his hand to her to take. She smiles, getting to her feet.

“Would you care to meet a few of my neighbors?” He asks.

“I would be delighted.” She says, then going on to murmur something quietly.

He guides her to the left side of the enclosure, where one of the two cameras are. As they cross the moat together, she moves her hair to cover the giant bruise on her cheek. They stop just a foot away from the cage bars to make the children on the other side more comfortable.

“How do you do?” The Capitol boy asks. “I brought along a friend of mine today. Would you like to meet her?”

The children on the other side of the bars shift around nervously, until one little boy shouts, “Yes!” He slaps the bars for a moment before shoving his hands back into his pockets. “We saw her on television.”

“May I present Miss Lucy Gray Baird?” The Capitol boy asks, guiding his tribute up to the bars.

The audience on the other side of the bars falls silent, observing with care. Lucy Gray lowers herself down to one knee in front of the boy, “Hi there. I’m Lucy Gray. What’s your name?”

“Pontius.” He responds in a small voice, holding his hand out for Lucy Gray to shake. She doesn’t move to stick her hand outside of the bars, so he takes a step closer, they come together for just a moment, and then Pontius moves back again.

“So nice to meet you. Is this your little sister?” Lucy Gray nods at a small girl next to him, thumb stuck in her mouth.

“That’s Venus.” Pontius tells her. “She’s only four.”

“Well, I think four is a very smart age to be.” Lucy Gray says. “Nice to meet you, Venus.”

The little girl, Venus, says something back. Lucy Gray gives a laugh. “You did? That’s so sweet. Well, you keep watching, Precious, and I’ll try to swing you another. Okay?”

Venus nods, and then buries her face in her mother’s skirt, earning endearments from the crowd.

It goes on like this, Lucy Gray moving around from child to child. They have quick conversations, she earns several smiles and a few laughs from the parents. She’s just finished with a girl, when a camera is positioned in front of her, leaving her no choice but to acknowledge it now.

“Oh, hi there. Are we on television?”

“We certainly are.” The reporter says back to her with a smile.

Reaper sighs from beside you. “How long do you think this goes on for?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is happening.” You mutter back to him.

“And who might you be?” She asks the reporter.

“I’m Lepidus Malmsey with Capitol News.” He tells her, flashing a smile. “So, Lucy, you’re the tribute from District Twelve.”

You elbow Reaper, leaning over. “Now’s a good time to learn names. Maybe we use this to our advantage.”

“I don’t want any other allies.” Reaper tells you harshly.

“No, not that. I mean the Capitol, they’re planning something. I know it.”

“It’s Lucy Gray and I’m not really from Twelve.” Lucy Gray tells him. “My people are Covey. Musicians by trade. We just took a wrong turn one day and were obliged to stay.”

“Oh. So… what district are you from, then?” Lepidus asks.

“No district in particular. We move from place to place as the fancy takes us.” She pauses for a moment, tilting her head. “Well, we used to anyway. Before the Peacekeepers rounded us up a few years back.”

“But now you’re District Twelve citizens.” He insists.

“If you say so.” Lucy Gray seems to back away from the bars, disinterested.

Lepidus snaps his fingers, not to catch his attention, but as if he’s remembering something. “Your dress has been a big hit in the Capitol!”

“Has it?” She asks, being drawn back in. “Well, the Covey love color, and me more than most. But this was my mama’s, so it’s extra special to me.”

“She in District Twelve?”

“Just her bones, darling. Just her pearly white bones.” Lucy Gray says, waiting for the reporter to ask another question. When it’s clear he’s struggling to pivot from this topic, she helps him out by gesturing to her Capitol mentor. “So, do you know my mentor? Says his name is Coriolanus Snow. He’s a Capitol boy and clearly I got the cake with the cream, ‘cause nobody else’s mentor even bothered to show up to welcome them.”

“Well, he gave us all a surprise. Did your teachers tell you to be here, Corirolanus?” Lepidus asks.

Coriolanus steps forward. “They didn’t tell me not to.”

“I should’ve let you kill him in the truck.” You tell Reaper, crossing your arms over your chest.

The mentor continues, “But I do remember them saying that I was to introduce Lucy Gray to the Capitol, and I take that job seriously.”

“So you didn’t have a second thought about diving into a cage of tributes?”

“A second, a third, and I imagine the fourth and fifth will be hitting me sometime soon.” Coriolanus admits with a smile. “But if she’s brave enough to be here, shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, for the record, I didn’t have a choice.” Lucy Gray says to the camera, making sure the Capitol doesn’t mistake her motivations.

“For the record, neither did I.” Says Coriolanus. “After I heard you sing, I couldn’t keep away. I confess, I’m a fan.”

Lucy Gray moves her ruffles, letting the audience get a beautiful flash of colors. The crowd bursts into applause, which covers the grating noise of metal scratching across concrete. You and Reaper jerk away from the doors as the Peacekeepers come through, marching right to Lucy Gray and Coriolanus across the moat.

“Well, I hope for your sake the Academy agrees with you, Coriolanus.” Lepidus tells him, giving a nod to the guards coming his way. “I think you’re about to find out.”

Coriolanus looks behind himself long enough to see what Lepidus is talking about before he looks right back at the camera. “Thank you for joining us.” He says. “Remember, it’s Lucy Gray Baird, representing District Twelve. Drop by the zoo if you have a minute to say hello. I promise she’s well worth the effort.”

Lucy Gray extends the back of her hand in the direction of Coriolanus, he directs it to his lips, pressing a small kiss to her skin. He’s able to give a final wave to the audience on the other side of the cage before he’s forced to leave the enclosure. The Peacekeepers keep close to him, batons in their hands in case any of you think of doing something stupid.

The doors scrape shut behind them.

You and Reaper stare at each other for a long couple of seconds, because it’s clear you really do need a game plan, and soon. At least, to you it is. The Capitol is playing some sort of game beyond what they normally do, and you need to figure out what it means.

“I guess I’ll be cozyin' up to the Capitol.” You tell Reaper.

“You don’t have to.” Reaper says, finding a shaded spot to sit down. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Because if it means I survive just a day longer, why wouldn’t I?” You ask back.

Reaper shakes his head, before closing his eyes and resting his back against the rock formation. You don’t sit by him quite yet, keeping on your feet, watching the cage bars as the Capitol citizens come and go as they please. The cameras disappear after a while, but the faces never stop coming.

As the afternoon turns to evening, you consider giving it a rest. But just as you begin to crouch down, another red uniform appears on the other side of the bars. A boy, tall, dark curly hair, almost the exact opposite of Coriolanus Snow, who’d joined you in the zoo.

You watch him intensely. He positions himself at the front of the crowd, setting down a black backpack. He reaches inside of the bag, pulling out a sandwich that seems to be wrapped in some sort of plastic. For a moment, you’re sure he’s going to eat it while watching you all sit around, and then he surprises you.

The boy holds the sandwich through the bars—an offering.

