#the only series that wouldn’t is the hunger games | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

supercutszns · 10 months ago

Text

bitter to the taste; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc + pairing: 5.5k, luke castellan x f!reader

synopsis: a sharp blade, a black eye, and (more than) two kisses.

warnings: this is even sluttier than the last one, language, sword fighting, sharp objects, blood/injuries, reader is still a horrible person and so is luke but he's also a loooser, making out, allusions/mentions of sex but no super explicit descriptions, kind of fluffy at the end

notes: i’m starting to hate this bc i think i’ve been staring at it too long sorry if this is not as good as pt.1 but i have plans for this series ok. also READER AND LUKE ARE NOT GOOD PEOPLE!!! THEIR RELATIONSHIP WILL NOT ALWAYS BE GOOD!!! THEY SUCK!! they are also not real but keep that in mind :) synopsis inspired by crush by ethel cain; designated song for this fic is unpunishable by ethel cain (i’ve got a whole chronological playlist for these freaks like it’s serious)

You’ve always had a taste for violence. And an equally powerful penchant for sloth.

You prefer to watch the carnage, not participate. It satisfies something inside you that you know, if it wasn’t for your laziness, could cause something irrevocable. Who the hell has time for that?. You’d rather lie back and watch instead.

This flaw of yours is the only reason you haven’t stirred more trouble, you think. It’s the reason you never attend camp games or sparring lessons. Sometimes, when you do, a dark muscle flexes inside your heart to curl out of its slumber, forming a hunger you don’t have otherwise. The second it starts to pry you have to rear yourself back and tuck the monster in. Banish the need for something more.

You don’t want to feed it. You don’t know what happens if you do. So you let other people do the feeding for you.

Luke cuts through two dummy heads in one swoop. It’s fucking gorgeous. The moon reflects off his sword, a silver sheen casting his face when he’s in the right spot. His brows are set, eyes so dark they blend with the night. Every motion is ruthless. Satisfying.

You don’t know how many times you’ve watched him like this. He called you out for it last night, but you’re sure he doesn’t know the half of it. The shadows are a sacred cloak to you, and you wait inside them until you want your presence known.

Meet me tomorrow.

It runs through your head like a broken record. You can still feel his breath on your lips and your neck is still tender—had to wear a sweater in the blazing heat to hide the marks. Since you were created you’ve accepted a universal truth about yourself: you don’t harbour affection for anyone or anything. There’s not a single thing you’ve felt drawn to or protective over but yourself. It’s solitary, yes, and lonely, yes, but that’s the way you’re supposed to be.

But you think about last night. You think about the moments between the kisses and the rush. When he teased you against your ear. When his hand brushed a certain spot on your back and something much lighter fluttered inside of you. When you crawled into sleep and thought about him, those were the moments that struck you the strangest.

His gaze pans over the treeline every once in a while, the anger diluted. Then it comes back twice as hard as he shreds another dummy to pieces.

He’s waiting for you. Oh, this is rich! A better person would probably turn around and go spoon their offerings into the bonfire the second they understand what they’re doing is incredibly destructive. But who are we kidding? You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.

So you take a step forward, slip out of the comfort of the dark, and the next time he looks to the treeline he knows you’re there. He can’t see you, but he knows.

You wait. His strikes are less tenuous, much smoother. It almost makes you laugh. Some fucking showman he is.

Eventually, he buries his blade in the dirt and wipes his brow. “Are you gonna come talk to me or are you gonna stare at me all night like an owl?”

You relish in the feeling of shedding the darkness, coming into the light of the moon. “Hi,” you say flatly, but there’s a tiny smile on his face when he sees you that almost puts you off.

“Hello, rotten.” He tries to lean on the hilt of his sword but it isn’t quite tall enough so he stumbles. It’s so pathetic it almost makes you laugh.

“Don’t call me that,” you grimace.

“Okay, back to heathen?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Well, you don’t seem too happy when people call you by your name so pick your poison here.”

You don’t say anything, your mouth set in a scowl. “All right, both it is,” Luke shrugs.

He’s different from last night. Less impatient. You hope it’s not because he thinks he has you now—he’s got another thing coming. “I almost thought you weren’t gonna come,” he says with a crooked grin, neither bashful nor ashamed.

You’ve made your way closer to him, the soft grass turning to dusty earth. “Don’t know why I did,” you mutter crassly.

Having abandoned his sword, Luke chuckles wryly. “Yes, you do.”

That bitterness he hides from everyone else pierces through. He tilts your face up like he did yesterday, the press of his fingers beneath your chin almost burning you. You know he’s peering at the marks on your neck.

“If you made me come here just to hook up with me you’re delusional,” you glare.

“What, like that’s not why you’re here?” He pushes your face up a little higher, grinning a little when you add resistance. “I’m a gentleman, you know. I can be patient.”

This guy is full of fucking shit.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” you snipe. The only point of contact you have is his hand on your chin, but you’re a hair’s breadth away from having everything else. The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you.

He keeps your face still. He’s studying you, and you’re suddenly curious about what he sees. You remember all those looks you’d share at the dinner tables that made this happen in the first place. What did he see then?

“You wanna fight?”

It takes you a second to react. “What?”

“You want to fight. Pick up a sword, let’s go.” He smiles as he finally lets you go, waltzing away from you to unbury his sword from the dirt. His touch permeates through your skin and you hate it.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I can’t fight.”

“Sure you can,” he replies, grabbing another sword from the training rack. “You need to burn off a little steam.”

You laugh sharply. “And you think me waving a sword around is gonna do that?”

“Uh, yeah,” he grins. “It’s the method that lets us keep the most clothes on.”

You glare at him. His smirk is a mile wide. The way your stomach is simmering almost makes you sick; it’s like gorging yourself on candy except this time the candy has a sword and maybe wants to fuck you.

You just watch as he hands you his sword, and the moonlight glinting off the metal has you believing it’s not the kind used for training. “I’ll use the dull one,” he assures. “C’mon, heathen. I know you’ve used a sword before, they force us to.”

“I usually skip those classes.”

He laughs. You can’t tell if it’s at you or with you. “Of course you do.”

You don’t like following orders, but oh, what the hell. Luke knows something about you, just like you know something about him. You’re only a little curious about it.

“Straighten your back,” is the first thing he says once you’ve taken your stance across from him. The blunt of his sword reaches out to tap your hip.

You begrudgingly do as you’re told. He watches you mirthfully, and the press of his sword against you starts to feel like a substitute for his hand. All the closeness you’re hungry for, dampened by cold steel. It still makes you buzz.

He gives you the barebones—the right grip, how to maneuver, the proper balance. But long gone is his easy disposition. The motor inside him that powered all those dummy beheadings and disembowelments is running again, except this time it’s for you. He wants a fight. This is his battlefield. All right, you’ll bite.

You start to spar with the skill of an overgrown toddler. The sword feels like an unnatural ligament hanging off your body. Luke is precise, convicting, far more enthusiastic than you. “You can do better than that,” he prods after your swords clash lazily for the billionth time. “Stop going easy.”

“You’re going easy,” you shoot back.

“Yeah, but I’d really rather not. Come on.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. You think about that dark thing you keep harboured. A muscle aching to be used.

“Come on,” he says again, and he almost sounds pissed. “All of a sudden you’re playing nice? What are you afraid of?”

Something flares inside you. “Nothing!”

“Then pick up the sword and fight me.”

You huff and roll your eyes, but your next swing is far more inspired. Luke blocks it easily, but you don’t care. “There we go,” he nods. “Again.”

This is more than you bargained for when you decided to come see him. All you want is to make out with this hot, awful person and have him tell you hot, awful things about yourself you probably already know. Why do you have to fight to get it?

He keeps provoking you no matter how hard you try. Your temper picks up the more you swing, discordant clangs bruising the air, but it’s still not enough. Luke doesn’t let up. Of course the one time you try to be nice, you’re not allowed to. On second thought, why are you reigning yourself in for Luke? The only other person in camp with a real, consuming viciousness? If anything you should hit him twice as hard, since he’s so sure he can take it.

“No wonder you’re so angry all the time,” Luke heaves out, and it gives you a swell of satisfaction. “You don’t have a proper outlet. Maybe you’d be nicer if you didn’t sit around and complain all day.”

“Shut up,” you gnash your teeth.

“Just saying, maybe you should do something about it.”

You’re getting lost in the rhythm of the swords, the adrenaline, the sweat passing the scar on his cheek. Every swing you think less and less, and that dark muscle flexes more and more. It feels like home to you. Like a good meal. Your bones ache and the world has darkened, but that rotten pit inside you cracks open in full bloom.

Luke keeps egging you on but you can’t hear him. Not like he still needs to. You think you’re smiling, or huffing furiously, or both. The sharpness of the sword intrigues you. A million terrible things reflect off its blade and you imagine them, all at once, until you are out of your body and the black hole inside you has properly wedged itself open.

Luke jabs at you and you bring your sword down with a vengeance. But it’s a little too low. You only notice when he drops his weapon to the side and staggers back.

The fog of violence falters. It fades almost completely when he hisses long and hard, eyes screwed shut, and you see the tear in his shirt. In his skin.

“Shit,” you say. “Fuck.”

You don’t sound sorry, you don’t think you are sorry, especially when he laughs. It’s a wheezy one through his teeth as you come up to him, but a laugh nonetheless. “Knew you were going easy,” he remarks through a wince.

You ignore him, looking down at the injury. A gash across his abdomen. It’s bleeding a little, but not enough for it to drip. You did that. Just looking at the blood, you feel the bitter taste of it in your mouth, the reward a temporary hunger for carnage brought you. This is why you don’t play camp games.

“I’ve got thick skin. I’m fine,” Luke says casually. “I’ve got a medical kit under that tree over there in case I beat myself up too bad.” He’s no longer scrunched in pain, and you’ve got a feeling he’s telling the truth. So you go fetch the kit where he said it was. You need to wrap that slash. Not because you’re sorry for him, but because looking at it makes you angry.

You kneel and pop the lid of the small tin kit, covered in dirt. It’s mostly gauze and bandages. Rubbing alcohol too. “Just give me the gauze, that’s all I need,” Luke gestures.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m doing it myself.” You’ve already torn off some gauze, sitting all the way up on your knees.

“Most people just say sorry.”

“You pushed me,” you spit back, surprisingly forceful. Luke’s smile drops. You take a deep breath, adjusting yourself to get eye level with the injury. “I told you I don’t fight.”

You’re not sure what makes Luke give in, but he doesn’t say a word as you lift the hem of his torn shirt and he holds it up. There’s no proud remark about your eyes lingering on his stomach, or the hesitation in your hands. You stare at the wound. It really is shallow. Your thumb presses at the skin around it and he winces. “My bad,” you mutter.

As you sterilize the cut and wrap the gauze around his torso, you try not to let your fingertips cling to the warmth on his skin. You try not to notice the other scars littered there, most faded to the point they should be impossible to pick up even in the sun. It’s obvious he’s staring at you. Your neck is crawling with warmth. But you don’t engage, you just wrap the gauze a few times and do your best not to notice the rise and fall beneath his muscles as he breathes. Then you fasten things neatly and put everything away so you can get up. Any second. Come on.

“Good?” You ask instead, exhaling.

“Good,” he affirms. He slides a hand under your forearm and gets you up. It stays there once you’re standing. The night stills.

“I’m guessing you’re adding ‘attempted killer’ to your list of horrible qualities,” you go on to break the silence.

He holds your gaze unyieldingly. “I’d consider that a pro, actually.”

You are entirely fed up with this drawn out evening, but you can’t bring yourself to speed anything up any more than stepping closer so your chests brush. “I will give you one, though,” he continues, craning down to your ear. You smell his skin and it sends you back to the position you were in yesterday.

He finally kisses your jaw, just once, then your neck. You shiver. “You’re too tense.” Another kiss behind your ear. It’s not enough. “Do you even know how to have fun?”

“I don’t want to have fun,” you reply bitterly. I just want to make out with you, asshat.

Luke’s breath frosts over your face when he chuckles, but before he can get any further away you catch his mouth with yours. Almost instinctively his arm winds around you to pull you in closer, your hand looping through his curls. It's a relief, knowing last night wasn't some freak accident. This does feel good, actually, and it can happen. Everything you felt yesterday is only more urgent now, hungrier, and you're pretty sure the way you kiss him gives that away.

He indulges you, squeezing the base of your hips as his other hand thumbs across the marks on your neck. This is so fucking embarassing—you think you whine when he bites down on your bottom lip. You’ve never needed something this bad, you’ve never needed anything. But you press yourself as close to him as you can manage and his hand runs lower, slips against your inner thighs, and it’s difficult to worry about anything else.

Until he pulls away. Like a dick.

He doesn’t go far, his forehead pressed to yours, but you feel like pulling out all his hair. It’s a muddling mix of frustration and longing you’re starting to associate with him. “Dude,” you groan, an inner coil only starting to unwind begrudgingly compressing.

“Let’s go for a swim,” he says. The enthusiasm is almost alarming. Almost makes him look younger.

You’re homicidal. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes, heathen. Let’s go for a swim, come on.”

He’s rubbing circles on your thigh, which only makes you want to strangle him. “But I—I don’t have my bathing suit,” you string out.

The smile gets more boyish. “Wow, whatever shall we do?”

It’s another challenge. Another dare. And he knows what you want, fucking jerk. You’re going to kill him.

“Fine,” you grunt, and the second the words leave your lips you’re pulled to the lake.

It’s a warm, sticky evening, only made worse with the sweat and the half-assed kissing, so the water doesn’t seem all that bad. Unfortunately, you don’t like giving into demands. So you stare ghoulishly at your fingernails as Luke tosses off his ripped shirt and his shorts so he can plunge into the lake. “Aren’t you going to at least come in?” He asks, but you don’t look at him.

“I don’t like swimming,” you lie.

“At least your feet. It’s nice, I swear!”

A splash, like smoke moving through wind chimes. You look up and Luke has completely submerged, popping his head up closer to the mouth of the dock. “Please,” he says with such conviction your resolve turns to butter. Gods, what is happening to you? You still need that lobotomy!

You sigh, roll your eyes, turn your back to him. “Fuck this,” you mutter under your breath. You undress to your undergarments and you’re not sure if you want Luke to be watching or not. The moon touches your bare skin and a chill trickles through you.

You take a seat at the edge of the dock, knees tucked to your chest. Luke swims over for you right away. His hair is dripping against his skin, and you hate how beautiful it looks. The waterline is high tonight, almost ridiculously so, so he props his elbows up on the dock with no problem. “Come in,” he urges.

“No.”

“Just your legs?”

“No.”

“Gods, I’ll make it worth it, just throw your damn legs in!”

Your eyebrows shoot up. His face is stubbornly pink. Oh, so now he wants something. You take your time uncurling yourself and Luke wades away from the dock so you can put your feet in. The water goes up to your calves, and you shiver. “So fucking difficult,” he mutters, and your pulse flickers.

“Sorry, what was that?” You let yourself grin for the first time all night.

“Nothing,” he hums. This time when he comes to the dock, he wraps his hands around your calves. You’re pretty sure he can stand here because he stops treading. The warmth of the water seems to spread further, long past the threshold of your knees.

He rests his chin just above your knee, water pooling on your skin. “Stop dripping on me,” you complain.

“Sorry.” He fake pouts when he kisses the damp spot. You see, ever so faintly, a diabolic shift in his expression. He nudges your leg with the point of his nose, then kisses it, then starts to move it aside. “Feel bad about teasing you all night,” he murmurs, still with an edge. He presses more kisses on your legs. “I really did want to see you.”

The irony that he’s still teasing is not lost on you. You’re not loving how desperately warm you’re starting to feel. “Why’s that?” You lean back on your palms.

“You’re a very interesting person,” he quips innocently. His hands are cupping the backs of your calves. He’s pulled you a lot closer to the water, and somehow you’ve just noticed. Another blistering kiss on the inside of your thigh.

“You’re fucking evil,” you scathe.

He looks up at you from between your legs. “You have literally done nothing but berate and injure me this whole evening.”

“Yeah, and right after I patch you up you jump in the water for shits. You’re playing infection roulette, Castellan.”

“See? You’re so mean.” He sighs, and in a move that almost surprises you to death, he hoists both your legs over his shoulders and they dangle into the river behind him. “And here I am anyway, making it up to you.”

You are suddenly illuminated on the purpose of this situation. Why Luke is between your legs. Your heart jolts. “Luke, you can’t be serious.”

“Mmhm.” He leans forward to kiss right under your navel.

You hate how much you want him to do it again, how your body burns, but you avert your eyes. “Someone’s gonna—someone’s gonna hear us.”

He snorts, “No they won’t. Either this or you come in the water with me. Or both. We’ll see.”

A huge smile cracks across your face before you push it back down. You’re going to spend a lot of time coming back to this moment, this night, wondering why. “What is wrong with you.”

It comes out like a compliment when it leaves you. You want to vanish. Luke chuckles, and something foreign to the both of you buzzes through the air.

“Are you going to be nice?” He asks against your skin.

“Are you going to be quick?”

His mouth finds your hip bones and yeah, why the hell would you say no to this? He nods, “Swear.”

That’s all you need. You let your eyes slide shut and your head tilts towards the sky. Luke takes your permission and runs with it, pries you open with his mouth until the stars soak through the black of your eyelids.

You discover pretty quickly neither of you are good at keeping promises.

The next time you need Luke’s med kit, he’s already awake.

It’s been happening more and more often. You lurking around camp past moonrise and finding Luke outside his cabin, going for a walk or a stretch or a … something with you.

“Do you ever sleep?” You ask him sometimes between flurries of kisses with your back against a tree.

“Could ask you the same thing, heathen,” he squeezes your hips and nips at your neck, but never answers the question. And neither do you, so you’re both okay with it. You’d hate to give up this feeling, but he doesn’t need to know that.

This is the first time in your punitive life you have felt alive. Like a person, with bones and flesh and soul, a real presence. Not a ghost of smoke and shadow. You are real.

Fooling around makes you feel like an actual teenager. You’re young, you remember when Luke joins you in the dark. You’re having fun. His hands under your shirt and his mouth on your collarbone, the way he bites down and winces when you do something a little too well, when you string out his name and he rewards you for it. You’re both greedy, insatiable people, so there’s a push and pull only the two of you would ever be able to handle. And nobody has to know. Despite all the bruises, the sleepless nights, the swollen lips, all you and Luke share in the daylight are noxious looks, and that's only if he can find you. A perfect crime. Camp Half-Blood’s angel and the vice that lives in the shadows. But in the dark, it’s hard to tell which is which.

“Luke,” you whisper. “Luke.”

“I’m up,” he grumbles, peering up at you. “You shouldn’t sneak into my cabin.” He was already sitting up in his bed when you slipped in, and he didn’t notice you were there till you were right in front of him.

“Worried someone will catch me? You should know better.”

He follows you outside so you don’t wake the other campers. There’s a thrill knowing just one interaction between the two of you could ruin both your reputations forever.

“What is it, heathen?” He asks as the door closes behind him. It’s so dark and your back is turned to him, but his voice is drenched in smugness. “You don’t usually want to put up with me more than once a night.”

“Don’t have a choice,” you mutter, staring out at the camp. You go to chew on your bottom lip, but you wince immediately. “Where’s your kit thingy? The one we used after I impaled you.”

“You mean after you lightly grazed me?”

“Just tell me where it is, Luke.”

Your sharpness could cut through any sleepy daze he possibly has. He’s silent behind you for a second. “Why?” He asks.

“Because I need it.”

His hand curls around your shoulder and before you can think to submerge yourself in darkness, he turns you around. When he sees you, his face breaks from something proud to something … you’re not sure you like. “Oh, heathen,” he murmurs. “What happened to you?”

You guess it’s a semi-appropriate reaction, although you expected at least a grimace. To put it lightly, your face looks gnarly as fuck. There’s a bruise on your cheekbone and your lip is split. But what really draws attention is the half-formed, garish black eye swelling up your right side.

“Just the usual. Pissed someone off.” It hurts the skin on your lip that’s caked with blood.

He rests his thumb on your unbruised cheek, but somehow it still stings. You know he can’t see much of you in the dark but he tries. The prolonged eye contact without the imminent promise of a kiss feels foreign. “You need to go to the Apollo cabin,” he concludes, brows pushed together.

A laugh slips past your broken lips. “No fucking shot. They would not help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because one of their shit-eaters did this!”

The words take a moment to register. You see them filtering through Luke’s brain. He blinks absurdly. “An Apollo guy beat you up?”

“Not beat up. Just … tussled.”

“How much tussling earns you a black eye, exactly? From Apollo kids.”

“Gods, just tell me where your kit is so you can go back to fucking sleep.”

His fingertips inch around the back of your neck, thumb still against your face. “Already wasn’t sleeping. I might as well help you,” he shrugs. “I move the kit every once in a while so some other campers don’t ravage it.”

“I don’t need help.”

Luke opens his mouth, then sighs deeply. He takes a firm hold of your arm and starts to tug you along. “Hey, what—” you swat at his arm.

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs. “Come on.”

It’s strange. Luke’s never done you a favour before. At least not one like this. You’re disgruntled enough that you had to go ask him in the first place and now he’s dragging you around? “This isn’t such a big deal, Luke,” you badger. “I’m fine.”

“Sure, whatever. Wait right here.” He lets go of you and only then you realize you’re in front of the Apollo cabin. You grimace, and Luke must have noticed because he says, “Don’t worry, I’m just gonna go inside and grab some things. No one’s gonna jump you.”

You scowl at him, and he just laughs. A part of you hopes he hits his head on the way in. You hide anyway.

It’s a few minutes of waiting in the oppressive summer heat, until Luke emerges from the cabin with his hands full. He looks around, hesitantly calling, “Heathen?” Then again. You move out of your hiding spot and he jogs over to greet you.

“Nice haul,” you comment. There’s an ice pack, cotton pads, a few miscellaneous items. “How’d you get them?”

He smiles widely. “Everyone loves me, heathen. It’s not hard.”

“…So you stole them.”

“Yes, but only because I’m too tired to talk to people and I’m protesting for your sake,” he rattles off. “Now hold this ice pack before it gives me frostbite.”

The two of you make your way down to the docks again. It’s morphed into your usual meeting place, since the waves lapping at the shore mask when Luke gets a little too noisy just to piss you off. (At least that’s what he tells you.)

He’s stashed his little tin in a different tree this time. After he retrieves it he sets everything out like a chef preparing to make a meal out of gauze and rubbing alcohol.

Your head has been throbbing for the past few hours. You’re not proud that you antagonized the wrong Apollo kid and got a shiner for it. You’re less proud that you came to Luke for help. Just like everyone else does.

“Come,” he gestures, tugging at the waistband of your pants. You scoot closer to him and swallow the weight of your pulse when he touches you.

Luke slowly presses the ice pack to your black eye, letting you hold it. “What did you do to earn this, anyway?” He asks, head tilted to the side.

You’re hissing because of the ice, half-consciously shifting into him. “The usual. Spat at him. Made fun of his daddy a little too much. Tripped him so he landed face-first in his offerings.”

“You did not,” Luke laments as he dots alcohol onto a cotton pad.

“You’re allowed to say you’re proud of me, Saint Castellan. I won’t tell. You can be mean.” Your voice drips with irony, and you hope it bothers him. The flex in his jaw gives it away.

“You’re always gonna be meaner,” is all he says back. “This is gonna hurt.”

It’s all the warning he gives before he presses the pad against your lip. The sting envelops you immediately, and your good eye squeezes shut. “Shit, ow!”

“Stop moving your mouth.”

“Fuck,” you swear anyway. Your lip burns so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

Luke holds your jaw with his other hand so you can’t shy away. “I’ll kiss it better,” he teases. “Almost done.”

You roll your eyes, but Luke takes the pad off a few moments later. “Serious question. How are you so awful to people all the time?”

A groan tears through your throat with such force your head tilts back. “Not you too! I don’t need a fucking reason, there is no reason. Why doesn’t anyone get that?”

“I’m not asking why. I’m asking how.”

He’s oddly serious, the caress of his thumb on your cheek far slower. You hate it when people want a reason why you’re like this, just to help them sleep at night. But from the bags lining Luke’s eyes, sleep doesn’t seem to be on his radar.

“I just don’t care,” you admit, shrugging. “I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care about what they can do to me. I don’t care about anything.”

“…What about the Gods?”

It makes you cock your head. “Huh?”

“You wouldn’t care about them, either?”

You think, but only about which words to use. “No,” you decide, “They don’t scare me. They’re nothing. What are they gonna do to me?”

Luke snorts, almost nervously. “Uh, punish you for saying that, for one.”

You turn back to him, ice pack leaving your eye as you gesture. “How? By killing me? Pecking out my eyeballs? Burning me alive? I’m telling you, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. It’s all just nothing to me. I’m fucking unpunishable, I’d like to see them try.”

Huffing, you look back up at the firmament of stars. Luke says nothing.

The grass rustles as he shifts, and his mouth ghosts over the bruise on your eye. “Unpunishable,” he murmurs, like he’s testing it out. Then he places an uncharacteristically gentle kiss just beneath your eye. And another just above. “We’ll see about that.”

