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ilguna · 1 year ago

Note

Hey! Can I get the number 89 (in honour of 1989 tv) with finnick ?

☼ lovestruck, lovesick, lovelorn pt1 (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, death mention, death, gore for sure, blood, weapon usage, mention of prostitution.

wc; 8.6k

prompt; 86. "Do you trust her?" // "No, but I trust her anger."

notes; i already did 89 for Peeta (castaway) and i'm trying not to do any repeats, so we're going with 86 :)

part two, part three.

The golden Cornucopia sits abandoned in the middle of this black sand island, whereas normally it’s occupied by the Careers to ensure that no intruders steal from them. There must not be anything worth protecting in here, then, besides the weapons that are displayed.

This allows the group to spread out, picking places to rest in the shade. Peeta lowers Beetee to the ground, propping him up against a box. He backs off, going to stand next to Katniss.

Beetee calls out to Wiress, making her go over to him. She crouches down, hands on her knees, waiting. In her limited state of mind, you’re fairly surprised that she’s still comprehending people, much less requests. He holds up his coil of wire, she takes it. “Clean it, will you?”

Wiress nods, wordlessly getting to her feet and going to sit on the edge of the island to clean the spool of blood. She dunks it in the water, occasionally using her fingers to rub a particularly hard spot. While she does this, she begins to sing, no longer repeating the words ‘tick tock’.

It must be some sort of nursery rhyme from District Three, because you don’t recognize it. It’s about a mouse running up and down a clock, which is fairly appropriate, given the recent discovery, thanks to her.

“Oh, not the song again.” Johanna says, rolling her brown eyes. “That went on for hours before she started tick-tocking.”

Wiress stops suddenly, getting to her feet, posture rigid as she points to the jungle and says, “Two.”

The rest of you watch as a white wave of fog begins to seep onto the beach. From here, it doesn't seem so threatening. You probably wouldn’t think twice about it, if you hadn’t run for your life from it early this morning. While it melted your jumpsuit and poisoned your skin, causing you to strip to your under clothes and for your body to be covered in scabs from where it touched you.

You’d rather fight the orange monkey muttations a hundred times than risk doing that again.

“Yes, look, Wiress is right. It’s two o’clock and the fog has started.” Katniss says.

“LIke clockwork.” Peeta agrees. “You were very smart to figure that out, Wiress.”

Wiress smiles, and then kneels in the sand to continue singing and dunking the coil in water. “Oh, she’s more than smart.” Beetee says from beside you. Your eyes slide over to him. “She’s intuitive. She can sense things before anyone else. Like a canary in one of your coal mines.”

“What’s that?” Finnick asks Katniss.

“It’s a bird that we take down into the mines to warn us if there’s bad air.” She says.

“What’s it do, die?” Johanna scoffs.

“It stops singing first. That’s when you should get out. But if the air’s too bad, it dies, yes. And so do you.” Katniss ends that line of conversation, turning to go inside of the Cornucopia.

Johanna goes in after her to poke around in the weapons, since she’s been empty handed the entire time. Funny how Beetee was able to make it to the Cornucopia before she did, even if it ended up getting him hurt because of it.

You briefly glance at Finnick from where you were watching Johanna, and you have to do a double-take when you realize that he’s staring at you. He looks you over, up and down, which would be flattering, if you didn’t know that he was assessing your demeanor, deciding if you were a threat.

You squint at him, face twisting. “What?”

“Nothing.” He tells you.

“It’s not nothing if you’re looking at me like that.” You snap. “Leave me alone.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything back. You’re getting tired of him thinking that you’re going to betray the alliance. You’re in this as much as he is, you volunteered to be here. If anything, he should be a little grateful that he got a district partner that’s invested and capable.

He doesn’t see it that way, though. He thinks that you’re just as bad as Enobaria and Brutus—that you’re itching to get back into an arena to kill for some spotlight. And you know this, because he told you himself on the train. Once you were out of sight of the cameras, he tried to lay you out in front of Mags and the escort, and you shut him down.

You know he disagrees with the way you choose to handle situations, but to think that you would get in the way of a rebellion was a slap to the face. You made sure he knew that later on, when you were out of earshot of the Peacekeepers. If he wanted to think of you so lowly, fine. The line is drawn when he begins to implant those ideas in other people’s heads, too. Especially since you’ve done nothing to deserve it.

It didn’t matter to him. In fact, he tried to block you from being invited into the alliance by telling Haymitch that you could fuck the whole plan if your mood changes. He said all it would take is one disagreement, one thing not going the way you wanted, one wrong look, and you’d make sure that everyone else would be brought down by it.

Thankfully, Haymitch knows better than to just take Finnick’s word for it. He might be a drunk, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention for the past ten years. He knows that you and Finnick have a history of not getting along. If anything, you’ll sabotage Finnick more than you will the alliance as a whole.

Which is why he told you that you have a place in it, if you want. And while everyone else places stepping stones to make sure that the plan to get rescued is in place. You were told that you have two jobs; the first one being protecting Katniss and Peeta, a task that you were already prepared to risk your life for. As for the second one—if anything were to go wrong, if someone unexpected were to get killed, you’ll replace their shoes, and get Katniss and Peeta to the end of the day at all costs.

This is why you’ve been on edge. If Finnick would see past his hatred for you, and thought about it, he’d realize that you’re trying to make sure that Katniss and Peeta are in good positions. You are not the threat here.

Johanna lets out a grunt, you turn your head in time to watch as she throws an axe through the air, straight at the Cornucopia. It hits the sun-softened gold with a gentle thud, and it sticks. She crosses the area, pulling it out by the handle, making a face at the blade.

Katniss is digging through the weapons, probably looking for more arrows to add to her collection, because two sheaths aren’t enough. When she finds one, she swings it over her back and comes out to stand over Peeta, who’s drawing a map of the arena onto a large leaf that he brought from the jungle. He slices the circle, creating twelve equal wedges.

“Look how the Cornucopia is positioned.” He says, looking up at her.

Her eyebrows draw in, and she turns around to take a look at the building she just came out of. “The tail points to twelve o’clock.”

“Right, so this is the top of our clock.” He says, numbering the wedges one through twelve. “Twelve to one is the lightning zone.” He proceeds to write lightning in the wedge, and then goes clockwise, adding blood, fog, and monkeys in the next sections.

“And ten to eleven is the wave.” She says, he writes it down.

Finnick comes over with Johanna, the two of them have upped the weapon count on their bodies. And he thinks you’re the dangerous one, as if you don’t have a sword and a couple knives on you. Does he really need two tridents and half a dozen knives? It makes him look…

Hot, a voice whispers from the depth of your mind, It makes him look hot.

He’s standing in a patch of sun, where the Cornucopia doesn’t quite reach. The sunbeams baking his already tanned skin. His eyes are a brighter shade of sea green, with the light being in his eyes. He looks like he belongs at the bottom of the ocean, commanding the creatures that dwell in it.

He must feel your eyes on him, because he flickers over to yours. You stare for a second longer, before blinking and looking away, back at the map that’s being drawn.

It’s a shame that Finnick decided years back that he would rather keep you at a distance instead of making a friend out of you. The two of you are so similar that it hurts at times, but all he can see are the differences, which hurts more.

The both of you won at young ages, with him setting the record, while you won at fifteen. He had an advantage in his Games, though, because the sponsors were drawn in by his good looks for being someone so young. This meant that he had everything he could have ever asked for gifted to him in the arena.

On the other hand, you didn’t make much of an impression during your reaping or the Tribute Parade, forcing you to change the strategy that you’d been given by Finnick and Mags. They wanted you to keep your head down, but if you wanted even a sliver of a chance, you needed to make your name big.

So, that’s exactly what you did. And that’s where the resentment he has for you, started. You showed off absolutely all your skills in the Training Center, making sure the Gamemakers knew you had potential, getting you a score of nine. During your interviews, you told Caesar that there wasn’t a single hurdle you wouldn’t jump to get home.

That statement was put to the test in the arena, when you killed several tributes, including your own district partner, because you knew it put you one step closer to getting out. You didn’t care what bridges you had to burn, how many sponsors you had to lose, or if you lost the support of your mentors. Nothing could stop you, and it didn’t.

Finnick hates that you had no remorse when you got out of the arena. Or now, because you told him that this is the hill you’ve chosen to die on, because between life and death, you choose life. He can’t wrap his head around the fact you’re so cold. How could the two of you be from the same district?

The similarities came back into play when you turned sixteen, when the Capitol realized that they do care about you. Which changed your title from victor to Capitol darling. You were told to join Finnick and be a prostitute, or President Snow would kill your family.

This is where you screwed up, believing him to be bluffing. You didn’t think he would actually do it, but he’s a man of his word. When you were done listening to the screams and pleas of your parents to spare your siblings, Snow told you that if you didn’t agree, Finnick’s family would be next.

You had no choice, you had to agree. And when Finnick found out that you landed right where he was, there wasn’t a single shred of empathy he had toward you. Not even after you returned to District Four, and he learned that your family had been murdered in your home. The one you’d be forced to stay in for an additional two weeks while they got your victor house ready.

If you weren’t indifferent to his existence before, you sure as hell were then.

“Did you notice anything unusual in the others?” Katniss asks Johanna and Beetee, referring to the wedges.

“Only blood.” Johanna says, Beetee nods.

“I guess they could hold anything.” Katniss looks down at Peeta.

“I’m going to mark the ones where we know the Gamemakers’ weapon follows us out past the jungle, so we’ll stay clear of those.” Peeta says, drawing diagonal lines on the fog and wave beaches. He then sits back. “Well, it’s a lot more than we knew this morning, anyway.”

You look up, going to check on Wiress, since she’s gone quiet. Your eyes find Gloss, water dripping from his bare skin, knife sliding across the skin on her throat. It’s too late to save her, you know this when the blood begins to come down her neck like a waterfall.

The knife on your belt is in your hand and flying through the air in the matter of seconds. It’s headed right for Gloss, and when the blade lodges in the center of his forehead, it throws him back. This kills him instantly.

A movement out of the corner of your eye makes you turn your head, hand reaching for the knife that’s lined up next, but Johanna’s on it. She buries her axe in the center of Cashmere’s chest, eliminating her.

Three cannons blast, back to back.

Finnick swings his trident upward, deflecting a spear that had been aiming for Peeta, thrown by Brutus. Finnick goes to twist his body to take the knife that Enobaria throws at Beetee, but he misses by an inch. It’s too late for you to save Beetee, as the knife shatters the lens on the right side, and the blade buries itself in his eye socket.

Fuck.

Another cannon blasts.

You shove Finnick out of the way to chase after Enobaria and Brutus, who are making their escape around the backside of the Cornucopia. They’ve successfully killed two of your most important allies, and they don’t even realize it.

The two Careers are running down one of the sand strips to the beach. You manage to throw one more knife at Brutus before he’s out of range. It slams into his right calf, taking him down. He lands on his hands and knees, which is exactly what you were hoping for.

Right as you’re about to step onto the strip, the ground beneath you jerks, throwing you down. The center island of the Cornucopia begins to spin, fast. You press your sword between your body and the ground, digging your fingers into the grooves to hold on.

It’s only thirty seconds later when it slams to a stop without warning.

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking measured breaths to calm the growing annoyance in your chest. The Gamemakers knew you would kill Brutus, and later Enobaria, if you caught up with her. That’s why they had to intervene, otherwise the fun of the Games would be gone.

You slam your fist against the rock, pushing yourself to your knees. You lean back on your heels slightly, face to the sun while you collect yourself. With Wiress and Beetee being gone, this is a very large hiccup that you’re going to have to smooth out. You jinxed yourself, didn’t you?

A sigh leaves you as you get to your feet, swinging the sword into your hand. As you round the corner, you can see that everyone else is upright. Finnick looks over at you, eyebrows raised, waiting for good news, because you were the closest to the Two tributes.

“Brutus is injured. I would’ve had him if the fuckin’ Gamemakers had minded their own business.” You stab the tip of the sword into a patch of sand.

“Where’s Volts?” Johanna asks, looking around the group.

“He’s dead.” You tell her.

She meets your eyes, “What happened?”

“I—” Finnick starts.

“I didn’t block the knife in time.” You talk over him. “Enobaria’s got a strong arm, it went right through his glasses.”

You can see Finnick staring at you from the corner of your eye. You lick your lips, tasting the salt of the water, before pressing them together. When you look at him, the two of you stare for a long second.

You, Johanna and Finnick know what this means. If just one of the Three tributes had been killed, you could’ve used the other. With both of them being gone, it means that someone needs to pick up their job, and you were the one that was elected to do just that.

“What now?” Finnick asks you.

You tilt your head, eyes going out to the water, finding two of the four bodies. It’s got to be Wiress and Gloss, because they’d been right next to each other when they died. You lean your sword up against the Cornucopia before wandering forward, to the edge of the island.

Wiress is floating on her back, on her stomach sits the spool of wire, golden and shining in the sunlight. You begin to head down the sand strip closest to her body. “I want the wire.”

“What for?” Johanna asks, “That was his weapon, not yours.”

You look over your shoulder. “It has to be now, doesn’t it?”

Johanna makes a face, but it’s not one of doubt. She knows that you’re right, that’s why she won’t bother to argue. Not that she would, anyway. You and Johanna get along, basically two peas in the same pod. She just likes Finnick more, because he puts up with her bullshit.

You jog as close as you can get to Wiress’s body, before diving in the warm water. It’s a nice break from the sun, even if it is for a minute. It doesn’t take long to get to her body, prying the coil from her fingers. You’re about to swim away, when you hesitate, closing her eyes.

Finnick is waiting for you on the strip when you get back to it. You place the wire on the rock, and he reaches down to help you up. Your face twists, but you take his hand, letting him help. The moment you’re on both feet, he pulls you close, a rough hand on your shoulder as he pulls you close to speak in your ear.

“If you can’t do this, you need to tell me. I’ll figure something else out.” Finnick harshly whispers.

You jerk back, squinting at him. “Worry about yourself.”

As you stoop to grab the wire, Finnick shakes his head. “I mean it, (Y/n).”

“And so do I.” You tell him, lowering your voice. “There’s a reason why Haymitch trusted me with this, and not you.”

He raises his eyebrows, “We’re back to this, huh?”

You scoff loudly. “You’re the one that’s upset by it, Finnick. So, here’s a fucking suggestion: deal with it.” You shake your head. “You’re so worried that I’m going to betray the alliance, that’s you’re forgetting that this is what I do.” You motion to the jungle with your free hand. “Enobaria and Brutus can run all they want, but we both know they’re going to have to come out eventually if they plan on finishing us off. And when they do, they’re going to get it.

“Not from you, not from Johanna, from me.” You seethe, moving around Finnick to head back up to the Cornucopia. You throw your hands up, one of them still holding the wire. “Face it, Finnick, I’ve got this handled.”

You turn around, finding that your three other allies have their eyes on you. You ignore them, watching where you place your feet. On the island, you retrieve your sword, dropping the wire onto a box. Finnick is a few feet behind you, wearing a hard expression.

You hate it when you have to talk to him like that, but you can’t do it any other way if you want him to listen to you. It’s like he doesn’t care unless you’re being hostile, except that tone of voice has him on edge, afraid that you’re going to flip a switch.

There is no happy medium. It’s like he’s dead-set on thinking that you’re an unlikable person. You wouldn’t have minded having an actual conversation between you, Finnick and Johanna to figure out a plan together. It’s his fault that he decided to take the situation into his own hands by assuming that you wouldn’t have the ability to fill Beetee’s shoes.

It makes you mad, so now you’re going to take care of it by yourself. As much as he wants you to ask for help, you’ll do everything in your power to make sure you don’t need him. Or the others, for that matter.

“Let’s get off this stinking island.” Johanna says once Finnick has joined the group.

You dig through the weapons in the Cornucopia, looking for a pair of knives that aren’t too short. The only ones that are available are displayed on the wall in the very back. They’re slightly curved, not too heavy. They’ll work just fine.

You watch as Peeta, Finnick and Johanna start in three different directions.

You stand next to Katniss, watching this. When they realize that no one is following them, they stop.

“Twelve o’clock, right?” Peeta asks. “The tail points at twelve.”

“Before they spun us.” Finnick says. “I was judging by the sun.”

“The sun only tells you it’s going on four, Finnick.” Katniss tells him. “Any one of these paths could lead to twelve o’clock.”

You tuck the knives in your belt, as you circle the Cornucopia with them to try and find the path that’ll lead to the twelve beach. Only, the jungle is perfectly replicated in every section, down to the last tree. Johanna suggests following Enobaria and Brutus’s path, but it’s been washed away.

Katniss stops. “I should have never mentioned the clock. Now they’ve taken that advantage away as well.”

“For now.” You murmur. “We still have the wave at ten to tell us, we’ll be back on track after that.”

“Yes, they can’t redesign the whole arena.” Peeta says.

“It doesn’t matter.” Johanna’s growing impatient, wanting to move. “You had to tell us or we never would have moved our camp in the first place, brainless. Come on, I need water. Anyone have a good gut feeling?”

You let them decide which strip to take to the beach. Katniss and Peeta begin to lead the way. You grab the wire, motioning for Johanna and Finnick to go next, but they don’t budge. You roll your eyes and duck your head, putting a good distance between you and Peeta before you walk.