Your stomach growls at the sight, you haven’t eaten in days. The last time you had a meal was two days ago, just before the reaping. Mama insisted you had a big breakfast because she had a lot planned for the day, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to fit lunch in her schedule.

“He has food.” You tell Reaper, starting toward the Academy boy.

Reaper’s hand shoots out, grabbing your ankle. “Don’t be at their mercy.”

“I already am.” You tell Reaper, pulling at your leg. “I’m starvin'. How are we supposed to win the Games if we’re weak?”

Reaper considers this, letting go of you.

“I’ll grab you a sandwich.” You tell him, continuing forward.

It seems you’re the only tribute willing to trust the Capitol boy, because no one else moves from the spots they’ve claimed. You understand why, how can they trust the people that encourage the Games? You can’t.

You stop at the moat, staring at the boy, who seems eager from how close you’ve gotten. “Please, take it. It’s for you.”

“Are you from the Academy?” You ask him. “That’s the uniform, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I am.” He says.

“Are you my mentor?”

The boy looks sad, shaking his head slowly. “No, no I’m assigned to Marcus.”

“Who’s Marcus?” You ask, turning around to look at the tributes.

“He’s the one on the far left in the back, with the girl with the black hair. Her name is Sabyn.” He tells you.

You look back at him. “What’s your name?”

“Sejanus Plinth. What’s yours?”

“(Y/n).” You eye the sandwich. “How can I trust you didn’t poison the sandwiches, Sejanus?”

His eyes fall to the ground, “Because I’m district.” The words are a whisper, easy to miss if you weren’t trying to hear him. “I was born in District Two. I went to school with Marcus.”

“And you’re ashamed of it.” You assume, losing interest. “And now you’re guilty.”

“Guilty, yes, but I will never be embarrassed over being from Two. My heart resides there.”

Sejanus feels genuine, you’re not sure what it is about him, but it feels like he’s telling the truth. So, you cross the moat and retrieve your sandwich, looking down at him.

“May I ask you who my mentor is, and where might he be?” You ask, weighing the sandwich.

“Felix Ravinstill.” Sejanus says, which feels like a slap across the face. The nephew of the current President will be mentoring you through your Games? It feels like you’ve struck gold. “And I can’t say. He could be coming tonight, or he might be here tomorrow.”

“What about Reaper’s mentor? What’s their name?”

“Reaper’s your partner?” Sejanus asks, you nod. He thinks for a moment, “I think Clemensia Dovecote was assigned to him.”

You nod. “Well, thank you, Sejanus. Do you have an extra sandwich or two for Reaper? He doesn’t want to come up here.”

“I don’t blame him.” Sejanus says, digging in the backpack to pull out two more sandwiches, as well as some sort of red-purple fruit that seems vaguely familiar.

“What is that?” You ask, taking the food from him.

“It’s a plum.” Sejanus says.

“Oh, right.” You nod.

You’ve plucked quite a few of them in the orchards of District Eleven as a side job to earn extra money for mama. Usually, they’re green when you pull them from the trees, and they’re just beginning to get their color by the time they’re shipped off to the Capitol.

“Did you make these yourself?” You ask, holding up the sandwiches.

“No, my Ma made them for you.”

“Give her my thanks.” You tell him. “And thank you for bringin' 'em.”

You go back down the moat, making note of how many eyes are glued to you as you make your way to Reaper. Still, no one moves from their positions, not that you really care. Maybe Sejanus will give more to you since he’ll have so many left over.

“Here.” You say, pulling a sandwich from your pile to hand to Reaper. “Your mentor’s name is Clemensia Dovecote.”

“She up there?”

“No, the mentor for the Two boy—Marcus—is the only one up there now.” You sit down next to him. “I figure we each have a sandwich and a half. And a plum.” You hold out the fruit, giving him a smile.

He takes his dinner from you. “Don’t sell yourself out.”

“Mama told me to show both sides, and I plan on doing just that. Eat your dinner and keep quiet.”

Reaper lets out a quick laugh.

27 notes · View notes

nobodysuspectsthebutterfly · 4 months ago

Note

Hi, I’m drafting up a story about Arra and Cregan and I’ve been going in circles a bit on the logistics of how Cregan Stark and Arra Norrey could be considered childhood friends. As far as I know, this doesn’t seem plausible due to proximity, as House Norrey resides in the high mountains north of the Wolfswood rather than near Winterfell.

I thought that Rickon Stark might have sent Cregan to foster with House Norrey, but I find it unlikely he’d send his only heir to foster before the age of thirteen. Additionally, I imagine Cregan would have remained in Winterfell after succeeding his father upon his death. Given these factors, I can’t think of any other explanation for their friendship. I’d be curious to hear your thoughts!

Hey, so there's a really good possible answer for why Arra Norrey (of the northern mountain clans) and Cregan Stark became childhood friends! It seems you've overlooked the factor of the winter town. That's the town just outside Winterfell, which is normally 4/5th empty, but during autumn and winter gains a population of up to 15,000 people, becoming the second-largest settlement in the North (surpassing Barrowton, but after White Harbor). And as Jon notes about the mountain clans,

"It has always been a harsh life up there. When the snows fall and food grows scarce, their young must travel to the winter town or take service at one castle or the other." —ADWD, Jon X

This is further clarified in TWOIAF:

The most prominent towns in the North are the "winter town" beneath the walls of Winterfell and Barrowton in the Barrowlands. The former is largely empty in spring and summer but filled to bursting in autumn and winter with those seeking the protection and patronage of Winterfell to help them survive the lean times. Not only do townsmen arrive from the outlying villages and crofts, but many a son and daughter of the mountain clans have been known to make their way to the winter town when the snows begin to fall in earnest.

Note especially that "many a son and daughter of the mountain clans" come to the winter town for Winterfell's patronage, which may not only explain how Cregan and Arra met and became friends, but also the meeting of Rodrik Stark (the Wandering Wolf) and his wife Arya Flint, a century later. Also, though the northern mountain clans are a bit more... shall we say, rustic than the Northern nobles outside of the mountains, the clan chieftains are still treated as lords by House Stark. So if Arra was a daughter of The Norrey, sent south to the winter town when the snows threatened her clan, it's likely that she would be personally greeted by Lord Rickon and his heir Cregan. Perhaps the Starks even took her in as a ward (since F&B calls her Cregan's "companion"). And things would follow from there.

But does the timeline support this theory? It's not laid out directly, but yes, it does! We know that 120 AC was called "the Year of the Red Spring", for all the tragic deaths that happened that year (to House Strong and House Velaryon). Spring is preceded by winter (naturally), so an unknown few years prior to 120, when Cregan was less than 12 years old, would have been the autumn and winter years when Arra came to the winter town. And quite possibly there may have been another winter even earlier in Cregan's youth where they could have encountered, though most likely they would have been extremely young at the time.