You get that feeling again, the unbearable lightness in a place it shouldn’t be. Mixed with the poison lodged in your heart.

Luke kisses you, still so delicate that you wonder if he’s been body-snatched. If anything, your bleeding lip feels soothed against his. His hands cradle your face with no ferocity at all. It seems wrong.

“How do you feel?” He asks after pulling away, dark eyes nebulous and wide. The night usually sharpens his features. Now, they’ve been hushed.

“Um, better,” you reply.

He hums, laying a slow trail of kisses on your jaw. “Did you at least get the other guy?” He asks between kisses. “Like, did you hurt him?”

“Not really,” you divulge, wondering if you should feel shame.

“Why?” He’s made his way to your neck now, nudging your jaw up so he can kiss behind your ear.

“I’m not a fighter.” And, without warning, for a reason you will never, ever be able to explain, your tongue adds, “I’m a killer.”

Your own brows furrow. Luke pauses for a moment, but knocks his nose against your neck. “Guess one of us has to be.”

There’s no more fooling around. No snappy insults, no feverish kisses, no hunger to be satiated. Luke just checks you over a few more times, hides his med kit, and you both get up to sleep. But his hand wraps around your wrist, far less firm than when he dragged you here. “Stay in my bunk, heathen,” he offers. “Leave in the morning.”

You think you’re making a mistake when you agree, but it doesn’t feel like one.

The next day, after you’ve left Luke’s bunk, rumours float around camp that Luke Castellan accidentally butted some Apollo kid in the face with his sword during training. Caused a bloody, broken nose. Luke was very sorry, apologized profusely.

But you know, by the way he takes you behind the stables that night, that he didn’t mean a single damn word.

luke taglist: @sunniskyies @apollos-calliope @lillycore @sunny747 @m00ng4z3r @pabkeh @thaliagracesgf @theadventuresofanartist @bonnie-tz

rotten taglist: @thaliagracesgf

leave a pm/comment/ask if you'd like to be added to a taglist :)

#perrie’s fics #rotten to the touch #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan smut #luke castellan pjo #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #charlie bushnell #pjo x reader #luke castellan fic

2K notes · View notes

zer0wzs · 5 months ago

Text

𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙨

you can't seem to take your eyes off of something during your little afternoon session with jason—hint, it's not your book. jason todd x gn!reader wc: 568 cw: fragile reader with a negative self image if you look closely!!

an: had this shelved for the longest time it was supposed to be a 3 in 1 series but i did not like how the other two turned out whatsoever!! anyway

An afternoon reading with Jason seemed like the perfect bonding activity for you two.

And, well, you were reading. You were reading until you looked up and saw Jason.

After that, you had only one thought for yourself. You thought about how it’s so over for you.

With either of you occupying both ends of the couch, all he did was lie against the sofa’s shoulder, legs slightly bent to give you space, and yet you were stunned, charmed, hexed—and whatever other words existed to describe your mere bewilderment. The way the warm rays of the sun shone behind him made him seem like he was an angel taking you away.

He’s flawless with no effort at all. You love it about him. Embarrassingly, you might like it a little bit too much. Maybe it frustrated you a little bit as well. You wish you were that beautiful as well.

His nose was slightly scrunched as he engulfed further and further into the pages—though you weren’t certain if it was as a reaction or to relieve any tension there. He wore faint bags under his eyes that practically became etched onto his skin because of his god-awful sleep schedule. You found yourself smiling at his nose littered with tiny freckles and scars like stars and comets.

For a second, you closed your eyes to think to yourself—because you were sure that you wouldn’t be able to do so if he was in your line of vision.

But, god, you just needed to look at him. He’s really beautiful.

You buried yourself deep at the sight of his touseled hair, which was really just a good case of bedhead. You basked yourself in those hazel-green eyes. The ones ever so glued to you whenever you’re in the same room as him.

“No need for smiles when his eyes could tell it all,” you think.

You see his hands placed neatly on his lap, holding his book. You wondered if he was enjoying the Hunger Games. You couldn’t tell at all by the looks of his face, even if it seemed as if he was nearing towards the end of the book. You did, however, note his right index was tapping against the cove-

“Babe?”

Your eyes quickly shift to meet his. You find him smiling brightly, stifling a laugh back.

Oh, now it’s so over for you.

“You need something?” He asked.

Dumbfounded, you shake your head.

“Saw you staring.”

You felt your teeth digging into your bottom teeth, the feeling of your cheek flushing apparent and your gaze then averting his. You carry on focusing on your book, burying your face in the scent of the freshly printed scented pages as you dug your teeth down on your cheek.

“No, it’s okay! I’m flattered.” He chuckles, setting his book down and leaning toward you. You feel a hand bring your view back to him. “It’s cute.”

He opens his mouth but quickly shuts it. You assumed he was trying to find whatever words he wanted to tell you, but through his eyes, you had easily made out what it was he was scared of hurting your feelings by poorly delivering a well-intended message.

#zero's writing °｡⋆⸜ ✮#jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine

622 notes · View notes

zara-renata · 1 month ago

Text

Q&A with Sylus Qin | ao3 | the Sylus series

Summary:

Sylus cares for your injuries and feeds you a meal. After he shows you a part of his home that you didn't know existed, you finally ask him why he was so cruel to you when you first met him. Sylus does his best to answer with as much honesty as he can right now.

Notes:

Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV Enemies-to-friends-to-lovers slow burn This story contains: hurt/comfort, allusions to wild speculation regarding Sylus's lore, mention of bodily injuries, canon character death, grief, canon violence toward mc, a meal and drinks laden with heavy-handed metaphors because the author has no self-restraint, lots of plants, sexual innuendo as a treat, alcohol use, and promises to treat each other with more care and honesty moving forward. I wrote this before I did Sylus's POV, and then both parts together seemed a little too long to force readers to endure so I split them. I hope the continuity makes sense.

“Can we talk?” you ask Sylus, as he leans against the doorframe, a lovely dream of silver hair, otherworldly eyes, pale skin and silver fur across his large pecs, arrowing from his navel to beneath his black, silken pants.

“Sure, kitten. Right after I bandage your feet.” He strolls into the bathroom, heading to the large black marble-topped vanity. He opens one of the cabinets and pulls out a large first aid kit and brings it over to where you’re sitting.

“So I’m not wandering around, bleeding all over your nice floors?” you ask, laughing softly, as he once again kneels before you, silver head bowed over your injured feet. You let your gaze drift from his soft hair to his strong shoulders, his big hands cradling your foot. Sylus on his knees does nothing to diminish his formidable presence. If anything, this position of supplication seems to highlight the inherent threat in the broad line of his shoulders, his powerful arms, his long legs folded beneath his big body. It’s like witnessing a dire wolf on a leash, a prehistoric creature bound only insofar that it’s willing to let itself be bound. You find yourself wanting to pull him to his feet, because you never want to see Sylus at anyone’s mercy, ever. Not even yours.

“Because the only blood that should be soaking your feet is that of your enemies. Otherwise, I refuse to see blood anywhere on you,” he answers, as if that’s a totally normal thing to say to someone. You just stare at his bowed head.

As he gently spreads some kind of soothing balm on the bottoms of your feet and wraps them securely in long stretchy bandages, you hear soft piano music drifting in from the bedroom. He must have put on a record while you were finishing up in the shower.

After the final bandage is secured, he rises to his feet. “Are you hungry?” he asks. You hadn’t thought about it, but now that he has mentioned it, you find yourself feeling almost dizzy with hunger. You nod, and shift to stand, but he just makes a “Tch” sound and scoops you into his arms.

“Are we done asking for permission to touch me already?” you ask him without any heat.

“You can just assume that until I’m satisfied that your feet are healing well, you will not be walking on your own two feet,” he informs you, which is such an absurd thought that it makes you laugh. “And from now on, you will tell me no if you honestly don’t want something from me.”

“Is that so?” You stare into his serious face, trying to figure out what is going on inside his head.

“Deal?” he asks gravely. He’s not joking. He wants this from you, and you realize that this is his way of asking for it.

“And if I say no, but don’t mean it?” you ask, curious.

“Don’t,” he says softly, with that same strained tone in his voice from the roadside. “I could use my aether core, and figure out what you really want. But I promised you that I wouldn’t, unless you ask it of me. Guessing whether you seriously don’t want something from me is a game I’d rather not play going forward.”

If you agree in good faith, then you will be agreeing to allow him to do the things for you that you want from him. And in doing so, it will serve as an admission to him regarding what you want from him. There will be no flimsy cover of token protest to shield yourself from the vulnerability of revealing your true desires—there can be no more lying to him, nor to yourself.

This idea terrifies you. But you’re so tired of being afraid. And it’s not like Sylus hasn’t been able to see through you regarding so many things, even after he stopped using his aether core on you. Is it so unfair of him to ask that you are honest with him, when all you’ve wanted from him this whole time is to figure out what he wants, which is essentially his honesty in return?

You’re terrified, but you feel brave, held tightly in his arms right now. Maybe you’ll regret it later. But that’s for future you to deal with.

“Okay, Sylus. Deal.” You rest your head against his warm pillow of a shoulder, and feel the way his chest expands with a big breath. “But as much as I’d like to use you as my personal mount until my feet don’t hurt anymore, you really can’t carry me everywhere for the next week. I have to get back to Linkon City. Work starts again the day after tomorrow.” You pause, trying to figure out what day it even is. Everything is such a blur since what feels like last night, but has it been longer? “Or even tomorrow,” you mumble. You feel so, so tired just thinking about it.

“Personal mount, huh? I guess I can offer personal mounting services upon request,” he says thoughtfully as horror rushes through you at what you just said. But Sylus seems unruffled as he continues. “And no, you don’t have to get back to Linkon City.” He strides into his bedroom and settles you on the freshly made bed, which apparently has had its silky black sheets changed because they’re not damp at all from your nightmare sweating. You blink up at him as he turns to fetch a large silver tray from the low table in the sitting area, and then brings it over and sets it on the bed next to you.

You’re so relieved that he treated your accidental innuendo so casually that you just pretend it didn’t happen. “Yes, I do. This was the last weekend of my leave. I’ve got to get back to it on Monday,” you counter, eyeing the food on the tray—thinly sliced steak, chunks of steaming baguette slathered in what looks like herbed butter, and strangely, an entire pomegranate, split in half. Some seeds have already fallen from the rind, and lay scattered like little jewels around the plate.

Sylus ignores you and sets a large glass of water on the nightstand next to you. “Do you want anything else to drink? I have a full bar,” he gestures to one of the huge, heavy pieces of wooden furniture that you didn’t recognize as a vintage booze cabinet until he pointed it out.

“Damn, Sylus, is your liver okay?” You eye the size of that thing.

“Asks the hunter whose feet are shredded to bits after a midnight jaunt in the cold with no coat or shoes,” he sniffs. “Fine, but I’m making myself something. Eat.” He stands and heads over to the cabinet, opening it to reveal bottle after bottle of topshelf liquor. He tilts his head and hums a little tunelessly as he makes a selection.

You don’t have to be told twice to eat. You take one of the beautiful silver forks lined neatly next to the plate and start shoving steak into your mouth.

Having finally selected something and dumped a few fingers’ worth of liquor over a tumbler filled with ice, Sylus returns and sits next to you on the bed, back against the huge black leather-padded headboard. He quietly waits for you to finish stuffing your face while sipping his drink.

After you’ve demolished the steak, a few chunks of bread, and half the pomegranate’s seeds, you lean back as well, just basking in the feeling of calm, sated exhaustion. Sylus turns his head against the headboard and regards you with his bright, bright eyes.

“You wanted to talk,” he says.

“I wanted to talk,” you repeat.

He peacefully takes another sip of whatever he’s drinking. You close your eyes. Breathe deeply. The scent of the alcohol is heady, spicy. You open your eyes and return Sylus’s gaze. The words are stuck in your throat. You let your focus drift over to the bookshelves lined with books that look like they were chosen for aesthetics rather than content. They all have some combination of black and red designs, it’s ridiculous.

Your thoughts on the stupid books are interrupted by the sensation of calloused fingertips running along your jaw. “Look at me,” Sylus says softly.

You have to do this. But you can’t get the image out of your head of Sylus’s long fingers drifting down the spines of those books just as they’re now drifting along your face. The way your heart was racing as you tried to sneak up on him for the brooch, which was your lifeline out of the hell you were in. Your only ticket to the auction, to answers to questions that had plagued you for months, to going home on your motorcycle instead of in a body bag, according to Sylus’s threats at the time. You don’t want to be in this room. You don’t want to be in this house.

You turn your head to look at him, and he must see it in your face. Suddenly his evol is lifting the glass from his hand, and at the same time he is leaning over, pulling you back into his arms. He lifts you, as he did before, one arm under your legs and the other cradling your shoulders. He pauses, slipping back into his houseshoes, and carries you out of the bedroom. This time, he takes you further into the house, down hallways you don’t remember walking down before. Eventually, he brings you into some sort of large …mudroom? The worn tiled floor is shockingly colorful, with a drain in the middle. Stacks of pots and bags of what look like dirt or fertilizer sit haphazardly on a long wooden table. An extensive hose is coiled beneath a huge farmhouse sink along one wall, and the wooden counter is covered in gardeners’ tools and watering cans. Wide windows above the sink look out into the dark night. Galoshes and rain boots are lined up neatly along the wall near the door. It’s homey in a way the rest of the house isn’t. Lived in. A bit messy. You like it very much.

Just as you think Sylus is going to make you have this conversation in the equivalent of a gardener’s shed, which you honestly wouldn’t mind, he continues to the door on the other side of the room. Again, he pauses to switch out his house shoes for a pair of galoshes. He looks a little silly, wearing the garden shoes with his silk sleep pants and nothing else, but as usual, he doesn’t seem to care what anyone else may think. The scarlet-ink tendrils of his evol then throw open the door and all of the thoughts in your head evaporate like rain on a hot summer day.

Because Sylus has just thrown open a door to another world—the heat and humidity hit you first, a soothing contrast to the chill air of the rest of the house. And then the smell—earth, decay and growth, a cacophony of floral scents. You turn your head and take in the slate-colored pebbled pathways leading in different directions from the door Sylus has just brought you through, winding through huge tropical plants, leaves heavy and dripping with moisture. Colorful birds twitter and shriek and coo as they shift in the trees overhead, flying under the soaring ceiling of what you now realize is a huge greenhouse. At periodic intervals along the path, torches in a modern, savage style, similar to the chandeliers in Sylus’s house, illuminate the way forward and the surrounding plants.

You just take it in, overwhelmed by the riot of life and colorful beauty of this veritable oasis in the desolation of the N109 zone and the contrast it poses to the austerity of Sylus’s dark, sophisticated home. Eventually the plants along the path Sylus has chosen thin and part to reveal a large pond, covered in gigantic flowering lily pads, a fountain in the middle. The fountain itself is a flowing sculpture, two figures locked in either battle or embrace. You’re overcome with a strange sense of familiarity— something about each figure’s proportions in relation to the other—how one has to look up into the face of the other—you look away. The flow of water from the fountain is a constant, soft hush underlying the birdcalls and swaying leaves, the skittering of little animals unseen under the vegetation.

Next to the pond is a clearing built from the same bright, multi-colored patterned tiles as the mudroom. In the middle, there stands a large blond wooden garden bed, complete with a canopy and flowing gauzy drapes half obscuring the bed itself. As Sylus carries you closer, you realize the bed is also a swing.

“What in the garden fuck-bed, Sylus?” you breathe, because what the hell else would he use this thing for? Is this where he takes his dates for romantic wooing?

He looks at the bed. And then looks back down at you. “Well, kitten, it can be if you insist. That wasn’t my plan for tonight, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.”

You roll your eyes and poke him in his big man bosom. “You can’t tell me that you didn’t have that thing installed specifically to seduce dates out here in your own wild sex jungle.”

“Not everyone gets as excited about plants as you do, sweetheart. And I had it installed because even I like to relax in nature sometimes, without having to go for a ride north of Linkon.”

“But a… swinging bed?” You look back at it dubiously. It just seems so wildly romantic to you.

“Do you like it?” he asks, settling you down on the surprisingly soft mattress, covered in white linen sheets. Unlike his bed, this thing is piled high with pillows. You immediately roll over and bury your face in them. You hear a soft laugh from above you. “I’ll take that as a yes.” You just sigh happily.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink? I also have a bar here,” he says, and you laugh out loud.

“Of course you do.” You finally look up from the pillows and see him through the bed’s drapes as he stands behind what you now see is very obviously a bar, built from the same light-colored wood as the bed, wooden stools lined up along its counter, torches on either side providing ambient light that is reflected off the neatly lined bottles of liquor.

“Okay, Sylus. I want a cocktail, with a little umbrella and a fruit skewer.”

“That can mostly be arranged. But you’ll have to be more specific. What kind of cocktail?” he asks with a slight lift to his full lips. He opens one of the cabinet doors and you see bottle after bottle of juice and other mixers.

“Surprise me,” you say, rolling onto your side so you can watch his big hands pull out a deep red bottle of juice and some sort of storage container.

He nods. “Fine, but if you don’t like it, I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

“No deal. I reserve the right to whine very loudly if I don’t like it.”

“Is that so? Not really the whining I’d prefer from you,” he says, smiling in a way that reveals one sharp canine. As your brain short circuits, he continues. “I guess I’ll have to do my best to please you, to spare the birds from having to endure the consequences if I fail.” He proceeds to competently mix the drink, shaking it in a cocktail shaker and pouring it over ice in a low, heavy bottomed glass.

You’re shocked as he digs around in a drawer and pulls out a little black umbrella, plopping it into your drink as a final touch. He then grabs a glass for himself, pours from the same liquor bottle that he used to make your cocktail, and brings both glasses over to you. He sets his own on a little table next to the bed, and hands you yours. He then sits next to you on the bed, one leg crossed beneath him, one foot on the ground.

You sit up, taking the offered glass carefully, and stare down into the ruby colored liquid. “Where’s the fruit skewer?”

“The fruit’s in the drink, you spoiled creature. Try it.” He picks his glass back up, but just looks at you. Waiting for you to drink.

You take a sip. It’s delicious—not too sweet, a little bitter. And strong. You can feel the warmth of the liquor spreading through your belly. You swirl the liquid, and little pomegranate seeds bob to the surface.

“I’m sensing a theme,” you murmur, looking back into his satisfied face.

“Must be your imagination,” he sniffs. “It’s an Old Fashioned, made with pomegranate juice. In case you were wondering.”

“I was,” you smile. “And thank you. It’s delicious.”

He looks pleased. He holds his glass up. “Toast with me.”

You eye him. “What are we toasting?”

“You,” he says simply. You wait. He just looks at you.

“And what have I possibly done that deserves toasting tonight?”

“You’re here right now, with me. That’s enough for me.”

Your heart, which had been quiet ever since you crossed the threshold into the greenhouse’s mudroom, kicks a little. He sounds so terribly sincere. You lift the glass to his, and he gently taps his against yours.

He then brings his glass back to his lips. He pauses, inhales deeply, and takes a drink, closing his eyes.

You both sip quietly, listening to the sounds of the fountain, the fluttering of birds’ wings. Your gaze drifts over the array of orchids growing at the edge of the clearing, nestled under huge palms drooping over clusters of fruit you don’t recognize. You love it here. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so relaxed while being surrounded by nature. There have always been other people present in the public spaces you would visit to try to get away, on your precious days off. Their presence, the possibility that they’re observing, judging you, as you try to enjoy the botanical garden or hiking trail is always a constant itch under your skin. The closest you have ever gotten to this feeling of riotous life, space, and peaceful solitude is from the houseplants hanging in your bedroom.

You’ve had half the cocktail now, and a pleasant heaviness weighs down your body. You look at Sylus. “I think this is enough, for now.”

He nods, and takes your glass from you. He sets his own down, and goes to the bar again. When he returns, he hands you a glass of water. “Drink.”

You nod in turn, and empty the glass. And then you sit, fiddling with it.

“It’s time, sweetheart,” Sylus finally says. “Tell me what’s on your mind now.”

You take a deep breath and clutch the glass. You can do this now. You can’t look at him as you speak, but you can say what you need to say amidst all this life, with the soft linen against your skin, and Sylus’s steady presence at your side.

“I don’t understand how you can treat me with such kindness now, when you were so cruel to me when we first met. You scared me, Sylus. You hurt me. You treated me like something inconvenient that you had stepped in and needed to scrape off the bottom of your shoe, except you also needed something from me. And now, you wash my feet for me. You hold me when I’m tired. You treat me like I’m someone you care about.” You look back at him, suddenly overcome again with the images flooding into your mind again, of what it was like to be in his grasp the first time you were in this house. You take another shaky breath. “But nothing has changed. I’m still me—the same person you strangled within five minutes of seeing me for the first time. I resonated with you after the auction, so you didn’t have to do anything else to ensure that I’d be able to resonate with you again. I can’t reconcile these two Syluses,” you finish.

You wanted to have this conversation. And now you’re having it. You watch as he gently takes the glass from your hands and sets it on the side table. He then turns on his side, so he’s fully facing you. He leans down and gently coaxes you down next to him, so the both of you are sharing a pillow, sharing the same breath. The bed slowly sways with the movement of your bodies. He runs his fingers from your jaw, down your neck and over your shoulder, until his hand comes to rest in the dip of your waist as you lie on your side facing him. The tie of your silken robe has loosened, and the dark fabric pools in the small between you.

“I will answer your question, as best as I can right now.” He pauses to make sure you’re focused on him. “I didn’t realize at the time how much I was hurting you when we… first met. All of my intel led me to believe that you’d respond better to a challenge than to honey. Especially because you were convinced that I was behind the bombing that killed your family.” He runs the hem of your tank top between his fingers, knuckles brushing the skin of your stomach. “Would you have believed me, if I had insisted that what the Association had told you about me was wrong?”

You think back to your certainty, at the time, when you first kneeled in front of this man. The months leading up to that moment, hearing rumors about Onychinus, how dangerous and ruthless its leader was. The certainty, and the hate that underpinned every move you made as you prepared to infiltrate the N109 Zone. No. You wouldn’t have believed him if he had tried to deny everything you were convinced was true. You shake your head, just a little, still searching his face. He looks so soft, in the warm glow of the torches and the riot of green surrounding the bed.

“No. You wouldn’t have. So, I weighed my options in terms of strategy. I couldn’t quickly convince you that I wasn’t the completely depraved boogeyman you had been led to believe, nor could I convince you that I wasn’t responsible for what happened to your family. But I needed you working with me, and not against me. If I couldn’t ask you nicely, I needed to leverage whatever I could get to force you to help me. Answers to your questions, the other half of the aether core, and your own freedom from my terrible clutches was that leverage. I also needed to see just how strong you were, because I knew the aether core was in your heart and that you probably had capabilities you weren’t even aware of based on the discrepancies between my intel about you and what I know an aether core can do. So I was placing all my bets on … motivating you to fight back, forcing you to reveal the true extent of your strength so I knew what I was working with. I was also hoping that you would come to realize the true extent of your strength that you weren’t even aware of in the process.”

You soak in everything he has just said. It seems so preposterous. “So that’s why… you threatened me? Taunted me? Called me a disappointment? Threw me in front of that huge mech to see if I’d live or die? Deprived me of water? Starved me?” You clench your teeth, trying to keep the tears from flowing again. You’re so done with crying for the next century.

“Yes,” he says, simply, red eyes seeming to glow as they search yours. He moves his hand back to your face, cupping your cheek in his big, warm palm. “What you didn’t know at the time was that I was prepared to intervene the moment it looked like you couldn’t handle it. But I knew you could handle it. I knew you could handle everything I did to you.” You feel your lip trembling, and his gaze drops to your mouth. “I just didn’t realize how much it would cost you to handle it.” His thumb runs down your cheek and sweeps along your lower lip, pressing gently. “I believe that the end justifies the means. That a certain level of collateral damage is inevitable, and even acceptable, if the reward is big enough. But if I could go back and do it again,” he pauses, watching his thumb as he continues to caress your lip. “I don’t think I’d be able to do it again. Even if it was the most efficient method at the time to find out what I needed to know, and to compel you to work with me.”

Despite the aching tenderness of his touch against your lips, you scowl at him. “Sylus, you choked me until I blacked out. In what universe is that just ‘challenging’ me to realize my inner strength? I can’t respond with some sort of magical anime transformation into some final badass form if I’m fucking unconscious!” you bite out. For the first time in this whole conversation, he looks a little sheepish.

“Sweetheart. I’m not a good man. You know this. Even if the Association’s intel is exaggerated and wrong ninety percent of the time, I do bad things to get good results. And… sometimes, I get carried away. And I was…” He pauses, and you’re flabbergasted that this typically smug, arrogant, self-assured asshole is actually at a loss for words. “Would you buy it, if I told you I was excited to meet you?”

“You’re asking if I believe that you were excited… to meet me. And so you choked me?” you ask dubiously.

“Maybe I was excited to meet you. So I might have misjudged how long I could… squeeze before you really blacked out. Usually I have much more control,” he shrugs, as if discussing his golf swing and not his knack for strangling people.