“What’s the plan?” Johanna’s voice sounds far, and she’s trying to be quiet, but there’s not enough going on for it to conceal her.

“She says she’ll handle it.” Finnick murmurs, you can’t tell if he’s mad or not.

“That’s it?” She asks, “It looked like she was yelling at you.”

“She did.” He says. “She told me to worry about myself, and she’ll handle Enobaria and Brutus.”

Johanna doesn’t speak right away. “Do you trust her?”

“No, but I trust her anger.” He tells her. “She’s right, this is what she does best.”

“So, you want to follow behind her?”

“Do you have any other ideas?” Finnick shoots back.

“No.” Johanna sighs.

When you get to the jungle, they look inside of it, trying to figure out if there’s anything waiting inside or not. When you can’t see any immediate threats, they relax.

“Well, it must be monkey hour. And I don’t see any of them in there.” Peeta says. “I’m going to try to tap a tree.”

“No, it’s my turn.” Finnick objects. “I’ll at least watch your back.”

“Katniss can do that.” Johanna says. “We need you to make another map. The other washed away.” She reaches up, yanking off a large leaf to hand to him. “(Y/n) can stay with us, while she figures out what to do with the wire.”

You drop it in the sand, along with your sword, as you sit down. Peeta crouches beside you, beginning to make his map, again. As you watch him draw the slices, your mind begins to wander.

Katniss and Peeta are the Careers’ focus. They want to target the ones with the highest scores first, and then work their way down. If they take out a few of you in the process, then that’s great, but they’re afraid of what the Twelve tributes could’ve possibly done in order to get a perfect score.

It was a little odd for Gloss to go for Wiress, if this is the case. And Cashmere wasn’t able to kill anybody before she died. You guess she might have been going for Katniss, but Johanna was in between them, she wasn’t going to make it that far. That’s why Brutus tried to get Peeta with the spear, and maybe the knife was originally aimed for Peeta, not Beetee?

You just can’t wrap your head around their strategy of getting rid of the Three tributes. Were Enobaria and Brutus that worried about you guys coming up with a plan to use the explosives on the tribute platforms? It wouldn’t be the first time it happened in the Games, it’s just a stupid idea to do it in the water, when you have nothing to steady yourself on.

Either way, you need to figure out a way to draw them in. If there’s anything you know for sure, it’s that they’ll wait until dark to attack again, because they’ll have cover. It’s only the two of them now, which means they won’t attack the five of you all together, they’ll get overpowered in seconds. They’ll wait until you split up.

You play with the wire, twisting it between your fingers while you think.

If they send another twenty-four rolls from District Three tonight, you’ll have no choice but to go into the jungle for the lightning section, because that’s where they’ll be rescuing you out of the arena. You would just say that you should go up to the lightning tree and wait, except you won’t know what time it is until ten, like you said.

When the wave does it, you’ll have two hours to get to the tree. After that, Katniss and Peeta will have to get split up long enough to get the tracker out of their arms. That’ll be the perfect time to kill Enobaria and Brutus, too.

You just need a reason for them to split up. Johanna’s already agreed to getting it out of Katniss’s arm, which left Peeta for Finnick. You need some sort of placebo plan in the meantime, something for them to focus on to keep their minds off of the fact that the situation is going to be very, very suspicious.

“That’s it.” Peeta says, sitting back. “I don’t—”

A scream cuts through the still air, silencing him. You whip around to look back at the jungle, unsure of whether or not it belongs to Katniss. As you get to your feet, sword in your hand, you can hear another voice, shouting back. That one sounds like Katniss.

“What’s happening?” Peeta asks.

You get to your feet before he does, pulling the sword into your hand as you break through the jungle, swinging at any leaves in your way. “I think we chose the wrong section.”

“It’s supposed to be the monkey mutts right now, how can it be anything else?” Peeta asks.

Your face twists as you look over your shoulder, finding that Johanna’s eyes have rolled back as far as she can get them. “Because it’s the next hour?” She snarks.

Peeta doesn’t respond. For a moment, you’re genuinely concerned that the forcefield on the first day might have fried his brain a lot more than you thought. When you begin to think of all the decisions he’s made over these past couple of days, you relax. It’s not really out of his nature to say something stupid once in a while.

You’re about twenty yards into the jungle when you stop suddenly, sword at your side, eyes scanning the trees above. When Johanna and Peeta finally pause, you realize just how quiet it is out here.

Johanna takes a step or two forward, coming to stand next to you, looking up at the tree branches. She covers her eyes with one hand, squinting. “There’s no birds.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” You tell her, your normal voice feels too loud. “There’s not even insects.”

“What are you thinking?” She asks, looking at you.

“I feel like it’s too early to be the beast, because the sun was down further yesterday.”

She nods. “A new hour.”

“That doesn’t explain why it’s so quiet.” Peeta says.

“Could be something in the trees.” You tell him, turning your body to face him. “That’s why I don’t want to go further in.”

“But Katniss and Finnick are in there.” Peeta shakes his head. “We have to.”

“Don’t you think they would’ve called for help by now?” You ask, “We heard Katniss say something, but then she stopped.”

“And they can’t be dead because there’s no cannon.” Johanna says after. “What if they’re hurt?”

You look further into the jungle. “It’s a bad idea.”

“We have to try.” Peeta says, starting toward the two of you.

You move in time to let him pass without running into your shoulder. He makes it an additional five yards before he walks smack into a wall, head bouncing off. A little smile fights its way onto your face, and then it vanishes when you realize that this is exactly what happened when he hit the forcefield.

He reaches out, going to touch it. You stride forward, grabbing the back of the neck of his undershirt, yanking him back. “Are you stupid?”

“Wait.” He swats your hand free. “Watch.”

You grab his wrist when he holds his hand out again, causing him to look at you with wide eyes. “I’m not taking any chances with you.”

“Then do it yourself.” Peeta motions, you let go. “It would’ve blown me back if it was a forcefield. Besides, it’s too far down.”

You look at space in front of you, seemingly fine. The wall that he’d run into isn’t even visible. You take in a breath, holding it, before sticking your hand out in the direction of it.

The palm of your hand vibrates against it, you apply pressure, wondering if it’ll budge if you lean into it, but it doesn’t move. You look down at your sword, pressing your lips together. If this is a forcefield, this will most definitely kill you. Still, you swing the sword into the invisible wall, and you’re pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t explode into sparks upon contact.

“Well…” You trail off, beginning to walk around the wall, keeping one hand on it. No matter where you touch, or how far along you walk, the wall doesn’t stop. You make it into the next section of the jungle, and around the corner, and still feel it there. When you make it back to Johanna and Peeta, you shake your head. “Sealed.”

“They’re inside?” Peeta asks. “Do you think they can hear us?”

“I’m going to say no.” Johanna grunts, swinging her axe into the wall repeatedly. “If we can’t hear the birds,” Her voice is strained, “Then we can’t hear them.” She stops, tossing the axe aside, it lands next to a bush. She sighs, “I guess we’re going to wait out here.”

Peeta doesn’t like this idea, you can tell by the way his face screws up, but he knows you don’t have any other choice.

“I’m going to grab the wire, then.” You tell her.

“Speaking of it, come up with anything yet?” She asks, eyebrows raised.

“Almost.” You say, walking away from her.

When you get to the beach and find the wire, you don’t go back into the jungle right away. You stand beneath a patch of shade, staring at the Cornucopia, and the trees beyond it, squinting.

From what you can tell, Enobaria and Brutus aren’t on the beach or in the treeline, which means that they’re in those trees, somewhere. They must be fairly far in, where they’re resting. They likely won’t come out again until they’ve been sponsored and their wounds are healing. And even then, they’ll make sure you’re not on the beach, first.

Or maybe they are able to see you, and you just can’t see them.

If you were in their shoes, you’d be watching your every move right now to figure out what you’re doing. And if that’s the case, it doesn’t matter what you do with this wire, they’ll already know the plan. Really, it would just be an excuse to split Katniss and Peeta.

So, that’s what it’ll be.

The wire could be used for a number of things, you could probably make a trap out of it. There’s enough of it for you to bring it to the tree and back down to the beach, twice. The question is what Beetee would have used it for.

You close your eyes, listening to the waves on the beach, trying to remember how Beetee won his Games. You were talking to Mags about it the other day, she was telling you that it’s been thirty years since he won. Back then, he wasn’t the strongest tribute either, he had to make something to electrocute the last remaining tributes.

He wouldn’t really be able to do that now. He had the sources—the lightning at midnight and the water at the center. In the condition he was in before he got killed, he wouldn’t have been able to make the trip up to the tree, back down to the water, and up again to be out of the way of the electricity. And the chances of the wire being cut by the Careers isn’t that low, even in your situation now.

You’d need someone at the base of the tree, and someone unspooling the wire down to the water…

Your eyes pop open, it takes them a second to adjust to the sudden light. You stare at the water. This is what Beetee was going to do, wasn’t it? The wire acts as a conductor. If you hook it up to the tree at the right time when it strikes, it’ll fry everything in the water.

But what you want is to kill the Careers, in a way. The sand would have to be wet too, or at least damp. Which… Which will be the exact case when the wave hits at ten, and it’ll be cooler out, so the water won’t evaporate as quickly. If you bury the spool in the sand, it should have the entire beach covered and the water.

“Bingo.” You say, grabbing the coil.

You join the others back inside of the jungle, finding Peeta on the floor, forehead pressed to the invisible wall. Johanna’s pacing back and forth, arms crossed over her chest. When you get closer, you’re able to see that Katniss and Finnick are on the other side, both of them with their hands over their ears.

When a twig snaps beneath your weight, Johanna looks over. She lets out a sigh, shoulders slumping. “What took you so long?”

“Came up with a plan.” You tell her, dropping the wire and your sword next to one of her axes.

“What plan?” Peeta asks, unmoving.

“On how to kill the remaining Careers.” You wink at Johanna, but it’s not flirtatious.

You know she understands when the crease appears between her eyebrows, giving you a slight nod. “Care to enlighten us?”

“When they’re out, I will. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.” You nod at the other two. “What’s going on in there?”

“I think it’s jabberjays.” Johanna says, pointing up at the trees behind the wall. “They’re fifty of them in the trees. Katniss tried killing them, of course it didn’t work.”

Your eyes land on Finnick, finding his muscles rigid. You crouch to get a better look at his face, there’s a streak of red from his nose, down his lips, and off his chin. “What happened to Finnick?”

“He ran face-first into the wall.” Peeta says. “It was a bloody nose.”

You hum, lowering yourself to the ground. “Hopefully it won’t be much longer.”

—

The wall suddenly breaks, Peeta falling forward. He catches himself on his hands, getting to his feet. He doesn’t even say anything, just scoops Katniss into his arms, and walks straight out of the jungle with her, leaving the arrows behind.

You sit up, looking over at Johanna to see that she’s staring at you. She tilts her head, “Do you want to try?”

You take in a breath, “I’ll let you know if it works.”

She nods, following after Katniss and Peeta, because someone needs to be watching over them. You get up, walking a few feet over to Finnick, before crouching down beside him.

You lift a hand, hovering it over his back for a minute, and then change your mind, placing your elbows on your thighs to lean on them. He’s got his eyes closed, head down. He probably can’t even hear you. You don’t even know how he’ll react to being touched, much less by you.

You press your lips together, heart hurting at the sight of him. It’d be better if Johanna were here, she can talk to him. All you’ll do is upset him more. You grind your teeth, once again wishing that this wasn’t your relationship. As you go to stand up, the hands over his ears loosen, head beginning to lift.

He looks around in the jungle first, making sure the threat is gone. That’s when he notices you beside him, waiting. His eyes are watery, he swallows.

“Hey,” You murmur, “Are you okay?”

He stares at you, eyebrows drawing in.

You nod, “I’ll go get Johanna.”

Once again, you try to get to your feet, when he speaks, “Why?”

“Why… what?” You ask, pausing.

“Why would you get Johanna?” He asks.

You turn your head in the direction of the beach. Is he really going to make you say it? Does he want to see the pain it’ll cause you? Or does he think it’ll come out venomous?

When you look at him, you sigh, “Because I’m not really a comforting person to you, am I?”

He doesn’t answer your question, “Where are they?”

“They’re on the beach.” You tell him. “I figured out a plan that’ll work. I’ll tell you guys when you’re ready.”

“Do Johanna and Peeta know?” He asks.

You shake your head, “No.”

Neither of you move, staring at each other. And while you could stay here forever, you don’t allow yourself. You push on your knees, standing up. You offer your hand to him, but he moves it away, just like you figured he would.

He doesn’t say anything, walking past you to leave. You stare at the scene of dead birds in front of you, before you turn around, collecting yours and Johanna’s belongings, and going to join them on the beach.

Katniss seems better, she’s talking to Peeta. Johanna is standing over them, she glances at Finnick when he passes by. She has to twist her body to see you standing in the treeline. You hand her the axe.

“It was a trick, Katniss. A horrible one. But we’re the only ones who can be hurt by it. We’re the ones in the Games. Not them.” Peeta says.

“You really believe that?” Katniss asks.

“I really do.”

“Do you believe it, Finnick?”

“It could be true. I don’t know.” He says, looking up at Johanna, ignoring you entirely. “Could they do that? Take someone’s regular voice and make it…”

Johanna makes a face, looking at you for help. You play with the piece of wire you’d unraveled, “I’m sure Beetee would know.”

“Peeta’s right.” Johanna then says. “The whole country adores Katniss’s little sister. If they really killed her like this, they’d probably have an uprising on her hands.” She deadpans. “Don’t want that, do they?” She scoffs, throwing her head back to shout, “Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn’t want anything like that!”

She shakes her head, wandering around the beach to pick up shells. When she finds a good few, she stops next to Finnick, holding her hand out. “I’m getting water.” Finnick drops the spile into her hand, and she begins toward the jungle.

Katniss grabs her hand. “Don’t go in there. The birds—”

“They can’t hurt me. I’m not like the rest of you. There’s no one left I love.” She says, shaking her hand free. You don’t miss the look she gives Finnick, and then you, as she disappears into the jungle.

She comes back a couple minutes later with a shell of water, handing it over to Katniss first. She makes trips back and forth, letting each of you have some. She comes out one trip with a pile of arrows that she gives back to Katniss.

Finnick shakes his head, walking to the water. He stops a few feet in, and sits. You let the wire drop to the sand, tired of bringing it wherever you go. You don’t move from where you are, eyes fixated on his back.

“Who did they use against Finnick?” Peeta asks, curious.

Katniss is quiet. You’re expecting her to say Annie, because it makes the most sense, but when you look over, she’s eyeing you, and so is Peeta.

“What?” You ask. “Was it Annie?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Katniss murmurs. “We thought we heard you.”

A loud laugh comes from you, unwarranted. The thought of Finnick caring about you enough for the Gamemakers to use you against him is funny. Really funny, actually. It must’ve been a walk in the park for him, listening to your pleas. A little gratifying, because he could pretend that you were getting what was coming for you.

But Katniss isn’t laughing, she’s serious.

The humor leaves your smile, “It must’ve been his mother, that he was mistaken for me.”

“No, because we heard his mom, too. That first scream was yours.” She insists, “And he dropped everything to find you.”

“Finnick would never do that.” You tell her, voice cold.

She doesn’t press it further, but the look in her eye is enough. She’s not lying to you, she’s telling the truth. She doesn’t gain anything from making something like that up.

You won’t believe it though. This is the same Finnick that told Johanna that he didn’t trust you, an hour and a half ago. There’s nothing that could’ve made him change his feelings in that time span.

Unless it didn’t.

Your eyes narrow at the back of Finnick’s head, hand tightening around your sword.

A cannon blast keeps you from thinking about the subject any further, but the bubbling in your stomach is only getting hotter. Finnick gets up, coming to join you three, as well as Johanna, materializing out of the jungle. You stand together, watching a hovercraft appear over the next section, claw dipping in several times to retrieve all the pieces of one body.

The beast.

This sparks Peeta to create another map, this time he’s able to fill in more than half of it. It starts with lightning, rain, and fog. It moves on to monkeys and jabberjays. He has to skip a section, and then writes beast. And the next one you have after six to seven is the wave at ten. This means you’re missing five of the other hours.

The others begin to come back to life. Finnick begins to weave a water basket and a net to fish for dinner. While Katniss takes a swim and applies more ointment. By the time she’s done, Finnick has worked up a pile, so she sits on the edge of the water, cleaning them for him.

It doesn’t take long for Katniss’s words to creep back into your mind, refusing to leave it be. Finnick cares about you, a thought that should have you excited, but it makes you uncomfortable. He has spent the last eight years making sure that you know that he hates you and couldn’t care less about what happens to you.

Yet here he is, supposedly dropping everything to save you. Possibly even leaving Katniss behind to do it. The Gamemakers must know something that you don’t, if they knew to use your voice. You want to assume that they thought Finnick was worried solely because you’re his district partner. Except, that doesn’t make sense either, because the two of you are notorious in the Capitol for being a pair of mentors that get into fights about how to handle things.

He has a lot of nerve.

The sun falls below the horizon, the moon rising to replace it in the sky. When they finish cleaning the fish, they bring it over, setting it in the middle of the circle for you to enjoy. The four of them begin to settle in the sand, you don’t move from where you stand.