And there's other possible ways they could have met! While you note it's unlikely that Cregan was sent to foster in the mountains by his father, the opposite is not an issue. (Note also that fostering typically occurs well before age 13— Ned, for example, became Jon Arryn's ward at age 8, and the Targaryen princess of the Pact of Ice and Fire was supposed to go north at age 7.) It could be that even before the autumn and winter years, Arra was sent south by her father to be Lord Rickon's ward. (Why? Fosterings are sometimes made to repay a debt, you can make something up, something with a wildling invasion maybe.) Or maybe Arra was born in the winter town, her mother sent south in an especially harsh winter, and the baby taken in by the Starks because she was frail and needed a maester's care — again, it's fanfic, until GRRM says otherwise you're free to arrange matters in any way you like so that Arra can become Cregan's "beloved childhood companion".

Also, please note that Cregan did not succeed his father after his death in 121 AC, as he was only 13 years old. His uncle Bennard ruled as regent for the next 5 years, refusing to give up the post when Cregan turned 16 and became a legal adult. It was only some time in 126 AC that the 18-year-old Cregan imprisoned his uncle and cousins and took control of the rule of the North (and married Arra shortly afterwards). So, it's not impossible that the conniving Bennard might've sent Cregan away during his minority, to rule without his nephew's interference. You could have Arra as Lord Rickon's ward for many years, then upon his death she returns home, only to be followed by Cregan who becomes her father's ward for 3 years, until his 16th birthday when he returns home to take his seat (and is frustratingly blocked from doing so).

The possibilities are endless... well, maybe not endless, but you're more free to be creative with the worldbuilding and history than you may think. I wish you all the best with your fic!

38 notes · View notes

stu-dyingstudent · 10 months ago

Text

Sakura fic recs: captured on a mission/mission gone wrong

Okay, I'm going to be completely honest with y'all, I'm really just recommending stuff by my favorite tropes lmao. Quite honestly, mission gone wrong just makes things so much more entertaining. Poor Sakura though, this girl just can't catch a damn break.

Now, I should point out that there are MANY Sakura fics out there were the mission goes wrong, but in this list I am only going to put ones where that is the primary focus of the series.

Started: 2024.07.23

Last Updated: 2024.07.25

note: feel free to check out my master list which has a bunch of Sakura Haruno fic recs (all organized)!

----

Survival of the fittest - cywscross || ao3 || T || shikasaku || mission gone wrong || one shot

Sakura is thirteen, still a Genin, lost in the middle of Earth Country, lugging an unconscious Chuunin around, and so far beyond scared that she’s moved right on to pissed off.

Survival of the Fittest is a fabulous one-shot that follows the trouble that Sakura and Shikamaru find themselves in after accidentally landing themselves in Iwa. This story depicts the characters truthfully and fully conveys exactly how hopeless they feel in their situation. I highly recommend.

The Ocean is Deep and Dark - Pleasedial123 || ao3 || M || captured || complete

Gato doesn't trust Zabuza to get the job done. Instead he sends a team of thugs to ambush the Bridge Builder on his return to Wave. Team Seven, exhausted from their fight and Kakashi still unconscious, is separated. Sakura gets captured.Terrible things happen to pretty girls in the hands of men like Gato and his thugs.But Zabuza puts his claim in first and suddenly Sakura isn't the prisoner of a civillian businessman and his hired muscle. Suddenly she's Momichi Zabuza's.

I won't lie, I have a soft spot for fics that take place during the land of waves arc, especially when they focus on Sakura's growth. I love how Zabuza was portrayed in this as although he wasn't necessarily a bad guy, he wasn't a good one either. He simply has morals. Sakura's fear in this is also quite raw and eye opening as it covers a theme that isn't ever covered in the original series. The reality is, the world is not kind to women, and a captured young female ninja is most certainly going to be at some untasteful risks. Oh, team 7's concern was also pretty touching ngl.

With Every Beat - halfdemonfan || ffn || sasusaku || M || canon divergent || incomplete

Pain can come in various forms. Sakura had suffered all of them; but with the war raging on she found the torture would continue.

If I'm completely honest, With Every Beat probably isn't the best rec for this trope since from what I remember Sakura is not captured for too long. I never did get very far reading this so I don't have too much to say, but it takes place during the war arc and is an interesting take.

Ripples - Yellow Mask || ffn || sasusaku || T || captured || complete

Following a botched mission, Sakura is made a slave by Sound, a position that could very well alter the future…especially concerning a certain familiar missing-nin.

Ripples is probably one of the og mission gone wrong/captured Sakura fics, as far as I am aware, but it's pretty good! On her way back from a mission, she manages to get captured and is taken to Orochimaru's hideout. Super interesting to see as Sasuke is still with the sanin at this time.

The Pack Survives - ihopethelightwillshineupon || ao3 || team 7 || mission gone wrong || complete

When a simple C-rank mission turns into a straight-up nightmare, the members of Team Seven narrowly escape with their lives. They end up stuck in the middle of nowhere, each of them injured and forced to rely on one another for help.They’ve only been a team for a couple of weeks, still distant from one another, still trying hard to prove themselves. But when they’re all hurt and struggling desperately to survive, they have no choice but to lower their walls.Stranded far away from the village, Team Seven fights to get back home safely – but with help impossibly far away, with their food supplies shrinking and with their injuries slowing them down, their journey becomes more difficult with every step.In the wake of their struggle, though, their bonds grow steadily stronger.

Sakura is not the main character in this one as it it more focused on team 7 as a whole, but she still has some great development! Essentially, in typical team 7 fashion, they find themselves in a bit of a pickle during a mission and it results in some great bonding between them.

An Inch of Gold - KuriQuinn || ffn || sasusaku || T || mission gone wrong - time travel AU || complete

Team 7 is sent on a mission to investigate a disturbance outside of the village, where they encounter an unconscious girl in a crater. The mysterious Sarada insists she's a shinobi from the Hidden Leaf trying to rescue her teammates. When the team discovers she possesses a Sharingan, things become even more unbelievable. [Part of the Legacy of Fire Series]

Somehow, the Boruto and Naruto timelines interconnect and Sarada literally falls into team 7's mission. Things only get worse from there. The writing captures the personalities of the characters so well and I'm a complete sucker for the whole Sarada meets Sakura and Sasuke trope!! Sasusaku is super cute in this (while being realistic) and I love how Kakashi is such a shipper. Also, this is a multiple perspective fic.

Dirt and Ashes, or: The One-and-a-Half Body Problem - Tozette || captured || gen || M || canon divergent || complete

The invasion of Konoha during the chuunin exam didn't fail. Team seven is broken, people are dead, and Sakura is hurt and frightened and a very long way from home.Alternative summary: In which Sakura carries half of Hidan across two countries, leaving a trail of blood, bodies, and other people's legs.

This one is pretty gross tbh, but I highly recommend!

Only a Crush by Gingersoup || ao3 || kakasaku || M || canon divergent || complete

It was supposed to be an easy, fun night out. She never intended to wake up in her sensei's bed, half-naked and with no memory of what happened the night before! As she tries to unravel the mystery of that night, something sinister is growing beyond the walls of the Leaf Village... and what was only a crush spirals wildly out of control.