You try to imagine that he was so excited to meet you and therefore choked you out in the same way an overeager puppy will bite too hard and pee on your shoes. How nice would that be? If this was all some huge misunderstanding. That his cruelty was an accident, and not intentional. But he asked if you’re willing to buy it—he has not said that it’s the truth. And you’re not buying it. He was so intensely cruel, from the very beginning. It wasn’t fake. His reputation as Onychinus’s brutal leader is not a misunderstanding, even if it’s not the whole truth. And neither is the fact that he strangled and starved you.

“So you want me to buy the assertion that you were so happy to meet me that you accidentally strangled me to the point of unconsciousness and so committed to the bit of being a villain that you then proceeded to traumatize me with starvation and violence for the next three days.” You stare into his ridiculous, beautiful, red eyes and feel that same sense of unreality that is so often paired with this man. Wine and cheese. Guns and ammo. Absurdity and Sylus. You let yourself believe this comforting lie, just for a moment. “I wouldn’t even know how to process that.”

As always with Sylus, you can’t help it. The noise that comes out of your throat isn’t human. You snort, the laughter violently trying to escape your body. You laugh directly in his stupid handsome face, because you’re so close to him on the pillow, and you’re loud. You hear the sound of birds suddenly taking flight, probably startled by the sounds coming out of you. You laugh, and laugh, and laugh. He watches you carefully through it all, as if he can’t quite believe how easily you’ve swallowed his lie.

After a long, lovely time where you just release the rest of all of the months of tension that you’ve been carrying, deep deep down, you raise your hand and bop his nose. “Do I need a rolled up newspaper to swat you if you ever get over-enthusiastic again and decide to put me in a full nelson or garrotte me because you’re so excited to see me?”

“If you’re ever on the other side of my garrotte or in one of my full nelsons, sweetie, the newspaper will not help you,” he grumbles. He slings his arm over your waist and scoots closer to you. “And I’ve seen you with little dogs. Mosquito, was it? Termite? You’d never swat one with a newspaper.”

“Cricket, you barbarian. But you’re not a little doggy, are you?” you tease, bopping him on the nose again.

He catches your finger in his teeth, and this time he bites down. You shake your hand, trying to dislodge him with a laugh. He lets go. “No, I’m a big, bad man,” he smiles softly at you.

“Yeah, you are,” you agree, just lying there, taking in his long, uneven nose, the dark sweep of his eyelashes. “So you get the newspaper.”

Sylus groans. “I can think of other things I’d much rather get,” he murmurs, eyes trailing from yours to your mouth and back again.

For a moment, you’re paralyzed, caught in the intensity of his gaze. Even now, how he manages to make an innocuous statement sound so… you refuse to think about it. He’s your friend . You’re having a serious conversation. A conversation that needs to be finished, properly.

“But Sylus, I don’t buy that explanation. At all. You need to try again. And be honest, this time. It’s only fair, since you’re asking me for honesty moving forward. I don’t believe you when you tell me that you never would never have let me actually get hurt. That you were just so eager to meet me that you lost your self control. Because you did actually hurt me. And I don’t believe that you were just testing me, and that you just wanted to be my friend, all along. Because you could have tested me in other ways. You didn’t have to go to such extremes to see what I am capable of.”

The amusement fades from Sylus’s face as you speak, and when you’re done, he looks… relieved. “It’s true, I didn’t want to be your friend,” he begins, and absurdly, your heart hurts a little. Well, that’s okay. You didn’t know you wanted to be his friend back then, either. He’s quiet for a long breath, and then he sighs. “You’re right. I was eager to finally meet you, but nothing I did to you was an accident. I needed you to believe that I was your villain. I thought you would collapse without the hatred keeping you strong. I was mistaken. That is the truth. And that’s the only part of the truth I can give you, right now.”

You close your eyes. Is this enough for you?

He speaks into your silence. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I treated you with such violence when we first met. If I could go back and do it again, I’d do it differently. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that, no matter how confident I was in your ability to handle it, and no matter what I was feeling at the time.”

You open your eyes and search his face. He just looks back at you, a sincerity in his expression that rarely comes through. “So are you telling me that this is the real Sylus? Who you’ve been to me, since the auction. And the Sylus I first met… that’s just you when you wear the mask of Onychinus’s leader?”

“No,” he says, to your relief. Because you don’t believe that he’s only one, and not the other, no matter how much easier that would make having him in your life. His denial proves that he is having this conversation in good faith—he’s not trying to convince you he’s only a good man who sometimes does bad things, and that all the horrors are simply a mask. “I’m insisting that I never expected to be able to hurt you as deeply as I did. That no matter what, I didn’t want to hurt you as much as I ultimately have.” He strokes your side with his thumb, for once not looking into your eyes. His gaze elsewhere, somewhere past you. “I am not a good man. I am not the supervillain you thought you were facing during those three days, but I am Onychinus’s leader, and all that such a role entails—it’s not some mask I put on. It’s who I am.” His gaze returns to you, as if asking a question.

“I know.” You whisper, and you think the relief intensifies in his eyes. “I just needed to hear you admit it.”

He nods, just once. But you’re not done.

“But you need to understand. Although you’ve explained what you did to me, your reasoning behind it… and although you’ve apologized for it—it doesn’t erase anything.” You watch him carefully, trying to read into every breath, every lift of his brows, the tightening around his eyes, the dilation of his pupils. “You did hurt me. I trust you when you say you didn’t intend to hurt me to this extent, but you did intend to hurt me. You didn’t stop yourself. And that was when we hadn’t even really met, when you had no reason to hate me. I hadn’t done anything to you at all. What happens, when you do finally get angry with me? What happens, if I ever manage to hurt you?” You’re shocked when you see an almost imperceptible flinch when you say that he had no reason to hate you. But it’s so brief. He glances away, but looks back at you almost immediately. He moves his hand to your cheek as if he just wants to feel your skin under his fingers, and then grasps your jaw in his rough hand. Gently, but firmly. And then he speaks, with the solemnity of a knight pledging an oath to his sovereign.

“I would let you carve out my heart with your blades before I would ever intend to truly hurt you, regardless of what you make me feel. And you can’t hurt me in any way that would change that fact.” When he finishes, he lets his hand fall back to your waist.

There’s more to this. There’s more to what he has explained. The feelings he mentioned earlier, after he explained his strategy. You don’t believe that his brutality was a result of over-eagerness to meet you—it was some other emotion. Something that felt a lot like barely controlled rage, or grief. His subtle reaction to the idea that there was no reason for him to be so malicious towards you. The fact that he seems to be so invested in you, when you’re just… you. An average hunter with no special qualities besides the aether core in your heart. An aether core which is more of a liability than an advantage at this point, judging by the way your heart is aching. Just you, with enough emotional baggage to sink a warship.

Your mind races, trying to sift through every mission you’ve ever been on for the Association. Trying to pinpoint if you could have ever crossed paths with Sylus before, without knowing it. But there’s nothing. He was a phantom to you, ever since you first heard his name. Something in you knows that he will not answer, even if you ask. So you don’t. This has to be enough, for now. You have to choose to trust the parts of the truth he’s telling you now, even if it’s not the whole truth, or you have to walk away.

“I know there are things that you’re not telling me. And that’s okay. There are things that I don’t want to know—now, or ever. Partially because if anyone ever figures out that we have a connection, and they want me to roll over on you, I don’t want to have that information in my head. I want plausible deniability. Not only for my work, but in case someone else tries to pry something out of me with force. I don’t want to be able to give them what they want even if I wanted to, if they break me.” Sylus’s brows furrow, and his hand tightens on your waist. “So I’m not going to ask you to explain. And I’m telling you now—I only want to know the details of your life as Onychinus’s leader that you think I absolutely need to know.”

“And the details of my life, apart from being the leader of Onychinus?” he whispers.

He sounds so different when he speaks softly like this. Accessible, instead of so far away. Within reach, instead of flying so far ahead of you.

“I want to know everything you are okay with sharing,” you answer. Because it’s true, and a lot less unhinged than saying, everything, everything, everything .

“Does this mean that you’ll stop trying to leave me?”

You think back to earlier tonight, when you thought Sylus was going to tear you apart for hurting Kieran. For damaging the car. For simply being a nuisance. You were prepared to let him, because you care for him and you felt like it was deserved. You’re tempted to tell him the rest of it. Because even if you accept the punishment as just—your parents leaving you behind, probably because of your fucked up heart. Your partners cheating on you, because you were physically or emotionally unavailable. Sylus’s fist, for hurting someone he treats as more than an employee. You have always been willing to accept the punishment. But after, you never let yourself be caught in that same situation, with that same person, ever again. If you ever knowingly run into your parents on the street, you’d just keep walking. Past lovers who cheated, you cut so thoroughly from your life that it was like they never existed in it at all. You know yourself. If Sylus ever treats you the way he did when you first met—he will never see you again. If you deserve to receive pain from him, you’ll take it. But then you’re gone. Your heart hurts, considering saying these words. As a warning, and a promise, that you’ve never offered to anyone else.

Sylus’s strained voice interrupts your thoughts. “Is this your answer?”

You follow his furrowed gaze and see the swirling gold and scarlet shackles tying your wrist to his.

Apparently it wasn’t a choice at all, to answer him truthfully. “Yes,” you say, and feel like crying at the thought of having to leave him behind. But you will, if you ever fall from this strange pedestal he seems to have placed you on, and turns on you in the way you’ve seen him turn on those he considers not worthy of his respect or his generosity. “If you ever hurt me like you did when we first met again. Do you understand?”

He closes his eyes, inhales sharply. As if something hurts. When he opens them, you’re shocked by how bright they are. “I understand.” He pulls his hand to his chest, dragging your linked wrist with it. He then presses your hand over his heart. “If I ever hurt you again, you have my permission to rip this out, with your bare hands.”

The idea of Sylus hurting in any way—and worse, the idea of his pain being at your hands, upsets you so much that you feel like crying again. You press your hand gently into his chest. “Why can’t you do anything like a normal person? Do you always have to be so extra?” He lets out a little huff of surprise. “It’s enough that you’ve said you’re sorry. And that you’ve promised not to treat me like that again. I don’t want your heart on a platter.”

“Too late,” he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead is resting against your chest, right over your own heart. He’s still clutching your hand to his own chest.

You have no idea how this happened. You have no idea what he means when he says that it’s too late. As if you’ve already ripped his heart out, and carry it with you on a silver tray like the one he served you food on earlier. How did you acquire the affection of this wild, dangerous creature when all you’ve managed to do is not get killed through the blur of grief-filled days since you met him? You can’t make sense of any of it, right now. You’re so tired, from tonight, from all the nights before, stretching back through the months since your family was murdered. But you have the feeling that right now, Sylus is also exhausted, and is carrying a sorrow that you’ll be lucky if he ever shares with you. All you can do is press your hand more firmly to his body, to lean into him in return, to let him take whatever comfort he can from your own body, as you both lie here, tied together by shimmering strands of energy and heartache, surrounded by all this thriving life nestled in a barren wasteland.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace fanfiction #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #my fanfic #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #ok so hopefully this is satisfying #i've been wrestling with this all week #come yell at me if you like it #and also if you don't

265 notes · View notes

lqveharrington · 1 year ago

Text

Silver Roses & Fallen Snow

PROLOGUE (masterlist for series)

summary: You and Coriolanus Snow having been dating, but your father disapproves of it, leading to an Ultimatum. Will the deal be secured? Or will the 10th Annual Hunger Games ruin it all?

pairing: young!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

warnings: (proof read once !!) mentions of death, you and Coriolanus being oblivious, fluff, twinge of jealousy, angst, italics are flashbacks, (let me know if i missed any !!)

word count: 2k +

a/n: it’s been too long since i’ve written something. let’s hope this series does well :)

You and Coriolanus were given an ultimatum. Well, more like Coriolanus was given an ultimatum.

Ever since you were born, your father and mother wanted the best for you. Especially your father. Being born in a family belonging to the Capitol, you were already lucky, in a way. You were essentially being given everything on a silver platter. However, you were always in an optimistic mindset, even when the first Rebellion started. Your mother was the one keeping your family happy and looking on the bright side, but when she died during the Rebellion, your father completely shut the world out, including his own daughter. When the world returned to a sort of functionality, the first Hunger Games started up. As an eight-year-old with no mother, you relied on yourself and the help your father hired around the manor. Heading to school, you walked with your caretaker and occasionally the Snows joined you.

Your family used to be close with the Snow family. You remember them coming over for dinner parties and playing with their only son, Coriolanus Snow. It wasn’t until your father heard about what happened to them in the war he left them behind as the Capitol built up again. You, of course, always stood by the Snows. You visited them as much as possible growing up and when you reached Academy, you and Coriolanus became closer than ever.

“What are you doing, Coryo?” You ask, chin propped on his shoulder.

He smiled at you, “I’m trying to write my paper for English, but you are so distracting.”

You frown jokingly, “Sucks for you, I finished mine already.”

“Nice to know.” He murmured as he scribbled down a few more sentences.

You watched him for a bit before getting up, walking out of his room to find his cousin. You were always interested in her amazing skill for clothing, but another thing was on your mind at the moment.

“Tigris?” You call out, finding her sitting at the table at the front. She hummed in response, carefully hand sewing a beautiful dress. “I need advice.”

“About?”

“Well…” You take a seat across from her. “You’re a senior, right?”

“Mhm.” She pulled her dress up, looking a bit closer. You watch her focus shift from the dress to you after she placed her materials down. “What’s up?”

“You’ve like, you know… Dated someone… Right?”

“Where are we going with this conversation?” Tigris rested her head in her hands, watching your face redden. “Maybe I know where this is going. Do you like him?”

You flushed and looked down at the table. “Him who?”

“Don’t be scared, Y/N. What am I going to do? Tell my stubborn cousin? He won’t believe a word I say the second I mention your name.” Tigris spoke with an airy voice.

“Well—”

Coriolanus walked in, placing his hands on your shoulders. “I finished my paper, it didn’t take long.”

“Hey, Coryo.” Tigris smiled with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Hi?”

“Did you know that your lovely little flower, here, likes—“

“Tigris!” You glare at the seventeen-year-old. “You said you wouldn’t.”

“Oops.” She stood, wiping her dress from invisible dirt. “But, you know, out of curiosity… Coryo, do you like someone at school?”

Pink dusted his cheeks as he glanced down at you before looking at his cousin. “No.”

She squinted her eyes at him, “No?”

He shook his head, refusing to meet yours or Tigris’ eyes. She hummed and got close to both of you.

“My advice, ask them out before someone else does.”

As you both got older with the passing time, your crush on him intensified and vice versa. Tigris always asked if either one of you asked the other out, but you both always said no. On your sixteenth birthday, he asked you to be his girlfriend, which was during your third year in the Academy. Around that time, you became better acquainted with those in your class. Coryo would get jealous, but ever so subtly. Even if that meant leaving mid conversation with another one of your friends just to talk to you.

“Happy Birthday, Y/N!” Sejanus nudged your shoulder, handing you a small present.

“Thank you, Sej.” You take the gift and lightly put it in your bag. “I’ll open it later, I have a—“

“Hey, beautiful. Can I steal you?” Coriolanus appeared by your left, nodding at Sejanus.

“Coryo, I was just talking too—“

“No no, go ahead. I just wanted to give you your present.” Sejanus smiled.

“If you say so. I’ll talk to you later!” You call out to him, letting Coryo link your hands together. “I was busy.” You gave a joking pout.

“Yeah, well, I needed your attention.” He pulled you away, near the few cherry trees remaining at the Capitol. His tone sent an unpleasant shiver down your spine, but you pushed the thought away as he sat you down on a concrete bench.

“Okay, what is it?” You cross your arms and legs, looking up at him. “I promised my father I’d come straight home today.”

Coriolanus dug through his bag before handing you a small, rectangular box. You carefully took it from his hands, pulling at the small bow. You gasped at the contents of the box, a silver necklace with a rose pendant hanging at its center.

“Coryo… It’s gorgeous.” You gently took the necklace out of its container, taking a closer look. “How did you…?”

“I may or may not have found some odd jobs around the poorer parts to get money for this.” He shrugged.

You clutch the necklace in your right hand and give him the brightest smile you could muster. “I love it. I really do… Help me put it on?”

He took the necklace from your hand and unclasped it, adjusting it to your liking.

“You didn’t need to get this for me, you know? I like our usual birthday hang outs.” You say, feeling the cold from his hands emit onto your neck.

“I wanted to.” He clasped the necklace back together, bringing his head near your own. “You deserve the world.”

You turn your head, face millimeters away from his own. Your eyes flicker down to his lips before back to his piercing blue eyes which had done the same. Coriolanus held your face with his left hand, rubbing your cheek.

“Can I?” He whispered to you, earning a nod.

He pulled you close to him, planting a soft kiss to your lips. You smiled into the kiss, placing your hand on his chest.

Quickly running out of air, you parted from him, eyes fluttering open to see him. You looked at his lips and lightly laughed, rubbing your thumb on his bottom lip.

“Have I got something?” He asks, voice slightly breathy.

You hum, “Just a bit of my lipstick on your lips, nothing major.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls you into another kiss, this time, his free hand was on your waist. You made a sound of surprise before melting into the kiss as well, messing with the fabric in his suit.

“Be my girlfriend.” He says in between kisses as you ended up on his lap. “Please.”

“Of course.” You separated yourself from him, taking heavy breaths. “Of course, I’ll be your girlfriend, Coriolanus Snow.”

“Then I’ll gladly be your boyfriend, Y/N Lovett.” He placed one last kiss on your lips. “Now, how much lipstick is on my face?”

“A lot.” You giggle, resting your forehead against his.

Over the next few months, you told Grandma’am and Tigris that you started dating. Both were happy, but Tigris especially. She would ask about your dates and occasionally made you dresses for them.

Yet, when your father found out about you dating Coriolanus, he simply disapproved. He hated the idea that you were dating someone from a family with no money, no more power to their name. Of course, no one else knew that except Dean Highbottom and your family.

Everyday was the same battle with your father. He always commented on your behavior after learning you were with the young Snow and refused to accept the fact that you two were dating without any benefits for his own family name.

Therefore, the ultimatum was created.

“You must tell Tigris to stop making me dresses.” You fiddle with the bow on the strap.

“Do you not like them?” He squeezes your hand, the warm breeze of the summer hitting the both of you.

You shake your head, “No! No, I love them. But I don’t think she should be spending all these resources on me. I offer to pay, but she won’t—“

“You don’t need to pay. You never do.” He stops your pace, looking into your eyes.

“Coryo…” You sigh, looking around you. Deeming it was safe, you continued. “You and I both know she shouldn’t be making these for me without pay. I should at least help pay for some of the—“

“Hey hey, look at me.” Coriolanus took your face with both of his hands. “You don’t have to pay for us at all. Don’t worry about it.”

“But—“

“Get your hands off my daughter, Snow.” Your father demanded as he came out of the manor, both you and Coryo jumping at the man’s voice.

‘Sorry.’ You mouthed to your boyfriend, forgetting you were walking back to your home.

Your father clicked his tongue, “Come inside, we haven’t got all day.”

You hurry your steps to the porch of the manor, your father waiting for who knows what.

“You too, Mr Snow.” He beckoned the platinum blond over. “I doubt you don’t want to hear this conversation involving my daughter and your… Relationship.”

Your steps faltered at his words but you followed the butler into the living area, supposedly where your father wanted to discuss something. You sat on the lovers sofa as Coriolanus walked in with your father second. You gave a subtle gesture for him to sit next to you. Coryo took long strides to sit by you, still leaving a good amount of room because of your father.

“Tea?” He asked the both of you as the help walked in with a tray.

“Thank you, Em.” You take a cup of tea from her, setting it to the side.

“No, thank you.” Coriolanus waved her off a bit, hands kept to himself.

“Right.” Your father sat up straight on the couch opposite of you both. “About your relationship.”

A few beats pass.

“You both are comfortable with one another and that’s fine. But, Mr. Snow, you really aren't of any value to us at the moment.”

Your hand flexes at your side, suddenly angered by your father’s poor choice of words.

“Maybe, before the Rebellion, yes. But now, the Snows are nothing but rags disguised as designer material.”

“Is there a point to this, father?” Your eyes bore into his.

“Ah, yes. You see, I wouldn’t mind your relationship with my daughter at all if you were to somehow make your way back up. Let’s say, winning the Plinth prize. You win, I allow you to date my daughter. You lose, well, she’ll be arranged to marry another who will benefit the Lovett name.” Your father spoke with such a demeaning manner.

“Father, that’s not—“

“I’ll do it.” Coryo cuts you off, earning a wide eyed look from you. “I agree to those terms, sir.”

“Very well. May the odds be in your favor, Mr. Snow.” He got up, taking his leave. “Oh, and Y/N?”

You look at your father, a permanent scowl on your face.

“I advise you to look for other suitors before I pick for you.”

Your father finally left the two of you, your eyes snapping to the blond next to you.

“Coriolanus Snow. Are you out of your mind? Where has your brain gone?” You smack his chest in between every word before getting stopped by the male. “Let go of me!”

“You know I only agreed to it because I can do it. You know that.” He loosens his grip on your wrists. “I have healthy grades, I never miss a class.”

Your eyes gloss over, “You better win that Plinth Prize, Coryo.”

Coryo cradles your head with his hands, kissing the top of your head. “I’m not losing you. I never will.”

From that day onwards, it was a constant battle for him to be the best out of the best at Academy.

After all, Snow always lands on top.

(ask for taglist in comments or dm !!)

2K notes · View notes

callmedaleelah · 3 months ago

Text

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— said “i’m fine” but it wasn’t the truth ; when people said when we’re mad and frustrated we can just break stuff, punch walls, smash chairs, or destroy whatever. but why do we always end up just staying quiet and decided destroying our mental health instead?

author’s notes : 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 🐭 ]

Winter classes were supposed to be a chance to get ahead, but instead, they felt like a relentless race you were barely managing to keep up with. The class wasn’t crowded, maybe a dozen students, but each one of them seemed like a walking encyclopedia, filled with confidence and an unwavering hunger for knowledge. They’d arrive at class an hour early, occupying the front rows with books spread out in front of them, and their hands perpetually raised, ready to challenge or add to whatever the professor was saying. It made you feel small, like you hadn’t studied enough, like you didn’t belong.

Each night, you’d prepare as much as you could for the next day’s lecture, even though your heart wasn’t entirely in it. Your mind wandered constantly—flitting between how much you just wanted to curl up in your dorm bed with a warm blanket, and how the pressure to perform was slowly grinding you down. Your mom’s incessant texts about what you should eat, reminding you to take your vitamins and ginseng tonic, felt like a constant pressure to maintain an unrealistic level of perfection.

You tried to get some rest, but your brain wouldn’t turn off. Sleep was the only escape, and yet, even when you did sleep, it wasn’t restful. Every time you stirred, you’d hear the familiar blare of your alarm reminding you to take another supplement, or the ping of your phone with another message from your mom telling you that your meal delivery was arriving soon. It all became so routine that you found yourself on autopilot—studying, sleeping, eating whatever your mom sent, and wondering if it was all worth it.

Sometimes, the thought of skipping class altogether seemed tempting. Why couldn’t you just enjoy your break like other students? The thought of cozying up in your room, watching movies, and getting some real rest before the next semester felt like a distant dream. But deep down, you knew you couldn’t let yourself fall behind. Not with the way things were going.

It was during one of these dreary cycles—struggling through the monotony of your winter class—that you ran into Yamaguchi. He had just returned from a winter volleyball camp in Okinawa, looking worn out but content, with a large backpack slung over his shoulder as he entered the dormitory. You had just received another food delivery from your mom and were balancing the boxes awkwardly in your arms when you saw him.

“Back from camp?” you asked, trying to sound casual even though you felt a wave of envy wash over you. He had been training in the sun, while you had been holed up in your dorm, trapped between study sessions and forced naps.

Yamaguchi flashed you a tired smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, just got back. Okinawa was nice, but the camp was brutal.”

“I bet,” you replied. “Must be exhausting.”

“It is,” he agreed. “But, hey, there’s a game coming up this weekend. A lot of students will be there—it’s kind of a big deal. You should come. You could use a break.”

You hesitated, balancing the food boxes in your arms. You weren’t sure you could afford to take a break, but the idea of escaping the monotony—even just for an afternoon—was enticing.

“Yeah, maybe I will,” you said. “I could use a distraction.”

Yamaguchi grinned. “Great! You won’t regret it.” and then he disappeared heading to his own room.

You find yourself sitting in your room, staring at the clock as it ticks toward the start of your winter class. Normally, you would have packed up your things by now, grabbing your notebook and meticulously prepared materials, ready to attend. But today, the heavy feeling in your chest has been particularly suffocating. Your classmates—so driven, so sure of themselves—are already filing into the classroom, likely throwing questions at the professor before the lecture even begins. Meanwhile, you sit paralyzed with dread, the thought of being surrounded by such ambition making you want to curl up under your blankets and disappear.