The anthem begins to play, stopping them from digging in. The Capitol seal lights up the sky, and then it’s replaced by the faces. Cashmere, Gloss, Wiress, Beetee. The woman from Five, the morphling from Six, Blight, and the man from Ten.

Eight tributes dead.

Strangely, this makes you think of your own Hunger Games. Where you managed to kill four people in the span of two hours, one of those being Rio, who was your district partner. By the end of the Games, you had eight kills under your belt. A third of the competition was taken out by you, a little fifteen year-old.

Once again, a factor that used to make Finnick sick. And now it doesn’t.

“They’re really burning through us.” Johanna says.

“Who’s left? Besides us five and District Two?” Finnick asks.

“Chaff.” Peeta says without missing a beat.

The sound of clinking fills the air, you look up to find a parachute coming down, teetering from side to side. It lands perfectly in the middle of the group, unfolding itself to reveal the steaming rolls.

“Do these look like District Three to you?” Finnick looks at Johanna.

“Yeah, look at the imprint.” She says, running her finger over the top of one. “How many are there?”

Finnick counts them, being sure to be thorough. “Twenty-four. How should we divide them?”

“Let’s each have three, and whoever is still alive at breakfast can take a vote on the rest.” Johanna says, causing Katniss to laugh.

You pull your sword out of the sand, swinging it up to rest the flat part of the blade on your shoulder. Finnick looks up at you, eyeing your stance. You step away from them, shaking your head.

“Sit down, (Y/n).” Finnick tells you.

“Why, so you can keep an eye on me?” You snap, crossing the treeline. “Come and get me, Finnick.”

You make it a few feet in, before you hear the snapping of branches behind you. You sigh, turning with raised eyebrows to see that Finnick took it as a challenge. You didn’t mean it that way. You didn’t want him to chase you.

“Get out here.” He tells you.

You walk backward, tilting your head at him. “I’m just making sure Enobaria and Brutus aren’t out here.”

“I don’t care.” He’s still walking toward you. “We’ll worry about that when we make camp.”

You stop, letting your sword down from your shoulder. When you look past him, you can see that there’s enough distance between him and the beach. There’s privacy to talk and sort out what you heard.

Your eyes land on him, “Katniss told me something,” You start, watching his eyebrows twitch, “About how you thought I was the one screaming for help.”

Finnick shakes his head, “I thought it was my mom.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said too.” You tell him, “But you said my name, and you dropped everything to go and get me.”

He sets his jaw, “So?”

“So,” The word is bitter, “What changed?”

He laughs, “Nothing, (Y/n). I went—”

“They used loved ones and family.” You cut him off. “You care about me, admit it.”

“I don’t.” He tells you. “I never have, and I never will.”

“You chased after the jabberjays thinking it was me, and you followed me in here because you’re worried that I’ll get caught by the Careers, admit it.”

“I don’t know what you think is happening, but whatever it is, it’s not true.” His voice wavers.

This is all the confirmation you need. “You want to know what I’m thinking right now?” You press your pointer finger to the middle of his chest. “That you’re not bothered by me anymore, and you haven’t been for a while. You’ve done a damn good job of hiding it up until now, but the jabberjays got you good.”

Finnick grabs your wrist, “That’s not true.”

“What changed, Finnick?” You insist.

“Nothing, because I don’t have feelings for you.” He snaps. “The reason why I came in here is because we want to move camp to the ten sector once the wave happens, I just didn’t want you to get lost out here and think we abandoned you, making you think it’s a free-for-all.”

He lets go of your wrist, face screwed tightly, as he leaves you here. You watch him go back to the beach, while you take several breaths, feeling the pit in your stomach grow.

What have you done?

---

this is part of my 3k celebration!!

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axelsagewrites · 10 months ago

Note

Greetings!

I hope you don't mind me sliding in your ask box! I want to request Ivar x fem!reader, who suffers from a condition named vaginismus.

Vaginismus is a condition where the vagina cramps so hardly, that penetration is very painful. It can get treated by mental therapy and slowly getting comfortable with sex. It's mostly caused by traumatic events.

I seek for some wholesomeness combined with Ivar. You don't have to focus on any smut part if you'll feel uncomfortable, sole comfort would be enough!

Feel free to decline! Remember to drink enough and have a lovely day! ❤️

Ivar the Boneless*Does It Hurt?

Pairing: Ivar x f!reader

Word count: 1830

Warnings: insecurities, mentions of painful sex, mentions of shitty exes, make out, fingering, f!receiving oral, p in v sex, Ivar wanting to get revenge on the crappy ex, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Being with Ivar was the best decisions you’d ever made there was only one small issue. You'd never actually *been* with him. its not that you hadn’t had sex before, but it always just seemed to hurt. You’d tried in the past to just push through the pain, usually at the guy’s request, but you were done being in constant pain for someone else’s benefit. Which is partially why the rumours about Ivars’s bedroom mishap didn’t bother you.

You knew it was something he was insecure about and you’d assured him countless times it didn’t bother you. so, one night when you were making out sitting in his lap and you felt something hard pressing into you. You were a bit shocked to say the least. It must have all been nerves but now you were the one who was nervous. It’s not like you didn’t want to do it with Ivar you were just scared.

Ivar’s hand slowly trailed up your leg, stroking over your thigh, till he was squeezing your hip as you moaned into the kiss. You had been with Ivar for a while now, but you had never been *with* him. your hands crept down his shoulders till you were squeezing his muscular arms. Despite the taunts some people liked to make you could feel something hard grinding against your leg.

He broke the kiss but only to trail some down your neck, going between nipping and kissing the sensitive skin. It felt like bliss. His hands slowly began to tug at your skirts, pulling them up so he could feel the soft flesh of your thighs but when you felt him try push them apart you couldn’t help but clamp up, your body going rigid.

Ivar paused his movements, pulling away to face you after a moment, “Is everything okay my love?” he asked. There was a mix of emotions behind his eyes; insecurity, lust but most presently concern.

“I-I,” you began to stutter making Ivar move his hand from your leg to cup your jaw.

He stroked his thumb gently across your skin, “Have you never…?” he asked, voice trailing off.

You took a deep breath before shaking your head, “I have its just,” you said as you sat up in bed, Ivar moving to sit beside you are holding your hand, “It hurts whenever I have before,”

“Hurts how?”

You sighed as you decided you may as well just tell him. the last guy you had told just rolled his eyes and left to find someone else for that night, but Ivar waited patiently as you explained, “Whenever I’ve tried to have sex it just kind of hurts? I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not that I don’t want you,” you said, squeezing his hand, “it just feels like it won’t go in and when it does it just- “

“Hurts?” he said cutting off your rambles, “it’s okay love. We don’t have to- “

“But I want too, I swear I do- “

“I believe you,” he cut you off, moving to hold your face gently. Ivar placed a soft kiss to your lips instantly calming you down, “Is it just when things are going in?” he asked, and you nodded. His eyes moved to scan your frame as his hand moved to rest on your thigh, “We could always try something else,” he said, eyes moving to meet yours with a glint behind them.

You felt your cheeks begin to heat up, “I know men don’t actually like that stuff- “

“What idiot told you that?”

“This guy I used to- “you paused when you saw Ivars’s jaw tense, “It was a long time ago but some of the things he said just kind of stuck with me I guess,”

“Like what?”

You took a deep breath before spilling out, “That guys don’t like that kind of stuff and it was my problem not his. How it was my job to get him off and not the other way around and if I was broken then there were other ways to do that- “

Ivar took your hands tightly in his, making you pause, “No. it is not a job or a chore or anything else. You are not broken. You are just different,” he said, moving one of his hands to rest over your heart, “We both are. That’s what you used to tell me,” he said, his voice low. “You were there for me when no one else was. I want to be there for you. whether we have sex or not and whatever sex is to us. We take it at our pace, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered back, half on the verge of crying as Ivars other hand moved to cup your cheek, pulling you in for a gentle kiss.

Well, it was supposed to be gentle, but you found your lips moving faster and soon you’d moved to straddle his lap as his hands gently squeezed your hips. You could feel his bulge through his trousers and you grinded against it softly making him groan into your mouth.

“Lay on your back,” he mumbled against your lips. you went to speak but he cut you off with a kiss, “trust me,” something about his eyes staring into yours entranced you and soon you were laying down as his lips travelled down your jaw and neck.

You were still in your dress, but his hands soon pulled it up till it was around your waist as he kissed down your collarbones. You felt your body tensed as Ivars’s hand inched closer to your core. “We’ll go slow, okay? tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispered. You nodded quickly and sucked in your breath when you felt his fingers push against your clit.

He moved them in slow circles as his lips sucked at the sensitive skin of your neck. Little moans escaped your lips, and you heard Ivar chuckle when your hips began to buck. You whined when he pulled his fingers away but watched with fixed eyes as he shuffled down your body till his hot breath fanned over your cunt.

Ivar began to kiss your inner thighs, leading a trail up to your core. When his tongue licked up your cunt you couldn’t help but gasp. It soon turned into a moan however when his mouth wrapped around your clit. Your hand quickly found his hair, tugging on it gently which only seemed to spur his movements on as he groaned against your cunt sending shivers down your spine.

You could feel a strange new sensation growing in your stomach. “Please,” you murmured, “Don’t stop,” you began to beg, and Ivar had no intensions of stopping anytime soon. he moved down till you could feel his tongue poking at your hole, easing in so he could gently fuck you with his tongue while his nose rubbed against your clit.

The sensation had you gripping his hair tightly, your hips bucking inadvertently as you grinded gently on his face. Ivar locked his arms around your thighs, stopping you from wiggling away as he continued his merciless assault on your cunt till, he felt your thighs squeezing around his head.

A stream of profanity and his name fell from your lips as you felt yourself crash over the wall. Ivar didn’t move however till he was sure you’d ridden out your peak. When he did pull back his eyes were dark as he moved to kiss your lips hard as you moaned into the kiss.

His fingers trailed up your slit before gently pushing the tip of his finger in, “Tell me if it hurts,” he whispered as he pushed further in, curling his finger inside of you making you moan. it hurt a little but not enough to want to stop. You might scream if he stopped as he began to slowly fuck you with one finger before slowly adding another.

His thumb moved to rub circles over your clit, and you could feel another peak quickly approaching, “Ivar?” you mumbled against his lips.

“Yes love?” he asked, pulling away with panting breath.

“I want you to fuck me,” you said, taking him by surprise as his eyes went wide.

He quickly tried to cover up his reaction, “Are you sure?”

“Please don’t make me beg,” you pouted but it just sparked a joy behind his eyes.

“Maybe I’d like it if you did,” he said, pulling his fingers out which made you whine until you saw him pushing his trousers down, releasing his painfully hard cock.

He moved till his tip was lined with your hole when he paused, “Tell me if- “

“I will, I promise,” you said, grabbing his face and making him look you in the eyes, “I trust you,”

His eyes went soft for a moment before he nodded and slowly began to push in. he stopped when he saw you hissing as you adjusted to his size but kept going at your encouragement. “Fuck,” he gasped as he pushed the last bit in, “You feel so good,”

You waited a moment, adjusting to the size before moving your hips. Ivar quickly got the hint and began to set a gentle pace. That was till your legs moved to wrap around his waist and Ivar began fucking you faster, his head resting in the crook of your neck as he moaned your praises in your ear.

His hand moved between your bodies, finding your clit as he rubbed fast circles into your abused nerves. Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his skin which only made it harder for him not to cum right then and there. But he did his best to hold off. You however felt your second orgasm quickly approaching and soon your cunt began to squeeze around his cock as you hit your peak, mumbling his name over and over as you did.

The sight of it, the feeling, it was too much for Ivar as he gripped onto the bed tightly as he pumped his final few thrusts before spilling inside you. Ivar collapsed on top of you in a panting heap. His head was resting on your chest as you rubbed his back gently. “Did I hurt you?” he mumbled through half closed eyes.

“No Ivar, it was perfect,”

Ivar lifted his head with a soft smile, “No you were perfect,” he moved to lay next to you, pulling his shirt over his head to use to clean you up before you settled into bed to cuddle. It was a perfect silence. Well for a few moments, “Who was he?”

“Who was who?”

“The man you were seeing before,” Ivar said making you turn to look at him.

Your eyes scanned his face, but he could hide his emotions when he wanted to, “Why?” you asked sceptically.

“No reason. Just think we should have a little talk is all,”

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Dirty Work 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Outta left field.

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

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The brick facade stares back at you. You have to keep from gaping in awe. You're not a sightseer, you're there to work. A job. Your first ever. A bit late, but better than never.

You stop at the gate and hike up your kit as you shove your hand in your pocket in a cramped search. You slide out the flip phone and pop the top, clicking through for the email. The cheap burner is all you could afford and you needed a cell to get any sort of employment. Even just to live, it seems.

You click on the agency's email. A concise list of instructions for your first day. Alone. Last week, you shadowed a woman named Florence as she took you through an east-side home, but this week, you're on your own and uptown. The property is much nicer than any you've been in before. The sort you gaze at longingly in passing. A true urban palace.

You follow the first point on the list, keying in the code awkwardly with spaced-out punches. The last beep triggers a buzz as the mechanism releases and you turn the haandle to let yourself through the iron gate. You close it, pushing it to make sure it catches. You look around at the greenery; expertly trimmed hedges and a stone bench, flowerbeds clustered artfully in all shades. A mini Versailles in the heart of the city. The owners must be very well-off.

You gulp as you follow the stonework of the winding path along the curved driveway. Your shoulder aches from the weight of your kit and your spine is still rigid from the tense bus ride. You approach the front door and stagger to an awkward halt as you check the screen again. In all caps; DO NOT USE THE FRONT DOOR. You peer up over the stone steps and give a nod. Of course the help should go through the back.

You circle around to the rear of the house, the scent of pollen and the freshly groomed hedges clouding around you. You find the door nestled beneath a net of ivy and key in the next code. The very modern security contrasts the antique veneer of the house. You step into the silence of the grand home and listen. You're not sure if you're alone. What do you do if you aren't? It might be awkward to wash someone's floor without an introduction.

You move to the next directive; cover shoes. You squint and suck your lower lip in. You see the small box on the corner table tucked beside the door. You stay on the mat as you pull on the plastic shoe covers. It makes sense. You don't want to track in another mess to clean.

Again, your breath flies away from you. Even just the back hallway is divine, or maybe you're just brutish. You're not very hard to impress with what you're used to. A job won't cure it, but it'll make it bearable.

The next point; gloves. Okay. At least it's straightforward. The owners must be very particular. Or germaphobic. You let your assumptions write a story as you advance into the house. The email directs you to a closet where you are permitted to hang your things and where a mop, broom, and vacuum await you amid other supplies too big for your bag. Next point…

You proceed inside, slowly. The instructions are written almost to guide your every step. You move down the hallway with duster, broom, vacuum, and finally the mop. You're sweating by the time you get to the first doorway. The kitchen. Despite your employ, the place is already near immaculate. The only sign of life is a single black mug beside the sink.

It's eerie as you cross the tile, investigating with your eyes, almost too afraid to touch. You're going to have to if you mean to do good work. You continue down the list, doing your best to be thorough. When you return to the hall you're caught in place by a thought. There are no family pictures. It adds to the emptiness of it all. There are portraits of famous landmarks and imitations of reknowned artworks, though you wouldn't be surprised if they were genuine. But no family.

Next point. A bathroom just diagonal from the kitchen, spacious with dark wood and shining gold. You leave it smelling with the sterile scent of the cleaner. Back in the hall, you pause to drink from the water bottle in your bag. You head back down the hall intent on your next task. An hour already.

Another large room; a dining room that opens into a sitting room with a large fireplace. It really is amazing. Your father won't believe how nice it is here. You don't have time to worry about convincing him as you dive into your work. It isn't difficult work but you want to do a good job. You get this knot in your stomach just think of your boss, Clara, telling you otherwise or going home with bad news.

You finish the sitting room and go back to get your water. You nearly finish it. You check the time again, then the list. You can refill before you continue. You go back to the kitchen and cross to the fridge, pressing your bottle to the lever beneath the filter. It'd be nice to have something like that at home. You listen the hum of the fridge as you fill your bottle.

"Ahem," the clearing of a throat startles you and you jump, splashing yourself with cold water as you spin to face a tall man. He stares at you imperiously from the doorway, his figure lithe as he holds his chin up in dissatisfaction. "And who said you could do that?"

"Um," you swallow and look at your water bottle, fingers numbed by the water, "sorry, sir, I ran out--"

"Clean up your mess and get back to work," his lilted accent slices into you.

"Sorry, sir--"

"Bullet number one, A," he says tersely.

You frown as you struggle to understand. You replace the cap on your bottle and fish in the pocket of your black pants. You take out the phone and check the email. 'Do not speak unless permitted.' Well, he spoke to you first. It's the only reason you said anything. You're not very chatty yourself.

You keep from repeating sorry again and dip your head down. You take the cloth tucked into your pocket and bend to sop up the water from the floor. You don't look at him as he looms and you exit the room, sidling past him in shame. Oh no, you hope he doesn't tell Clara.

You replace your bottle in your bag. You'll go without. You look at your phone again. You can do this. No more mistakes.