I can't really say much without spoiling, but Sakura is unwillingly thrust into the world of illegal drugs, trafficking, and sex all while coming to terms with her new feelings regarding her former sensei. I typically don't like kakasaku, but I think this work is done tastefully well. The characters are both adults and the immorality of the relationship is not ignored, so be prepared for a lot of "we can't," "this is wrong," etc.. Anyway, Sakura is an absolute powerhouse and I thoroughly enjoyed the relationship between all of the different characters and villages!

Got Nothing to Prove (but I'ma show you how I do) - GuardianMars || ao3 || gen || T || mission gone wrong || incomplete

Civilians and orphans are always used as cannon fodder. Sakura’s not sure where she first came by this phrase. Whether she heard it or read it, she can’t quite remember, but it stuck in her head and it stays in the back of her mind whenever Team 7 takes a mission. When Sakura and Tenten get placed on a temporary team looking into a series of kidnappings of local village girls, Sakura is naturally worried. She doesn't want to be cannon fodder. When the mission goes to pot, Sakura and Tenten find themselves far away from home and with only each other to rely on. As it turns out being cannon fodder is the least of their worries.

Genin Sakura and TenTen are sent on a mission due to their unimpressive lineage and things go wrong. This is a bit of a mystery where details of the mission are uncovered as the series progresses and is seen from the prospective of both the girls and their sensei's who are desperately trying to bring them back.

The Storm Beneath - CrimsonEden || ao3 || gen || T || mission gone wrong || one-shot complete

Sakura skidded to a halt. “Sensei?” she choked out, voice raw and painful. Kakashi made no reply. His eyes stared desperately up at her, as if he thought that she was going to disappear if he looked away. One of his hands reached out slowly, like he wanted to touch her face, to check to see did she was really there. His eyes were glazed over and his chest was heaving from the force of his heavy breaths. She stood there frozen, unsure of what to say or do. How could things have gone so wrong? . . . . . A simple mission goes horribly wrong, and Team-7 finds themselves stuck in the wilderness injured and facing Kakashi’s past demons. POV Kakashi and Sakura.

Team 7's mission gone wrong not just lands them in a complete disaster physically and politically, but also uncovers some of Kakashi's trauma. Really well written and focuses a lot on the team bonding, primarily Sakura and Kakashi, which I love.

Team Seven and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Roadtrip -Transformatron || ao3 || gen || T || captured || incomplete

No chakra. No allies. Captured by an unknown enemy a thousand miles from home, Team Seven must work together if they want to survive - which, if you ask Sakura, puts their life expectancy at approximately one week. If she’s feeling generous.

Team 7 is captured and the enemy is trying to get information out of them by any means possible. Follow them as they try to escape.

final exams coming up! - waterpllar || ao3 || gen || M || captured || ongoing

Kakuzu can name numerous reasons why Hatake Kakashi could make him an excellent profit, most of which involve the numerous organizations he's sabotaged. Specific figures would certainly be willing to pay very well for free reign to relieve their violent frustrations on one of the most notorious jounin in the Bingo books. Such a business would only function with a healer on hand, but it just so happens that a vast majority of shinobi teams have a healer, and there is a pink-haired genin without a bloodline limit or bijuu on the team. What he did not anticipate is that the Copy-nin's teaching might be so remiss that he hadn't trained said genin in any iryo-ninjutsu whatsoever. Kakuzu does not like making oversights, and he decides to remedy this fact immediately (unluckily for sakura).

Kakuzu captured Sakura and Kakashi in an attempt to make money (of course) off of Kakashi's many enemies and Sakura is forced to learn medical ninjutsu in order to keep him alive.

Edit: ok this actually just got updated even though it’s marked as complete, so ig it’s still ongoing?? Maybe???

New Day Dawning - IncompleteSentanc (Erava) || ao3 || narusaku || T || captured || complete

One day, while visiting the grave of Nohara Rin, Obito stumbles across a young girl terrifyingly like her. He decides to ensure she doesn’t meet the same fate. As for Sakura? Sakura had no idea what she was awakening the day she went to visit her parents graves - but she never looked back. One way or another.(Feat. Sakura raised by Obito and the Akatsuki, and her eventual return to Konoha and all those she left behind)

Sakura is brainwashed and manipulated, but loved by notorious killers nonetheless. Incredibly well written and I won't lie when I say that the ending took me a bit by surprise.

Your childhood home is just powder-white bones (and you'll never find your way back) - Dovey || ao3 || gen || M || captured || complete

Sasuke is not the only one who worries he's getting too comfortable in his genin life. Itachi decides to add another motivator to Sasuke's revenge plans by kidnapping the teammate who wasn't a charismatic Jinchuriki. Sakura is used to being an objective for those around her, not a person, but even for her this is a little much. In which Sakura is held captive and learns what a genjutsu specialist can do to a person's mind, that sharks can actually make great friends, joins a dying clan, and gets regifted multiple times before she's finally strong enough to fight back. *while this fic contains explicit and graphic torture, there's no sexual assault.

Okay, this was actually a really hard read for me. We truly see Sakura's decline in this as she slowly loses her mind and it is very frustrating to see what has happened to her. Nonetheless, it is extremely well written and great is you want something dark.

Freedom in the Eyes of Another - Oroburos69 || ffn || gen || M || captured || complete

The Wave Mission was a failure. They got caught, captured, taken-it didn't end well. Now Sakura has a half-heard order, uncut fingernails, and more desperation than bravery. One way or another, she's getting Team Seven out today. Complete.

I actually can't believe that I forgot to add this the first time I wrote this list! Anyway, team 7 is captured on the mission to Wave and Sakura takes Kakashi's mumble and runs with it! Pretty interesting as we get some nice team bonding and there are some other popular character appearances too.

----

Like always, please send me recs if you have any!

#anime / manga #manga #anime #naruto #sakura haruno #sakura uchiha #haruno sakura #bamf sakura #naruto shippuden #kakashi hatake #kakashi sensei #strong sakura haruno #sakura fanfic #naruto fanfiction #kakasaku #sasusaku #narusaku

119 notes · View notes

measurelessdreamer · 9 months ago

Text

Part II of my musings about my scogan kid fic idea (read part I here)

It’s very delicate. And Logan doesn’t deal with delicate. He can deal with force and dangerous and what-doesn’t-kill-you-makes-you-stronger. A four-year-old girl calling him “dad” is nowhere near any of these things.

And Summers must know how much of a deal this is because he’s quiet the whole time they walk to his office to talk, for which Logan didn’t ask but Scott offered anyway, without the typical stoic composure Logan was used to seeing on him.

Then they get there and neither of them can really sit down or start because where do you start after seeing something like this? After apparently living in a universe where time-travel is possible and it happens to be your damn luck that you have to live with its consequences?

And Logan realises that Scott could ask first. He wasn’t there when Logan talked about his timeline with Charles and as far as the little girl goes, calling Scott “papa” is on the same spot of “urgent” as calling Logan “dad” is.