Lately, you’ve been thinking about skipping class more often than you care to admit. The demands of the course have been relentless. It’s winter break, and yet here you are, working yourself into exhaustion while others seem to thrive in the chaos. Your mind drifts to how good it would feel to stay in bed, tucked into the warmth of your comforter, resting and doing nothing. It’s hard not to resent how your days are filled with either studying or sleeping, with alarms going off to remind you to take your vitamins or respond to your mom’s texts about food deliveries she insists on managing.

But then, Yamaguchi’s invitation to his game pops back into your mind. Skipping class seemed like an impossible risk. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized how desperately you needed a break from the monotony.

Now, you stand at a crossroads: attend another draining class or take a chance and watch the game. You swallow hard, your nerves bubbling up as you reach for your phone. Quickly, you tap into your settings and turn off your location. Your mom would kill you if she found out you were ditching class.

You can already imagine her voice, stern and disappointed, demanding to know why you weren’t where you were supposed to be. The thought sends a jolt of panic through you, but the excitement of going to Yamaguchi’s game is just strong enough to overpower it. You toss your phone into your bag, slip on your coat, and head out the door before you can second-guess yourself.

When you arrive at the gymnasium, the noise hits you first—a vibrant, buzzing energy that feels almost overwhelming after the quiet of your dorm room. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing as you navigate through the crowd of students. Everyone seems to be moving in the same direction, excited and chattering about the game ahead.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. It’s Yamaguchi. He’s texted you the seat location: front-row, right near the stands where the volleyball team would be sitting.

That realization makes your stomach flip. You had thought you’d be watching from a distance, blending in with the rest of the crowd, but now…you’d be sitting right where they could see you. And more importantly, where Tsukishima could see you.

The thought of being so close to him, to them, makes you nervous all over again. What if they think you’re a total fraud for skipping class just to be here? What if your classmates see you and realize you’ve abandoned your studies for a game? And worst of all—what if your mom somehow finds out?

You push those worries aside and head toward the front of the gym. You can feel the heat of the stadium lights on your face as you scan for the empty seat Yamaguchi had promised. Your stomach twists when you see it—a perfect spot, right next to where the players are already gathering.

You take a deep breath and sit down, trying to calm your racing heart. Yamaguchi waves at you from the court, his usual friendly smile plastered across his face. You wave back awkwardly, feeling a little out of place but also secretly excited. You can’t remember the last time you did something spontaneous like this, and as the game is about to start, you can feel the excitement building in the air around you. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

The gym grows louder, students chanting and clapping, their energy infectious. As the game progresses, you find yourself fully immersed in it. The players move across the court with a fluidity and grace that you can’t help but admire, and every time Yamaguchi’s name is called, you cheer louder than you expected.

But every time your eyes wander across the court, they keep finding him—Tsukishima. You don’t even mean to look at him, but it feels impossible not to. He’s just there, always in the corner of your vision, his sharp focus making him seem untouchable. His tall figure commands attention, the way he’s so utterly concentrated on the game almost mesmerizing.

At one point, during a timeout, you catch him glancing toward the stands—toward you. For a split second, your eyes meet, and your heart skips a beat. It’s so brief, you’re not sure if it even really happened. Maybe you’re just imagining things, but the feeling stays with you.

You try to shake it off and return your focus to the game, but it’s hard to keep your eyes from drifting back to him. You find yourself watching his movements, the way he adjusts his glasses with a flick of his hand, the focused way his brows knit together when he’s strategizing. There’s something magnetic about him—something that makes your heart flutter despite your attempts to stay calm.

Then, when the game is heating up, he calls out to his teammates, his voice firm and commanding. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you realize you’ve been holding your breath. You quickly exhale, shaking your head at yourself. It’s just Tsukishima. You’ve been around him before, so why is he making you so nervous now?

As the game continues, your eyes keep darting to him—almost unconsciously—as if you’re searching for some sort of acknowledgment. And when his team makes a crucial block, you can’t help but cheer for him too. You clap along with the crowd, but the butterflies in your stomach are there for an entirely different reason.

As the game nears its end and the score tightens, the tension in the gym grows. You grip the edge of your seat, your focus divided between the game and Tsukishima, who’s still laser-focused on the court. Every now and then, he glances at the stands again, and though he never lets his gaze linger on you for long, each fleeting look sends your heart racing.

And then, in one final, climactic play, the ball soars over the net, and Tsukishima jumps—higher than you’ve ever seen him—his hand slamming down in perfect sync with his team’s attack. The gym explodes in cheers as the point is won, sealing the victory. You’re on your feet, clapping and cheering along with everyone else, but all you can think about is how incredible he looked in that moment—so strong, so confident. Your pulse is pounding, and you can’t tell if it’s from the excitement of the game or something else entirely.

When the match ends and the crowd begins to disperse, you feel a mix of relief and lingering anticipation. You made it through the game without being caught, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself have fun without worrying about school or your mom’s expectations.

As you start to gather your things, you feel a presence next to you. You glance up and there he is—Tsukishima. He’s standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, his tall frame casting a slight shadow over you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and calm, but there’s a subtle edge to it that makes your heart jump again.

“Hey,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

His gaze flickers toward the crowd, and then back to you. “You’re still here,” he says, as if he hadn’t expected you to stay until the end.

“Of course,” you say, feeling a little flustered. “Yamaguchi invited me.”

Tsukishima nods, his expression unreadable as always. “You didn’t have class?”

Your stomach twists, the lie you’ve been trying to avoid suddenly hanging between you. “Uh… no. I mean, yes. But I skipped it,” you admit, feeling your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of something like amusement crossing his features. “You skipped class to watch volleyball?”

“Yamaguchi invited me,” you repeat defensively, but even you can hear how weak the excuse sounds.

Tsukishima huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You feel your face heat up even more, but there’s a strange thrill in his teasing. It’s not cruel, like it sometimes feels when he scolds you in class. This time, it feels almost… warm.

Before you can respond, Yamaguchi jogs over, grinning widely. “Hey! Thanks for coming!” he says, his eyes bright with excitement. “I’m so glad you got to see the game.”

You smile back, grateful for the distraction. “It was great! You guys were amazing. Good game,” you said awkwardly, not sure what else to say.

Tsukishima raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Thanks.”

Yamaguchi chuckled. “Look at him, trying to act all cool. He’s just happy to see you. Tsukki always plays better when someone important is watching,” Yamaguchi teased beside you, his tone playful.

Tsukishima shot Yamaguchi a look but didn’t deny it. Instead, he turned back to you, adjusting his glasses. “I’m glad you came.”

The simple statement sent a flutter through your chest, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a sense of ease. Maybe things weren’t perfect—maybe you were still struggling with your classes and the pressures that weighed on you—but in this moment, standing here with Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, you realized that you didn’t have to face it all alone. Small moments like this, small escapes from the overwhelming routine, were what made it all bearable.

The rest of the day is a blur, but you carry the memory of the game—and those fleeting moments with Tsukishima—long after you leave the gym. His teasing words, the way his eyes lingered on you for just a second longer than necessary—it all leaves you feeling strangely giddy, like something has shifted between you. You don’t know what it means yet, but the thought of it makes your heart beat just a little faster.

The excitement from the game lingers with you as you walk back to your dormitory. You should feel relieved, maybe even a little triumphant for sneaking out of winter class without getting caught. But as you step through the threshold of your room, that familiar heaviness settles back over your chest. The contrast between the energy of the gym and the quiet stillness of your dorm is jarring, almost suffocating.

You close the door behind you and drop your bag on the floor, collapsing onto your bed with a heavy sigh. The reality of what you’ve done sinks in—you’ve skipped class. Skipped winter class. The one your mom keeps reminding you about, the one she’s certain will help you "catch up" with your more advanced classmates. You’re supposed to be there, making up for all the time you’ve "wasted," proving you can handle the challenge.

Instead, you spent the afternoon at a volleyball game.

You glance at your phone, half-expecting an angry message from your mom, berating you for skipping class, but there’s nothing. You turned off your location, after all, so she can’t possibly know. But that doesn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at your insides, twisting and turning in your stomach until you feel almost sick.

Your phone pings with a new notification. It’s from your class group chat—students exchanging notes and summaries of the lecture you missed. You scan through the messages, but every word feels like a weight pressing down on your chest. All your classmates seem so prepared, so eager to prove themselves. Some of them were in the lecture hall an hour before class even started, peppering the professor with questions as if they were experts themselves. Meanwhile, you’ve barely had the energy to keep up with the material, even though you’ve been reviewing it diligently every night.

You should be like them, you think. You should be more proactive, more engaged. Instead, you’ve been struggling just to stay awake, constantly exhausted, your mind barely able to process anything outside of the textbooks in front of you. It’s as if your body is stuck in a cycle—study until you can’t anymore, collapse into bed, and wake up only when your alarm blares to remind you to take your vitamins and ginseng tonic. Your mom’s incessant control over your meals only adds to the stress, with daily reminders that she’s still keeping tabs on your health, convinced you’re not doing enough to take care of yourself.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe you’re not doing enough. But the truth is, you’re just so tired—tired of constantly running on this treadmill, never feeling like you’re getting anywhere. You feel stuck in place, your efforts swallowed up by the endless grind of study, sleep, repeat.

A text comes through from your mom, just as you feared: “Don’t forget to eat the chicken soup I sent over. It should be there by now. And make sure you drink the herbal tonic after—there’s no sugar in it, just like you asked.”

You groan inwardly. Even when you’re not thinking about school, your mom’s constant reminders feel like another layer of pressure. It’s like she doesn’t trust you to manage your own life, and as much as you appreciate her concern, it’s starting to suffocate you. You look over at the brown bag by the door—the delivery she’s had sent to your dorm—and you realize you’ve lost your appetite completely.

You collapse back into bed, letting your body sink into the mattress. You want to sleep. More than anything, you want to shut out the world and just… rest. But your mind won’t let you. It keeps spinning, the guilt of skipping class, the fear of falling behind, and the constant pressure from your mom all swirling around in your head until you can hardly breathe.

And then there’s Tsukishima.

The game flashes in your mind again—his quick glances during the match, the way he teased you afterward, the tension between you when he stood so close. You feel your heart flutter, even as you try to push the thoughts away. You can’t afford to be distracted by him, not when you’re already struggling to keep up with your coursework. But no matter how hard you try to focus, his image keeps creeping back in—his sharp gaze, his calm, steady voice. It’s maddening.

Another buzz from your phone pulls you from your thoughts, but this time it’s not from your mom or your classmates.

It’s Tsukishima.

Your heart skips a beat as you stare at the notification.

Did you make it back to your dorm?

You blink at the screen. It's a simple text, nothing special, but the fact that he’s checking in on you sends a warm feeling spreading through your chest. You feel your fingers twitch, hesitating for a moment before you type out a response.

Yeah, just got back. You?

There’s a long pause. You watch the three little dots as he types and deletes a few times, and you start to wonder if maybe you’ve said something wrong. But then his message finally comes through.

Still at the gym. Going to grab something to eat.

You smile, picturing him somewhere near the gym, maybe wiping off sweat or grabbing his things, looking as serious and unruffled as ever. Before you can overthink it, you send another message.

Don’t forget to eat your veggies —you joke, hoping it will lighten the mood.

You wait for a response, and when it comes, it’s as dry as you expect.

Noted.

A small laugh escapes you. You can almost hear the sarcasm in his voice, the subtle amusement lurking beneath his stoic exterior. You set your phone down, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

But even with Tsukishima’s brief distraction, the reality of your situation remains. You still have winter class tomorrow, and the fear of falling behind looms large over you. The holiday break that should have been a time of relaxation has become nothing but stress, pressure, and endless responsibilities. You’ve been trying so hard to keep up, but it’s clear you’re just not moving at the same pace as your classmates. They’re racing ahead while you feel like you’re stuck in quicksand, every step forward dragging you deeper into the struggle.

And then there’s the question you’ve been avoiding: what if you’re not cut out for this? What if no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to catch up? The idea terrifies you, but you can’t shake it. The doubt clings to you like a shadow, darkening every corner of your mind.

As the hours tick by, you find yourself caught between two worlds—the world of responsibility and expectation, and the world of escape, where Tsukishima’s texts linger in your thoughts, a small, comforting reminder that not everything in your life is about pressure and stress.

You rolled over in bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin. All you wanted was to sleep. To shut out the world and forget about winter class, forget about your mom, forget about everything except the warmth of your bed and the lingering memory of Tsukishima’s text.

But your mind wouldn’t let you rest. It kept spinning, the weight of your responsibilities pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe. You couldn’t afford to be distracted, not by Tsukishima, not by the game, not by anything.

Yet, despite your best efforts, his face kept creeping back into your thoughts. The way he’d glanced at you during the game, the teasing smirk he’d given you afterward. It was enough to make your heart race, enough to make you question why you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Your phone buzzed again, and for a moment, you panicked, thinking it was your mom. But when you glanced at the screen, you saw it was another message from Tsukishima.

Get some rest. You look exhausted.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at the message, your mind racing. He’d noticed. He’d actually noticed how tired you were, how worn out you felt. It wasn’t much—just a simple observation—but it meant more to you than you wanted to admit.

You typed out a quick response, your fingers trembling slightly.

I will. You too.

His reply came almost immediately.

Sure.

You smiled to yourself, the tension in your chest easing just a little. For a brief moment, everything felt… okay. The stress of winter class, the pressure from your mom, the fear of falling behind—it all seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the warmth of Tsukishima’s words.

And for now, this moment is enough.

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

110 notes · View notes

rimunagenius · 7 months ago

Text

(HC) Post Draft!Kate Martin

NSFW!!

You had no idea they were calling Kate’s name

you had hoped but when it happened you honestly couldn’t breathe

“With the 18th pick in the 2024 WNBA Draft, The Las Vegas Aces select, Kate Martin.” Tears.

Immediately had tears running down your face, hugging Kate.

Her grip on you tight but quick, her anxious to get through hugging everyone there supporting her, and to get up on the stage and accept the honor and reward that came with her hard work.

You recording her interview, crying with Jada, and Gabbie.

At the after party, taking pictures and celebrating, Kate was drunk on her happiness and high of being drafted, and the alcohol, that she wouldn’t stop touching you

holding your hand, rubbing her hand up and down your thigh, “i love you’s” leaving her mouth like a flowing river

it was like this for hours until you both decided to call it a night

you were so happy and equally as drunk, you sang her praises and welcomed the touch happily

“I’m so proud of you, baby” you whispered in her ear, unbelievably close to Kate

“Yeah? Wanna show me?” You placed you hand on her cheek, smiling.

Staring into her eyes

“I think i’m gonna call it a night, Kate?” You had to turned to Caitlin and your friends, and then asking Kate if she had been ready to go

“Yeah, i have interviews and pods tomorrow. Congrats Cait, i’m so proud of you, i love you guys.”

your goodbye along the same lines and the second you and Kate got into the uber it was game over

the poor uber driver watching two women make out like there was no tomorrow oh how i would’ve loved to be a fly on the wall :(

stumbling through the door of your hotel room, you and Kate had literally been eating eachothers faces that’s a gross description but trust…that’s what it looked like

“Oh, my god. You looked so hot holding that jersey, baby.” You whispered as you kissed down Kate’s neck, your thighs squeezing together at the thought

“m so proud of you.” you were already sliding her blazer off, kicking your shoes off and her doing the same

“yeah?” she sighed as she grabbed your face and kissed you, walking you back towards the bed

“mhm. my pretty girl.” you knew Kate had a thing for praise

lived for it. she wouldn’t admit it but god did she love when you told her how good she was doing and how pretty she looked doing it

her face turned a bright shade of red, igniting a hunger in her to please

and boy did she please

“your turn.” you flipped you guys over…you on top

Kate is def a bottom…changed my mind…you can’t! HA!

“I wasn’t don—“ You cut Kate off with a kiss

“What? You think my hot girlfriend is gonna be the only one giving the action? As much as I loved what you do with your hands, baby….you love what I do with my mouth..” You trailed kisses down her body, almost at your dream destination

“Oh, is that so?” She giggled, attempting to grab at your bare hips.

“Yeah it is. Want me to bring up last night when you cried?” your lips pressing soft kisses to her thighs

Her face turned pink, and her breath hitched. How could she forget the tears you brought to her face from the multiple orgasms?

You both were going at it all night. and i mean alllll nightttttt.

“Oh, my god. That was—“ You rolled into her side, your head resting on her chest.

“Yeah. It was.” Her arm pulling you closer.

“Holy shit. Is that daylight?” You looked across from you both, the blinds cracked.

“I think it is, sunshine.” Kate and you laughed but damn near cried at how you were going to get little to no sleep….damn her looking so hot while getting drafted

didn’t want to go too far into detail bc that’ll be spoiling a little part of my Kate Martin series ;)))

349 notes · View notes

illdowhatiwantthanks · 3 months ago

Text

Home Again

Does anyone even read Hunger Games fanfics anymore?? I don't know, and I don't really care! I recently reread the series to get out of a reading slump, and now I'm hyperfixating again so... you guys get this which will probably turn into a multipart series because I FEEL LIKE IT, OKAY? Tl;dr: I'll do what I want.

Johanna Mason x fem!reader Warnings: Massive HUGE warnings for violence, blood, murder, etc., but also an especially HUGE warning for sexual assault, trauma in general, explicit language (let me know if I've missed anything) Word count: 2.5k

Summary: You're freshly home from winning the 73rd Hunger Games, and all you really want is for things to go back to normal for you and your brother. But now you're in the Victor's Village. And now Johanna Mason, who won the year before you, is your neighbor.

It’s not that you didn’t like the house in the Victor’s Village. It was objectively better than the cabin you and Leevee had lived in before. But at the cabin, you’d had neighbors. People who knew you, who looked after you and Leevee after the fever took your parents, even though you insisted you work in exchange for every loaf of bread, every mended pair of pants.

You took care of him as best you could, after your parents died. You dropped out of school and went to work in the lumber yards. Leevee went to school, of course, but his teachers didn’t teach him much of anything. There was something different about him, a bit off. Always had been, since he was born. The people in Seven called him slow, and maybe he was in some ways, but he was also kind and bighearted and quick to laugh and full of joy–traits hard-pressed to come by in a place like this. So everyone took to him and everyone looked out for him. They had a name for his affliction in the Capitol. But you didn’t like them naming something wrong with Leevee, as if what made him different was all there was to him. So you paid it no mind. To you, he was just your Leevee. Perfect just like he was.

It was hard to believe it'd only been three weeks since the Reaping. When your name had been called, you kept your eyes lasered in on the branches of a pine tree in the distance. You could hear Leevee calling your name from the crowd, confused about why you were on stage, and your heart felt like it was being pulled apart. But you would not cry. You wouldn’t let these Capitol people see you cry. It was not for them to see.

Your neighbor, Otta, a widow, had brought Leevee to see you before you had to leave. Only then did you let yourself cry and, even then, he hadn’t understood. He’d taken his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to your face, and you told him to listen to Otta and the neighbors. That you were going away and you might not be back for a while, but that you loved him very much. Listen to Otta, you said. Keep those listening ears on, young man. And then he was gone. Or, rather, you were.

Before the Games, you hadn’t fancied your chances at winning. Sure, you were strong and, at eighteen, one of the oldest tributes. But you were very small, barely five feet tall, lithe and wiry. You could handle a saw and an ax fairly well from your time in the lumber yard, but you couldn’t imagine sawing through someone. You couldn’t imagine killing someone at all. Even worse was the thought of Leevee watching you kill someone or watching you die. You hoped Otta would cover his eyes.

The arena was the only thing in your favor during the 73rd Hunger Games. A coastal ecosystem. Not rainforest, like parts of Seven, but tall, spindly pines that bent in the wind. It wasn’t exactly like home, but you were nothing if not comfortable around trees. Your saving grace in the Games turned out to be your size. The trees were impossible but all for the smallest of the tributes–you and the youngest–to climb. The first night you spent in one of those pines, you thought you might crash to your death from all the swaying, but once you acclimated, it was like the tree was rocking you. It would have been nice if not for the cannons in the air, if not for the constant terror.

You managed to find plants to eat, to catch fish in the small river that trickled into the artificial ocean. Your Games lasted six days, and you spent most of it in the trees.

That last night… You knew you’d have to kill him. The Career from One. But he was so big–a full foot and a half taller than you and stocky to boot–and vicious. You didn’t even have a real weapon, just some river rocks and a bit of your shirt you’d been using as a sling. But One–you didn’t even like to hear his name now, didn’t like to remember it–he’d found the superior weapon. You’d woken up to your tree shaking, to the tell-tale crackling and groaning of a trunk in distress. One had an ax, and the trees here were so spindly, it’d be a matter of minutes before it toppled, especially with your weight at the top. You tried to scramble down far enough that when the tree fell, you wouldn’t die from it, but you still had a long way to go when the trunk cracked.

It was the landing that did you in. You hit the ground so hard it knocked your breath out. Knocked your brain pretty good, too, based on how blurry everything was afterward. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe for a few seconds, and that few seconds was all One needed. He was on top of you, and the weight of him made it even harder to catch your breath. You were faintly aware of your body fighting back, but it was like fighting back against a mountain. You screamed when he stabbed long hunting knives into either of your forearms, all the way through, pinning you to the ground, and almost passed out from the pain. This was it. This was how you'd die. You’d like to say you thought of Leevee, but all you thought of was how scared you were.

But… he wasn’t killing you. He wasn’t getting another weapon. He was… undressing? And suddenly you remembered that there were things worse than death. You screamed and screamed until your throat gave out. You didn’t care who saw you cry now, couldn’t have stopped the tears if you’d wanted to. People didn’t do this in the Games. They murdered each other. They hurt each other. They tore one another to bits. But they didn’t do this. Surely, the Capitol wouldn’t let this happen, wouldn’t let this air on TV. There was a line, surely. But as soon as you thought it, the hope left your body deflated and empty except for the man–the boy, mere months older than you–grunting above you. There was no line. Not where the Capitol was involved.

But somewhere in your pain-addled brain, you realized that he was… occupied, which meant he wasn’t keeping a close enough eye on his weapons. You screamed as you wrenched one of your arms out of the ground and pulled the knife from your other wrist. There was a moment, right at the last second, where he looked up and understood what you were doing, but it was too late by then. The last thing you remembered from the arena was plunging the knife into his neck.

When they made you watch the replay of your “victory,” you’d hardly recognized yourself. Covered in blood, lips curled up in a snarl, as if you were an animal. You hadn’t stopped at his neck. You’d stabbed him over and over and over. You’d stabbed his genitals so many times there was nothing left but a mangled, bloody mess. And then you’d passed out.

And, to be frank, you could never bring yourself to feel any remorse over it. For the others you’d killed, the ones who’d happened by your perch over the river, and died quickly from a stone to the temple–you felt awful. It tore you apart. But One? For what he had done to you, he deserved every moment of his gruesome, painful death.

Now that you were back in Seven, back with Leevee, and moved into the Victor’s Village, you knew that it would never be the same. Not with the people that knew you before. Everyone looked at you like a wounded animal, like someone to be pitied. The assault had traumatized the entire nation. Even the Capitol viewers had so disliked the “assault narrative,” that the Games Committee had put forth a blanket statement that, in the future, sexual violence would be met with a swift and immediate death. One of your old neighbors told you that you should feel proud that you made a difference in the future games, protecting future tributes. You’d gone home and vomited, as you did every night after you woke up screaming, sweating, feeling the weight of One on top of you.

Your solace these days was Leevee. You were struggling to get used to the isolation of the Victor’s Village, even though your tendency now was to isolate yourself anyway. He was so happy to have you back. He didn’t really understand where you’d gone. Otta and the others had told him you were “camping,” and that’s where you were when he saw you on the screens.

You didn’t need to work in the lumber yard anymore, so you spent long days with Leevee. Now that you had time, you were teaching him things that the instructors at school didn’t bother with, like how to read. And you’d left school so early to take care of him that you had learning to do, too. There wasn’t much of a library to speak of, in Seven, but oddly enough your house at the Victor’s Village had come stocked with books, and you were making your way through all of them.

Your favorite part of the day was your afternoon walk with Leevee. Long and leisurely. You spent a lot of time at the fountain in the center of the Victor’s houses. You gave him stones to throw in and fished them out, barefoot in the water. You had the fountain and the Village pretty much to yourself. Just Blight, who kept to himself, and Johanna, who’d won two years ago. You had known Johanna a little, at school, but you'd never spoken much, just in passing. You’d dropped out so early, there hadn’t been much time for friends.

Johanna seemed to have built some kind of improvised woodshop outside of her house, and she was out there quite a bit, but you never approached her. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who took kindly to strangers, especially since her Games, two years before yours. She’d been belligerent and hostile in the Capitol and, in retaliation, they’d killed her family. Officially, of course, they’d died of the fever. Unofficially, Snow’s roses, left on each of their deathbeds for Johanna to find when she’d returned from a day in the forest, were warning enough.

But you noticed her watching you on your walks with Leevee, when you played with him at the fountain. Felt her eyes on you and tried to ignore them. They were like everyone else’s–full of pity. And you were so tired of being pitied. Yes, it had been awful. Yes, there were nights that you jerked awake and wished One had just killed you instead of leaving you like this. But then who would Leevee have? He needed you.

One day, when you and Leevee walked past Johanna's house on the way to the fountain, you found her sitting on her porch steps, staring as usual. Her eyes were hard and direct, and you found it hard to meet them. You were tired of this. So tired.