You march back down the hall and dare a glance into the kitchen as you pass. He's already gone. That must be Mr. Laufeyson, the owner noted in the job description. Is it just him? He doesn't seem very fond of others. Or just you. You're just a maid, after all.

🧹

Your father's apartment is in the south. The fence is crooked and missing slats and the grass is patchy and yellowed. The porch groans as you climb the steps and let yourself into his side of the duplex. Cigarette smoke greets you with a cough in your throat. You open the window he shut in your absence as the TV blares in the next room. He's on the couch, puffing tobacco into the air in gray swirls. The place is even grimmer after a day amid your client's spotless halls.

"Hey dad," you say as you stand just beside the couch, "how was your day?"

He grunts and offers nothing else. That's about what you get from him. The effort of just that noise sends him to hack and his wrist tangles in his oxygen tube as brings his hand up. He knocks ash from the end of his cigarette onto the floor.

"First day alone went well," you say as he settles, breathing loudly as he tries to steady his breaths. "Think I did pretty good."

"Oh, big whoop, got a job, at last," he sneers, "about time. What're you? Thirty-three?"

"Thirty," you correct him, but don't add that your birthday is coming up.

"Same difference," he croaks and sucks on the smoke until he's coughing once more.

You try not to let him defeat you. It's just the way he is. You brought home A's from school and he wondered why they weren't A+'s. And when you got accepted to college, he asked you who was gonna pay for it. And when you filled out an application at the drive-thru window, he asked you if you were going to be another deadbeat flipping burgers.

"What, they got you scrubbing floors?" He spits, "you don't do it for free or something?"

He looks around venomously. You do clean but you can't get the yellow stains out of the wall or the stench out of the carpet. You won't say so.

"Did you eat yet?"

"Can't be near the stove with this thing," he taps the top of the tank on the other side of the armrest. He's also not supposed to smoke near it. Or at all.

"I'll heat up the hamburger helper from last night."

"Fucking dog food," he barks.

You wince. You love your father but he's a very picky man. Things must be his way or no way at all.

"Might have a frozen pizza," you suggest.

"Cardboard," he mutters.

You stand, silent and helpless. There isn't much else left in the fridge.

"Could afford better if you'd got your ass up ten years ago," he buts out his smoke and just as quickly, opens the pack to slide out another.

"I tried..."

"Not hard enough, eh," He takes off the oxygen tube and leans away from the tank to light the next cigarette, "not hungry. All your talkin' spoiled my appetite."

You apologise and leave before you can annoy him further. You're not very hungry either. Just sore and tired. Your feet hurt from being on them all day and your eyelids droop lower with each blink. You climb the stairs and drag your feet into your bedroom and shut the door gently. Your father hates when you slam. You don't like it much yourself.

You fall into bed as the musty air clings in your nose. You close your eyes and roll onto your side. You sigh. You figure if you can handle your father, you can handle Mr. Laufeyson and his list.

🧹

Your next job is in the eastside. It's not as precise or overbearing. The instructions are standard; a list of the rooms that need cleaning and a tip left on the counter. The email says the family is out of town. How nice it must be to come home to a nice, clean house. You pad out the three-day week with two more home in the northwest suburbs. The money would be better if you could work a full week but so long on you're in your probation period, you only get part-time hours.

Your second week starts again in the north, outside the Laufeyson property. The codes are different but the list is the same. You begin your work diligently. This time, you ration your water, and pay special attention to each step. Once you're through this week, you get your first check. Dad should be happy about that.

As you get to the front room, a living room or what some might call den, you set first to dusting the ornaments on the high mantel. You find the more you do it, the work is almost soothing. It's simple and mindless. You admire the silver candlestick, careful not to loosen the tall candle placed in it.

"Shiny," the slither frightens you. You quickly replace the candlestick at the corner of the mantle and face that man; the presumed Mr. Laufeyson. "Somehow, I feel it wouldn't belong in wherever you call home."

You lower your eyes. Florence says most clients are friends but she warned you about these ones. Those who deride you and the work they don't want to do themselves.

"The previous one did think they were lovely," he muses as he struts forward, his long steps like a cat's, "too bad they were too big for her bag."

You flick your gaze back up and blanch. "Sir, I wouldn't--"

He tilts his head as his eyes flash dangerously. You snap your mouth shut and give an apologetic frown. You press a finger to your lips to say, I'll be quiet.

"She was chatty too. You girls always are."

You nod and listen. Your throat constricts as you wring the cloth in your hands. You think you might not be very forgiving if someone tried to steal from you either.

"But..." he looks at his watch, "you are quick."

The comment drips from his mouth as if it tastes bitter to him. It isn't quite praise, only a fact, but it isn't a reproach. He smirks and snickers.

"And you do look rather terrified. We're understood then."

You give another nod. You think you understand. You wouldn't think to steal but you can't blame him for putting down rules. You squint and your brow twitches as your ears tinge.

"Point one C," you whisper to yourself; 'Do not steal.'

He pauses as he goes to pivot on his heel. He lifts his chin and shifts as if he might look at you. He doesn't as he carries on to the door.

"You may refill your bottle once per shift," he pauses by the door, tapping the frame before he leaves you.

You stay stuck to the floor, wavering as you watch him go. He wasn't nice, but he didn't dismiss you either. You can stomach his disapproval if it means you still have work.

#loki #dar loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #maid au #dirty work #marvel #avengers #thor

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lostreverb · 2 months ago

Text

sent from above

(kai anderson x reader) in where you try to make your boyfriend's day a little sweeter

content: angst, use of knives (nothing crazy)

a/n: kai brainrot + maternal instincts combo goes crazyyyy

You sit on Winter's bed, watching as she sifts through boxes from her closet.

"You really do like my brother, don't you?..." She says with a solemn cadence.

You nod. "I do."

With a sigh, Winter hands you a faded piece of paper. It feels delicate, like it might crumble in your hands. "This is it…"

You trace the faded cursive carefully. "I won't tell him. I'll say I found it while cleaning. Thank you so much Winter."

"Uh- Yeah, no problem. Just… remember that he’s—"

"I know."

For weeks, Kai's paranoia has been ramping up, and you wanted to do something—anything—that might ground him, even briefly. So you'd gone to Winter, asking if she still had one of her mother's old recipes.

As anything was with Kai, this was a risk. This gesture could easily be turned against you; he might even accuse you of using his mother’s memory to manipulate him.

But for some reason you don't care.

Later, you're plating the dish when you hear the heavy clomp of combat boots, quickening as they approach, then coming to an abrupt stop.

"Perfect timing." You look up at your boyfriend and smile, holding the dish up slightly. "I made something for you."

Kai slowly walks to you, silent, calculating. He steps close—so close there’s barely space between you, with only the plate in your hands separating you.

"Apple Pie. The all-american dessert." Your words come out in a low murmur.

"Correct." He flicks open his pocket knife, carving off a bite and balancing it on the blade. "Open."

You part your lips instinctively, and he guides the piece to your mouth. As you bite down, the sweetness of the pastry mingles with a faint metallic tang from the knife's edge. Kai pulls it back with a slow precision, leaving a sharp taste lingering amid the warm notes of apple and spice.

Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he turns the knife around, offering the handle to you. His eyes hold yours, dark and watchful, as you take it and mirror his gesture, bringing a piece to his lips. He leans forward, just enough to take the bite. As the familiar taste hits him, there's a shift—a crack in his steely facade. And for a split second, you see the boy he used to be, before everything turned dark.

Without a word, he raises a hand, a silent command for his guards to leave. They exchange glances but obey, slipping out of the kitchen.

Now, it’s just the two of you, alone.

He speaks in a whisper, but each word drips with a mix of wonder and suspicion. “She sent you… didn’t she?”

The words hang in the silence, and for a moment, his intense gaze softens, his brow knitting as if he’s trying to make sense of what he’s just said. “I knew it,” he breathes. “I knew she…”

He pauses, staring at you with a vulnerable intensity you've never seen before, like he's fighting to believe in something beyond his hardened reality. It's as if he's convinced that his late mother, somehow, some way, has sent you into his life—an angel, perhaps, to guide him, to protect him from the shadows he can't escape. The idea fills him with a fierce, quiet hope. His mistrust, his paranoia, all of it seems to melt away as he stares at you, searching for some sign, some proof of his mother.

You set the plate carefully on the counter behind you, keeping your movements slow and gentle, as if any sudden motion might startle him. Stepping forward, you raise your arms and slide them around him, feeling the tension that coils through his frame. Your hands find their way to his back, moving in soothing, slow circles, the warmth of your touch grounding him.

At first, he stiffens, caught off-guard by the unexpected embrace, his arms remaining at his sides. But gradually, as your hands continue their gentle rhythm along his back, he softens against you, letting the rigidity melt away. His shoulders drop, and you feel the faint rise and fall of his breath, a steadying rhythm that seems to settle him, little by little. Your touch is careful, maternal—each motion reassuring, as if you’re somehow reaching into the lonely places he’s kept hidden, places starved of comfort.

You press your cheek lightly against his shoulder, and the silence stretches between you, filled with a sense of calm that seems almost foreign to him. You can sense him leaning into the embrace, accepting the warmth you offer, maybe even craving it, though he would never say so.

tags (ask to be added or removed anytime!): @fear-is-truth @juliamaximoff @jazz-berry @violetsghosts @quickreider @tiffysdeath @honeymoon8 @wcnderlnds @lacucarachapisser @xrag-dollx @oceanblvd111 @andiloveher @vi0l3tgard3ns

#IM SORRY I WANNA TAKE CARE OF HIM #evan peters fandom #evan peters #kai anderson #kai anderson x reader #ahs #ahs cult #american horror story #kai anderson fanfic

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rahuratna · 7 months ago

Text

Nanami Kento: Relationship Headcanons (now a fic), Part 3

Contents: pre-relationship headcanons, slow burn, pining, humor

For a few days after that, things continue as normal. Nanami meets you at work on some days, on others he's exceptionally busy with missions and paperwork. The dynamic from that day has receded, but not vanished. It feels a little like reaching a wonderful part of a book and shelving it temporarily, because you cannot bear for it to end. When you return to it, the pages will fall open naturally, close to the place where you left off.

You've stopped pretending, at this point, that your meetings with him were chance ones. You know full well when he is likely to take his breaks and that they always coincide with when you take a later shift. It is one of the many small things that seem to be spiralling out of your ability to maintain control over in recent days.

Even with all of this, the actual progression of your ... interaction (you don't feel brave enough to call it anything else) is a very slight one. You chide yourself for behaving like an immature love-struck idiot. You've always prided yourself on your ability to remain calm and objective about things, which is why this change is so ... terrifying. How can a man so composed himself be the harbinger and creator of such feelings in another person? It defies logic.

Then, one day, he sends you a message. It comes while you're at work, busy handling requisitions for new materials for sorcerers. You've been expecting an email from a contact in the supply and distribution department, and so casually slide your finger over the message before freezing. His name. Exactly as you'd saved it on your contact list.

Nanami Kento.

The message is simple:

"Hello. Please send a clean-up crew. I've attached the location."

A map co-ordinate has been attached, along with a picture. Puzzled, you open up the photo. It shows a warehouse, stacked with boxes and crates. Something had obviously occurred in that warehouse. The crates are shattered, as if a huge force had been applied to them, and dark stains are splattered all over the floors and ceiling. If Nanami had asked for a clean-up crew ...

As if in a daze, you call the relevant department and send the request through. You'd dealt with the aftermath of many exorcisms for other sorcerers, but Nanami never usually left such a mess. His efficiency also ensured that he would normally put the request through himself. That left you slightly worried. If the warehouse looked like that, what about him?

Tentatively, you pick up your phone and type a message.

"Request for clean-up team sent. Are you all right? Any injuries?"

The reply comes shortly after.

"Thank you. I'm fine. No serious injuries."

If the circumstances had been different, you might have found it amusing how robotically dry his messages were. The word 'serious', however, is circling in your mind like a vulture. What if he's downplaying his injuries? You'd never dealt with him directly before, so you wouldn't know for sure. Fingers hovering above the keys, thinking of a subtle way to find out, you give a small start as a message comes through, as if Nanami has been reading your mind.

It's another picture. This one is of his hand, large, wiry fingers wrapped around a Styrofoam coffee cup, reassuringly free of blood. You can see part of his suit jacket, draped over his arm.

"I'm not hurt. But I am thirsty."

Good Lord.

In the quiet of your office, you place your forehead in your palm and laugh silently.

__________________________________________________

Nanami had never been one for making idle conversation. His rigid countenance and stern demeanour often made him intimidating and unapproachable, except to those who knew him well. He had always struck you as someone who was supremely and calmly confident in every action he took. Whenever he spoke to you about missions in the break room, there had never been awkward silences or times when he'd seemed at a loss for words. Whatever he's said carried weight and added meaning to the conversation.

Which was why these new developments were such a puzzle to you. Over the past few weeks, there had been incidents where you couldn't make head or tail of his behaviour. It had started with the warehouse clean-up. The next time, it was the mysterious case of the missing homework.

Everyone who worked closely with the sorcerers knew, at this point, that Nanami has somewhat taken Itadori Yuuji under his wing. Unlike Gojo, who was loud, effusive and energetic when he interacted with the students, Nanami gave the impression of tolerating Yuuji's antics. Anyone who knew Nanami a little better could tell that he had a great deal of fondness for the boy.

So, when Nanami came into your office with Yuuji in tow and stopped at your desk, you couldn't help looking curiously between them. Yuuji greeted you with friendly grin and then looked at Nanami expectantly. The latter cleared his throat.

"Good day. I apologize for disturbing you, but I was wondering if you could help us?"

"Of course. What do you need?"

"Itadori has informed me that he's lost his assignment for class this afternoon."

Yuuji shamefacedly produced a battered USB drive and held it out to you.

"Ah, so sorry! But Nanamin told me that since we're passing by here, you'd help me print out another copy?"

"Oh, that's no problem at all."

You smile at Yuuji, who claps his hands together in sincere thanks. You're still wondering why they hadn't made use of the many printers in the student lab on the way here, but soon forget about that when you see the assignment open up in your word processor.

The spelling and grammar ... leave a lot to be desired, to put it kindly. You understand that English is Yuuji's second language, but this assignment wouldn't pass the minimum standards at Jujutsu Tech, where communication with foreign sorcerers was a necessity. You glance up at Nanami, who is eyeing you inscrutably through his tinted glasses. Your gaze tracks across to Yuuji.

"Hmm ... is it fine if I make a few changes? I know that the work should reflect your own ability, but if I explain the errors to you, then it would be the same as you learning and correcting those errors, yes?"

Yuuji's face lights up in a way that leaves you taken aback.

"Oh, yeah! That would be a huge help. Thanks!"

He hops up onto your table, which is thankfully free of the usual clutter, and swings his legs with disarming cheeriness. You take some time to explain his errors, his pink hair fluffing up under the air conditioning in the office as he nods his head earnestly. Within twenty minutes, you've finally made the assignment look far more presentable and Yuuji seems to understand everything you've explained. Nanami watches in silence.

Holding the newly printed copy like a precious treasure, Yuuji waves to you as they exit the office. You laugh and wave back. Nanami pauses in the doorway and looks back at you. He seems about to say something, then changes his mind, bows in thanks and follows Yuuji. You raise an eyebrow.

Curiouser and curiouser.

__________________________________________________

A few days later, you have some time off. You've stepped out of the shower, the scent of your herb-filled window boxes pleasantly filtering into the apartment with the afternoon breeze. You make yourself some tea and check your phone, coming to an abrupt halt when you see a message from Nanami waiting. You feel a rising frustration with yourself. As much as you can acknowledge the hold this man has over you, you wish your reactions to him were less embarrassing.

You close your eyes briefly, allowing the bittersweet pang of desire to well in your chest when you remember how tall and reassuringly solid he had looked, standing next to Yuuji in your office. Gojo couldn't have chosen a better or more trusted chaperone for his student. Having held off for long enough, you open the message.

It's another picture, this time of Yuuji proudly holding up his assignment, a seventy-two percent grade written in the upper corner in red ink. A significant improvement on what he could have scored. A soft smile appearing on your face, you scroll further down to see what Nanami had written.

"Apologies for not thanking you properly that day. I've seen you do crosswords, so I knew that your skill with words might help Itadori."

Ha. Sneaky. So that's why he'd brought Yuuji to you. Your smile grows and then turns perplexed. You've read the tail end of Nanami's message.

"Itadori's assignment was on the common honeybee. If you'd allow me, I'd like to use that information to thank you."

What on earth did that mean?

_______________________________________________________

The next day, you go in to work and find something on your table. A small paper bag of freshly baked honey cakes, the kind you like to buy once in a while to have with tea in your office. You very rarely get the fresh ones, though, as these get sold out very early. There's no note, but you know who they're from.

For some reason, the thought of Nanami going to the bakery so early in the morning and standing patiently in the long queue to buy these for you creates a burning feeling in your chest and a rush of blood in your ears. You look around the office hurriedly, mortified that you've once again shown your reaction so clearly. Nobody is there to see it, thankfully.

Sitting down heavily, drawing the package to you, you stroke a finger down the brown paper, struggling to contain the flood of emotion the small gesture has unlocked.

And then, you remember something. Other things begin to fall into place.