But Summers speaks in the end and, surprising no one, he decides to be unselfish and asks Logan what he wants to know. Logan gives him a look that must speak for itself because Summers clenches his jaw but still waits and Logan hates him but not really and so he asks, “The girl. Who is she?”

And Scott says that her name is Kayla (because I happen to be a big fan of Wolverine: Origins and I always have been ever since I saw it when I was, like, thirteen, and despite all the sad stuff about Kayla, I loved the message of her words to Logan that he’s not an animal and I think it would be nice to have that message survive in a little girl who at some point learned to love him enough to call him dad because if that doesn’t say he’s not an animal, then I don’t know). It might warrant a reaction from Logan right away. He might know what the name means, the Logan of this timeline probably didn’t (but it’s possible he doesn’t know either).

So he asks who gave her that name, to which Scott replies that he chose it and Logan asks why they would let him and Scott says because he was the one who found her. There is something Summers isn’t saying, though, and although Logan can tell, he lets it go this time.

Found her? he asks next and Scott says I assume you’re familiar with the name “Stryker”, to which Logan lets out one of his claws, the middle one, akin to all those years ago on the Liberty Island and he doesn’t know what he expects, but the soft smile that graces Scott’s face before it is squashed down by the cold calculated look was definitely not it.

Then Scott reaches under his desk and unlocks one of his drawers and pulls out a thick file with the huge red stemp of “classified” written over it and he pushes it closer to Logan. It says “Weapon XII” on the front and Logan bristles and almost lets out all of his claws.

He doesn’t reach for the file and Scott probably didn’t even expect him to because he goes on, unprompted, and says that the project was meant to be a continuation of the previous one, of designing a mutant who would be able to hold and control multiple abilities at the same time. The previous project made them aware they could change one mutant. Now, they wanted to know whether they could fully create one and raise them to be their perfect soldier.

For that, they needed a suitable collection of DNA from mutants they knew existed because it turned out that not every ability was compatible with the rest of them.

When Logan asks how they found out, Summers says it’s in the file and then clenches his jaw when Logan just says he’s not reading it. Then Scott says there were multiple test subjects that were biologically engineered in different ways so they knew where to push their limits. At the time, Kayla was being referred to as “12.9” and she was the only one they found at the facility. The rest were defined in the file as “failed” and “closed” and Logan really feels slashing through something right now.

Scott says she was merely six-months old when she was found by them. They didn’t know who she was but the following days were a bit self-explanatory when she teleported a meter away right in front of their eyes and shot red beams from her eyes at a toy she didn’t particularly like.

Her powers were meant to manifest early so Stryker’s people knew if she could harness all the powers they engineered her with without dying. It was a long process of deciding which ones she had to have and which ones she didn’t. All of the children had Logan’s, though, and as much as there indeed is no adamantium in her body, it was the plan to put it into her once she grew up. Putting it into her now would prevent her from her natural development and result in her death. Logan says, “Don’t tell me they found that out the hard way,” to which Scott replies, “What do you think?”

So, what, is she a clone? Logan asks after Scott explains the rest and Scott says, Yes, in a sense.

What do you mean? She either is or she ain’t!

Clones are usually of “something” and are meant to resemble that something to perfection. She has so much of other people in herself that no one would be able to pin point what she is a clone of.

As much as it clears up a few things about her to Logan, there is a lot Scott doesn’t mention that day or the ones that follow. He doesn’t say that it was actually the two of them together who found her and not just Logan. He doesn’t reveal that her first days here were a pretty accurate depictions of hell and that Logan’s healing factor came especially in handy and she also sort of seemed to cry a lot less when she was in Scott’s arms compared to everyone else’s. And he doesn’t say anything about the fact that, yes, as much as her DNA is comprised of DNA of other mutants, the percentages vary and there are two sets of DNA she has more of than from others and there is a reason why her eyes are so blue and why she purposefully has weaker versions of all her mutant abilities aside from her healing factor and heightened senses.

Part III

63 notes · View notes

3d-wifey · 2 years ago

Text

And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 1

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 5.3k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! A/N: Don't be scared to click the embedded links, you might get an auditory surprise (Ai voice cloning works wonders)

Past (i) - You

[15 & 16] - THE CAPITOL

Pine is a simple wood. It grows in abundance, representing purity and innocence. In Eleven, it’s saved for children. Children like Cane. Only thirteen years old, but at the end of his life. He died in the initial bloodbath from a knife in the heart, you saw it yourself as you were running away. You had made eye contact with him for a split second and had contemplated waiting for him behind one of the many buildings encased by overgrown greenery. But, within the next second, those eyes had clouded over and cannon fire rang in your ears.

He looks so small in his pine casket, you note. The pale shade of his little brown face is the only giveaway that he isn’t sleeping.

His parents come to stand before him, withdrawn in their grief for their youngest child. They each place a fruit in his hand: a pear in his left, and an apple in his right. One for himself and another to share with whoever comes to take his soul.

Neem, his brother, holds up his sister Venus, the youngest girl. She is distraught, wails bouncing through the clearing. Their oldest sibling, Vera, hadn’t been permitted to leave the fields to come to the burial.

Chrysanthemums represent death, mourning, life, and goodbyes. Roses represent life, grief, and sadness. You watch as the adults of the town move in to help his family cover him head to toe in the petals. A few of these flowers are shipped to the Capitol to be used aesthetically, you’re sure. Such an odd thought knowing the rest are used here only for funerals.

You can’t help but think about how close you came to being the one under all those flowers. You imagine your mom having to place the fruits in your hands by herself. The hand on your shoulder keeps you pinned in place as Venus’s knees buckle. Your mom squeezes you to her side and you look at her tightened face. You aren't the only one imagining it.

The grave has already been dug and above it sits his headstone, a rock bigger than both of your hands combined with his initials and his age carved into it.

C.B.

You stare at that rock long after they put him in the ground and cover him in dirt. At the end of the ceremony, all of the children in attendance get in line to hug the family. This one is no different. You’re only fifteen, but you’ve been to many funerals. Only one stands out: your dad’s.

You remember being ten and getting irritated at how sticky the pomegranate juice made your hands, but you preferred it to the painful lump in your throat. You had to be lifted so you could place the fruit in his cold hands and you don’t think your mom put you down after, holding you close to her chest as the town’s children hugged you.

You’re at the back of the line nervously picking at your nail beds. There’s a certain amount of guilt tied to being the one who survived, especially in the face of the grieving family. You haven’t spoken to them since you got back a month ago—it took a while for the Capitol to return his body—but you know they don’t blame you. That’s just not the way people think in Eleven. You don’t turn against your own.

You’re nervous because you have a bigger part to play other than offering condolences and you promised Cane you’d complete it.

Before you go in to hug his father, you speak.

“I, uh, have something for you.” You pull a small bear figurine out of your pocket, crudely carved from wood. “Cane, he gave it to me to give to his family the night before we went into the arena. Just in case I managed to come back.” Something neither of you had any real hope of happening, but you understood the gesture for what it was. He wanted you to bring him back to his family. So you protected it with your life, literally.