“Leevee, go ahead to the fountain, young man. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Leevee happily ran ahead, and you whipped your head around to face Johanna, pulling yourself into as imposing a figure as you could manage in your tiny frame. Which, given that you had stabbed a man to death, was maybe more than you could hope for otherwise.

You glared at her, finally meeting her cool eyes. “Stop looking at me like that,” you spat, your voice steady and sharp.

Johanna looked almost… amused? She stood and walked toward you, smirking. “Like what, half-pint?”

You hadn’t really expected her to engage with you at all, and you were losing confidence quickly. Johanna was taller than you, more confident than you, cooler than you, tougher than you, prettier than you. You stopped yourself. Prettier? Who cares about prettier?!

“Like you feel sorry for me! Look at me like an animal or a fucking murderer, I don’t care. Just…” You deflated slightly, shifting your eyes to the ground. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Johanna was quiet for a moment, as if she was sizing you up. You wished you could tell what she was thinking. You wanted Johanna to like you or at least tolerate you but, then, did Johanna actually like anybody?

“Okay,” she said and shrugged. You couldn’t quite believe it. Would it really be that easy? “I’ll look at you like you are.”

“Like I am?”

“Mmhm.”

You waited for her to elaborate, but she never did, instead turning and walking back toward her porch. You shook your head and went to meet Leevee by the fountain. You hoped you hadn’t fucked it up. Was this Johanna’s version of friendly? You weren’t really sure. You got the feeling you’d know if she didn’t like you.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You stopped and looked behind you to find Johanna trotting up, holding something in her hands. She handed you the object–a small sailboat carved out of wood. You looked at the boat–so smooth, so beautifully crafted–and then at Johanna, confused.

“For your brother,” she explained. “To use in the fountain. It’s made of cedar, so it’ll float.”

You were stunned speechless, watching Johanna, who kept her eyes on some fixed point in the distance and wrung her hands as if she were… nervous? Johanna, nervous? And suddenly, she didn’t seem so intimidating to you, this girl who’d orchestrated a bloodbath to win the Games. Who’d been so filled with rage and hurt by the part she’d been forced to play, only to have everyone she loved taken from her. She wasn’t scary at all, you realized. Not really. She was like you. She was a scared, angry girl who’d done what she had to do to survive.

“Anyway,” she said, eager for the moment to end. “See you never, shortstuff.” She hurried back toward her house, but you yelled after her.

“Hey, Johanna! You could go on a walk with us sometime. You know, if you wanted.”

“Why would I want to hang out with you!?” she called without turning back.

You grinned. So Johanna might take a little work. That was okay. You had time. You had nothing but time now.

You approached Leevee, who was finding nearby sticks to throw in the fountain.

“Hey, young man,” you said, beckoning him over. “Look at this! Johanna made it for you!”

And, oh, you wished she could have seen his eyes light up. You had a hunch that she was still watching, from her window or her woodshop or wherever she’d planted herself. Leevee could melt anyone’s heart, even yours. Maybe even hers.

#the hunger games #johanna mason #johanna mason x reader #johanna mason x fem!reader #johanna mason fanfic #the hunger games fanfic

75 notes · View notes

drfleetflower · 27 days ago

Text

Mislaid Conviction

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Reader

Summary: You're recovering from the Capitol torture in District 13. The only person left to comfort you is Haymitch, which brings up weird feelings you're not able to face yet.

Warnings: Angst, light fluff, mentions of torture, mentions of alcohol/drinking, mentions of medical drugs, self-deprecation, mentions of therapy

This will be a series!

WC: 2.2k

As a victor who was reaped in the 75th Hunger Games and part of the rebellion, the odds were the furthest from in your favor. You weren’t rescued from the arena. Nor were you rescued from the six weeks of torture. But now you were rescued. After the damage had already been done.

Sure, you knew that the goal was never you. Katniss Everdeen was the face of the rebellion and at least you made it out of the arena, right? Many hadn’t. So that was something to be grateful for; your life. Your life was something to be grateful for.

Did it hurt that the only man- only person that you trusted had left you to die in the Capitol hands? That was what the shrink they assigned to you should have asked. He asked how you felt about not being rescued the day Katniss blew open the arena’s sky. So you answered vaguely about District 13’s need for Katniss in these and those trying times. But the answer to the real question? Yeah. Yeah, it hurt like hell. But you wouldn’t be able to tell the deep need for repair of the relationship with the way Haymitch walked so casually into your hospital room.

His eyes scanned your face, searching for clues to your well-being. "How's the pain, sweetheart?" he asked softly. Softly. Was he pitying you? The thought made your blood boil.

“Painful.” You said quite ambiguously.

He clearly didn’t appreciate the answer but didn’t make an effort to press, instead looking around the silent, white room. "How about sleep?"

You sighed, but decided to answer the question. "I can only get it with whatever drugs they give me. And usually the nightmares still wake me up anyway."

A deep line formed between his brow. "Have you talked to anyone about them?"

You didn’t even really want to talk in general, your throat sore from screaming, but especially not to a stranger who thinks they can fix you. Hell, you didn’t want to talk to Haymitch. Why were you? “They gave me a therapist but I haven’t said a word to him.”

“Why not?” Haymitch asked, but he clearly didn’t look surprised.

You shrugged. “I don’t trust him.” Did you trust Haymitch anymore though?

He seemed to mull over this for a moment. “I guess I can understand that. But… don’t you think talking it out might help?” It sounded forced.

You looked at him like he was insane for suggesting the idea, immediately thinking how hypocritical that was. But you find yourself answering the question earnestly instead of throwing it back in his face. “I don’t know… I get- I just don’t like to think about it.” How did he always seem to weasel some emotion out of you? You’re supposed to be mad at him right now. You’re supposed to hate him right now. Yet, here you are, answering his questions and wondering why he’s asking them in the first place since it’s so unlike him.

"Can't say I blame you, sweetheart," he admitted quietly, "but at some point you have to face it."

You looked down, not answering. To which he studied your face for a moment before speaking again. "Do you have anybody outside of me to talk to? Friends, family?"

“You know I don’t.” You said, harsher than you intended, but Haymitch didn’t strike back.

He just exhaled quietly. "Yeah, I just thought I'd check." His eyes flicked around the bland hospital room, as if searching for some help.

“It’s just you.” It hurt to say. Because it was true. There was no one else for you except Haymitch and so hating him… Where did that get you? Alone, that’s what.

Haymitch's expression softened a bit more and he looked sad. "Well, I'll be here as long as you need me."

Who was this man? Sure he had helped you survive the Hunger Games and navigate being a victor afterwards but never had he been so emotional about it. So forthcoming with care and understanding. He always preferred to grunt anytime you said a sweet thing (which wasn’t often but still), or drown in a bottle instead of having a serious conversation about his past. Oh, that was part of it for sure. They definitely weren’t giving him alcohol here. You looked him over, you had seen him sober-ish before but this was different. You realized he looked… Awful.

And despite the twinge of sympathy, you figured you might as well say as much. “You look like shit, by the way.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. You expected some good ol’ banter, ‘you don’t look too hot yourself, sweetheart’, you missed that. Instead, “Thanks.”

You frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

He looked up at you, someone else might not be able to, but you could tell he was at the very least; annoyed. “What?” The word was slightly snippy.

"Is it because I’m in the hospital?"

He became more impatient. "What?'"

“You’re not- I don’t know, you.” You tried to explain, your brows furrowed with your own frustration. “It’s weird. You’re so.. docile.” You continue, maybe in order to get a rise out of him.

Haymitch crossed his arms in protest. "Okay, hold on. Don't get used to this, got it? It's only because you need me to be nice to you."

"Yeah, I might just break if you speak too loudly?" You snarked.

"Yeah, pretty much." He snapped back.

"There we go.” You smirked in a way you knew irritated him, finally having gotten something normal out of him.

He still looked annoyed for a moment before he just chuckled and shook his head, giving up the facade. "Alright, well, just so you know… I intend to return to my usual self once you get all patched up."

“I doubt it.” You sighed, folding your hands on your lap.

Haymitch's brows shot up in surprise at another unexpected admission from you. "Oh yeah?" He asked. "You think I've softened?"

You giggled. "Definitely. You're a big softie now."

"A big softie?" Haymitch shook his head earnestly. "You're crazy. I'm still as angry and bitter as I ever was. I’m like this now because...well..." he trailed off, seemingly unable to finish the thought.

"Because... They took away your alcohol?" You brought up.

Haymitch grunted in annoyance which made you smile. "Yeah, I suppose that could have something to do with it," he muttered, still not willing to admit that was the only reason for his newfound care. But you assumed it was. That, and maybe a hint of guilt for leaving you to die.

You decided to play in idle chit chat. "How are you doing with that transition?"

Haymitch scowled at your question. "It's not been easy," he admitted. "The first long bit, I was the meanest I’ve probably ever been. Good thing you weren’t around, you would've loved that.” You tried to keep from scrunching your nose at that comment. Good thing you were being tortured in the Capitol? He continued, “Not gonna lie, I've thought about breaking the rules a few times, but I've refrained because I don't wanna screw up getting you out of here...or getting myself in trouble."

Your bitterness was quickly thrown out the window for the opportunity to mess with him. Some might call it flirting, but flirting with Haymitch didn’t sound right. It was just harmless… Something-ing. "Awww, you quit for me?" You bat your eyelashes, acting overly affectionate. And when he rolled his eyes, you laughed, bringing on a coughing fit.

Haymitch's expression shifted to concern as he heard you cough, "Hey, you alright?" He asked, his tone now serious.

You swallowed thickly. “Define ‘alright.’”

He frowned and you continued to cough, throwing up your hands in exhaustion. "I just want to be out of this place." You groaned. "I'm useless and ugly, I'm all stitched up and bruised, broken." And there you went again, telling him things you wouldn’t anyone else. Letting him see inside your messed up brain because surely he can help? You trusted him to help, not anyone else. No matter how much you desperately try to tell yourself you hate him now. n

Haymitch sighed, his expression reflecting a mix of sadness and understanding. "Look, I know you're in a tough spot right now, but... this is temporary. You’ll be back into action in… Well, at some point." He tried, not actually sure what your recovery time is.

“I just feel… gross.” You continued to complain anyway.

Haymitch's frown deepened at your frustrated admission. "Gross?" He asked, genuine concern making way for a bit of humor. "What, because of how you look? Cause I hate to be the bearer of bad news, sweetheart, but you don’t look much different.”

A small part of you wanted to at least give him a smile in appreciation of his attempt at cheering you up, but you didn’t. Instead, you chose to wallow even more in self pity. So, he sighed and went back to seriousness. "Listen, you're not gross just because you've gone through something painful. Healing takes time. You're still..." He trailed off, hesitating before continuing. "...you're still as attractive as ever."

You rolled your eyes, hoping the way your face heated up didn’t show. And why did your face heat up anyway? Sure, you’d gotten flustered around him before but not because he had said something like that. Such a clear compliment, not a drunken observation. The delivery made a shiver go down your spine.

But if he noticed the tint to your cheeks he didn’t comment on it. He just chuckled at your eye roll. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. You're not interested in compliments or reassurances?" he grumbled. "You'd much rather have me back to my bitter old self, snapping at you and calling you stupid."

You firmly shook your head. "No... I like the new Haymitch." Then silence. Then staring. Then more color to your cheeks. Then you coughed again. He handed you a glass of water and you took a sip once you could.

He silently watched you as you took sip after sip, trying to calm your throat. And then, because today was apparently all about emotions, he sighed. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

You felt more pressure on your throat, an involuntary spasm maybe, that made it impossible to say anything that wasn’t sarcastic. "See? I told you I was all gross and ugly."

Haymitch's expression darkened at that statement. "Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," he said firmly, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're not gross or ugly, got it? You're injured and healing. That doesn't diminish your worth or your attractiveness."

“So I’m just stupid then, huh?” You tried to keep the smile off your face.

He didn’t try. “Yeah, just stupid.” His eyes fell down and he took in a breath. “Now, don’t go actually believing that, okay sweetheart?”

"Well, if I wasn't stupid, I would've been able to get out of the arena too."

Haymitch sighed, clearly frustrated with your flip-flopping emotions. He shook his head emphatically, his expression a mix of irritation and sadness. "No, don't go there," he said firmly. "None of it was your fault. You didn't choose to be in the arena. You didn't choose to get hurt. Blaming yourself for things that are out of your control is just a waste of energy."

"It wasn't out of my control. If I had paid better attention to what was happening, you could've gotten me out too." You insisted.

“That’s not true. You did the best you could. And, hey, you’re still here. That’s something.” He sounded as if he was now trying to convince himself, his hand gripping the arm of his chair tightly.

You scoffed. "What? So at least I'm not dead? Trust me, there were times when I wished they'd be so kind as to kill me."

Haymitch’s frown deepened at your dark admission. “Don’t-” He sighs. “What happened in there?”

You tilted your head at the question before shaking it, your mouth shut and your gaze away from him.

He abandoned the question quickly, like flicking a switch. “Don’t go there, alright? There are people who care about you.. Who would miss you if you were gone.”

You looked at him and raised a brow, waiting for him to continue but he just stared back at you, making no effort to. So, you held his gaze and now there was a challenge there. You two were unblinking and you wondered who would break first. But you didn’t wonder for long as Haymitch looked away after a surprisingly short time.

You tried to catch his eyes again, smirking. “Come on. Say it.” You said.

"Say what?" He asked, feigning ignorance, knowing precisely what you were insinuating.

"I dare you..." You replied in a sing-song voice.

Haymitch chuckled at your eager expression, his eyes locked onto yours once again. "Alright, alright," he said, an amused glint in his eyes. "You want me to say it? I will..." He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intense as he spoke. "I...care about you. You, you stubborn, pain in the ass girl."

You chuckled at his admission. Of course there would be a little insult to act as a barrier. But there it was, so you returned it against your better judgment. "I care about you too. You cranky old man."

#fanfic #fanfiction #x you #x yn #x y/n #x reader #hunger games #thg #thg series #the hunger games #haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy fanfiction #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch abernathy x y/n #hunger games x reader

46 notes · View notes

cinnamongorll · 5 months ago

Text

a fragile line - chapter 35

read on ao3! (166k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Series tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse, eventual smut.

Series synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Word count: 9.2k

Ethan’s POV:

The night of the dance

The scream rang through the hall, halting the music and momentarily stopping the hearts of every one of Jackson’s residents.

Juliet was out of her seat before Ethan realised what had happened.

He turned to Charlotte, matching her wide eye stare with his own and they quickly stood, following the direction of the scream. Ethan went first, pushing through the crowd, his fingers latched around Charlotte’s hand as she stumbled behind him.

Through the crowd, Ethan saw flashes of Juliet’s red dress as she staggered to a stop only a few feet away from the source of all the morbid excitement.

“It’s Matt, he’s hurt!” Ethan turned and shouted to Charlotte once he realised, raising his voice over the chatter and gasps around him.

When he turned back, Ethan watched as Juliet’s head shot up in the direction of the mess hall’s back door and he followed her gaze, just managing to catch the sight of Tommy pushing Joel out into the cold.

He looked down at Matt again and made the connection. Joel’s anger had found another victim.

Ethan tried to push through the crowd again but it was too late, Juliet had taken off in the direction of the door, following Tommy and Joel outside.

He stood paralysed. Follow Juliet or help Matt?

Charlotte made the decision for him, nudging past him until she bent down next to Matt, her skilled fingers reaching for his bloody nose. When she realised that Ethan hadn’t followed, she blinked up at him, gesturing with a tilt of her head to come help.

Ethan looked towards the door and saw Tommy walk back through… surely Tommy wouldn’t leave Joel alone with Juliet if he was going to hurt her?

“Ethan, come on!” Charlotte urged. Everyone at the bar turned to look at him, then moved back to let him past.

Ethan’s eyes darted towards the door one more time and then he sighed, shook his head, and crouched down beside Charlotte, ready to follow her instructions.

A few minutes later, they had managed to determine that Matt’s nose was broken, and through a short conversation, Matt was able to tell them three things: Yes, his nose hurt like a bitch. No, he hadn’t said a damn thing to Joel, and finally, Joel was a dick.

Ethan said nothing to disagree with that last statement.

There wasn’t much they could do for Matt until they got him to the clinic. With their hands gripping his arms, they managed to get him up on a bar stool and Charlotte put a towel under his nose and tilted his head up to stop the blood flow. Charlotte moved on to convincing Matt to come to the clinic but either Matt was too drunk or too hellbent on revenge because he kept refusing and shouting at anyone who could hear him to find Joel.

Ethan began to massage the tension out of his neck as his eyes drifted to the door again.

What if Juliet needed his help?

He tapped Charlotte’s shoulder, pulling her attention away from Matt. “I’m gonna go find Juliet,” he whispered, trying his best not to let Matt hear.

Charlotte’s eyebrows furrowed as she blinked up at him, then slowly she nodded.

“I'll be back in a minute,” he said louder, to both of them, and then he turned and began to stride towards the back door.

As he reached for the handle, the band started back up and the crowd’s cheer masked the screech of the door’s hinges as it opened into the dark, cold night.

Ethan steeled himself as he stepped out into the bitter chill, using the light from the mess hall to walk down the first couple steps and look around, searching through narrow eyes for Joel or Juliet.

It didn’t take him long to notice their figures against the wall across the dark alleyway.

He froze. Were they fighting or…?

Ethan felt the effects of the many drinks he had consumed as he waited in his position in the shadows, listening for any trouble. His surroundings were blurry and he began to feel strange, like he shouldn’t be out here, but he still hadn’t confirmed if Juliet was okay.

Soon, he heard bits and pieces of their conversation and his spine straightened.

“You’re mine,” Joel murmured in his typical dark gravelly tone. His voice was muffled as he leaned his face into Juliet’s neck, and his hands roamed down her dress.

Ethan flinched, taking a step back as the blow hit him.

He looked away as Juliet began to pull him against her, making those soft noises in the back of her throat that he’d only heard once or twice.

Clenching his jaw, Ethan realised he’d seen enough and he headed back up the steps to the door as Joel and Juliet continued to whisper their devotion to each other.

He pried the door open just as a group of drunk farming workers spilled out, singing and cheering. Ethan didn’t look back as he found his way inside.

The hot air hit him and Ethan breathed in a gulp of air.

Juliet was okay. More than okay.

He ran a hand through his air and turned around, unsure where to go, unsure what to do, unsure what emotion he was feeling.

Joel had left Juliet, rejected her, ignored her for months. Ethan was there to pick up the pieces, to run down the hall in the middle of the night when she woke up screaming for him, when she couldn’t face looking at herself in the mirror, when she was terrified to walk past his house.

Ethan was there, and what was Joel doing? Watching her from a distance, reminding her of the hurt, giving her hope then taking it away.

He didn’t know what had happened in the time they spent on the road, but Ethan saw the way Juliet looked at Joel… like he’d hung the moon.

There wasn’t room for him in Juliet’s mind or heart anymore.

Ethan shook his head, clearing those thoughts away. He didn’t care about that anymore, they were friends, great friends. Juliet was the only person in the entire world who knew what it was like to grow up the way they did.

So, no, as Ethan watched Joel and Juliet outside, jealousy wasn’t the emotion he was feeling… It was more like anger.

He was angry at Joel for throwing her away and then, now, for forcing himself back into her life. Juliet was happy without him, she had him and Charlotte and Matt. She had a life now, she didn’t need him anymore.

“You’re mine,” Joel had said to her.

Did Juliet feel the same way? Was this devotion mutual?

“Ethan? You alright?”

He looked up, blinking away the confusion that swirled in his head to find Tommy staring at him with a questioning look.

“Yeah,” Ethan coughed out, running a hand over his forehead, then crossing his arms.

Tommy shifted on his feet, inching towards the door. “Hey, thanks for getting to Matt so quick,” he said, then looked to the side, “I had to -”

“Get Joel out? Yeah I saw,” Ethan revealed, looking down. “It’s Charlotte you should be thanking, though.”

Tommy laughed. “Don’t worry, she’s already taken credit for the rescue,” he reassured Ethan as his smile began to die on his lips.

Ethan didn’t respond, he was too busy processing.

“Anyways,” Tommy cut through the silence, rubbing his hands together as he took a step towards the door. “I gotta go check on my brother.”

Ethan stopped him with a hand on his chest and Tommy’s arm froze on its way to the handle.

“I wouldn’t go out there,” he warned Tommy, then stepped back and began rubbing the back of his neck again in his typical nervous gesture.

Tommy looked alarmed and his eyes narrowed as he looked towards the door. “Why not?” he questioned.

Ethan scratched his neck again. “I think Joel and Juliet have made up.”

Tommy looked confused for a moment, then understanding painted his face and his shoulders dropped.

“Oh,” he breathed, looking away.

“Yeah,” Ethan said, filling the silence. Then he turned towards the bar, squinting to see if Charlotte was still there with Matt. “I’m gonna go see if -”

“I think it was my fault,” Tommy said quietly, cutting Ethan off.

Ethan straightened, frowning as his eyes found Tommy’s and saw the remorse that swam within them.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Tommy raised his head to the ceiling then crossed his arms and gestured towards the door. “I mean I think I was the one who split them apart… no, I - ah know it was me.”

Ethan waited for Tommy to explain himself, too curious now to let it go.

“Before Joel came to town I hadn’t seen him in years and when I left him, things weren’t good,” Tommy started explaining. “We did things to survive, terrible things -” he paused to shake his head. “It was too much for me and I left, but Joel stayed. It was easier for him to separate himself from the things we were doin’.”

Ethan remembered seeing Joel for the first time in Danny’s bar, sitting hunched over the bartop with a glass of whiskey. He remembered thinking he was an easy target. Ethan flinched when the memory of Joel slamming him against the wall came into his head.

He also remembered the fear that poured out of Joel when he realised Juliet was in danger.

“So when he came back here, I - I thought the worst. I looked at him and Juliet and I was terrified for her, I knew what my brother was like, I knew how easily he hurt people,” Tommy paused and met Ethan’s eyes. “I didn’t even give him a chance.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say but he felt the sorrow pouring out of Tommy.

“I can’t say I trust your brother,” Ethan said cautiously, “I can’t even say I like him.”

Tommy coughed out a laugh and raised his eyebrows.

Ethan flexed his hands. “But I was there when he found Juliet,” he said, his voice cracking on the last few words.

Tommy’s eyes flashed to his.

“Joel… Joel saved her when I couldn’t,” Ethan took a deep breath. “He did those terrible, awful things you mentioned but he still saved her… I think he’d do anything for her.”

Tommy nodded solemnly. “He loves her.”

Ethan winced and scratched his neck. Then, reluctantly, he nodded in agreement.

They both stood for a moment and let the words hang between them. Both men accepting that the people they loved might not be who they thought they were… and that was okay.

A bottle smashed by the bar and Ethan and Tommy’s head’s swung towards the sound.

“Shit,” Tommy cursed, then looked at Ethan, “I better go deal with this.”

Ethan’s lips pulled into a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes, then he straightened when he spotted Charlotte with Matt’s arm over her shoulder as she tried to usher him out the main entrance.

“And I better go help Charlotte,” Ethan murmured.

Tommy patted his back as they walked past each other, heading in opposite directions.

Ethan didn’t look back at the door as he walked away. Juliet was with Joel and Ethan knew that he’d protect her from anything this world threw at her.

He just hoped that Juliet knew how to protect herself from Joel.

…………………………..

It was the middle of the night before Ethan stumbled back home.

Joel had done a number on Matt’s face and it took a while to set his nose. Charlotte let Ethan take the lead on this one, but he assumed it was more due to the fact that she was exhausted rather than her assurance of his competency as a medic.

Ethan cringed at the door hinges as he tried to creep into the house, worried that he might wake Juliet. But that worry was soon eased when he realised she wasn’t home. She had been, he realised, as her bedroom light was on and when Ethan cautiously pushed her door open he found her red dress thrown over her bed as though she’d taken it off in a rush.

He closed the door quickly.

Ethan realised that she must be at Joel’s as he’d seen the lights were on when walking past.

They didn’t waste any time, Ethan thought with a grimace.

When he got to his own room, the exhaustion from the night finally hit him and Ethan collapsed on his bed, sleep taking him quickly.

………………………

A groan left his lips when his eyes finally opened.

It was so bright outside. Ethan threw an arm over his head and tried to go back to sleep but confusion gripped him tight.

Why was it so bright? It was never usually this bright in the morn -

“Shit,” he exclaimed when he realised he was late, very very late for his shift at the clinic.

Ethan jumped in the shower, braving the cold water as he had no time to wait for it to heat up. Within ten minutes, he was washed, dressed and out the door into the cold with soaking wet hair.

He stumbled past Joel’s house with guilt weighing heavy on his chest as he didn’t have time to check on Juliet. He was sure she was okay though, why wouldn’t she be?

“Look who decided to show up!” Charlotte sang when he walked into the clinic, shivering from the cold and heading straight for the fire.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he fanned his hands over the flames, soaking up the heat.

“That’s okay,” Charlotte sighed as she walked over to him and leant on the side of the wall with her arms crossed. “I’ll just have to dock your pay.”