You've never mentioned to him that you liked these cakes. You've never even eaten them in front of him before. Yet, somehow, he knew. Just like how he knew that you're good with words, but more importantly, that you had a soft spot for the students and always assisted them where you could. Just like how he knew that you've been curious about the exact nature of the missions he handles and their aftermath. Just like he knew how worried you were that he could have been injured at the warehouse.

You wonder if a honeybee's sting has ever felt as dangerously sweet as this.

@tsukimefuku @g-kleran @actuallysaiyan @kentocalls

#fanfiction #jjk fanfic #jjk fic #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #nanami headcanons #nanami x reader #nanami x you #slow burn #yuuji itadori #jjk yuuji #yuuji itadori is sunshine #nanami is a dork #but a suave dork #nanami kento romance #it's a fic now

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semiweirdshipper · 2 years ago

Text

Killer reactions to a legally blind reader who had their glasses stolen from them during a trial. (Part one).

Notes: non-binary reader. Warnings for minor, non-graphic violence and injuries.

...

Frank

He found your glasses by an unfinished generator and picked them up. Why were these here? Didn't you need them?

"David? David, give them back. This isn't funny." He heard you say from a distance.

Frank followed the direction of your panicked calls and soon found you stumbling along the trees, your arms out and eyes harshly squinted. Those imbecile team mates of yours must have stolen your glasses. Welp....

Time to give them back.

"Missing something?" He said teasingly, stopping behind you.

You gasped and whipped around, squinting your eyes and asking anxiously, "Who-whose there?"

"Oh, you know, just the delivery boy," Frank walked forward, grabbed your hand and swiftly placed the glasses inside. Then he stepped back and watched as you quickly struggled to put them on, your body going rigid when your eyes adjusted and you saw exactly who it was that returned your glasses to you.

Behind his mask, Frank smirked, amused by the expression of utter disbelief, shock and fear on your adorable face. You were frozen, unable to move as you stared at him as if waiting for something to happen.

He took a few steps closer to you causing you to flinch and whimper in fear. "Shouldn't I get a 'thank you'?" He asked, tilting his head expectantly.

You nodded quickly, saying in a mixture of fear and gratitude, "Th-thank you... very much."

Hmp. Man, you were cute. Frank lifted his hand out, grabbed an edge of your glasses and gently adjusted them. "You're welcome," He said pleasantly, brushing your cheek with a knuckle before turning away to resume the trial.

Caleb

He saw your glasses fall from Meg's hand when he shot her, and he picked them up a few seconds later wondering why she had them in the first place. If he heard correctly, you couldn't see anything without them. So why did Meg have them?

Caleb found out the answer when he saw you struggling to work on a generator. When you heard his footsteps, you anxiously stood up and asked, "Meg? I-is that you? Please, give me my glasses back, I need them."

"Oh, thems 'yir' glasses I got 'ere?" Caleb couldn't help but to tease.

He watched with a chuckle as recognition and then horror bloomed across your face, and you gasped brokenly, turning away to try and feel for an escape. But you were boxed in by the generator, the pillar, and him.

With no other alternative, you hunched in on yourself, shaking in fear while awaiting whatever horrid torment he had in mind for you. "Well hey now, don't go gettin' all scared on me," Caleb set his gun down and stepped closer to you, "Ya want yir second eyes back?"

You whimpered, nodding nervously, "Y-yes... Please?"

"Hold still then," Caleb examined the glasses before going to gently slide them back onto your face. He stayed standing in front of you, eager to see your reaction, "There. That better for ya, sugar?"

He watched as you touched the glasses as if they were a foreign object, your lashes fluttering as you look at him with awe and disbelief. "Thank you," You whispered so softly he barely heard you.

Caleb snickered playfully, leaning closer and mumbling lowly, "This mean I get a reward?"

Bubba

He saw you bumping into walls right after Jake took off sprinting in the opposite direction, and he muttered in suspicion while making his way towards you. At the sound of his chainsaw, you cried in panic and attempted to get away only to trip and fall down.

Bubba squealed in concern, immediately setting aside his chainsaw and hammer so that he could kneel down and help you back up. He chirped in confusion when he saw the lack of glasses on your face, your squinting eyes outlining your dilemma.

"Just kill me," You whined hopelessly, "Th-they took my glasses. I can't see... Just kill me, please."

They stole your glasses? What monsters! Bubba squealed loudly in remorse, his hands patting your back and shoulders as he guided you to sit against the wall. Muttering lowly, he caressed your head and patted your shoulder as a silent command to stay put.

Grabbing his chainsaw and hammer, Bubba took off in search for your glasses. He was angry, and it didn't take him long to kill people whenever he was angry. Within fifteen minutes he had slaughtered the other three survivors, retrieved your glasses, and returned to your side.

Bending down, Bubba carefully placed your glasses back on your face, grinning big in endearment. You were so precious! What Jake did was mean. He squealed, grabbing your hands and helping you up.

"Thank you, Bubba," You say gratefully.

Bubba squealed and hugged you, fondly nuzzling the top of your head. Then he reached down, intersected your hands and began guiding you down the hall. Let's go find you the hatch!

Jeffrey

He witnessed your glasses fall from Nea's hand when he threw her on the hook, and he picked them up with a raised brow. "Ya steal these from (y/n)?" He asked in a dangerous tone.

Nea's answer didn't satisfy him, and let's just say she ended up eviscerated. Afterwards, Jeffrey spent a lot of time hunting you down, cursing when he couldn't find you.

Eventually, he did catch you hiding in a locker. When he wrenched the doors open, he took in the sad sight of you crying in fear and misery, your hands covering your face. "This ain't no way to greet ol' Jeffrey, is it?" He asked, licking his lips.

The way you sniffled and cried harder made him grunt in dissatisfaction. "Here," He nudged your glasses against your arm, "Put them on. Ya ain't no fun when ya can't see."

"Huh?" You blinked in shock, blindly grabbing your glasses and staring at him breathlessly, "You... You're?"

"Waitin' for some appreciation? Yeah, I think I am," Jeffrey huffed, standing back and watching as you slid your glasses on, looking at him shyly. God, you were delectable.

"Thank you," You nodded in visual appreciation, albeit still terrified, "I... I'm sorry they did that..."

"Ain't no reason apologizin' to me," Jeffrey coughed and allowed you enough room to exit the locker. "Besides... Who'd I be not to help my favorite little snack?"

You gasped when Jeffrey grabbed your hand and lifted it to his mouth, a shudder vibrating through you as he slid his lips across his favorite finger of yours. You blushed heavily, rushing away flustered when he let you go.

Herman

He saw you struggling to seal the wound on your shoulder and soon noticed that you didn't have your glasses. Rumor had it that you were legally blind, and every other time he encountered you, you always had your glasses.

Unleashing his mouth guards, Herman walked closer to you and asked gently, "Miss/Mr. (y/n), where are your glasses?"

"O-ow," You whimpered in pain after messing up patching your shoulder, your body shaking as you braced for an attack, "They were stolen."

"By who?" Herman stopped in front of you, setting down his weapon.

"Yui," You answer sadly.

"Here. May I help you?" Herman kneeled down, skillfully ignoring the Entity as he helped wrap your wounded shoulder. "I apologize for her misbehavior. Should I find your glasses, I will return them to you."

"Wh... Why?" You whispered, squinting your worthless eyes at him, "Why are you helping me?"

Herman didn't answer until he was done bandaging your wound, his eyes glowing pink as he gazed upon you, "What kind of man would I consider myself to be to take advantage of you in such a way?"

As your eyes went wide at his words, Herman stood, grabbed his weapon and briefly promised to return if he was successful in finding your glasses.

After about ten minutes when you were on a generator, Herman handed you your glasses and nodded at your thankful gesture before taking off in a different direction leaving you smiling warmly at his kindness.

Michael

He was in the distance stalking whenever he witnessed Feng steal your glasses and run off leaving you searching helplessly for anchorage. That no good traitor. She made the wrong decision treating you this way.

Leaving you be, Michael hunted down Feng and killed her. Once he realized that she didn't have your glasses, he went and killed the other two survivors but to no avail. Apparently none of them had your glasses.

On his way through the fields searching for you, Michael spotted your glasses broken and shattered on the ground. Guess he wouldn't be returning them after all.

Pinpointing your confused location, Michael marched up to you and peered down at your flinching, helpless figure. As soon as you realized that he wasn't going to harm you, you timidly asked, "Michael?"

Upon confirmation, Michael reached down and grabbed your wrist in a gentle but firm grip. You gasped and tensed up, but otherwise did not fight. "Wh-what's going on?" You whimpered, stumbling in whatever direction he led you.

Michael, unable to respond, simply continued to guide you to the hatch. Those insolent team mates of yours sure were quite the unreliable losers. He had fun killing them. It was a shame that you couldn't see. You might have liked the revenge he conjured for you.

Reaching the hatch, Michael let you go, smirking behind his mask when you grabbed his sleeve and bashfully said, "Thank you... Thank you so much."

#dead by daylight #slashers #fanfiction #reader insert #dead by daylight fanfiction #frank morrison x reader #caleb quinn x reader #jeffrey hawk x reader #bubba sawyer x reader #herman carter x reader #michael myers x reader #Legally blind reader #killers x reader #slasher fanfiction #Legally blind reader and killers part one #Legally blind reader and killers part two

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hanasnx · 10 months ago

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too bad i forget.

MINORS DNI 18+ NOTES: takes place during s2e2 where annie, abed, and troy break into a lawyers office | not sure how i feel about this bcos it was stuck in my head and i felt like i was trying to fit too many things in but whatevs

“You guys!” you exclaim, stamping your foot in frustration. “I’m the smartest one in the group and all I’ve been used for is bait and distraction.” With each angry bounce in place—conveying your mini temper tantrum as you complain—you hadn’t realized your chest rippled from the impacts of your stomps until their eyes drifted and remained there. Both Troy and ABED NADIR watch your curves move under the thin material of your form-fitting dress, and you scoff in offense. Your arms cross over, veiling your cleavage and breaking their trance. Finally, they meet your gaze as you frown at them. It’s humiliating enough to be looked at like a piece of meat, but you would’ve never expected that behavior from Abed.

A little later, it furthers still when you lift a box of files to prop open the door. Your little heels don’t stay under you when you crouch, sliding to a sit on the floor with your legs folded out on either side of you, and your ass jiggles from your firm landing. Embarrassed, you squeak, and whirl your head around to face the boys, checking if they caught your blunder. Troy has his back turned, but Abed’s unabashedly watching. His eyes follow the deep arch of your back, how your ass fans out sat against the floor, your smooth legs tucked in a most exquisite way. It shocks you enough to idle as he tilts his head. Only when you scramble up, face hot and deeply colored, does Abed return to his task of searching the computer for evidence. Hastily, you dust off your outfit, and make sure it’s not exposing more than it already was. Briefly, you remember the way he scanned you, and you feel a disappointment you didn’t let that linger a little longer.

You and Abed aren’t a thing, but you know how upset he sounded when he heard Jeff had kissed you that night, after the dance. The big reveal right in that study room had him practically storm out after verbalizing Jeff’s blatant disregard for human decency. It was mortifying to say the least, you’d never seen Abed so upset. His voice had a subtle edge that you may have never noticed if you didn’t spend so much time with him. Additionally, there was that one time that Pierce had described you and Britta as—what he believed to be—your most identifying features: one of you was “flat-ass” and the other was “the one Abed wants to nail.” One million questions had flooded your head all of them having to do with the latter. Another time was pottery class, and you hadn’t realized it in the moment, but sculpting a defined phallic shape accidentally had caught the eye of both Abed and Jeff. Running your wet hands up and down the shaft of the clay had brought them both to pensive silence as they observed your graceful movements. All this evidence kept piling up to explain Abed’s strange behavior tonight, but you keep denying it.

You keep denying it right up until you can’t take it anymore, right up until you’re back at his place, straddling him. Your lips against his, you find him oddly stiff. The kiss itself isn’t unpleasant, but you can feel his hesitance. Or maybe he’s just nervous, manifesting in rigid movements. Nevertheless, you find it appealing. A guy who gets worked up kissing strikes your fancy because you’ve always imagined yourself as the one to take it slow. It’s refreshing that he’s beating you to it. Your dress is cascaded over his pelvis, and his head is propped up on the armrest of his couch. Sweetly, he’s returning your kiss the best of his ability, even parting your lips with his when he slips you a glimpse of tongue.

You pull away to speak, but he interrupts your path. “Did I not do it right?” he asks, but his tone is characteristically devoid of concern. Instead, it’s calculative, as if he’s been measuring your enjoyment inside his head and is surprised to have been incorrect just now.

“Oh, you’re doing fine.” you reply with a relieved grin, clutching onto the front of his shirt. “I just wanted to say…” You lean down, pecking his willing lips. “you could… you know, touch me a little.” Those hands of his have been faithfully laying atop your thighs this entire exchange, and he glances warily down at them. So you help him. “Like this.” You palm the backs of his hands and gently glide them along your body, riding up your dress as they come to sit at the space right above your ass. Searching his eyes, you can see a glint of enthusiasm pass through them, and then those curious hands invite themselves to take a generous grope of your backside, incidentally rutting your core against the crotch of his jeans. You exhale, disbelief mixed with pleasure, and you could predict he was gonna say he saw this move in a movie once. Didn’t give him the chance though, pressing your chest against his to recapture his lips.

Strangely forward, Abed experimentally rocks you. Shallow jostles back and forth which is not at all what you expected from him. It’s unnerving until a twang slips from his lips, “Gonna ride me like a cowgirl tonight, huh?”

It becomes clear. You can tell he’s getting nervous treading into unknown territory, and falling back on a reference you don’t understand playing a character you don’t know is a way to diffuse that. “This is not a movie, Abed.” you chide.

“Sorry.”

#indy: drabbles #ch: abed #abed nadir drabble #abed nadir x reader #abed nadir x fem reader #abed nadir x you #abed nadir x y/n #abed nadir imagine #abed nadir fic #abed nadir fanfic #abed nadir fanfiction #community smut #community x reader #community imagine #community fic #community fanfiction

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callmedaleelah · 4 months ago

Text

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— i don’t wanna think of anything else now that i thought of you ; he’s tending to your wounds with an unexpected tenderness

author’s notes : alcohol influence, slight fighting scene, no mention of (y/n), written in second person pov, semi alternative universe, timeskip!tsukishima, college life, not proofread, english is not my first language

[ masterlist ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

You were studying in your room, laptop on desk and legs on the chair. The night had been calm until your laptop pinged with a notification—your mom was requesting a FaceTime call. Instinctively, your stomach twisted, a familiar sense of dread tightening in your chest. You knew this wasn’t a casual check-in. You reluctantly accepted the call, your fingers trembling slightly as you did.

Your mom’s face appeared on the screen, her expression already set in that stern, no-nonsense look you’d grown all too familiar with. Her eyes seemed to cut through you, already armed with questions you weren’t ready to answer.

“You got a C,” she started, her voice sharp with disappointment. “What happened? Are you not taking your studies seriously?”

You flinched, feeling a rush of anxiety flood your body. Your hands, now cold and clammy, twisted nervously in your lap, hidden from the screen. The knot in your throat grew tighter, and for a moment, you struggled to find your voice.

“I—I’m trying, Mom,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel your heart racing, the pulse pounding in your ears. “It was the lab report. Yuriko—she’s our new TA—she didn’t really give us much feedback. She just moved on to the next topic, and I—I didn’t get a chance to fix the mistakes.”

Your eyes darted around the room, avoiding the screen, hoping that somehow if you didn’t look at her, the conversation would feel less suffocating. But your mother’s voice was relentless, filling every corner of your mind.

“So you’re blaming the TA?” she asked, her tone clipped and dismissive. “Yuriko, right? She’s just a teaching assistant, not the professor. If she’s not doing her job, that’s on her—but you need to stand up for yourself. Have you even tried speaking to the professor?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, the pressure inside your chest growing unbearable. You wanted to scream, to tell her that it wasn’t that simple—that every confrontation made you feel small and incapable. But the words were trapped inside you, stuck behind the wall of anxiety that always seemed to silence you whenever you needed to speak the most.

“No,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I haven’t.”

The air around you felt heavier, your body rigid with tension. You could feel the anger bubbling up inside of you—the anger at her for always making you feel like a failure, and the anger at yourself for not being able to stand up to her. Your jaw clenched, but you forced a small, tight-lipped smile, hoping to diffuse the situation.

“Mom, it’s not like I’m not trying,” you said, attempting to sound casual, but your voice wavered. “It’s just one grade. I’ll make up for it, I promise.”

But your mother wasn’t having it. Her face hardened, and her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer to the camera. You instinctively shrank back in your chair, your shoulders tightening, feeling trapped even though she wasn’t physically there.

“One grade?” she repeated coldly. “Are you serious? A C is not a big deal to you? Do you realize what this could do to your GPA? You’re letting this slide because you’re too afraid to speak up? That’s weak, and it’s pathetic. You’re better than this, but you’re sabotaging yourself because you’re too scared to take action.”

You could feel the anger now—hot, sharp, and painful—burning beneath the surface of your skin. Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood. You wanted to defend yourself, to tell her how unfair she was being, but all you could do was nod stiffly, swallowing your words like bitter pills.