And now he’s home.

And that’s what cracks them, you think. His mom’s lips quiver and his dad makes a pained noise when you place it in his shaking grip. And Neem, who has tried to stay strong for his family, gasps around a sob. Venus pulls you into a hug, tears dripping onto your neck.

A breeze comes through, shaking the leaves in the tree and cooling you from the humid heat. You like to think that it’s Cane’s way of thanking you for not forgetting him.

“Your accent is just darling. Say something else, say something else!” The woman in front of you exclaims. You can’t remember her name, but you’re pretty sure she never introduced herself to you anyway. In fact, you don’t think anyone has introduced themselves to you.

"Like what?"

"Like what?" They mock your voice, clapping like you’re a dog that did a trick. You smile around the embarrassment. Maybe for your next act, you’ll play dead. "Oh, that is just a treat."

You've officially been the winner of the sixty-seventh Hunger Games for six months and thirteen days. It's the end of your Victory Tour and all you have to do is tolerate the Capitols poking and prodding at you until the night is over. Though, that's easier said than done.

You remind yourself to make a conscious effort to bury the accent, sound a little more like them. The old you wouldn’t give a damn about how a Capitol perceives you, but the old you didn’t get pawed at nearly as much as you have tonight.

Your dress cinches at your waist uncomfortably. The heels you were forced into press painfully into the calluses on your feet, and you've eaten so many pastries that your jaw aches. Foreign hands pat at your hair, stroking and pulling at the curls as you recount for the fifth time how you escaped the tributes from District Five.

"I climbed to the top of a building and jumped between rooftops while they looked for me on the ground—"

“Skip to the part where you get your scythe!” Someone yells from the crowd, cutting you off. You purse your lips and bite your tongue so hard that you taste metal.

"Alright. Two days in, I was… gifted a scythe from a sponsor—"

"And you used it beautifully!" Another person calls from your left.

"Yes, that move you pulled off against that poor boy from Nine was simply marvelous!" A voice shouts from behind you. You remember him. How could you forget? The "move" you pulled off wasn't intentional. As a warning, you swung your scythe in wide arches, but he ran at you and the blade slit his stomach open. You think he did it on purpose, knowing how it would end for him. You put him out of his misery with his own knife.

He was the first person you killed in the arena. The first thing you had ever killed.

You bite into a muffin, and it tastes like ash on your tongue.

You try to ignore the multiple hands on your shoulders, arms, and neck; all moving to touch any bare skin they can reach. But it's hard to ignore soft hands that have never known a day of work. Much different from your own calloused palms, made rough from your days of harvesting crops and climbing high in trees to pick fruit.

You keep quiet as they talk at you, never actually trying to engage you in the conversation. You grimace as a hand touches your face.

"God, you are stunning—isn't she stunning?" A taller man smiles down at you with golden teeth, moving your face this way and that with his sharp nails.

"Oh, just gorgeous! Who knew they were hiding such a diamond in the Agriculture district, of all places?" The group breaks out in howling laughter, as if the very notion of something worthwhile coming out of District Eleven is outlandish. Somehow, both a joke at your expense and one they expect you to join in on.

You're willing to bet all of your earnings that none of these people have the slightest idea about life in Eleven, what it's like to be truly hungry. Children are being hung for stealing food and here they are, gorging themselves just to throw it all up. You're shaken by the thought that you are completely alone here. Forced to endure the abrasive attention of the Capitol residents until they grow bored with you. You contemplate how easy it would be to escape. You aren't sure how much longer you can go with people petting you like a domesticated animal. Maybe, if you make yourself sick from drinking those vomit-inducing drinks, you could make a strategic retreat with minimal fuss. "Excuse me, ladies, gentlemen," a smooth voice breaks through the crowd before a lithe body follows. The man—or boy, rather—is tall, all tan skin and sun-bleached-hair. Every eye falls on him as soon as he steps up, and you can understand why. Finnick Odair. He's objectively attractive; beautiful, even. You can tell from the brazen way he holds himself that he already knows that. Pink lips are settled in a smug smirk, but they don't take away from his eyes. If you were a writer, you could have authored a thousand and one poems about those eyes alone. "You wouldn't mind me stealing tonight's guest of honor for a dance, would you?" It's quiet, and the crowd looks at each other. They clearly don't want to give you up—their brand-new toy. But who can say no to Finnick Odair? Exclaims of oh, certainly and of course are called out before he comes to stand in front of you. Someone pulls the saucer of miniature cakes and cookies from your death grip and you feel bare before him. You had seen him two years ago during his games. Then, six months after that he came to Eleven for his Victory Tour, apologizing to the families of people he didn't know nor care about. He was just another pretty Career laughing and being gushed over on Caesar Flickerman's couch, pretty low on your list of priorities. But now—well, it was one thing to see him on screen, it was another to be in front of him. It's a lot like standing in front of the ocean, you imagine. You had seen it secondhand, through train windows and simulated in arenas, but nothing could prepare you to see it in person. He doesn't push you to take his hand, just holds it out in front of him like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows you'll take it, eventually. The temptation to reject him is strong. You’d pay money to see the look on his and everyone else's faces if you said no and walked away.

You reach forward and a callused palm meets your own. You trust him as much as you do everyone else vying for your attention here, but he's the lesser of two evils. You tense up as you follow him, mentally preparing yourself to be surrounded. But he doesn't lead you to the center of the dancing mass like you thought he would. Instead, you both linger on the edge, barely close enough to be a part of the crowd. He faces you and asks, "May I have this dance?" Overly formal in a way that nobody else here has been with you.

"We're already here, aren't we?" You say as if you weren’t just contemplating leaving him behind. You step closer to him as the band starts a new song, your right hand holding his left and the other on his shoulder. His free hand lays on your waist, a fraction above the slit on the side of your dress.

“Have you been having fun?” He picks, certainly nonexistent, lint off the shoulder of your dress. Is your eye twitching? It has to be. You want to place a hand on it to tamp down the spasms, but, instead, your nails dig into his shoulder through his suit jacket.

“What? Are you not enjoying your time in our great nation's capitol?” He deadpans. Your mouth tries to twitch into a smirk and you smother it down.

You narrow your eyes. “What’re your thoughts on lying?”

He inhales slowly, head tilting side to side contemplatively. “Depends. Am I the one lying?” You shake your head. He shrugs. “Then, I hate it.”

“Then, I won’t answer,” you shrug back. He lets out a puff of air from his nose, a laugh?

"I'm surprised Seeder isn't here with you. She talked you up a big game, you know. Very confident that you'd win." His eyes sweep over the crowd of dancing couples before settling on you. “Guess, I should have bet on you too, huh?”

You don’t know how you feel about that. Why would Seeder be that confident in a semi-malnourished fifteen-year-old with no combat skills?