Ethan grinned and moved away from the fire, then stalked down the hall with Charlotte following. “You don’t pay me,” he called over his shoulder as he reached the room where he kept his makeshift scrubs.

Charlotte paused in the entryway while Ethan shrugged off his coat.

“I don’t?” she exclaimed in mock horror, clasping a hand over her chest. “You should talk to your union.”

Ethan’s mouth curled into a grin as he hung his coat on the hanger.

“Maybe… you’ll have to make it up to me another way then,” Charlotte declared, her voice quieter without the edge of humour.

Ethan’s eyes flashed to hers, his hand paused on the edge of his flannel.

It had been like this between them for a while now, walking that edge between friends and something more. They hadn’t crossed it yet, but it was moments like this that pushed Ethan into thinking he definitely should.

His mouth opened to respond, but was swiftly interrupted by the sound of the clinic door slamming shut and a voice calling through the building: “Ethan, you in here?”

Charlotte and Ethan looked at each other, then darted back to the main reception area.

“Tommy? Everything okay?” Charlotte asked as they stopped in front of him.

Tommy smiled softly at Charlotte but his mouth thinned when his eyes found Ethan.

“What is it?” he asked, worry seeping into his voice.

Tommy shifted on his feet. “I’ve sent Joel and Juliet on a patrol, they’ll be away for at least a few weeks,” he announced in a monotone voice.

“What?” Charlotte and Ethan said together.

Ethan looked to Charlotte to make sure she was hearing this too.

“What do you mean ‘sent them on a patrol’? A patrol where?” Ethan demanded, standing straighter.

Tommy looked behind him as though he were debating leaving. “Just this town that needs clearin’, the boys on patrol have been making noise about it for a while now. Seemed like the right time.”

“Let me get this straight,” Charlotte began, crossing her arms over her chest. “You decided that the morning after Joel went insane and broke Matt’s nose for no reason was the ‘right time’ to be sending him on an important patrol and you’re letting him take Juliet with him, the girl he’s been ignoring for the past couple months?”

Ethan’s mouth fell open as he looked between Charlotte and Tommy.

Charlotte’s right. This makes no sense.

“I’ll go talk to Juliet, this is insane,” Ethan murmured as he moved to push past Tommy.

He was stopped with a hand on his chest.

Ethan glanced up at him and felt his stomach drop when he noticed the look on his face.

“They’re already gone,” Tommy breathed, looking everywhere other than Ethan’s eyes.

What?

“She left?” Ethan asked, desperately seeking clarification. Desperately hoping there’s been some mistake.

Tommy nodded.

“Juliet wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” Charlotte declared from behind them.

Ethan’s eyes closed and he took a deep breath.

“Thanks for letting us know, Tommy,” he said in an even tone.

Tommy looked between them, nodded, then left. Ethan flinched when the wind slammed the door shut.

“Ethan what the hell?” Charlotte argued, striding up to him. “Juliet wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, this isn’t right.”

Ethan shook his head. “She would,” he said quietly.

This made Charlotte pause, and she stepped back and sat down in the armchair by the fire. She looked defeated and confused, as though she was only now realising that she maybe didn’t know her friend as well as she thought she did.

Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. “She would leave without saying goodbye,” he repeated as the thoughts churned around in his head. “But only if she was trying to protect us from something, like she felt it would be safer if we didn’t know.”

Charlotte’s head shot up. “Protect us from what?”

Ethan dropped into the seat opposite her, barely feeling the heat from the fire as he tried to figure out what was going on. “I have no idea,” he eventually answered, defeated.

Charlotte bent forward, placing her elbows on her knees. “Did you see her leave last night?”

Ethan nodded, winced, then questioned how much he should say. “When I went to find her, I saw her outside with Joel…”

“You’re kidding,” Charlotte exclaimed.

Ethan dropped his head into his hands. “They looked happy, I don’t understand why… why she would need to leave.”

“And she didn’t come home last night?” Charlotte questioned, interrogating him.

“No,” he assured her, then paused, lifting his head. “Well she wasn’t there when I got home but her dress was, so she’d been there at some point.”

“We need to check the house,” Charlotte decided, standing quickly.

Just then, the door opened and brought forth a sudden gust of ice cold wind, forcing a shiver onto Ethan’s skin.

Matt walked in, slamming the door behind him, then he turned and pulled down his hood revealing the horrific bruise Joel left behind.

He looked at Ethan, slouched over in the chair, then at Charlotte, standing over him.

“Who died?” he asked, reaching to grab some food left on the counter.

Ethan looked up at Charlotte, unsure whether to send him away or to let him know what was happening.

Charlotte made the decision for them.

“Juliet’s just been sent on a month-long patrol, did you know about this?” she questioned, crossing her arms over her chest again.

Matt nearly dropped the handful of nuts in his hand.

“She’s what?!” he practically shouted.

Ethan stood, moving to linger behind Charlotte, who turned to him with her eyebrows raised.

“So her patrol partner didn’t even know about this,” Charlotte observed as Ethan clenched and unclenched his fists.

Matt went to rub his forehead, then winced and dropped his hand. “Who approved this? Is she by herself?” he asked quickly, his voice thick with concern.

Ethan glanced at Charlotte, then straightened his shoulders.

“Tommy just told us,” he answered, then paused and took a deep breath. “She’s with Joel.”

Matt’s mouth dropped open, then he quickly wiped the shock off his face, swallowed rough and shook his head. “No, Juliet wouldn’t go with that psychopath.”

Charlotte’s sharp eyes cut to Ethan. Matt didn’t miss the movement.

Matt, exacerbated, raised his hands in the air. “What am I missing here?”

Ethan was panicking now. The shock had begun to fade as an almost debilitating fear for his friend overpowered him. Something wasn’t right here, and he had to figure out what it was.

Ignoring the piercing look from his friends, Ethan walked down the hall and grabbed his coat, pushing his arms through the sleeves hard enough to stretch the fabric.

Then, when he made it back to the reception area, he pushed past Matt to the door, turning momentarily as his fingers met the handle.

“I’m going back to the house to try and figure this out,” he announced, then pulled the door open, blinking away the flurries of snow as they met his eyelashes.

Charlotte was darting after him, shrugging her own jacket on, before he had even made it down the porch steps.

From behind them, Ethan heard Matt curse and follow after them into the snow.

………………….

“Matt, check upstairs. Me and Ethan will search downstairs,” Charlotte ordered the second they all stepped through the doorway of his house, trailing melted snow on the floorboards.

Matt’s head raised towards the stairs, then back at Charlotte. “What the hell am I looking for here?” he bit out, a muscle jumping in his tight jaw.

But Charlotte wasn’t listening, she’d already stalked down the hall, her eyes glued to every surface, searching for any clues Juliet left behind on her short visit home last night.

Ethan sighed and turned to Matt. “Just look for anything out of the ordinary, anything that makes you think Juliet wasn’t planning to leave.”

“You think she was forced into this?” he demanded, eyes wide.

Fear struck Ethan hard and fast, almost knocking him over.

“I don’t know what to think,” he snapped, then took a slow breath. Matt was just worried, like him. “Let’s just see what we find, okay?” Ethan murmured and patted Matt on the shoulder as he walked past, following Charlotte.

Matt nodded then started up the stairs with slow, heavy, weighted steps.

Ethan wiped a hand over his face, attempting to clear his head, attempting to put himself in Juliet’s mind. Why would she leave so suddenly? Without even telling him?

He shouldn’t be surprised, though. This was a typical Juliet move: fierce avoidance.

“What if… she just wanted to get out of town,” he wondered aloud, “what if life here wasn’t what she thought it’d be like?”

Charlotte’s eyes darted to him, and she shook her head. “I don’t buy it. Did you see her last night? She looked happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

Ethan dropped his head. “Yeah,” he muttered, blinking away the memories of a younger Juliet with hollow eyes and dark bruised skin

He went to take another step down the hall then stopped, frozen in place as his eyes latched on a dark spot on the floorboard.

“Charlotte, come see this,” he blurted out.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed as she looked down at his bent position on the floor.

Ethan pointed his finger towards the black spot. “Is this blood?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Charlotte’s sharp intake of breath confirmed his suspicions. She bent beside him, then she pointed to an almost identical spot a few inches away.

“There’s more,” she gasped and stood, following the trail.

Dizziness hit Ethan hard and fast as he stood. He reached out a hand to stabilise himself on the wall, remaining there, watching Charlotte take slow, careful steps down the hall.

Then she stopped and turned back to him.

“It ends here,” Charlotte said under her breath, defeat seeping into her tone as she glanced at the door she stood beside.

The basement.

Ethan’s vision flashed white and he pushed himself off the wall.

“Ethan?” she said, blinking up at him as he stopped in front of her, scanning the small pool of smudged blood that lay beside the basement door.

Juliet went down to the basement… why?

Without thinking, Ethan gripped the door handle and pushed it open, descending quickly down the rickety stairs, not even bothering to find a light switch.

“Ethan! Wait - what’s going on?” Charlotte called after him.

When he reached the bottom, Ethan was hit by the memory that painted the insides of his eyelids on too many dark nights to count: Juliet, head rolled back, blood coating her torso, Elijah standing over her.

Nausea flooded through him.

If this was his reaction to the basement… he couldn’t imagine what Juliet must have felt.

“Ethan, please, what’s wrong?” Charlotte said softly, touching his shoulder.

Ethan flinched off her touch, then squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled several deep shaky breaths.

When he opened his eyes, Charlotte stood on the stairs, looking down at him with a mixture of hurt and worry.

“She was down here,” Ethan revealed, confirming his suspicions further when Charlotte's eyes glanced down at the continuing trail of blood.

“What does this mean?” she asked, eyes wide.

Ethan took another look into the basement before he answered, clenching his fists hard.

“It means we were right,” he stated, his voice hard. “Juliet isn’t on a patrol.”

Charlotte ran her trembling fingers through her hair, then straightened, probably already making a plan in her head.

“Where is she then?” Charlotte prompted, gripping the railing tight.

Ethan looked up and saw the fear in his friend’s face. It was an expression that was permanently etched on his own features when Ethan lived in Elijah’s town and was forced to watch as Juliet’s father hacked away at her soul day after day, wondering if a time would come when there was no goodness left in Juliet at all.

“I -” Ethan stuttered as the memories overwhelmed him. He swallowed and tried again, looking up at Charlotte. “I think she’s gone back.”

“Back where?” Charlotte demanded breathlessly. She was getting frustrated, and he understood. But how could he explain what they’d gone through?

Ethan looked back into the darkness of the basement.

“Home,” he whispered.

……………………

“This makes no sense,” Matt argued as the three of them raced to the mess hall, where they knew Tommy would be. “If that place was so bad, why would she want to go back there?” he continued.

Charlotte’s hard gaze landed on Ethan, waiting for an answer. But Ethan didn’t have one.

He focused on the sound of the snow crunching under their feet, trying desperately to formulate some response.

“Listen,” he started, “I don’t know… But being in that basement must have triggered something in Juliet,” Ethan tried to explain. “She was unconscious when we found her, and when Joel killed Eilijah. Maybe she felt she had to go back to confront things… I don’t know.” He shook his head again, frustrated by his own confusion.

“This is my fault,” Charlotte murmured beside him.

Ethan’s steps slowed, and he reached out to graze the back of Charlotte’s hand. She let him do it.

Charlotte stared up at him, her eyes red rimmed and glossy. “I kept telling her that she wasn’t processing her past and that she had to confront her trauma. I told her she needed closure.” Charlotte inhaled a shaky breath. “I did this.”

Ethan stepped in front of her. He must have forgotten himself for a moment because his hands cupped Charlotte’s face as he forced her eyes to meet his.

“You had nothing to do with this,” Ethan stated, his voice soft. “Juliet makes her own decisions.”

Charlotte nodded and looked away, but she seemed unconvinced.

“If Juliet’s on some mission to go home and confront things… Why's Joel with her?” Matt asked from behind Ethan. His voice hardened when he mentioned the name of the man who broke his nose.

Ethan dropped his hands from Charlotte’s face and turned around to meet Matt’s eyes. He looked hurt.

“Because he would never have let her go without him,” Ethan sighed, rubbing his neck. “I’d bet that Juliet tried to go herself but Joel stopped her.”

Matt rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, straightening his spine as he barked out a harsh laugh. “Possessive creep,” he uttered under his breath. “I saw the way he looked at her, it was fucking weird,” Matt grumbled.

Ethan scratched his head. He didn’t disagree, but they didn’t have time for this.

He looked at his friends, and sighed. “We need to find Tommy.”

………………..

Tommy sat at the bar, glass of whiskey at his lips.

Charlotte was the first through the door, stalking towards Joel’s brother with renewed energy, her guilt hidden away for the time being.

“Tommy,” she called as she approached, startling him.

Tommy was out of his seat, preparing for the worst.

“What’s happening?” he demanded, slamming his glass on the worn wooden bartop.

“The town’s fine,” Ethan assured him. Tommy’s shoulders dropped and he sat back down on the stool.

“Shit,” he breathed. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Ethan looked at Matt, raising his eyebrows, unsure how to approach this.

Charlotte had no such worry.

“Tommy Miller, we know you’ve been lyin’ to us,” she accused, then looked back at Ethan and Matt. “You’re gonna tell us where Joel and Juliet are, now.”

Ethan’s skin crawled with heat, he hated confrontation.

From the looks of it, so did Tommy. The man in front of them took a long drink of his whiskey and brought it down on the surface in a move so similar to his older brother.

“Don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he replied, standing again and straightening his back. Then, he smiled, tight and forced. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta help clean this place up after last night.”

He turned away from them, heading for a group of men by the stage who were clearing away the empty glasses.

“Tommy,” Ethan called and they watched as Tommy paused with his back to them, waiting.

“We know something is going on,” he confessed, hoping honesty would appeal to his kinder nature. “We’re worried about Juliet.”

Tommy turned slowly, his jaw clenched tight. He looked at the three of them and no doubt recognised the look of fear in each of their faces. Then he dropped his head and sighed heavily.

“Look,” he began, “I don’t know what you think you know… but Juliet is fine. Joel is with her.”

“That’s what we’re worried about,” Matt said under his breath, earning him a cutting look from Ethan.

Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed.

Ethan tried to steer the conversation back on the right track. “Has she gone back? To our old community?”

Tommy looked taken aback. He blinked and gritted his teeth, looking only at Ethan.

Ethan’s blood roared in his ears. Please just tell him that he’s made a mistake, that she really is on a patrol and that she didn’t go back there.

Ethan held his breath as Tommy dropped his chin in a sharp nod, confirming their worst fears.

“She didn’t want me to tell you,” he revealed, wiping a hand over his face, looking defeated.

Charlotte had froze. Matt was shaking his head.

Ethan felt like he’d been stabbed by a sharp, brutal knife.

“Did she say why?” he heard himself ask over the sound of his own heartbeat. As they waited for Tommy to answer, he felt Charlotte step forward and place a hand on his arm. Ethan leaned into her touch.

Tommy shook his head. “They wouldn’t say,” he replied, then met Ethan’s eyes again. “But it was important… Juliet didn’t look good.”

Ethan flinched.

“Listen,” Tommy said sharply, grabbing their attention. “Don’t be getting any ideas,” he warned them. “Joel and Juliet are both capable, they’ll be back in no time.”

Ethan was shaking his head now. Anger was flowing through his veins. Tommy had no idea what their old home was like. Elijah might be dead, but he wasn’t the only monster in the town.

In the years that Juliet was away, when he was held captive, it wasn’t just Elijah that came to visit him.

“No,” he choked out. “This was a mistake, she’s made a mistake.” Ethan shrugged off Charlotte’s touch, stepping closer to Tommy. “I’m going after them.”

“Ethan,” Tommy warned, his eyes turning colder.

“No,” he repeated. “You have no idea what’s waiting for them. Joel murdered their leader, do you think they’re going to welcome them in? Forgive him for what he’s done?”

For the first time, Ethan watched a spark of fear flash across Tommy’s face.

Ethan was shaking now. With fear or rage, he couldn’t decide.

“They’ll die there,” he bit out.

Tommy stepped backwards, looking between the three of them.

“We have to go help them,” a soft voice announced from behind Ethan. His head whipped around, finding Charlotte’s face steeled and ready to help her friend. Matt looked between them and nodded.

Juliet had found safety once, and she left that to help him, to save him.

Finally, Ethan nodded and turned back to Tommy.

“We’re going.”

______________________

Juliet’s POV:

Present day

His heart beat slowly under her palm.

Between each gap, Juliet held her breath, fearing that it had stopped.

Joel was lucid for only a few moments. Enough time for him to mutter Juliet’s name, and then his voice ceased, leaving behind shallow breaths and a weak pulse.

Juliet thought back to the time he was stabbed at the university, when she dragged him back to that little house with the front porch. He had bled so much, Juliet didn’t think someone could survive that amount of blood loss.

She remembered when he had begged her to leave him, to save herself.

This time, Joel said nothing. There weren’t even any wounds for her to stitch or any bleeding holes to plug. There were just blossoming bruises on his face and chest, and a shallow wound on his head that had thankfully stopped bleeding.

The lack of blood did nothing to ease the terror that paralysed Juliet.

There was something wrong with Joel, a concussion maybe. She cursed herself for not listening closer to Ethan when he spoke about his medical training.

She did remember, however, that people with concussions shouldn’t be allowed to sleep. That was why Juliet had spent the past hour trying to wake him up.

She forgot about her own pain and focused entirely on shaking Joel, screaming at him, begging him to wake up, with short breaks in between to check his heart was still beating.

As the minutes crawled by, Juliet weakened. The adrenaline was leaving her bloodstream and she sunk down to her knees, her head resting on Joel’s lap.

She continued to count his breaths while she attempted to find the strength to get back on her feet. After a while, Juliet startled with the feeling of someone stroking her hair. She thought her mind was playing tricks on her, that her long overdue fever had finally kicked in.

Then she felt it again.

She shot up, gripping Joel’s legs to pull her to her knees.

His eyes were open, only slightly.

“Joel,” Juliet breathed, quickly jumping to her feet and ignoring the way she swayed to the side.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she repeated as she reached out to cup his cheek, blinking away the tears that blurred her vision.

He said nothing, Juliet wasn’t even sure if he recognised her. But he was awake again, and he was still breathing. Juliet could work with that.

They had to get upstairs, it was a miracle no one had found them yet. Maybe the mess left in the medic’s office had scared the rest of the men away, or maybe John wasn’t as inspiring a leader as he thought he was.

She had to get back to that medic’s office. Joel needed help, desperately. He needed disinfectant, bandages, fresh water, food, the list was endless.

Juliet stood frozen with her fingers softly stroking his cheek as his eyes continued to stare vacantly at her.

Being in this basement was weighing on her, claustrophobia was setting in.

Her blood still stained the ground, reminding her of the pain she suffered. She couldn’t stand to be in this dark, haunted room a second longer. Joel wouldn’t die here , she swore.

“Joel,” she whispered, then forced herself to harden her voice. “ Joel. ”

He blinked and continued to stare.

Juliet ignored the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

“We need to get upstairs,” she croaked, then cringed when she heard the sorrow in her voice. “I’m going to put my arms under yours and we’ll walk together, but I need you to try, okay?”

Juliet watched his jaw move and his eyes widen, but no words came out. She could tell, though, that he heard her.

“Okay,” she murmured, then bent down with a silent prayer that they could make it up the basement stairs.

……………….

Joel collapsed on the green, velvet couch with a deep, guttural groan. Thankfully, he had enough strength to keep his head up, so it didn’t hit against the arm rest and cause even more damage.

Juliet swayed on her feet again. She was sweating heavily and her hand slid on the wall she stabilised herself on. But that didn’t matter just now, she had to find some water for Joel.

His eyes had closed again. Juliet felt a scream rise in her throat but she swallowed it down.

There was some fresh water in the next room, probably melted snow. She brought it through in an old, worn mug, ignoring the way her fingers shook as she rounded the corner into the living room, then rushed to bend down next to Joel.

Her fingers continued to shake as she lifted the mug to his lips.

He coughed, spluttering some of the water but he managed to swallow. Juliet could have cheered. He was okay, he was okay, he was okay.

She looked behind her, towards the hall. Terror walked side by side with relief in her chest. Anyone could walk through that door, and Juliet didn’t think she had it in her to kill again.

“Joel,” she said as she turned back to him. Surprise fired through her like a bullet when she noticed his eyes follow her movement. Juliet swallowed, feeling energised by Joel’s exhibition of lucidity.

“I’m going to go get some supplies,” Juliet whispered to him, scared to raise her voice. She didn’t know how much pain he was in.

Looking at him hurt her, so Juliet turned to the side as she moved to push herself off the couch.

Strong calloused fingers wrapped around her wrist, halting her movement.

Juliet’s eyes flashed to Joel’s. He pinned her with his stare as his gaze swept over her bloodstained face and his eyes widened.

“ No,” he ground out, breathing heavy as he squeezed her wrist harder.

Thankfully, it was her good hand but the pain from John’s ropes still remained and Juliet bit her lip to stop a cry from escaping.

Joel eased his grip immediately and tried to push himself up.

“Don’t move,” Juliet begged, gently pushing against his shoulders, stopping him. “Please, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Joel grunted as he fell back on the couch, unable to push himself up.

“Don’t… go…” he commanded breathlessly through clenched teeth. “Not… safe…”

Juliet fought against the fresh tears that flowed down her burning red cheeks, and she shivered.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered, “I promise.”

Juliet rose quickly, darting towards the door before she could change her mind. She had to find something to ease his pain. He wouldn’t survive if she didn’t do this.

She hadn’t even reached the living room door before she heard his voice again.

“ Juliet,” he barked, grunting as he tried to get up.

Juliet squeezed her eyes shut, begging herself not to turn around.

“I promise,” she whispered, then opened the door.

…………..

Juliet stood in the hall, blinking away fresh tears.

She blocked out the sound of Joel begging her to stay, blocked out every crushing memory from this house, every thought that tried to drag her back down to that basement, and she switched her brain into survival mode. She had to be practical, smart, quick if she wanted to get across the town without another fight.

Juliet looked in the other room. The man she’d killed still lay on the ground, blood soaking the rug as his glassy eyes stared at the ceiling.

She felt no remorse, Juliet only saw an opportunity.

If she didn’t have the strength to fight anymore, the best she could do was frighten away any attackers.

Juliet rolled her shoulders and stepped into the dining room.

…………

Twenty minutes later, Juliet had tucked her lost gun in her back pocket and dragged the body of the man in the dining room, and the man at the back door, to the front porch where she piled them on top of each other, allowing the remaining blood to drench the wooden floorboards.

Then, Juliet wiped her good hand across the neck of the man she’d stabbed, gathering blood and used it to create a red X on the door.

That should deter any visitors , she thought as she made her way down the porch stairs and onto the street, legs trembling from the task of dragging bodies through the house.

Juliet kept to the shadows along the sides of buildings. She knew there were eyes on her, maybe the families of the remaining men who ran the town, but no one had come for her yet.

She just had to get to the medic’s office…

Juliet stumbled to a stop when the street in front of her suddenly went blurry, and the world turned on its side.

“What…” Juliet murmured as leaned back against the nearest building.

Her head rolled to the side, then dropped to stare at her hand.

The bandage was black, all traces of white had disappeared and a strange pus-like substance leaked around the stump of her lost finger. Juliet swallowed her nausea and a cold chill shot down her spine at the sight. It shouldn’t look like that, should it?

She’d been so focused on getting to Joel and keeping him awake that she hadn’t thought twice about herself. Even still, as she waited for the wave of dizziness to pass, Juliet’s heart thundered with panic as she thought of Joel on that couch, waiting for her.

She would get some banaages for herself too but she had to help Joel first, he was the priority. Because if she lost him…

Juliet shook her head violently to rid herself of the thought, then staggered, desperately trying not to pass out. Once she was stable, Juliet pushed herself off the wall and started walking again. Her mind pushed her weakening legs forward, reminding of the fear that struck her heart when she thought Joel wasn’t waking up.

Not much longer now , Juliet thought as she dragged her body down the street.

………………….

White hot pain fired through her shoulder when it met the cold metal door.

Again, she thought.

Her vision blackened, but the door made a loud creak.

One more time, she begged herself.

Finally, the door gave way as Juliet stumbled into the office. Her vision blurry as she noticed the metal examination table had been pushed against the door.

Were they afraid of her?

The thought ignited something in Juliet, she wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad feeling but she swallowed it down anyway and pulled her gun out her back pocket, moving cautiously around the table.

Someone had been here in the couple hours since she left. Juliet froze when she realised John and Danny’s bodies had been removed.

That was quick.

She shook off the fear and focused on her task. They needed antiseptic, any pain medication she could find, and bandages. Juliet could only hope that was everything, she didn’t have any medical knowledge beyond the scraps she’d picked up from Ethan and Charlotte, or tending to her own burns in the QZ.

Hope was fueling every muscle stiff in her body.

The bandages were easy to find. Juliet stepped over the puddle of blood and guts John had left on the floor, placed her gun on the edge of the counter, and used her good hand to stretch up to the cabinet where white material spilled out.