“I just don’t want to make things worse,” you managed to say, your voice tight and strained. “I don’t want to cause trouble. And it’s not that simple, Mom. I can’t just email the professor and complain. That would make me look like I’m blaming the TA for my own mistakes. I have to own up to them.”

Your mom’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, she looked even more frustrated, her eyes hard with judgment. “Own up to what?” she shot back. “To her inability to do her job? No, if she’s not helping you learn, then she’s the problem—not you. You need to grow a backbone and stop letting these people walk all over you. Email your professor and let them know this TA isn’t doing her job.”

Her words struck you like a blow to the chest, but instead of anger, all you felt was a hollow ache of anxiety. Your mind was racing, your thoughts spiraling into a familiar whirlwind of self-doubt. Maybe she was right. Maybe you were weak. Maybe you were too scared to take control of your own life.

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. You couldn’t let her see you cry. Not again. Not over this.

“I’ll send an email,” you said quietly, though your voice lacked conviction. “I’ll talk to the professor.”

“Good,” your mom replied, her tone sharp and final. “Because if you don’t, I will. And I won’t be as nice about it as you think.”

Without waiting for a response, she ended the call. The screen went black, leaving you alone in the stillness of your room. For a moment, you just sat there, staring at your reflection in the dark screen. Your hands were still trembling, your body tense as if bracing for another attack. But the silence was suffocating, too, and you let out a shaky breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

Anger still simmered beneath the surface, but it was mixed with something else—something deeper and more painful. You were angry at her for pushing you so hard, for never understanding how much anxiety her words caused. But you were also angry at yourself for never being able to say what you truly felt. You always swallowed your feelings, always pretended everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.

Your fists clenched in your lap, your nails digging into your palms. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat that made it hard to breathe. Why couldn’t you just tell her how much her words hurt? Why couldn’t you ever stand up for yourself?

The silence in the room felt oppressive, your thoughts too loud and too chaotic. You wanted to scream, to cry, to let all the frustration out, but all you could do was sit there, frozen in place, suffocated by your own emotions.

After a long moment, you forced yourself to take a deep breath, trying to shake off the tension in your shoulders. Your hands were still trembling as you reached for your laptop, opening it to the lab report you had been working on before the call. The words on the screen blurred as you blinked back the tears that had been building up throughout the conversation.

You tried to focus, but your mind kept drifting back to your mom’s words, the weight of her expectations pressing down on you like an unbearable load. Every time you thought you could breathe, another wave of anxiety washed over you, tightening your chest, making it harder to think clearly.

You pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to rub away the ache that had formed there. Why can’t I just be enough? The thought echoed in your mind, a painful reminder of the constant pressure you were under.

For a moment, you considered sending the email to your professor, just to appease your mom. But as your fingers hovered over the keyboard, you hesitated. Did you really want to send it? Or were you just doing it to avoid another fight?

The answer was clear, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. You shut your laptop with a soft sigh, leaning back in your chair, closing your eyes. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but you buried it deep inside, just like you always did.

And as the silence enveloped you, you realized that no matter how hard you tried to pretend everything was okay, the weight of your anxiety wasn’t going anywhere.

You glance at the clock and feel like the walls of your room are closing in on you. The air feels thick, and the knot in your stomach tightens the longer you sit there. You can’t stay in this suffocating space any longer. You need to get out—breathe some fresh air—before everything overwhelms you.

Without much thought, you went out with your pajamas, light blue with delicate white floral patterns, soft and simple. The pants are comfortable and loose, while the long-sleeved top buttons up neatly. You slip on some slippers.

Stepping out into the cool evening, you barely acknowledge the path you're taking. The campus is quieter than usual, with just a few students lingering around, chatting in low voices as they return from late study sessions. The wind brushes against your cheeks, and you shiver lightly, pulling your arms closer to your body as you walk with no destination in mind.

Before you know it, you arrive at a small park just outside the campus grounds. It's dimly lit, and the chilly air has driven most people away. The park is almost deserted, with only a few benches scattered beneath the shadows of tall buildings. A lonely swing set stands to the side, the metal chains gently swaying with the breeze. You walk over to it, and without thinking, you lower yourself onto one of the swings.

Your hands grip the cold chains as you gently push yourself back and forth. The rhythmic motion helps, just a little, but your mind races faster than the gentle sway of the swing. You tilt your head back, eyes catching the glimpse of a star or two barely visible between the tall buildings. But even the beauty of the night sky can’t slow the spinning thoughts in your mind. You’re angry—angry at your mom’s words, angry at your inability to express it. Yet here you are, alone, processing it all by yourself.

You take a deep breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to quiet your mind for even just a moment.

Suddenly, the sound of shuffling footsteps interrupts your focus. A boy, wearing a campus jacket, staggers over to the swing next to you and flops down with a sigh. You glance sideways at him—his face is flushed a deep red, and the smell of alcohol hits you immediately. He giggles to himself, the sound light but unsettling in the stillness of the evening. He seems oblivious to your discomfort, swinging lightly next to you with a lazy grin on his face.

The unease grows in your chest. You shift uncomfortably, pulling your legs in closer. You need to leave. Slowly, you rise from the swing, ready to return to your dorm. But as you take a step, you feel a hand clamp around your wrist. Your heart nearly stops.

“Hey, where you going?” he slurs, his words barely coherent as he tugs at your arm. “Let’s swing here... together.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you try to pull away, but his grip is tight—too tight. Panic begins to bloom in your chest. You’ve never dealt with a drunk person before, and all your mother’s warnings about the dangers flash in your mind. You try to keep calm, tugging at your wrist again.

“Let me go,” you whisper, your voice trembling. But he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“Stop your shit and sit here with me,” he insists, pulling harder. “We’re supposed to have fun, Amy.”

Your pulse quickens. Amy? Who the hell is Amy?

“I’m not Amy!” you snap, louder now, trying to yank your hand free. You manage to pull away, but the boy stands abruptly, his bloodshot eyes glaring at you.

“Why do you keep leaving me?” he shouts. His steps are unsteady, but his anger is clear. Before you can react, he grabs your shoulder with one hand and your waist with the other, pulling you closer to him. His grip is tight, almost painful, and you begin to shake.

“Let go of me!” you scream, panic overtaking you. You’ve never felt so scared—so helpless. All the fears of what could happen race through your mind, and you try to push him away with all your strength. He holds you tighter, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not gonna hurt y—”

Without thinking, your hand swings up and connects with his face, hard. The slap rings out in the empty park, and for a moment, he stumbles back, stunned. Your hand stings from the force, but you barely register the pain. You’re ready to run, but before you can, he lunges at you again, grabbing your pajama collar roughly and gripping your jaw with his other hand, forcing you to face him. His face is twisted with rage. “Why did you do that? What did I do wrong to you?!” he shouts, his voice booming in your ears.

Tears well up in your eyes as the fear overwhelms you. You’re shaking uncontrollably, heart racing. How did you let this happen? You curse yourself for walking this far, for not being more careful. Panic surges through you. What if he tries to hurt you even worse? What if this escalates? The fear of the unknown, the thought that he could do anything to you now, sends you spiraling. You scream for help, your voice raw and desperate as tears stream down your face.

“Stop screaming, Amy! I’m not a bad guy!” he yells, his voice filled with frustration and anger. His hand twists in your hair, yanking you forward before throwing you to the ground. The pain shoots through you, sharp and shocking. You scream again, your body trembling as you lie on the ground, crying hysterically, paralyzed by fear.

You can’t process what’s happening, your mind in a fog as the world spins around you. The drunk guy’s fist is drawn back, ready to strike, and you brace yourself for the impact, but before he can land the blow, someone tackles him to the ground. It’s all a blur—thrashing limbs, muffled groans. The sound of a scuffle fills the air, and you can barely make out what’s happening through your daze. Suddenly, you feel a hand on your shoulder, and instinctively, you flinch away from the touch, heart pounding in your chest.

“It's okay, it's me,” a gentle voice says, cutting through your panic. It’s Yamaguchi. His soft, concerned expression breaks through the terror gripping you, and you let out a sob, crying hysterically now as the relief begins to wash over you. Yamaguchi quickly looks you over, his eyes scanning for injuries. He frowns as he spots the angry red handprint on your cheek, the evidence of what just happened.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi calls urgently, his voice tight with worry. You turn your head shakily in the direction he’s calling, your vision blurry with tears. Through the haze, you see Tsukishima, standing tall in front of the drunken guy now sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain after being struck down. His face is shadowed, but his anger is unmistakable.

Without a second's hesitation, Tsukishima rushes toward you. His expression shifts from fury to deep concern, his hands shaking slightly as he cups your tear-streaked face. He wipes the strands of hair sticking to your cheeks and leans in closer, his breath ragged, still catching from the fight. “Hey,” he whispers urgently, eyes searching your face. “Are you okay? Did he—did he hurt you?”

Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper between the hiccups as you grasp onto his hands. “He grabbed me… and threw me to the ground.” The words feel so fragile, your body shaking uncontrollably as the fear from earlier resurfaces.

“It’s okay now,” Tsukishima’s jaw tightens at your words. He quickly pulls you into his embrace, wrapping his arms around you protectively, as if shielding you from any further harm. “I’ve got you now,” he whispers against your hair. “You’re safe.”

“Tsukki, she’s hurt,” Yamaguchi says quietly, pointing to the tear in your pajama pants where blood is beginning to stain the fabric. Tsukishima pulls back, eyes scanning your body until he finds the bleeding scrape on your knee. His brows furrow in deep concern as he inspects it, then you lift your trembling hands, showing him the cuts and scratches you’ve only just now noticed.

“It’s okay,” Tsukishima says, his voice calm yet firm, trying to hold back his own distress. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

They bring you to Tsukishima’s apartment, a tall, quiet building beside the park. The moment you step inside, you feel a bit disoriented, your mind still clouded from the terrifying encounter. You settle on the sofa, and Yamaguchi stays close, his voice soft as he tries to comfort you. Tsukishima returns quickly with a first aid kit, his face serious but gentle. He kneels in front of you and begins to clean the injury on your knee with antiseptic. You can’t help but watch him blankly, your mind still spinning from everything that happened. The sting of the antiseptic pulls you back to reality for a moment, and you flinch slightly.

“I’ll get you some water,” Yamaguchi says quietly before heading to the kitchen, leaving you alone with Tsukishima. You blink, your thoughts slowly catching up with the present moment.

Tsukishima moves carefully now, his hands steady as he takes yours and starts cleaning the scratches on your palms. The soft clink of the antiseptic bottle echoes in the quiet room. You wince when the stinging sensation hits, and Tsukishima immediately looks up. “It’s okay, it’s done now,” he reassures you softly. He finishes quickly, his expression focused as he packs up the first aid kit.

Yamaguchi returns with a glass of water, offering it to you with a warm smile. “Here, drink this,” he says. After you take a sip, he hesitates, then asks gently, “What exactly happened at the park?”

Your heart sinks as the shame washes over you again. You lower your head, feeling foolish for having wandered so far from the dorm. How could you let yourself get into this situation?

“I was just sitting at the swings, trying to clear my head,” you start, your voice trembling. “Then he showed up. I could tell he was drunk, so I got up to leave, but he grabbed me and called me Amy. Everything happened so fast after that…” You pause, swallowing hard, fighting the urge to cry again.

Yamaguchi leans closer, his hand rubbing yours gently in reassurance. “It’s over now,” he says, his voice soothing. “You’re safe.”

“There’s a bar around here,” Tsukishima’s voice breaks the silence. He stands by the kitchen counter, putting the first aid kit away. “He must’ve come from there and wandered into the park.” His tone is calm, almost detached, but you can sense the undercurrent of irritation beneath his words.

You glance at Yamaguchi, who nods as if to confirm what Tsukishima said. Somehow, that simple gesture eases some of the tension in your chest.

Tsukishima reappears moments later, holding out a neatly folded shirt and pair of shorts. “You should get changed,” he says quietly, his eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. You look down at yourself, realizing your pajamas are torn and dirty, your skin still sticky from the fall. You stand, taking the clothes from him. His hand gestures toward the bathroom. “It’s that way,” he says, pointing.

You nod, grateful, and make your way toward the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind you, and for the first time since the whole ordeal began, you exhale fully.

After changing into the soft pajamas Tsukishima had lent you, you took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom. The frog cartoon on the shirt made you smile shyly, the playful design somehow comforting despite the tension in your chest. Your leg still ached as you limped back into the living room, where Tsukishima and Yamaguchi were bustling around the kitchen counter. The sight of their familiar figures—Tsukishima quietly focused, Yamaguchi smiling warmly—grounded you in a way that made the fear from earlier seem like a distant memory.

Yamaguchi spotted you first. “Oh, it fits you well!” he said with an approving nod, his cheerful tone lightening the atmosphere.

Tsukishima glanced over, and you caught a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s my sister’s pajamas that she left after staying the night,” he explained, his eyes momentarily lingering on how the clothes fit you. It was subtle, but you couldn’t miss the way his gaze softened. For a brief moment, you almost felt… cute under his careful eyes.

You tried to hide your flustered smile as Yamaguchi pulled out a chair for you at the small kitchen table. “We grabbed chicken wings earlier when we heard the commotion in the park,” Yamaguchi said, his tone still light as he gestured for you to join them. “You must be hungry.”

The smell of food did make your stomach rumble, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since much earlier in the day. You sat down, accepting the plate Yamaguchi handed you. Slowly, as the warmth of the food and their company eased your nerves, you found yourself chatting with them. The event at the park seemed to fade with every laugh and every bit of teasing from Yamaguchi. Tsukishima stayed quieter, but every once in a while, you caught him watching you with a look of concern that he didn’t try to hide.

Once the meal was over, you volunteered to wash the dishes, standing firm despite their protests. You needed to do something, anything, to help push away the lingering anxiety. After drying your hands with a paper towel, you turned back to them, feeling a little more like yourself.

“You should stay the night,” Tsukishima said suddenly, his tone serious.

You opened your mouth to protest, feeling like you’d already intruded enough on their night, but Yamaguchi cut in before you could say anything. “Do you have morning class tomorrow?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“Then it’s settled,” Yamaguchi said with a bright grin. “We’ll head back to the dorm tomorrow. Tsukki has an extra futon, so it’s fine.”

You hesitated, but when Tsukishima quietly left to grab the futon, you felt your resistance crumble. Soon enough, Tsukishima returned, laying the futon out neatly in the living room.

“You can sleep in my bedroom,” he said with that calm, matter-of-fact tone of his. “Yamaguchi and I will sleep out here.”

There was no arguing with that. You offered him a quiet thank you before retreating to his room, trying not to think too much about the fact that you were sleeping in Tsukishima’s bed. His scent lingered on the pillows and sheets, that familiar clean, earthy smell that reminded you of him. Despite the comfort of the room, your mind couldn’t settle. Every time you closed your eyes, flashes of the earlier event rushed back—the man’s hand grabbing you, his drunken slurred words, the helplessness you’d felt.

Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore. Wrapping yourself tightly in the blanket, you quietly crept out of the bedroom and into the living room. You found Tsukishima sitting up on his futon, his legs wrapped in a blanket as he leaned against the couch. The TV was on, playing an old movie that bathed the room in soft, flickering light. Yamaguchi was already fast asleep beside him.

Tsukishima noticed you immediately. “What’s wrong?” His voice was gentle, but alert.

You hesitated, feeling embarrassed for some reason. “I… I can’t sleep,” you admitted softly.

Tsukishima shifted slightly, making room. “You can sleep on the couch. I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.”

The offer was too comforting to refuse. You hesitantly lay down on the couch, pulling the blanket around you. The couch wasn’t quite as comfortable as his bed, but the fact that he was there, just a few feet away, made a world of difference.

“Do you want me to turn off the TV?” Tsukishima asked, glancing back at the screen.

You shook your head. “No, it’s okay. You can keep watching. It’s… nice to have some sound in the background.”

“Alright,” he said, leaning back against the couch, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds coming from the movie playing softly on the TV. The darkness of the living room, combined with the quiet presence of Tsukishima nearby, began to lull you into a sense of peace.

Your eyes wandered to his hand, resting on the edge of the couch. Before you could second-guess yourself, you reached out, lightly brushing your fingers against his. He looked down at your hand, then back up to your face.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet room. “For saving me tonight.”

For a moment, Tsukishima didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he turned his hand over and intertwined his fingers with yours, his thumb rubbing gently over your skin. “Just don’t put yourself in trouble again,” he murmured, his voice soft and full of a warmth that he rarely let show.

You nodded, your eyes growing heavy with sleep. The soft glow of the TV cast flickering shadows across the room as you settled more comfortably into the couch, cocooned in the blanket that still carried a faint trace of warmth from Tsukishima's bedroom. The rhythmic sounds of the movie playing in the background became a soothing hum, helping you push the earlier trauma to the back of your mind.

Tsukishima stayed close by, his presence quietly reassuring, his hand still gently holding yours. His thumb traced small, calming circles against your skin, and the gesture sent a wave of comfort through you. You hadn't even realized how tense you'd been until his touch seemed to gradually melt away the anxiety.

You mumbled something else, too sleepy to string the words together properly. Tsukishima squeezed your hand lightly in response, leaning his head back against the couch with a soft sigh. His eyes remained on you, watching over you protectively, making sure that even in this unfamiliar space, you felt safe. The warmth of his lips on your knuckles lingered longer than the touch itself, leaving behind a tenderness that your sleepy mind tried to hold on to.