You definitely wouldn’t have bet on yourself. If you were in his shoes, you would’ve put money into one of the Careers. Maybe that one girl from Two—perhaps the most muscular person you’ve ever seen. She was benching at least twice her body weight in the Training Center, but you think it was just an intimidation tactic. Though, a pointless one, since she didn’t even make it out of the Cornucopia. You suppose no amount of muscle can combat an axe to the back of the spine. “I wouldn’t have if I were you. But now that you've actually seen me, do I meet all the expectations she set?” You partially joke. Partially because as much as you hate to admit it, you are curious. Why you’re curious about what he thinks of you will remain a mystery. “Now that I've actually seen you? No,” you look up at him in shock before he grins like a shark, teeth on display. "You exceed them. Don't get me wrong. You were beautiful on screen, but the TV doesn't do you justice." He does little to hide the once-over he gives you. It was meant to be caught. You don't know what to say. You've been excessively complimented and fawned over since you were reaped, but somehow, it felt different coming from him. His gaze felt different. Like he actually saw you. You throw that thought away. Finnick is a known flirt—a playboy. He means nothing by it and neither does the look in his eyes. "She's pregnant. Seeder," you clarify, abruptly changing the topic. “About seven months along. She's resting at the hotel.” Traveling for so long had taken its toll. Not to mention the stress of just being in the Capitol. Snow, the bastard, wouldn't let her stay behind, even though Chaff was willing to take her place as your mentor on the tour. "Ah, congratulations are in order then."

"Please,” you scoff. “I'm sure you didn't come up to me just to talk about Seeder." Your gaze bounces around his face as you do everything in your power to avoid eye contact with him.

“Why not? I can’t ask about a good friend?”

“If you’re such “good friends” shouldn’t you have already known she was pregnant?”

“Touché.” He concedes with a nod, his smile still in place. Or at least you think he does. You aren’t entirely sure what touché means. “I came up to you because you looked like you were one more scone away from using it as a weapon." The laugh you let out is a surprise to you both and you have to bite your cheek to stifle it. You haven’t been doing a whole lot of laughing over the past six months.

"Was I that obvious?" He's quiet for a moment as he stares at you and you don't dwell on it. Instead, you focus on the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose.

You're only a year younger than him and, yet, there's something about him that feels far older than any other sixteen-year-old you've met. The way he carries himself—something sharp-edged hidden under indifference, an alertness in his eyes that you're sure mirrors your own. "To anyone who cared to look," his voice deepens as he hums. It really is smooth. "Definitely." "Am I supposed to believe that the Capitol's darling cares about little ol' me?" "So, you do know who I am." His lips shift into a shit-eating grin, preening as if he caught you in a lie. He’s probably used to people fawning over him, and that’s something you’d never do. Be that as it may, you can acknowledge that there might be something worth fawning over. “Who doesn't?” It’s been two years and people are still talking about his games. And for good reason, you have to admit.

"Touché...again.” He tilts his head with contemplatively narrowed eyes. You narrow your eyes right back simply based on the fact that he did it first. “You know, that’s the second time you’ve—” "Seriously, what're you hoping to achieve here? You've gotta have a motive. Everyone does.” You push, cutting to the chase and sounding more accusatory than you meant to. But, he’s a victor too, right? Maybe you can toe the line here without repercussions waiting on the other side.

"Hmm, blunt. Even you?" He questions, continuing when you nod. "What's your motive for dancing with me, then?"

You could have said no to this dance, but that would’ve meant staying surrounded by them. This, being with Finnick, is a breath of fresh air in comparison. He may not be Eleven or from any other district that’s similar to yours, but he is District. That’s gotta be worth something—some kind of kinship.

"I'd do just about anything to escape those vultures," you pause. Then, feeling emboldened, add, "And I guess you're not terrible to look at." If you were going to be forced to stay here, you might as well find your fun where you can. And talking to Finnick is fun. Undoubtedly, the only fun you've had all night.

"Oh, thank you," he laughs, mirth coloring his cheeks a pretty shade of pink. "You know, I was worried about that."

"Is that so?" You smile, trying, and failing, to not step on his feet.

"Definitely," he pauses for a second, seemingly deciding on something before answering your question, "It’s just that—you remind me of someone. They got wrapped up in the Capitol; thought they could handle the…” he makes a wide sweeping gesture to the gluttonous pageantry around you and you get it: the extravagance, the theatrics, the Capitol of it all. “But the Capitol asked for more than they were willing to give. And, well...I couldn't save them." His eyes look glazed as he trails off. His face is grim, his smile gone so fast it's almost like it was never there to begin with. You find that you want it back. "And you want to save me?" You guess, heart in your throat.

"Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The people here? Every single one of them wants us. They want to talk to us, touch us, sleep with us," you swallow at the look in his eye. "But they don't see us as people." He leans towards you and you freeze. For a split second, you think he's going to kiss you. That doesn’t scare you. Instead, he hovers by your ear. What would you have done if he had kissed you? You don't think you would've moved away. That scares you. "Me and you," he hums, lips against your ear, "Well, we might as well be a completely different species to them. We're lesser than. Beloved pets at most, tamed beasts at least."

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” You live in Eleven, after all. There’s a reason no one goes looking for the kids that go missing from the fields. According to the people in charge, there’ll always be another to take their place. You sigh through your nose and turn away, but immediately turn back to Finnick when you make eye contact with the smiling man with gold teeth.

He shakes his head, lips curled into a frown of disgust, "Look at them, the way they linger at the edge of the crowd." The hand on your waist moves to the small of your back as he spins you. "You see how desperate they are to get in your good graces?" You peek over his shoulder at the people watching you, teeming with anticipation.

"Is that not what you're doing?" You ask, your cheek pressed to his. "Trust me, sweetheart. If I was trying to gain your favor, it'd be somewhere a little more private with a lot less talking." He doesn't give you enough time to reply, not that you know how, before continuing. "I'm doing the same thing I've done since I was reaped," he lowers his voice, almost like he's imparting some kind of secret. To the right person, maybe he is. "Surviving. I'd suggest finding your allies now if you wanna do the same. " And then he turns to place a chaste kiss against your cheek. To anyone watching the two of you, it would look like he's just flirting with you. You shiver as he pulls away from you, taking all the warmth with him. He looks down at you for a moment longer, locking you in his gaze. You had never really seen the ocean, you remind yourself, but, through him, you're staring at it now. Vast and limitless. All-consuming. He brings your knuckles to his smooth lips, and he smirks. The urge to shiver again is alarmingly strong as his mouth moves delicately against the skin of your knuckles as he begins to speak. "Until next time." You catch the shimmer in his sea-green eyes. It has to mean something, something worth pursuing. You've never known the ocean, but as you watch Finnick walk away into the crowd of adoring Capitols, you think you could grow to like it. There's a drive in him that's rare to see outside of Eleven, let alone in the Capitol, and it further proves your assumption right. There’s a kinship between the districts that only the victors are privy to—you and Finnick might be cut from the same cloth, and that’s made even more apparent by the way the masses move in to surround you both. You jump as trumpets sound around you and a spotlight shines on the balcony. You missed your chance to escape. It's time for Snow's speech.