“Shit,” a voice cursed behind her.

Juliet grabbed her gun and turned fast enough for her hair to whip on the edge of the glass cabinet.

She blinked, struggling to focus her eyes against the dizziness that plagued her brain.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, tempting the tigger with her finger as her gaze finally swept over the two men in front of her.

They looked about her age and as Juliet continued to stare, she realised she even recognised them.

“Juliet, stop. We - we’re not gonna hurt you,” one of them said, his hands already in the air. Then, to prove his word, he nudged the man beside him to do the same.

She couldn’t remember their names, her mind was too fuzzy, but she remembered them as a couple of the other kids who also grew up in this town. They were always tucked behind their mother’s back, hidden away from the horrors that occurred.

Juliet was always so fucking jealous of them.

The sight of the brothers made her pause, faltering her hold on her gun slightly. She scanned them up and down and came to the conclusion that they had no weapons on them, but she kept her gun in the air, struggling to trust them, regardless of their past innocence.

When she didn’t pull the trigger, one of the brother’s tried again to reason with her.

“We just came to get some pain medicine,” he explained quickly, pointing to the bottles he’d dropped on the floor. “Our mother, she’s sick.”

Juliet’s eyebrows furrowed. “I thought everyone was dead,” she said slowly, confusion fueling her words.

The younger brother shook his head. “That’s what we want them to think” he murmured. Then they both looked down at the blood on the floor before their eyes flashed to her hand. “We had no part in this, I swear” the older brother vowed.

In a move that went against every survival instinct Juliet had built up over the past few years, from her time with Blake, in the QZ, or on the road with Joel… Juliet lowered her gun.

She glanced down at that puddle of blood and guts again and felt only a deep exhaustion that ached down to her bones.

She was tired of killing.

She didn’t want to be this person anymore.

She didn’t have to.

Juliet looked at the brothers and wished she could remember their names. Despite everything, they had survived this town too and still had enough empathy to care for their mother.

“I’m here for the same things you are,” she stated, nodding towards the medication on the floor, then she looked the older brother in the eye. “We find what we need, then we leave. No one gets hurt,” Juliet explained. “Got it?”

The brothers nodded and their shoulders sagged with relief.

Juliet blew out a long breath and reached up to wipe the cold sweat off her forehead, before she swayed slightly against the counter.

“Hey, are you okay?” the older brother asked, looking her up and down.

Juliet hated looking weak, and despite deeming these men as somewhat safe, she still didn’t entirely trust them and couldn’t stomach the thought of them viewing her as an easy target.

Too much had happened in this room already.

Juliet tightened her hold on the counter, used her gun to point towards the medication on the floor, then looked up at the men. “I’m taking some of those,” she announced, then looked up at the bottle of disinfectant tucked in the younger brother’s pocket. “And that.”

The brothers looked at each other, then to Juliet’s gun, and nodded in agreement.

…………….

The bag she found sagged with the weight of the supplies she gathered. It now hung from her shoulder, aggravating the bruise forming under her skin.

Juliet winced as she stepped out of the office into the light. It was late afternoon but still bright enough to worsen the headache blooming across her skull.

The world was far blurrier than it had looked before she stepped into the building and Juliet had to pause against the nearest wall to catch her breath.

The brothers had left not long ago. The eldest one, Noah, she remembered, tried to get her to come with them, to shelter in their home. Juliet just pointed her gun at him until they grabbed their stuff and walked out the door.

She didn’t have time to make allies.

On his way out, Noah had told her that she better change that bandage on her hand, but he knew well enough by that point not to offer to do it himself.

He was right, Juliet realised, but once she had her supplies, she couldn’t think about herself. She had to get back to Joel.

Juliet had lost her firm grip on time and the minutes had slid through her fingers as she searched the medic’s office. What if he fell back asleep? What if he never wakes up?

What if she's failed him, again?

Juliet wiped away at the ice cold sweat that coated the back of her neck as she swallowed down the sickening thoughts.

She took a step, then another, then she stopped as her body swayed to the left.

No, no, no, this can't be happening here , she screamed inside her mind.

She was too exposed, anyone could see her here out in the open.

Juliet dropped her bag to the ground with a grunt of pain and pulled out a bottle of pills. Without her other hand, she struggled to get the top open as her fingers kept losing their grip.

She let out a long, gutteral groan and pushed the lid between her teeth, pushing down with too much force as she turned the bottle with her good hand.

Just a couple pills and the pain would go away and she could get to Joel.

With a loud pop, the lid was off and small white pills sprayed around her. Some landed in her mouth, some on the ground.

“No!” Juliet gagged, frantically trying to pick the pills off the ground with her bloodied fingers and push them back in the bottle. Tears were flowing heavily down her cheeks now. Her skin was too hot, the tears were ice cold.

Juliet looked up and felt the world spin again. Why did it keep doing that? She thought, bitterly.

She moved her tongue and felt the pills that had spilled in her mouth. Juliet was beginning to forget who the pills were for, and why she was sitting on the freezing ground. So, in a hazy effort not to waste any of the medication, Juliet swallowed the remaining pills taking up space in her mouth. There were only a couple in there, she was sure.

She had to press her good hand to her lips to stop herself from gagging again.

Joel.

The thought of him raced into her brain like a bullet.

Oh god.

Time was slipping again. Juliet couldn’t get a grip on it anymore. Had she been on the ground for minutes now, or hours?

With a scream ready to erupt in her throat, Juliet pushed herself off the ground, stuffed the pill bottle back in her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

Joel. Joel. Joel. Joel.

She did this. She brought him here. It was her fault.

It was her fault.

Juliet almost gagged again, but managed to hold her stomach.

She was stumbling, tripping over her own feet but she kept moving. She just had to get back to him, then he’d be okay.

For a moment, Juliet thought she felt his fingers on her cheek, sweeping away her tears. It was pouring rain and the tear he caught washed away quickly. He looked so sad, watching her as she cried.

Juliet blinked and the rain was gone.

She turned, then turned again. Juliet couldn’t recognise the street she was on anymore. What way did she go? Where was Joel? Oh God…

She was too hot, her skin was burning. Juliet dropped the bag again and her fingers latched at her jacket, attempting to tear it from her body.

Before she could process it, Juliet was falling. She just managed to throw out her good arm before her face smashed against the ground. The frosted gravel dug into her back as she rolled over, scrambling to stand up again, attempting to crawl her way to Joel.

But Juliet wasn’t crawling. She wasn’t moving at all.

She lay still on the empty street as the world spun above her.

That was why, when seconds, minutes or hours passed and she tilted her head to the side to find the source of the new strange, but familiar, sound that drifted down the street, Juliet didn’t believe her own eyes.

Those weren’t horses, she said to herself. It was impossible.

Juliet’s body was still as the creatures approached. What a strange dream, she thought.

“Juliet!” a voice bellowed, first from far away and then closer all of a sudden.

Her head rolled in the voice’s direction and Juliet blinked rapidly.

“Matt, quick! Help me lift her!” the same voice shouted behind him.

Why did she recognise that voice?

“Fuck, what’s wrong with her?” another voice asked as hands were tucked under her body.

She struggled against her attackers, kicking them with all the strength she had left.

“Juliet stop! Stop! It’s me!” the original voice begged, gripping her legs with his hands.

She blinked again, her vision finally clearing.

“Ethan?” she said in disbelief, her voice heavily slurred.

The sight of him was like a bucket of ice cold water. Her brain grasped desperately for some clarity of mind.

“Juliet, oh my god,” a woman’s voice cried breathlessly.

“Charlotte?” Juliet croaked as the bitter cold tears descended her face again, dripping on whoever now held her in their arms.

“We’re here, we’re here,” she soothed with a hand on Juliet’s forehead, then Charlotte turned to Ethan. “She’s burning up.”

Juliet wanted to beg her to keep her hand on her skin, it was so cold.

Joel.

The sight of him on the couch flooded her mind.

“Joel,” she gasped out, but she was too quiet, they didn’t hear her. “Joel!” Juliet tried again, projecting every bit of desperation into her voice.

“Please you have to help him,” she cried, gripping the hand of whoever was closest to her.

Someone cursed.

“Where is he?” Ethan asked, his voice strained.

Juliet was losing her grip on reality again, it was dripping through her fingers like the seconds.

A clock was ticking in her mind, counting down the time she had left to save him.

“Home,” she murmured as her head began to roll to the side again.

-----------------------------

Okay you might have to suspend your disbelief a bit with this one. It's probably the most dramatic description of a fever you've ever read but we're nearing the end of this fic so drama is necessary hahah

Also sorry for another cliffhanger but the next chapter will be up within the next few days 😘

______________________________

@amyispxnk @casa-boiardi @http-paprika @shotgun-shelby @weeping-werewolf @mysaviorjoelmiller @chlojoceycom @joelmillersblog @socialistmary @orcasoul @ashhlsstuff @caitlynsixxx

#joel miller x original character #joel miller x female oc #joel miller x reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller angst #ao3 fanfic #joel miller hbo #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel tlou #tlou #the last of us #tlou hbo #Spotify

71 notes · View notes

avonne-writes · 4 months ago

Note

55 on the prompt list omg!!! mutual pining/oblivious hs au buck x bucky would be so funny (and sweet and fluffy)

Thank you for the prompt! Indeed, it’s perfect for my High School AU 🥰 This is set in 9th grade before they start dating, so Bucky is 15 and Gale is 14. The earliest installment of the series so far!

Uploaded on AO3

55. Mutual Pining (+ Oblivious)

Gale has been standing in the Brady family's kitchen for at least fifteen minutes now, stuck in a conversation with one of Brady’s sisters. He doesn’t know how to excuse himself politely, and she's good at rolling the discussion forward practically by herself. He wonders why she doesn’t just ignore him like she did the other boys Brady invited. Does she have a crush on him? But she's two years older!

His friends are all in the basement, playing video games, but Gale offered Brady's mom a helping hand with distributing the snacks. He followed her to the kitchen, but he never made it back to the others, because Lena just latched onto him. She asked him about his hair and things got out of Gale's control. So here he is, clutching a blue plastic bowl filled with chips, standing awkwardly in the open space between the kitchen island and the counter. Leaning on the island, Lena blocks his way out.

Gale's mind can’t help but worry that he’s gonna miss out on something. It’s a miracle that he was even invited. Having an actual friend group instead of individual friends is a new experience for him. And most of these boys are on the soccer team. They're much more social than he is. He’s pretty sure Brady only invited him because Bucky asked him to sit with them at lunch and he overheard them talking about this.

Bucky...

Gale sighs, a painful sensation twisting in his chest. Will he have any more opportunities to be close to Bucky today? He curses himself for his eagerness to make a good impression on Brady’s mom, because if he hadn't done that, he would be with Bucky now, and he wouldn’t have lost a single moment together. What if Bucky gets too into the game they're playing and won't talk to him any more tonight? What if Gale is pushed to the side of the group, excluded from it all? Forgotten?

If only he could tell Lena that he doesn’t like girls, he could be free. Or maybe not? Maybe she just wants to make friends. Why would she even like Gale, when he's so - so doll-like. Almost like a girl, except he’s thin, tall and flat, and his voice keeps getting deeper. But his lips look like a kiss emoji. He especially hates how pale his cheeks are, because he knows just how bright pink they blush when he's embarrassed or excited. Lately, his cheeks are on fire all the time.

The reason why is loud, chatty, and so attractive that Gale feels a tingling sensation in his stomach every time he sees him.

Thinking about him is enough to make heat rise to Gale's face already. Him, him, him. His bright smile, his dark blue eyes, his curls, his silly jokes and the games he plays with Gale in secret when they share a desk in school. The way he always chooses Gale first to be on his team in P.E., and how he claps Gale on the back or fistbumps him when they score. Once, he even gave Gale a hug after a particularly nice basketball play. It was one of the best days of Gale's life so far.

Gale can feel this... this fire growing inside of him. It has never been this intense before, never so desperate that he couldn’t feel hunger, thirst or tiredness when he thought about it. But that’s how it is nowadays. Is this what love is? He thinks about it every day, every hour. I'm in love, goes his mind, and each time, it feels different, sweet and bitter and unbearable. One minute, he never wants it to end, then the next, he wishes he could tear it right out of his chest.

How does no one else see it on his face?

"You’re not like Johnny's other friends." Lena tells him in a sweet voice, drawing his attention back to the present. He has no idea what she said in the past few minutes. "You’re much nicer. Smarter too."

Gale hugs the bowl to his stomach, pulls his shoulders up and gives her an embarrassed smile. "Thanks."

"Actually, do you wanna -"

Gale never learns what she was going to suggest, because a cheerful voice interrupts her question.

"Buck! Are they holding you hostage?" Bucky calls out from the top of the stairs leading to the basement, based on the echo.

"I'm here!" Gale yells, and promptly wants to bury himself under a pile of sand. I'm here? That wasn’t even an answer to Bucky's playful question, it made no sense at all. Oh God, what does Bucky think of him now? He must think that Gale’s a weirdo, socially awkward charity case, but Gale’s not like that at all, he’s usually calm and funny. He just wants to be liked so much that he loses all common sense, apparently.

Before he could beat himself up over it, footsteps approach, and Bucky walks into the kitchen. Gale's face brightens automatically. He smiles, and Bucky smiles back before he directs his eyes at Lena.

"Hey, Lenny, how's it going?" He says, flicking her long hair as he walks past her. Tar coils in Gale's throat at the sight, but he swallows it down.

She blushes, but doesn’t look pleased to see Bucky. "We're kind of busy, Bucky."

"Oh, busy?" Bucky teases, glancing between them and smirking. Gale widens his eyes in an expression that's meant to convey a heartfelt hell no.

"You’re so childish." Lena huffs, but Bucky doesn’t look at her again.

He stops next to Gale with a hand on the kitchen counter, and uses the back of the other to swat Gale's arm. "Hear that, Buck, I’m childish."

Gale's blood turns into an electric current in his veins. He stares into Bucky’s eyes, mesmerized by the playfulness shining in their blue depths. "Where's the lie?"

Bucky grins at him for a long moment, then reaches into the bowl Gale's holding, grabs a few chips and pops them in his mouth. It takes Gale a second too long to realize that he shouldn't watch him so intensely, so revealingly. He casts his gaze down before he looks back up, unable to keep his eyes off Bucky. He’s sure he's super obvious. Still, he can’t help but lean a bit closer until his elbow brushes Bucky's arm, as if by accident.

God, he has no idea how he gets away with it without Bucky flinching away from him. After all, he’s aware of Bucky's reputation as someone who has a new girlfriend every week. Rumours are, that's what he did last year in his previous school and what he plans on continuing this year. It's only October, so he’s still single, but Gale’s sure it won't be for too long.

A sad voice in him wonders if he'll stop trying to befriend Gale when that happens. He won't have space in his life for new friends when dating takes up all his time. Perhaps that will be for the better. Gale's hopeless crush on his clearly heterosexual best friend could die then. It will be harder to say goodbye to the best friend part. He has never really met anyone else he felt so attuned to. No one has matched his puzzle piece like Bucky does. They're on the same wavelength.

He hears a huff from Lena. "Okay. Whatever. See you later, Gale."

"See you!" Gale says in a haste, feeling guilty as she walks away. But it only lasts for a split second, because next thing he knows, Bucky's ruffling his hair.

"Way to go, Buck." He teases.

Gale bats Bucky's hand away because he loves its touch so much he can’t stand it, but Bucky just pushes Gale's hand back and they end up hand-wrestling for a moment before Gale drops his arm.

"Do you think she likes me?" He shudders.

Bucky makes a jokingly spluttering sound. "She likes all pretty blonds."

Flames light up on Gale’s cheeks. He can feel the heat rolling off his skin, mixing with Bucky's warmth because they're the same height and they're standing so close. Pretty... Bucky thinks he's pretty.

"But the question is, do you like her?" Bucky asks, and his voice sounds off. Clearly wanting her all to himself, which is fair enough, she's beautiful. It must be painful to pine for her when she doesn’t feel the same. Gale knows exactly how that feels, ever since his first day of this school year when he got seated next to the most fun person in their entire year.

"I don't." He replies. But I like you. I like you. I really, really -

"I think you dodged a bullet there." Bucky snorts, and something eases in him, makes him relax until he’s like water, loose in his body, confident and at ease while he’s with Gale. He throws an arm around Gale's shoulders and fishes his phone out of his pocket. His scent fills Gale's nose. "That reminds of this TikTok..."

As they lean over the small screen, their heads bend closer together, almost touching. If Gale was brave enough, if he thought he had even a morsel of a chance, he could turn a few degrees and kiss Bucky. His lips would be salty from the chips, he figures. Would there be a trace of soda sweetness there or only the salt?

He swallows, barely seeing the video, but he laughs along with Bucky. They fall silent, except for the occasional chuckle, as one clip plays after the other. Standing there alone at the kitchen counter, close enough in their loose half-embrace that Gale could convince himself for a moment that Bucky is his.

Oh, what a sweet daydream.

A text pops up on Bucky’s phone. It’s from someone named "Luis Vutton", misspelled like that.

'your round goes to Buck if youre not here in -5 minutes'

"Asshole." Bucky snickers and texts back a middle finger emoji. To Gale's disappointment, he pulls his arm back and takes a step away. "We're doing a FIFA tournament. I got you first, then Brady. Looks like he can’t wait to get his ass kicked by me."

Gale gives him a lopsided smile as he falls into step with him, walking back to the stairs. "What about you, ready to lose on your first game?"

Bucky grins at him. "Quite the confidence for someone who knows nothing about soccer."

"Shut up, I know plenty." Gale bumps into Bucky. It’s true - since Bucky befriended him, Gale has watched so many soccer games and read so many articles that he feels like he knows more than enough.

"Nerd." Bucky bumps him back. His comment doesn’t make much sense, but Gale's stomach flips all the same. "You're still up against the defending champion though."

"That so?"

Bucky hums as he starts descending the stairs. "I'm a natural. Got the hands for it."

He stops two steps down from Gale and turns to hold one of his palms up. Gale doesn’t even think about it, although he should have because he’s being weird, but he presses his own palm to Bucky's. His hand isn’t small at all, but the tips of his fingers only reach the last knuckle of Bucky's.

Bucky gives him a smile that's so amused and giddy that his eyes become half-moons. "See?"

"You comin', or what?" Brady’s voice calls, and they both drop their hands.

Bucky gives Gale a wink, then bounds down the stairs. Gale needs a deep breath before he’s ready to follow him.

If only daydreams came true!

#mota #buck x bucky #clegan #john egan #gale cleven #my writing #anon #hs au

58 notes · View notes

yeonzzzn · 11 months ago

Text

🌹straight to me: sim jaeyun

a you complete me series: five / seven

pairing: jake x afab!reader

word count: 1.3k

synopsis: every dead end street lead you straight to him, and all jake wants to do is show you how thankful he is for you…

genre: established relationship, vampire!jake, half-vampire!reader

warnings: mentions of blood, cutie patooie jakey ♡

p1: vampires bleeding mlist

You opened the fridge, a soft sigh escaping your lips at seeing the empty shelves.

“You okay, baby?” Jake called from your shared living room. The echoes of his fingers button smashing the PS5 controller in his hands at the game displayed on the TV.

You closed the fridge, “Yeah, there’s just nothing in the fridge. We need to go grocery shopping.”

Jake paused the game, turning around on the couch to face you, “Or you can let me take you out.”

You leaned against the countertop, shaking your head, “Jake we don’t need to do that,” his smile on his face quickly frowning. You cleared your throat, “You wouldn’t be able to eat.”

Jake quickly stood up and was at your side in a second, “I can drink some bags before we go. Baby, you need to eat. We can go to the grocery shop after dinner.”

Your mate pulled you into his arms, the sound of your stomach growling loudly.

“Baby, please.” Jake rubs your back, “My sweet Luna Nova needs to eat.”

You finally gave in, nodding your head.

Jake kissed your head, “Let me go shower, then we can head out.”

“What about you eating?” You asked, worried about your mate getting his own meal in.

“I’ll drink the bags on the way to a restaurant, don’t worry.”

He kissed you softly on the lips before leaving your side.

You sat on the couch, hearing your phone text tone go off. It was a message from your twin brother.

You put your phone down into your lap. You were grateful that Archer was keeping an eye out for the stragglers from Dorian’s army, but at the same time, you wished he’d let it go.

But unfortunately for Archer, he can’t. Not after they captured you.

Your stomach growled again, putting your thoughts back on your hunger.

One thing that sucked being a dhampir is having your thirst for blood, but also craving of food.

It also made you feel bad for Jake. He was always grocery shopping for and with you. Having to deal with the smells of cooking the food and even sometimes cooking for you.

You knew he didn’t mind, but you still can’t help but feel bad.

Having to always stay stocked up on not just blood bags, but every food as well.

You couldn’t help but think and wonder how Jay does it. He knew he cooked all the time in his human life and cooked for __ all the time as well. Jungwon used to say how he didn’t mind it either, but now that __ is a vampire they tossed all their food out.

Maybe you were just overthinking it.

The sound of the shower turned off, and Jake was back at your side on the couch, his wet hair dripping onto his bare chest.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He took your chin between his fingers, “You forget we are bonded, I can tell you’re upset.”

You shook your head, watching a small drop of water drip from his hair and land onto his sweatpants, “Jaeyun, I am fine.”

“My Luna Nova…”

“I’m just…I feel bad.”

Jake tilted his head, confused, furrowing his eyes at you, “Y/N,” oops. He only will call you by your name when he’s serious, “Talk to me.”

You went into explaining, telling him how you feel bad for always having to deal with food all because he’s paired with you for life.

“Baby,” he softly said, pressing his lips to yours, “Being bonded to you is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve spent my whole life waiting for you, so you having to eat human food on top of drinking blood doesn’t bother me. You’re half-blooded, and I wouldn’t change any part of it.”

Jake pulled you into his lap, gently laying you back against the couch, kissing your neck, “Let me take you out, go grocery shopping then come back so I can worship every part of you.”

You giggle into his shoulder, pushing him back, “Okay, that requires you to get dressed first, Jaeyun.”

He pressed one more kiss to your neck before leaving to change. Coming back out in his favorite black ripped jeans and a gray sweatshirt.

Jake grabbed a couple of blood bags from the fridge and then rushed you out the door.

You watched your soulmate as he drove you two to the nearest burger joint, watching as he sipped on his blood bags before pulling into the parking lot.

Jake had the biggest smile on his face the entire time, even while he was ordering your dinner for you. His arm wrapped around your waist and you were pulled close to him.

All Jake ever wanted to do was show how thankful he is for you every single day. He worshiped the ground you walked on.

After Dorian took you from him and used every ounce of magic he had to mask your scent so he couldn’t find you, tore him to pieces. The sleepless nights he got, the days of not drinking any blood, and even the days he and Sunghoon would spend sitting with each other side by side staring off into the distance because they didn’t trust the other to be alone. Jake hated seeing Sunghoon hurting like that but knew he was feeling the same.

The moment Jake had you back in his arms, he vowed to never let you go so easily again and spend every waking moment possible showing you how thankful and appreciative he was of you.

You were his main reason for living after all, even if he is the undead.

Jake also didn’t want to put you through anything you had to deal with before, losing your first mate was bad enough, and he didn’t want to find out what it would feel like to lose you or put you through losing another mate.

You took a bite of your burger, looking up at your goofy boy, seeing him deep in thought, “Jake?” you called his name, waving a hand in his face.

Jake focused his attention back on you, giving you the beautiful smile that you loved so much, “Yes, baby?”

“You okay?” you asked, giving him a small smile, “You looked lost in thought there for a second.”

Jake took your free hand in his, “Just thinking about how much I love you, and how lucky I am to have you.”

You couldn’t help but smile wider at him, rubbing your thumb over the top of his hand.

Every dead-end street, lead you straight to him. Every moment from the time you met him and the pack, to the moment you finally let yourself have that second chance of having a mate, every wrong turn, and every terrible moment, brought you to him. He’s all you need.

Jake watched as you finished eating, taking you by the hand, leading you back to the car, and helping you inside.

“Next stop is the grocery store!”

Jake followed behind you pushing the cart as you placed everything you wanted and needed into the cart.

Jake couldn’t wrap his head around why you would even think grocery shopping and even cooking for you would be any kind of nuisance. You’re a dhampir, you need both substances of humans and vampires to survive and that’s something Jake understood. He even got lessons from Jay on cooking so he could cook for you so you don’t have to always do it.

But he also saw your side and why it would bother you, you’re a bit different than normal vampires, and dhampirs are rare.

Jake started thinking about the percentages of dhampirs, curious what would happen if you and himself…conceived.

Jake leaned against the cart, mindlessly following behind you as he was stuck in this thought.

You stopped walking, seeing a bag of chips you’d want for a snack later, feeling the cart run into you, a quick “Oh shit,” slipping from Jake’s mouth.

You softly glared at your mate, raising a brow, “You’re deep in thought again.”

Jake nervously smiled, “Yeah, I had a random thought.”

You grabbed the bag of chips and placed them in the cart, “And what is that?”

Jake made eye contact with you, tucking his lip between his teeth before releasing it and speaking, “What if we created life?”