Your breathing slowed as sleep finally began to overtake you. But just before the darkness of sleep fully claimed you, your last conscious thought was a feeling of gratitude—not just for being rescued, but for the quiet, steady care Tsukishima showed. His presence was a comforting anchor in a night that had been anything but calm.

And for once, in his quiet, composed way, Tsukishima wasn’t only your distant, stoic lab assistant. Tonight, he had been your shield.

i hope you guys like this chapter, i was running out of ideas 😣🤧

tagslist (free to mention) ; @theweirdfloatything @snowthatareblack @ilovemymomscooking @nayiiryun @knightofmidnight @kozumesphone @scxrcherr

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spockandawe · 1 year ago

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Oh my god, y'all. Forgive me if I'm being redundant, but I think i may have forgotten to post one of my BIG projects?? I just tried to look for this in my archives, and it should have gone up around March 17, but I... can't find it, it's not in my mdzs tag, it doesnt show up when i search yapp, and I was, uh. Arguably very distracted because I made this as emergency distraction material right before a big family funeral! SO, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO. My first take on single volume Mo Dao Zu Shi

One main goal: rigid yapp edges. Some people may quibble about whether that's the right name if they're rigid, but shhhh shh shh, bookbinding already has reached a critical volume of unsearchable key terms, like 'square' and 'shoulder,' I deserve this one, and not the unbearably generic term that slides right off my brain. And resources on how to do any edge overhangs are... thin on the ground, so hell yeah, let's smash em together.

Like one person online, a Finnish poet bookbinder or something, had an example of crisp rigid edges like these, but no clues on the how-to other than that 'yapp' term. I was only a baby bookbinder. I'm not even sure I was backing books yet when I saw it. But i REMEMBERED. And after figuring out boxes a little bit, i felt confident enough to go for it! I used guidance from one of my box making books for how to cover the edges nicely, and heyyyy, it worked!

Now.... mistakes were made. I was looking for trimming alternatives for chunky books that weren't chisels or sanding. Trying to fit different halves of my book into the guillotine then sand the sin out of it was... not the answer. Faux suede was also a mistake. I love it to bits, but it is possibly the LEAST forgiving material in the world for glue squishing onto the nice side of your material, and I sure picked some complex surfaces to cover with it. And also, the yapp edges are a little large. A little intrusive! I wanted them to be proportional with the thickness, and neglected proportional with my hands XD

It's no biggie, this whole thing was something I chose as a learning project, and man, I learned a LOT. I do love it a lot too! The faux suede feels great, the endpapers are great, and red foil on maroon fabric worked out super cool. I'm not going to repeat myself, which is why new mdzs is partially re-typeset, the binding will be different, and my next yapp edge project will be something new. But I'm so fond of this silly thing! Especially the surprise skeleton hands on the back, ahahahaha

#crafts #bookbinding #yapp edges #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #the grandmaster of demonic cultivation #putting surprise designs on the back of a book is a new favorite thing since this #i don't always have an idea #but it's a delight when I do 😂

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lvlyghost · 1 year ago

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Dreams and Illusions

Pairings: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Summary: You open your eyes and he is not there. Never missed a birthday at the café. An empty chair mocks you, the waiter that's worked here for so long he already knows your routine. Knows he didn't show up this time.

Word Count: 800+

Tw: past trauma, hurt/comfort. flashbacks to simon's family but nothing too descriptive, it's just there. poorly edited👻✨

A/N: literally what my dream was about, okay maybe changed a few things and places. hope this isn't terrible. 🌸

Masterlist✨

It's the same place. The same hour. The same spot.

The candle flickers in front of you. A private celebration at the café. You smile, eyes meeting deep blue behind a mask. Serious as ever he stares back at you, nodding ever so slightly, encouraging you to make your wish and blow the candle.

So you close your eyes. You think for a brief moment about your life, about what you've lost and what you've found, and hope for it to stay until the end of the times.

You think about a dim lit hallway and apartment 174. Doors slamming shut, screams and fights. Blue eyes, that meet yours while you hold the keys to your own home. Conversations that start with a gruff 'good evening'. A kid and his parents.

A man that comes and goes.

Then they're all gone and you're left with silence.

Months of silence.

Days and nights go by in the blink of an eye.

He's back.

You hear the sound of things being packed so you knock. Simon greets you, shoulders relaxing when he sees you, it's been so long. Five years since that day. He's all you've got. You're all he finds comfort in.

But now it's been eleven months.

You open your eyes and he is not there. Never missed a birthday at the café. An empty chair mocks you, the waiter that's worked here for so long he already knows your routine. Knows he didn't show up this time.

So you blow the candle with watery eyes and stare at it in a daze. Maybe you were truly alone after all; and those beautiful five years were a part of your imagination. Something that could only live in your memory. Good things never last for you.

It's a chilly night, in the middle of October, you mutter a happy birthday to yourself and ask for the check with a broken smile.

One small golden box catches your eye as it slides towards you. You turn to look at the intruder. A chair creaks right beside you as a broad body sits down next to your rigid form.

"Got it at the gift shop at the airport as soon as I landed." He comments. Voice as somber as ever.

You bite your lower lip, fighting the tears and the lump in your throat.

"You came." You breathe out. The chocolate cake long forgotten. Refusing to look him in the eye; because you know if you do you'll lose your composure. The heat that radiates off of him is overwhelming.

"Couldn't leave my girl alone. Not today." You cover your mouth with your hand, squeezing your eyes shut. "Sorry I made you wait."

His arm comes to rest on the back of your chair, sending goosebumps down your spine.

"Where have you been?" When you finally peer up at him he's already staring down at you, eyes boring into your own. "Thought I'd never see you again."

Simon breathes deeply. He too thought the same. He'd never say this to you; that he almost didn't make it back. That the last few months he was unable to stand up for himself. He needed the time to heal properly and then go back to his safe place in the whole world.

Next to you.

"Open it." He says instead, pushing the small box closer to you.

You open it with nervous hands, it's small and it shines. A beautiful necklace with a shamrock.

"You remembered."

He walks back with you, one big hand placed on you lower back guiding you even if you know the way. You ramble about nothing and everything. Things that happened in his absence. Josh, the neighbor from next door moved out. Daisy the nosy lawyer who was deeply infatuated with Simon has gotten pregnant.

You got flowers from one of your co-workers.

He had growled at that piece of information.

The familiar apartment complex brings him a sense of bittersweet peace; the walls look dirtier than he remembers. The corridor is the same he's walked for countless years. You both come to a stop right outside your place, Simon is staring straight to the last door. The one that brought atrocious memories of the heinous crime that occurred to his family.

"Are you...-"

"I don't like being here." He states. The place... you were the reason he kept him coming back.

"I know..." you hesitate for a second before taking his hand and intertwine your fingers with his. If you close your eyes you can still see the gruesome scenes from that day. You sigh. "Guess that means you're not staying..." you can't help the disappointment in your voice.

"Didn't say that." He turns to look at you, intently. "Wherever you are, that's where I wanna be."

Even if it meant reliving the worst day of his life, when he came home to his brother's apartment. To see the bodies of everything he had left. It was twisted that the place that made him miserable also had in it the only reason he keeps going.

Good thing never happened to people like him. Tragedies were his life signature.

Yet he hopes, he dreams that, perhaps you'll be the exception.

#cod #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw22 #cod ghost #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost fanfiction #simon ghost riley #cod modern warfare #ghost cod

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phoebepheebsphibs · 8 months ago

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Double-Mutated Mikey

Chapter 11: Anthropophobia

Continued from the short story written by @boots-with-the-fur-club

Prev || Next

Splinter is the first to meet April as she walks in. She's carrying several bags that hang from her wrists and arms. Apparently she went grocery shopping before she got here.

Splinter walks over to her and nods his head in greeting.

"Ah, April. Good to see you again..." he sniffs the air, his demeanour immediately changing from composed host to excited foodie. "Ooooh, is that tiramisu I smell?"

April laughs as she reaches into one of the bags.

"All for you, Splints," she says, handing the box of cake over to Splinter, who grabs it with a huge grin.

"Aha! Come to big papa! Thank you, April, this is very kind of you."

"Anything for you and the guys," she says with a smile. "Speaking of which, how's Mikey doing?"

Splinter pauses.

"...How much have they told you?"

"You know Donnie, he likes to be vague and build up suspense for dramatic effect. But he texted me last night to say how the mission went."

"Did he?"

"Sometime at like, midnight or one AM," she grumbles. "Just to say that the mission was a success and they got Mikey back. I asked how he was, and all he said was that he was alive and conscious. But I haven't known Donnie all these years to not know when he's hiding something. So, how is Mikey, really? Is he okay?"

"It's difficult to say," Splinter mumbles, walking back into the lair with April. "He's... he's awake and can communicate, to some extent. He can walk and even run. But... I'll let you decide when you see him."

April is unsure what he means by that, but lets it slide. She's sure she'll find out in a bit.

The three other Hamato sons come into the room to greet them. Leo is first, rushing in with haste. Raph comes in after him, his pace quick but not as swift as Leon's. Donnie meanders in last, his stride slow and somewhat sluggish. He looks exhausted.

"Hey, family!" she says, leaning in for a hug from Leo, who takes half of the bags from her as Raph takes the rest. "How're you holding up?"

"Well enough," Leo mutters. "All things considered. At least, I haven't had a emotional breakdown yet!"

Raph looks embarrassed. Apparently he can't match that boast.

"Where is the man of the hour?" April asks. "I got some new paint pens for him."

Leo looks uncomfortable.

"Uhh... we left him in Donnie's lab. I think he's still asleep... let's get these groceries into the kitchen for now; we'll tell you about everything."

April nods sadly as she follows the guys.

"Hold him still!"

"Stop struggling!"

"Get me 20 Cc's of the mandrill, the boa, and the -- crap, he's gotten loose again!"

Mikey shrieks as he jumps down from the operating chair and dashes to the exit. A guard blocks his path, a cattle prod in his grip. He flicks the switch on it and a loud grinding sound ignites as blue sparks fly from the end. Mikey makes a quick turn and dodges him, running to a corner of the room and cowering. The doctors surround him angrily.

"Where's that frost gun?"

"Over there by the table!"

"Antagonizing little cretin! You'd think he'd have learned his lesson from the last time!!"

One of the men in white comes back, brandishing a long thin airgun with a blue stripe down the middle. A special weapon made specifically for him, for when he acts out. The doctor points it at Mikey and pulls the trigger. A gust of icy air shoots out directly at Mikey. He screeches in pain as the shock of temperature causes his body to go rigid. He falls to the ground convulsing and shivering, painful stabbing sensations prickle across his entire body. He almost feels like he's dying. He can't move.

The guards grab him roughly. He can't move to fight back. Mikey sobs and screams.

He hurts so much, there are so many hurting places on his body.

Needles that have broken the skin to inject what Mikey can only assume is poison because of how much it hurts.

Bruises from where he has been forced into places with other animals to see how they interact. They are never friendly. Mikey is the only one to ever walk out of the room again. Instinct is efficient and ruthless.

There is no love in this room. Only hate. Only pain.

Mikey is taken back to the chair and strapped down. He howls.

"I'd advise you not to do that again," a doctor says with anger burning in his eyes. "Or else there will be consequences."

Consequences worse than what is happening now? He doubts it.

Syringes prick his arms. Oozes and slimes and ghastly liquids are shoved into his veins and bloodstreams. He can feel it doing painful things to him, he feels his bones shift and crack and grow and shrink. His teeth snap into new formations and his fingers start to elongate, the nails splintering and curving into talons.

Mikey sobs. Why is he here? Why do they hate him? Where are the other ones?? Where is Red, and Blue, and Purple? Where did they go, why have they left him behind? Did they escape this place? This place is all he can remember, apart from them. He only recalls needles and linoleums and cages and cold and pain and tears and hatred and fury and longing and loneliness.

Why did they leave him... didn't they love him, once?

Didn't anybody love him once?

No. No one could ever have loved anything from this place.

No one could have loved whatever it is that Mikey is.

Mikey's eyes snap open, tears streaming down his cheeks.

He doesn't recognize this room. It's another cage? It's a small white tunnel, he's stuck inside, he needs to get out!

Mikey clambers around, whining and crying like a puppy stuck in a kennel. He somehow manages to make a backwards shimmy out of the tunnel.

He is in Purple's lab. He wants to leave, now. Right now.

Purple and Blue and Red aren't in here. Where did they go?

The door is open. Mikey rushes out, calling for them.

He howls, long whining hoots that anyone within the lair could hear. Why don't they respond? Where are they?

They left him again...? They left him. They left.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Mikey starts to whimper.

Should have known they would leave...

No, they wouldn't leave!

Then where are they?

Somewhere... Brothers are somewhere... He'll find them eventually.

No trust. Something bad. Smell something bad.

Mikey smells it, too. Where is the bad smell coming from?

It's not a disgusting scent. In fact, it is, in some ways, very nostalgic. There are traces of coconut oil in it. Sweet scents. But it is a bad smell.

Something dangerous is in the home.

It's coming from the kitchen...

Mikey goes into hunting mode. He digs his talons into the cracks between the bricks in the wall. As he climbs, the pads on his palms shift, tickling sensations that give pins and needles on his hands. Miniscule hairs create Van der Waals forces, causing a suction effect as Mikey starts to scale the wall and crawl to the ceiling.

He sneaks along the top of the hallway, following the bad smell.

Mikey cranes his neck down to peer into the kitchen. Everyone is inside, unloading bags and boxes and containers of food and supplies.

Rat is in the corner of the room, wiping his eyes. He was crying. The human who made breakfast is also in here, quietly rummaging through the pantries and cabinets as he places things away. He looks like he might cry, too. Blue, Red and Purple are holding someone in their arms. She is making a lot of noise, weeping and wailing and sobbing in their embrace. Apparently everyone was crying.

They must love her.

But she smells bad. She has the bad smell. Why trust bad smell?

The bad smell is human.

We don't like humans.

No... we don't... but the male human made the food for us! We trust male human?

NO. No trusting humans! Bad humans! They do terrible things to us. Mikey must not trust humans. Only Instinct. Instinct kept us alive.

Instinct kept Mikey alive...

The male human seems to sense something is watching them, and looks up. He yelps in surprise.

Red, Blue, and Purple turn to look at him, then at what he's pointing at. The girl looks up at Mikey and screams in fright.

He hisses back at her, growling loudly as his tail whips underneath him. The scales and scutes start to lift, the ridges on his shoulders and thighs raising high. His tail becomes a spiky bludgeon.

Let Instinct take over. Instinct will keep us safe.

Mikey can do it. Instinct Might hurt brothers.

Instinct is better. Stronger. Instinct is --

MIKEY CAN DO IT, he snaps back in his mind. His tail cracks like a whip again as he snarls angrily.

The human girl yipes and hides behind Red.

Mikey starts to creep along the ceiling, watching them. Making sure that the evil humans don't do anything to hurt Rat or brothers.

Red follows him around the room, raising his hands and guarding the girl.

"Mikey? Hey Mikey, come on down, bud..."

"How... how is he doing that?" the girl asks.

"Lizards can climb on walls," Blue mutters. "Remember we said he has lizard DNA now?"

"I can't believe... that's really Mikey?" the girl whimpers quietly, grabbing Blue's arm.

"It's him," Blue says. He sounds sad.

"Mikey, come down?" Red begs.

Mikey sneers at the girl.

"What? April? You remember April, right?"

Mikey snaps at her, baring his teeth. The canines are growing longer and longer.

"Mikey, she's your sister," Red enunciates.

Mikey's expression softens. Sister? Like brothers?

"Yeah, mi hermano, she's cool! It's big sis April!" Blue joins in, patting her on the head. "See? She's one of us!"

Mikey croaks at her, cocking his head in confusion.

Don't trust her. Don't trust them. Humans are evil. Humans did this to us. They hurt us, and kept us from brothers, and made us sad and scared. She will hurt you!

Red walks directly underneath Mikey and holds his arms out as far as he can. Mikey lowers himself into his embrace, dangling upside down from the ceiling for a moment before readjusting and wrapping his torso around Red's forearm, his spine twisting with flexibility that surprises his brother.

"Boa constrictor?" he asks, looking at Purple.

"I guess," Purple answers with a tired shrug.

Mikey keeps his eyes on the human girl. She cautiously starts stepping closer, holding a hand out to him.

"Mikey? It's me, April. Please say you remember me...?"

Her voice wavers. She sounds so sad.

Humans can be sad?

Humans only cause sad. How can this human be sad?

Her eyes become glassy and blur over. She sniffles. Her nose is red and her cheeks are rosy. She was crying. She was very sad. Why is she sad now?

Did Mikey make her sad??

Mikey mews at her. He feels bad now. Her fingers touch his beak. He takes in the scent on her hands... lotions, perfume, coco butter from her curls. Mikey doesn't remember her face, or her voice. But he remembers these scents. And they do smell safe. He loves these smells, though he can't remember why. His eyes water, the scents activating some distant and foggy recollection of a warm embrace and a soft hand against his head and the feeling you get when laughing too hard.

She might be human... but he loved her once. He can love her again.