Present (I) - You

[23 & 24 ] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

It’s winter in Eleven. There’s little worse than winter in Eleven. You must have forgotten to close your window when you left in a rush because the air in your room is practically crystallized, and you mull over the idea of igniting your fireplace but decide against it.

Normally, you would go to the Capitol after being invited to a party, your prep team would scrub and shave you from top to bottom, and Snow would introduce you to your client for the night. Then, you would stay in your hotel room and have time to recoup before you left. But, this time, there was no party. Only a very important partner of Snow’s who is not a patient man. So you left in the early morning and made the trip back the next day as the sun was rising. Seven hours there, seven hours back. You’re dead on your feet and your bed has never looked more tempting. You stand before your vanity and grab a makeup wipe, dragging it over your face and revealing the bags under your eyes. You're tired, bone tired. You kick your heels off. You unzip the back of your dress and let it fall to the ground. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you press on one of the bruises littering your neck. You follow the trail to the top of your chest, breast, stomach, and hips. You frown at yourself. What a pitiful painting you make. "It's starting!" Your mom calls from down the hall and you sigh, looking at your bed mournfully. You'd usually avoid Snow's announcements like the plague, you don't want to look at him more than you already have to, but it's different this time. It's the Quarter Quell. The last Quarter Quell had double the amount of tributes, and Haymitch told you how he only won by the skin of his teeth. So, despite yourself, you're curious to see what kind of nightmare Snow comes up with. There's also something else driving you. A man you met in passing at the party. Plutarch Heavensbee. He was strange, but a different kind than you were used to from the Capitols. He's taking the place of Head Gamemaker after Seneca Crane's untimely death. He spoke in riddles, always hinting at things of importance without saying anything at all. And there's a nagging feeling in the back of your mind surrounding something he said. "I understand that there’s a certain kind of…job that President Snow has employed you for. If I told you there was a chance to put an end to it, what would you say?" "I'd say you should cut back on the Morphling." "I assure you, I'm sober," he laughed, "I can't go into detail right now. I just need to know, when the time comes, that I can trust you to fight." Fight. It’s an interesting term, but you wonder if it has the same definition for him as it does for you. You doubt it. Very rarely is there ever any overlap between the way of thinking for Eleven and the Capitol. The people of Eleven fight every day and you’ve heard the other districts have finally picked up on the habit. Riots upon riots upon riots and it’s all thanks to the kids from Twelve. You still can't decipher what he was telling you and you’d usually chalk it up to the regular Capitol jargon. But there was something, something different that you couldn’t put your finger on.

You throw pajamas on, something soft that won't irritate you, and walk to the living room. "Here: sugar, berries, and licorice root, just the way you like it." Your mom hands you the cup and pretends she doesn't see the marks on your body. You're thankful. She looks tired too, older. "Thank you, Ma." You say, for more than just the tea. "Of, course. Now, sit, sit. He's walking out." You settle gingerly on the couch beside her, sorer than you thought, and pull your legs under you as Snow stands behind a podium. He lets the audience quiet down before beginning. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the seventy-fifth year of The Hunger Games. And it was written in the charter of The Games that every twenty-five years, there would be a Quarter Quell to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against The Capitol." You drink carefully from your cup as he continues, steaming liquid burning the roof of your mouth. "Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by Games of a special significance. And now on this, the seventy-fifth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell," you place your cup on the table and fidget with your bracelet as Snow pulls a letter from an envelope, "as a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of The Capitol. On this, the third Quarter Quell Games the male and female Tributes are to be reaped—" The hairs on your arms stand on end. You brace for the blow. "—from the existing pool of victors in each district." "No. No, no, no, that's not, that's not right." You shake your head. It doesn't take long for your mom to start sobbing beside you and you…you can't breathe.

You suck a breath in and it feels like it's being funneled through a filter. Not enough, not nearly enough. Your heart's beating fast, faster, the fastest it’s ever beat and you're getting lightheaded. You stand up on shaking legs and stumble to the door, glass shatters as you knock a vase over in your pursuit. You need more air, you need, you need—you step out onto the snow-covered porch, submerging your bare feet in the white powder. It’s odd, it rarely snows here.

You kneel down and grab fistfuls of snow, smearing the ice on your face and grounding yourself. You breathe and you rationalize. You can breathe. You're taking in frigid lungfuls of air and you are breathing. You stare down the long walkway leading to your home, covered in both ice and snow. Across from that walkway is a cow pasture and past that pasture are woods. Vast and open and if you will it, no one would be able to find you. You wouldn’t be able to leave, not with the giant electric fence surrounding the district, but they wouldn’t find you.

But Snow could find your mom.

You stay out there until your feet and hands go numb. And then you stay until it hurts to move your fingers and toes, the skin of your shins and knees prickling with the temperature drop. You stay until your mom drags you in herself. "Let's warm you up." She says, but she's mostly talking to herself. She wraps you in a blanket and sits you on the couch. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a fresh cup of tea. Saliva gathers in your mouth at the thought of drinking anything, so you use it to warm your hands instead.

“Oh, look what you’ve done to yourself.” You look to where she’s hovering over the carpet. Red footprints lead from the door to where you are now. You must have stepped on the broken pieces of the vase. You wait for the sting of pain to come now that you’re aware of the wound, but there’s nothing.

“I’ll go get something to clean you up with—”

“Can you just…can you just sit with me?” You ask and look away when you catch her frenzied gaze.

“Yeah, of course, baby. Of course.” The couch dips with her weight as she sits beside you.

By now, Caesar Flickerman is recapping the announcement to the audience with his cheery co-star. You can never remember his name. You're as still as a statue as Caesar goes over a list of remaining victors. You don't move when your mom holds onto you. She holds you and she holds you and she cries for you. You don’t think you have any more tears left in you.

“Now, it always hurts to say goodbye, Claudius, but I can admit there are a few lovely victors I’m particularly attached to.” Oh, you think, that’s his name. Doubtful that you’ll remember it.

“Yes, Caesar, I completely agree. Here’s one of mine now. From District Four: Finnick Odair!” Your eye starts to twitch, lower lid spasming. They play clips of him. Finnick waving to the audience as he walks on stage, Finnick posing for the camera at a photo shoot, Finnick walking down the red carpet at a movie premiere.

You imagine footage of him being reaped for the Quell and saliva is gathering in your mouth again, stomach flexing as you gag. You double over, nausea washing over you as you try to keep what little is in your stomach down. Absently, you feel a hand rubbing your back in wide, soothing circles that aren’t doing a lot to soothe you.

You were wrong. You do have tears left in you.

A/N: 1.) your arena is inspired by Valle dei Mulin in Italy 2.) The people of 11 all have farm and gardening-related names. (Neem tree, venus flytrap, aloe vera, Mass Cane) 3.) Cane had a crush on the reader similar to Peeta's initial crush on Katniss 4.) Each district has a different accent depending on their geography

#the hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #catching fire #hunger games catching fire #finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #and they'd find us in a week

272 notes · View notes