Mikey purrs, closing his eyes and leaning his face into the touch. He hears her stifle a sob, stroking her hand across his forehead and down his cheek. Tears pool in his eyes and seep through. Soon enough, she's wiping the tears away.

The humans were never gentle like this in the other place. They never loved him. But she loves him.

He was loved once. He is loved again.

Prev || Next

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whumblr · 11 months ago

Note

I LOVE when you do hiwthi drabbles. The collar punishment oH GOD. Can we get a little public whump scenario the classic “don’t make a scene” or silent threats things

Public enemies

Jay shivered and punched his fists into his pockets, setting a brisk pace towards the station. The short walk already turned his fingers into popsicles and he somewhat regretted not bringing gloves. He hurried down the stairs. At least underground it was nice and warm. And stuffy...

And immensely crowded.

What with being in the business district, he’d thought more people here would be burning the midnight oil, but it seemed the usual rush hour applied here as well. He wasn’t the only one who was glad it was Friday evening. Gently bobbing along in the sea of people, he shuffled towards the platform.

Just when he’d found a somewhat calm spot to wait for his train, and his thoughts too started drifting to the weekend, something tugged on the strap of his bag. And before he could even turn to make sure he wasn’t being mugged, the person behind him already betrayed his identity. And his intentions.

An arm slithered around his and softly yanked him aside, pulling his elbow against leather.

“Hey, love,” a familiar voice crooned in his ear.

“Let go of me, what are you even doing here?”

Zayne gestured a thumb over his shoulder. “Did you forget this is the domain of the lord in the tower? Spotted you and followed.”

Jay deflated in a sigh, tipping his head down. “What a coincidence…” What an awful, awful coincidence.

“This time it was,” Zayne beamed, as if somewhat proud his stalking was actually not premeditated this time.

The hand around his arm relaxed a bit, but just when Jay wanted to step away, it slipped down to his wrist and disappeared into his pocket, caressing the top of his hand.

Jay resisted lightly, unable to get away from the touch but still showing it wasn’t welcome. Zayne didn’t even look at him. He stared at the entrance of the tunnel and merely let his fingers slide through Jay’s, nails digging into his palm in warning. And Jay had no choice to wait for the train with him. Not how he planned the start of his weekend.

A woosh of dry air signalled the arrival of the train and Zayne stepped forward, gently pulling a reluctant Jay along by their still entangled arms. They boarded together and Zayne spun lightly, dragging Jay to position him in front of him, nestling him into a corner in-between the doors and the seats.

Before Jay could even protest, the rest of the commuters effectively cut off his escape and, worse, pressed Zayne even closer to him. He was completely stuck in his little corner, Zayne resting his hand just next to his head, under the pretence of keeping himself steady on a moving train, but Jay knew better. It completely boxed him in.

“Cosy.” Zayne smiled down on him. “I don’t often take the tube. It’s a whole new…” he pressed up against Jay a little further and rested his other hand on Jay’s waist, “…experience.”

Jay glared up in response. He flailed ever so lightly, just shifting uncomfortably, trying left, right, up, down to find a way out. Zayne stood closer than ever, closer even than when he had him pinned against a wall, and it set off all alarm bells. Judging by the amusement in his eyes, Zayne seemed quite content with this happy accident, even when he was just as stuck as Jay.

The hand on his waist brushed up and disappeared under his open coat. It slipped under his pullover, feeling its way up the side of his abdomen and without fail instantly found the day-old fiercely purple bruise hidden under his button-up, just under the side of his ribcage.

Jay went rigid.

“Don’t,” he whispered, breathless as fingers touched over the sensitive spot, teasing out waves of something he couldn’t quite call pain. Yet.

“Hm?”

“There’s loads of people here!”

Zayne bent forward, head nearly resting against Jay’s forehead and he whispered, “Then you’d better keep quiet.”

His open palm hovered over the bruise, tilting until a thumb rested right onto its nearly black core. Fingers dug into his waist, one by one, starting with his pinky as if counting down to his thumb.

Jay tried to hold back a wince, exhaled sharply through clenched teeth when the dull pain shot through his abdomen.

“See, you can do it.” Zayne’s eyes narrowed in a smile, a fond and almost tender expression on his face as he watched Jay’s eyes furiously dart about.

Jay wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for; hoping that someone would notice something was fishy and would help, or fiercely hoping the exact opposite: checking to make sure that no one was even looking at them. He was like 90% sure it was the latter…

“Relax,” Zayne whispered, “everyone is either sleeping or looking at their phone. Besides, they don’t want to look at a couple who’s clearly a little too keen on getting home quickly.”

“We’re not a couple! They won’t think that!” Jay shot back in a whisper-hiss.

“Oh. Then maybe I should make things more believable with a nice kiss.” He leaned forward again.

“Don’t you dare.”

Still, Jay slunk back, shoulder blades pressing hard into the partition as he tried to get as far away as possible from Zayne. It bought him maybe a few inches. And trying to slip his bag in front of him to create some distance only hid the hand groping under his coat from sight.

“I need to change here,” he tried as the train slowed down.

“No, you don’t,” Zayne simply said, “Easier at Liverpool Street.”

Despite Jay’s furious hoping that maybe the platforms had changed sides, the opposite doors opened.

Zayne’s hand relaxed and merely rested under Jay’s coat against his waist, as if keeping him steady and from falling over.

It disappeared for a moment in the bustle as – unfortunately – only more people squeezed right in again, only to be replaced by a closed fist this time. Knuckles brushed under his coat slithering fully out of sight to hide in the small space between the wall and the small of his back. And just when Jay expected the hand to open with fingers fondling his lower back, something clicked - literally - and he felt something sharp prod against his back instead.

His knife. Fucker had smuggled his knife under his coat, hidden by an embrace. His eyes widened, and he shifted forward to try and relief the pressure, but Zayne stepped even closer, a leg in-between his, turning lightly to push him back with his hip.

More teasing touches drew out a wince as Zayne’s other hand also slipped under his coat. Fingers roamed over his belt, dipped under to pull his shirt from his trousers and he felt the cold touch of the blade crawl over bare skin.

“You can't stab me here,” he whispered.

“I don’t see why not. Your coat will hide the blood, anyway.”

Jay blanched at that but still shot back, “I’ll scream and collapse and people will stop you!”

“Pff, you think these nine to fivers will step into the path of someone with a knife? No. They’ll do the right thing. They’ll stay with you, so they get the feeling they’re helping. And they’ll be kind to you, help you, send you to hospital.” He pressed closer and turned the knife over, scraping the edge over skin. ”And hospital will have questions. I've seen your torso yesterday, there's a lot of questions assembled on there."

His empty hand slithered over his ribs, searching until—

Jay hissed.

"Like, what caused this burn, Mr Fawcett?"

"Don't."

The hand slid away, further down. "What about this bruise?" Another stab of pain. "And this cut— oh, now that is very sensitive, sir. Look at that, just the barest touch and it's already bleeding through your shir--"

Jay gave a sharp gasp and his gaze snapped down, searching for blood. Zayne lightly pulled his coat aside to reveal… nothing. Asshole, there was nothing!

A hushed chuckle brushed against his ear and the cold touch of the knife fell away.

“But we don’t have to do all that, right?” Zayne retreated and weaved an arm through Jay’s again as the train started to slow down.

“No…”

“Then let’s go home.”

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98 @painless-and-colourful

#thanks so much anon <3 sorry for the wait #whump #public whump #cornered whumpee #hiwthi #hiwthi drabbles #my writing #I need to do more public whump for them...Im not too satisfied with this drabble... but hey

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anony-man · 1 month ago

Text

Apologies for the long wait, I’ve been working on a big project and just finished this past weekend. Enjoy! (Read here or on ao3)

Chubformers drabble #129!

Character: Prowl (G1)

Word count: 2.1k

There were donuts in the meeting room again, and slag, he wanted them badly.

Prowl was all too familiar with the jokes and games his fellow Autobots were fond of, but the line between familiarity and tolerance was one he had drawn quickly. There were to be no outright nags at his size or tendency in his presence, and certainly none in private, either. Even so, the occasional bot or two found ways around it… like leaving an untouched box of a dozen of Cybertron’s finest unattended in the meeting room.

This had happened plenty of times before, and frequently so. Despite his near-constant insistence that their routine meetings were meant to be times for serious discussion and not foolish distractions, there was always someone who bent the rules ever so slightly. Prowl wasn’t one for insubordination, but somehow, some way, these accounts of rule breaking were always swept under the rug. It was hard enough keeping together an entire faction of bots who loathed the thought of rigid schedules on a day-to-day basis; he simply couldn’t deal with another set of distractions. As per usual, however, his well-meaning attempts at keeping the Autobot team under control were always thrown out the window.

Prowl tried to keep things contained, he really did. Add in a group of rowdy mechs who were already being forced to sit through their daily quota of bureaucratic meetings without pissing off the cop car, and you had the Autobots. After a while, he just learned to roll with it… most of it, that is.

Things got out of hand when you were trapped on a foreign planet fighting for fuel, and in his case, he had drawn the very short straw early on. He could live with the snarky comments under breath and not-so-playful jabs from his fellow Autobots over great matters, but it was the little things that bothered him most. This, of course, meant that tantalizing snacks left unattended before a meeting’s start made the top of the list.

As most Autobots had encouraged, and as Optimus himself had once suggested, Prowl slowly began to attempt easing himself away from such rigid guidelines and strict expectations. This bold move left a sour taste in his mouth, though, and for more reasons than one.

The Autobot scowled under his breath as he stomped across the room and seized the box, only to be met with a strong whiff of fresh baked donuts settled inside. It wasn’t the first time someone had left their snacks in the meeting room, and it likely wouldn’t be the last, but Prowl knew he’d be damned if he let this one slide. A few bags of the noisiest treats known to Cybertronian’s kind were bad enough, but a box of one dozen delicious donuts sitting unattended on the table was another.

This had to be a trick, or a jab, or… something, really. Nobody just left their food alone like this, especially not when it was good food.

While muttering under his breath about the lazy habits of their team, Prowl tossed the box of donuts to the side and made room for meeting preparations. Whoever had left them was lucky he didn’t outright throw them away, but since he was so busy with taking care of his responsibilities, he just didn’t have the time to spare—not even a second.

That was the only reason he didn’t comm the base and demand that whoever they belonged to come take care of them before he did so himself, of course. There was no other reason why, nor could there have been. It didn’t matter that the box of donuts was fresher than some of the stale sweets mechs were fond of bringing in to munch on, nor did it matter that whoever had brought them in the first place surely seemed unbothered about what might happen to said donuts in their absence.

Slag. This was definitely a trap.

“Those afts,” Prowl growled under his breath as he tossed his papers onto the table.

As if he hadn’t heard enough of the earth-inspired jokes already. Cops and donuts was a big one amongst the human population, it seemed, and given Prowl’s reputation… it was a recipe for disaster more than anything.

He left his tasks abandoned for favor of opening the lid to those sweet-smelling donuts instead, then allowed himself one long look at the sweets inside before huffing and closing them back up again. The air was left with the scent of freshly baked goods, and it took everything in him not to open the box again and snatch up one of the donuts inside.

“Very funny, whoever you are,” he muttered to himself, feeling more than happy to go right back to setting up the room for their Prime’s important meeting in the next several minutes. “Get a little more creative with your jokes, why don’t you?”

He was forced to suffer the butt of most anyways, which meant something as silly as this hardly bothered Prowl anymore. The team had already made it clear that they were free to do is they pleased during meetings in which they really should’ve been at attention and listening in, but who was he to stop them? Very funny, whoever it was… very funny indeed.

Prowl’s expression was smug as he went back to dealing with prep work, but the strained smile faded as soon as he felt—or heard, more like—his tanks groaning with need. It was a relief no one was present to see his cheeks flush pink as he side-eyed the box of donuts, because Primus, how on earth would he even begin to explain that?

This was some kind of harmless joke, he assumed, and he was very obviously the punchline. Why shouldn’t he get a little something out of it, too?

The box of donuts was filled with every last one of his favorite flavors, and if it hadn’t been for the laughable irony of someone buying a dozen of them for his fat aft to enjoy, Prowl would have felt appreciative. The nitpicking that came with hauling a hefty frame was worse when he was left to deal with jokes like this from his comrades, but Prowl wouldn’t complain too much.

His first choice, a classic glazed ring with the fluffiest dough he’d ever sunk his fingers into, practically melted on his tongue. Prowl couldn’t keep up a sneer when he was savoring something so deliciously sweet, and it only took him a few bites before he was optics-closed in utter bliss. It was gone in no time at all, and within seconds, Prowl was licking his fingers clean of the sweet residue frosting.

Well, now he’d given in. Surely they’d be happy with their little ploy—he was certainly content with the belly full of a good donut. Satisfied, Prowl turned back to the task at hand, only to find himself glancing over his shoulder at the remaining box not even a moment later. Something was off today, and he couldn’t decide whether it was due to the unexpected quality donuts the ‘bots had put into their little joke or what.

While still sorting through folders and booting up datapads, Prowl peered over into the open box and studied his remaining options. There was still a glaze donut or two, and plenty other tasty looking choices on top of that. He supposed he could… perhaps…

“Oh, screw it,” he said to himself as he abandoned his attempts at readying the room for another sweet ring. “If they’re gonna have their fun, then so will I.”

And fun he had. A second glazed donut that was baked to perfection followed the first, and Prowl didn’t hesitate to reach in and grab a third while finishing off the last bite. He was invested now, and he was more than happy to show his fellow Autobots a thing or two about respecting the rules if they were in such dire need for a refresher course. His second donut was just as good the first, as was the fourth donut, and the fifth. By the time he’d polished off half a dozen from the box, Prowl was moving onto the ones covered in fancy toppings and filled with rich creams.

Bavarian cream, chocolate eclair, even the jelly-filled powdery mess of a donut that he always hated to indulge in—every last one was devoured before he could stop himself. Prowl’s belly bulged from the influx of heavy human foods, but it wasn’t until he was licking his lips and sucking his fingers clean that the immense pressure of too much food became apparent. He planted a servo against the edge of the table and moaned, his other sticky fingers quickly moving in to soothe the ache. It was too much for sure, far too much, and he couldn’t dare take another bite. Luckily for him, he’d eaten it all down to the last crumb.

“Ohh, frag,” he groaned, his words drowned out by the gurgling whine of his tanks as they struggled to digest the sudden influx of sugary sweets.

Maybe this had been the joke all along, and he hadn’t realized it yet. If that was the case, then… well, Prowl had fallen right into the trap.

With the pressure of their impending meeting that was soon to be had weighing down just as heavily as the belly full of donuts, Prowl almost feared he’d have to come up with an excuse on the fly to explain away his unexpected absence despite being the one in charge of setting things up in the first place. The sound of the door swinging open put an end to any attempts at fleeing for his quarters to save his dignity, however, and like most instances where his luck proved to be nonexistent, Prowl was left to deal with the consequences… again.

“Prowl?” he heard the newcomer say. “I’m sorry to intrude. I hadn’t realized you would be here so soon.”

Prowl lifted his helm and scowled, only for the biting words he had at the ready to die out in his throat. Of course it was Optimus who had to find him in such a pitiful state. Why else shouldn’t the embarrassment he had already begun to feel be piled upon?

“Just wrapping up,” he grunted, keeping a servo pressed to his belly as he reached to close the empty donut box. “Urgh… everything should be ready. I, unfortunately, am going to have to sit this one out.”

“What?” Optimus said, his optics widening. “I was planning on having your support again today, Prowl. Are you feeling unwell?”

“Sort of,” Prowl said through gritted teeth, “but it’s a brief recharge won’t fix.”

The Prime’s air of confusion and disappointment never wavered, but as he drew near, he left room for Prowl to stagger by. Everything else was nearly in order, at least, and he hoped that that would be enough to keep the team off of his back as he left to… er, deal with his sudden ailment.

Maybe it was good that it had been Optimus and not another bot, after all. Prowl couldn’t even begin to imagine the jabs at his size that would result, no matter how true.

“I’ll be back in time for this afternoon’s meeting,” he called over his shoulder while pushing the door open. “Send me a ping on how things go from here. I’ll… I’ll be around.”

Optimus’ answer was nearly lost in the sound of squealing metal hinges as Prowl stumbled through the doorway, but the amused sound of his voice as he called back a response in return rang clearer than crystal energon in a freshly mined cave.

“I hope you enjoyed the donuts, Prowl,” he heard the Prime say. “Rest well, and feel better soon; we need you back here at the table as soon as possible.”

So then, Prowl thought to himself with his helm buried in his servos and his cheeks flushed hotter than ever before. It wasn’t a trick after all. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ever gotten him a box of donuts as a gift, but he supposed it would be like Optimus to thank him with such a ridiculous gesture.

Oh well… at least he’d gotten his fair share of donuts and a free ticket out of the morning’s meeting. All Prowl could hope for now was quick relief from the growling ache in his belly and for the news of his indulgence to not spread across the entire base. He didn’t need to give anyone another reason to taunt him, that was for sure.

Such was life when you were a bot like Prowl. It was a lesson learned, at least, and he wouldn’t ever be as quick to polish off an entire box of donuts left untouched anytime soon.

#chubformers #prowl #g1 prowl #anon man writes

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