You chuckled, thinking he was joking, before seeing he was being serious, “Like actually?”

Jake nodded, dropping his head into his hands, “My Luna Nova, think about it. Think of our little moons we get to raise.”

You had to admit, Jake would be a great parent.

You smiled at him, “We can talk more about it once we finish grocery shopping.”

Jake and you barely walked into the front door before the groceries were dropped to the floor and his hands were on you, lips to your neck.

“Jake,” you softly whispered, “We need to put the groceries up.”

“Shhh,” he said between the pecks on your skin, “Let’s create life together, my sweet Luna Nova,” Jake ran his hands under your sweater, squeezing your hips, “Let’s create our own moons.”

You couldn’t say no to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. Creating your own little family didn’t sound so bad.

#jake bby #sim jaeyun #sim jake #jaeyun x reader #reader x jaeyun #jake x reader #reader x jake #enhypen #reader x enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #established relationship #youcompleteme #yeonzzzn writing #jake-aroo

270 notes · View notes

lqveharrington · 5 months ago

Text

Silver Roses & Fallen Snow

7: The Summer Days (series masterlist)

summary: 3 weeks after you found out about everything, it seems as if the world became memory lane, numbing everything you felt. But maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe.

pairing: young!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

includes: minimal use of Y/N, neglect, depression, making out, suggestiveness, death, underage drinking, rudeness, breaking down mentally and physically, talks about mother and fatherhood, italics are memories/flashbacks

wc: 6.7k+

a/n: i told you i didn’t forget about this series 🤞i also just finished reading the actual book early this july, so it was such an eye opener on how the characters really are

It’s been three weeks since you last saw Coriolanus and cut him out of your life; It’s been two weeks since you graduated high school with his diploma in tow with your own; It’s been exactly one whole week of feeling completely numb to all emotion. You tried to let yourself embrace the pain and truth, but it seemed that you would rather become immune to the truth than face it.

At first, your father encouraged you to take time to heal and think about your situation — how it could affect the Lovett reputation. Then he got tired of constantly dealing with a daughter that got heartbroken by a Snow, a cheater nonetheless. He gave up all attempts to help and understand you. Instead, he indulged himself in handling your future engagement with Festus Creed, roping you along.

You were to be engaged in mid-August, merely a little less than a month away. When you heard of the plans, it only solidified the armor coating your heart and the numbness you felt. Being numb was better than feeling the pain inflicted upon you during the Hunger Games.

“Have you talked to Festus yet?” Clemensia spoke carefully, taking a small sip from her tea.

“About what?” You practically whispered with how softly you were speaking. It occurred to you that you hadn’t spoken more than a few words a day toward others, making your frown deepen.

Clemensia sighed and pulled your hands into her own, rubbing the back of your hands soothingly. “About all of this. I know you didn’t want this, yet it seems like you’re too… Indifferent about the engagement.”

“I don’t get how being engaged and eventually married to Festus would make everything better or worse.” You pull your hands out of her hold. The lack of physical affection made you recoil from any you were to receive. “I’ll be fine.”

“Will you?” She glanced at your fidgeting hands and back up to your dulled eyes. It clicked in her head when you tried reaching up to mess with a charm that was missing.

You had lost your light in the world. You lost your silver rose.

She remembered the exact moment when you knew you were utterly in love with Coriolanus. It was a memory she believed was a core part of your life.

“Why are you all smiley?” Clemensia raised her brow at you, watching the exact moment when your eyes practically became hearts.

You became warm at the sight and strong gaze before meeting Clemensia’s eyes instead. “What?”

“Did Coryo arrive?”

“I—“ You try to search for a better excuse for your behavior before finding none, hanging your head low in shame. “Yes.”

Without much thought, Clemensia nudged your arm. “You’re so in love with him.”

Your eyes widen in surprise at her words. Were you in love with Coriolanus? You had only been dating for a couple of months, but you had known each other since childhood.

“I think I am.” You recount many memories where you never wanted to leave his side, all ending with the same feeling.

“You… What? Where are you going?” She rushed out, following you through the mass of students crowding the house. “You’re gonna tell him? Right now?”

“I mean, why not?” You shrugged. You didn’t think it mattered too much when you said it — especially when you both knew you had some kind of strong feeling pulling at your heartstrings. “Plus, I’m a little tipsy already.”

Clemensia’s mouth dropped in shock. You were so sweet and innocent before Coriolanus got to you. Well, more or less already impure from the books you read and spoke about with her.

You managed to slip right in front of Coriolanus, gaining another smile from the blonde. “Hey, beautiful. I was wondering when I could get to spend some time with you tonight.”

“Well, I’m here.” You lace a hand with him, thumbing the pulse point near his wrist. “And a bit tipsy.”

“How much have you had?” He dropped a hand toward your waist — pulling you close when a group of people ran behind.

“Just a tiny bit.” You pinch together your fingers with little space in between. “I’m not overly drunk or anything.”

Coriolanus hummed as he tilted your head up. He saw your glazed eyes, but he knew you hadn't been drinking so much. He pressed a light kiss on your lips, feeling your smile.

“Can I tell you something?” You whisper with full confidence. He grinned and nodded, waiting for you to continue. “I think I love you.”

His eyes widened, searching yours for any other reason you would say such a thing but truth. “You think?”

You tilt your head, “Well, no.” Coriolanus deflated at your response, trying to show no emotion through his facial features. You look between his eyes before frowning, cupping his cheek. “I’m not saying I don’t love you, Coryo. I’m saying ‘No, I don’t think I love you.’ I know I love you.”

He lets a breath of relief out, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Scared me for a second, beautiful.”

“Why?”

“Because I have loved you since the day I understood what feelings were.” He pulled you in for a mind-searing kiss, taking your breath and heart away.

“Oh, Y/N,” Clemensia murmured, holding you to her chest as you numbly let her.

Despite the affection, you felt the heartache from deep within you. It needed to be replaced with something else. Something that could help you recover from the damage and loss.

Wandering the halls of your home was something that you began doing a lot more often since Coriolanus left.

The Lovett Manor held so many memories in your lifetime. From the day you were born to the second the war ended. Each and every memory either good or bad is filled with distinct feelings and secrets only those residing long enough would know of.

Your memory of the Manor was written on the back of your hand, each and every detail embedded in your mind. You knew how many different sets of stairs there were, and how many different times you read the books in the private library. Yet as your hand brushed against the chipped paint of your old nursery and room, memories were faint, like a whisper in the wind.

“Mama?” You whisper, small hands clutching her soft ones. “Don’t leave yet.”

She smiled tenderly at you, tucking pieces of your hair behind your ears and encasing the stuffed bunny in your arms. “You have to sleep, baby.”

“But I’m scared.”

“Of what?” She ran her fingers down your cheeks, rubbing as you tried to find the words to express yourself. “Take your time, it’s alright.”

“I’m scared that you’ll leave me and never come back.” You sniffle, crawling into her lap. “I’m scared I’ll never see you again.”

“I’m right here,” She kissed the top of your head, pointing at your heart. “And I’ll always be there, even if you don’t see me.” She rocked you back and forth, “You’ll always have my love with you… I promise that even if you don’t see Mama, I’ll be watching over you. Like an invisible string.”

“You promise?” You hold your small pinky out, peering up into her loving eyes,

“I promise.” She intertwines her pinky with yours, kissing her thumb to lock it. “Now go to bed, sleepyhead. I love you.”

“I love you more—“

“Miss?” Em knocked on the doorframe of the nursery, causing you to flinch and drop the pink bunny onto the dusted floor. “Sorry to bother you, but Miss Snow is here to see you.”

“I’ll be down in a second, thank you.” You mumble, making up your old bed just as your mother did and tucking the bunny underneath the covers. You missed her dearly. Even the heavens knew how much she meant to you, yet they took her away at such a young age. She would know what to make of your situation. She would beg your father not to marry you off to Festus. She would help you through your heartbreak.

Yet she was gone. But you knew she was there to watch and protect you — tugging at the invisible string.

“Tigris,” You attempted a smile that seemed strained at the least, sitting across from her. She was dressed in her finest, making you question what exactly you were needed for. “Is there anything I can help you with? Would you like some tea?”

She shook her head and politely declined, clasping her hands together. “Oh no, I’ve just come to speak with you — If that’s alright.”

“Of course.” You signal for the Avoxes and your handmaid to leave the room. Silence occupied the space before the blonde spoke again, seemingly less confident than she appeared to be.

“How have you been holding up since… Well, everything.” She waved her hand in the air, recounting the many events that have followed the Hunger Games. Tigris watched you subtly flinch at the implied mention of the games. She knew how they — The tenth annual Hunger Games — were being erased from Panem, hoping it would fade as a mistake and a nightmare. She pursed her lips together, “I know I haven’t been checking in with you, but so many things are happening back at home and it’s just a lot.”

“Don’t stress about me. I’ve been… Coping, for a lack of better words.” You reach for your necklace to find it missing for the nth time since you’ve returned it to its buyer. “I’ve learned to accept my losses with the little dignity I have left. My days are boring and dull, but I’m sure the engagement will liven something up.”

You know the engagement won’t help the least, but why worry Tigris even more?

She widened her eyes in surprise, “Your father is still making you marry Festus?”

“It’ll boost the family name.” You say with sarcasm — the first real emotion you’ve shown in days.

“Y/N…”

“Tigris, if you’ve come to sympathize with me, it’s not needed. I’m doing as well as I can under my circumstances.” You suddenly snap toward the blonde, feeling like it was a ruse to get some kind of emotion out of you.

She opened her mouth to speak but shut it, giving you a turned-down smile. “I’m afraid this conversation has gone in a different direction.” Standing, she nods in respect before quickly adding, “If you ever need someone to talk to, you can always come and find me. Grandma’am and I are more than happy to have you over. And I know it may seem a tad bit weird, but you’re family to us.”

Your gardens were another place you loved dearly. From the hedge maze encasing the fountain in the center to the rows and rows of flowers, each and every one blooming during a different season; It was truly a sight to behold.

As of recently, you found solace in the garden. Of course, you weren’t allowed out of the house without your trusted handmaid, but it still felt nice to just be out where it felt like all your issues were resolved and gone.

Honestly, it felt like you were four again. It felt like you were running through the gardens with no care as to how the world would be when you got older.

Your parents invited the Snows over for dinner, meaning you and Coriolanus were left with your governesses — who made sure you were well-spoken for your age — until dinner started. While your parents were conversing around the gardens, you took it upon yourself to rid the boredom you both felt.

You blew out a hot breath, furrowing your brows in frustration. Pushing yourself up from the plaid blanket, you offer your hand to the blonde boy — tilting your head. “Follow me?”

With almost no hesitation, Coriolanus intertwined your hands together as you both ran away from your two governesses. Your giggles filled the air when you saw they made zero attempts to chase after the two of you. You both raced through the gardens, making twists and turns until you were out of breath.

“Where are we going?” Coriolanus squeezed your hand, following your every turn. When he received no response, he urged you to stop moving, halting his running. “Hello?”

You shush him, releasing his hand to hold onto the railing while pointing toward the setting sun. You push up on the tip of your toes and smile at the many colors painted in the sky. “Look! Isn’t it beautiful?”

Coriolanus was not expecting you to show him the sunset. He’d seen the sunset multiple times, why is it suddenly so special? He shrugged, “I guess.”

Yet you were entranced with the setting sun despite his lack of energy in response. You smiled wide as the wind blew through your unruly hair, “I know it’s beautiful, Coryo.” You turn your head and face him with your splitting grin, light brightening your eyes. “Everything in the sky is beautiful.”

“Like you.” Coriolanus slipped out before shoving a hand in front of his mouth. He watched you step down from the railing, confusion taking over your gaze.

“Me?” You murmur, picking at the bracelet around your wrist. “I’m not nearly as beautiful as my mother, or your mother, for that fact.”

He continued to keep his mouth shut, still shocked at his response.

“Whatever.” You sigh as you lean against the railing once more, repeatedly tugging at the bracelet. “I still think the sky is quite beautiful compared to most things.”

Coriolanus finally shrugged the shock off, moving to stand beside you. “I think you have the sky beat, beautiful.”

You shake your head at the memories flooding your mind. Those memories were too long ago for you to believe Coriolanus still loved you after the stunt he pulled. Taking the cream envelope from your dress pocket, you peel it open, smiling when you recognize Sejanus’ handwriting.

Dearest Flower,

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was recruiting for the peacekeepers until the day I had to leave. But, I do know something that can help you release all the pain without harming yourself mentally. I have a friend in the Capitol who can teach you all you need to know to release the pain about this… Let’s say, dilemma, you have. He lives near the bakery we always visited after school. If you have any questions about it, please write! I already miss your annoying voice. And don’t forget to update me every week!

From District 12,

Sejanus Plinth

P.S. His name is Phineas Miller.

“Wait, rewind.” Clemensia followed you through the Capitol’s square, ever bustling with many of the Capitol’s elite members. “We’re going to the bakery to meet with a guy Sejanus told you about?”

“I trust Sejanus.” You affirm as you push the bakery door open, bell jingling above the both of you. “If Sejanus trusts this Phineas guy, then I trust him too.”

She gave you a look of disbelief, “You realize how dangerous that is right? You could be walking into the arms of a murderer?”

You turn your head away from her and roll your eyes. Weren’t all Capitol students now considered murderers for mentoring students to their deaths? Besides, it’s not like the guy you were going to meet up with was a murderer right? He works part-time at the bakery for Panem’s sake.

“How about you find us a table and I’ll get some pastries for us.” You almost demand as she stalks off to find a table closest to the exit. Shaking your head at her, you glance over the bakery once more.

It had been a while since you’ve gone to this particular bakery, but nothing really changed other than popularity. The pastries looked the same, the rooming looked the same; so you were quite surprised when Sejanus told you the guy was found near here.

“Coryo, you don’t have to buy me the sweets—“

“But I want to.” He cuts you off before placing a soft kiss on your lips when he watches your mood turn sour. “Love you.”

You return the kiss, although begrudgingly. “Love you too.”

“Are you two done? We still have a project to complete.” Felix called out to you, causing the both of you to whip around and glare at the boy. He put his hands up and slowly turned back to Festus and Livia — the pair laughing at his own consequence.

Coriolanus points out the pastries you wanted toward the worker, squeezing your hand every time you tried to interrupt him. You were nervous as you knew how expensive this was going to be, but he was just too stubborn to listen to you.

“Never get between a girl and her sweet, right?” The cashier rang Coriolanus up, tilting his head in your direction.

You shrug and incline yourself closer to the blonde to your left. “Depends if you’re talking about the one currently paying for the food or the actual sweets itself.”

“Touché.” He handed you the containers, giving you a customer service grin.

Glancing down at his name tag before Coriolanus whisks you away with kisses to your temple, you find his name to be—

“Oh, you’re Phineas!” You exclaim at the male working the counter, causing him to give you a weird look. “Sorry, I just had a memory appear and you were in it… Sorry.” You cleared your throat, slowly walking up to the cash register.

“How can I help you?” Phineas wiped the flour off his hands, raising his eyebrows at you. You opened your mouth to answer but he cut you off, snapping his fingers in your direction. “You’re the girl who has a taste for sugary sweets and that scary boyfriend.”

You feel your face contort in displeasure, “Sure, but—“

“Where is he by the way? Isn’t he usually attached to you in some way or form?”

“Do I owe you an explanation? I barely know you.” You tap your fingers on the marble counter. You didn’t think he would be this nosy, but here you were. And you didn’t expect him to remember who you were either…

He shakes his head at you, “Okay okay, how can I help you?”

“Sejanus said I could talk to you? He said that you could help me with a mental exercise or something.” You mutter out, pretending to be interested in the sweets presented in the glass casing.

Phineas’ eyes widened with surprise, “I know I’m being quite annoying, but I didn’t expect you to be the girl Sejanus was talking about.”

“And why is that?”

“Nothing, but will that be all?” He rang you up, making you tilt your head in confusion.

You eye the pastries and back up to his fascinated gaze. Of course, he would pick the same ones Coriolanus picked out for you. “I guess.”

“Great, I’ll see you in a week in the gym next door!” He cheerfully handed you the container, moving on to the line of customers behind you.

“I— What?”

Disappointment was etched onto your face as you let your handmaid dress you. Your father said you were to promenade with Festus today in the parks. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing, but you were just told this morning, so your mood was more than unkind to those surrounding you.

“Must you tighten it so much?” You grunt as the corset gets pulled harder by Em. “I can barely breathe.”

“Sorry, Miss Lovett. It’s over now.” She ties the back before brushing down the floral sundress that adorned your body. “Will you need me to pick jewelry out or—“

“Thank you, that will be all.” You quickly speak, stepping down from the small stand where the mirror stands. “I’ll call for you when needed.”

She gave you a worrisome look before nodding in respect, shutting the door as she left your room. You purse your lips in frustration the second the door shuts. How could your father drop this on you all of a sudden? You were meant to stop by the Snow’s new place early in the morning to offer a basket of goods and needs, but your plans had now been pushed to late in the evening or tomorrow, which irritated you.

You swiftly snap on a pair of earrings and a golf bracelet, ditching the urge to find a necklace to wear. Glancing at the mirror one last time, you smoothed down the creases you left when digging through your jewelry and tucked stray strands of your hair away. You huffed as you thumbed your wrist, averting your eyes to the top left of the mirror. You don’t know why you still had the photo hanging, but you couldn’t take it down if you tried. It hurt to take it off.

“What did Professor Sickle say again? We only need 10 to 15 minutes in the sun? Or that we need at least 10,000 steps per day?” You wave your hand in the air with no intention of actually recalling what the gym professor said several days ago. “Because I think we’re well past the average.”

“I think I always have been,” Coriolanus spoke with an amused grin, earning a slap to the chest from you. “What? I do a lot of walking, you know this.”

You raise a brow while shaking your head. How could you ever hate Coriolanus Snow? He’s the perfect combination of everything you want and more. It was just a bonus that you knew him long before the war started.

“I can’t believe you said that.” You murmur in amusement, standing back when children run past the both of you — Kites and stuffed animals in tow.

Coriolanus watched your eyes light up at the sight of mothers and their children playing together. He knew how much you missed your own mother despite everything that happened; He also missed his own mother. He continued to observe you when a young girl — seemingly around the age of four — came up to you holding a flower.

“Is this for me?” You lean down and take the rose delicately when she nods shyly. “Well, I think it’s gorgeous, almost as pretty as you are!”

“Are you a princess?” The young girl asked with a curious gaze and reached to feel the silk you wore that day.

You smile and fully crouch down to speak with her, tucking a strand piece of hair behind her ear. “If you say I am, then yes, I am a princess.”

Coriolanus practically melted at the sight of you with children. You adored them, making him wonder how you would be if you decided to have children of your own someday. Perhaps with him…

“Really?” She lit up and held your hands in her own small ones. The young girl was practically bursting with joy, causing your heart to squeeze with happiness. She turned to look at her mother, “Mommy, I found a real-life princess!”

“That’s amazing, baby.” She scooped her child back into her arms and balanced her on her hip. “Sorry about her, we just read a book together about fairytales.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem.” You take Coriolanus’ hand as you get up, dusting your dress off with a small grin. “I’m glad she has an amazing imagination and such a gorgeous smile.”

“Is that your prince?” She pointed at Coriolanus with a shy smile — hiding her face in her mother’s neck when he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“He sure is, isn’t he pretty?”

Coriolanus gave a curt nod in their direction with his pearly whites on display, only reaffirming the young girl’s allegations. He leaned into the child, whispering a secret. “Between you and me, I think the princess is much prettier than I am.”

The little girl giggled, “You’re both pretty.”

“Now what are you telling her, Coryo?” You lean in as well, eyeing the both of them with faux suspicion.

He put his index finger up to his lips, earning another laugh from the young girl. You press a kiss to his cheek as you both lean back, waving goodbye to the girl and her mother. Watching the little girl leave, you felt for your necklace, twisting it around with slight excitement.

“You know, you’re going to be a great mama one day,” Coriolanus whispered by your ear as you continued your stroll around the park, hands intertwined once more.

You blush profusely at the thought of raising a child, nevertheless Coriolanus’ child. “Well, you would be a great father.” You peck his lips, smiling when he chased after them when pulling away.

Later that day you were approached by a photographer from the same park, handing you a print of the photo he took of you and Coriolanus after you interacted with the young girl. You thanked him, pointing out the bright smiles on your faces to your partner as he listened intently to you.

“Y/N?” Festus lightly tapped on your hand, causing you to blink your thoughts out of your head and focus back on the conversation. “Are you alright?”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded, “Yeah, sorry, just got inside my own mind.”

“You know, I don’t want this as much as you do.” He fiddled with the box in his jacket pocket, watching you give him a curious look. “And I’m sorry your father moved it up without telling you, so I won’t make it a spectacle for them.”

“Festus, no…” You tilt your head down as you feel the tears spring up in your eyes. This wasn’t how your father told you the whole engagement was planned, and it truly hurt how he defied your wishes of waiting a little longer for the proposal.

Festus handed you the ring and pulled you into a hug, rubbing your back as you let your tears fall onto his pressed suit. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You let yourself cry in the embrace of Festus. Despite his normally irritating behavior, he was one of your closest friends — and you seriously needed some time to think about what your future would look like. After a few minutes, you cried all your tears and let Festus take you home. He offered a few words to your father before bidding you a ‘good night.’

That night — and the next few nights — you fiddled with the engagement ring adorning your finger while crying to sleep, begging the numbness to come back. You trapped yourself inside your bedroom, only letting Em enter and leave. You ate minimally and answered in short sentences. It was only when you realized you had to visit Phineas that you left your room.

“Miss Lovett, your father—“

“—Will not care what I do as long as I leave my room.” You stop walking, pausing your handmaid’s steps as well. “You and our driver may pick me up in about an hour or later.”

“Do you not want company, Miss?” She caught your arm before you entered the gym — an old, rundown one she might add. “This place doesn’t seem like anywhere you should be.”

You tilt your head and silently ask her to leave you alone. “Em, I’m simply meeting someone who can help me. Sejanus referred me to him.”

She reluctantly let go of your arm, frowning at your stubbornness. “We’ll pick you up in exactly one hour, do you understand?”

You nodded and pushed open the creaking door, wincing when it slammed shut. The inside of the gym was a surprise, considering the outside was old. Everything inside was new or slightly used. Many people were conversing while working out, making you wonder how exactly you were going to find Phineas. Luckily your panic was short-lived as he approached you first.

“Hey, you actually showed up.” He grinned, this time dusting chalk off his hands. “Welcome to the Capitol’s Gym.”

You pull an unamused smile, glancing back at your outfit and then back to what Phineas was wearing. “I feel like I’m underdressed here.”

“Don’t worry too much about that. I’ll just be testing what you know today anyway.” He guided you further into the gym and chuckled at how you gave everything a curious glimpse.

“Phineas—“

“Call me Finn. Every time someone says Phineas I feel like I’m getting lectured.” He tugged a black shirt on and took a swig of water.

You raise a brow but don’t question it, “Okay, Finn, what do you mean by ‘what I know?’ Sejanus didn’t really clarify what you would be doing to help me, per se.”

He gave you a toothy grin, “How well can you box?”

Safe to say you were in shock at the question.

For the next hour, Finn gave you a rundown of how your training every week was going to go. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, you would work with him on boxing techniques and basic self-discipline. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you would work on exercises with the different machines and items, still coached by Finn.

He also taught you the basic skills after you discussed your schedule. He taught you different stances, jabs, and tricks in the ring. Eventually, the exhaustion got to you, refusing to go through another round of Finn blocking your every jab.

“I didn’t need to know that about you.” You wipe the sweat off your brow, catching the bottled water from him.

“You’re gonna be stuck with me for a while and you won’t do any of the talking, so here we are.” He shrugged and rolled his shoulders. “You’re not bad for a first-time boxer, you’ll get good within time.” Finn catches the shine of your engagement ring for the first time, a look of surprise taking over his face. “Did blondie propose to you?”

“What?” You stand up straight and harden your look at the male in front of you.

“You have a ring on your finger.” He points out the obvious, tilting his head to the side.

You frown at the observation, “It’s not— He and I broke up before graduation.” Finn dropped his jaw in shock before shutting it back up when you glared. “During the Hunger Games, my father concocted a deal with the Creeds. So I’m stuck with Festus.” You spin the ring on your finger, hating the feeling. “He’s not horrible, but I just wish my father would let me be for once.” You shrug, reaching for a necklace that was missing. “But everything is about the Lovett appearance.”

Two more weeks passed since that conversation and you finally had the reins of boxing. It was a way to mentally recover from the pain Coriolanus and your father left you with. You also got closer to Finn during those two weeks. It was easy to get along with him when you ignored all his nosy inquiries. You learned that he had multiple little jobs, intriguing you in the best way possible. This led to you explaining — to a very pouty Finn — why you had to leave your session with him earlier.

“Okay, but you wanted to come in today. I asked you a week ago about this.” Finn walked by your side as you slung your gym bag over your shoulder.

“Yes, I know that.” You avoid the questioning looks from bystanders in the gym. “But I haven’t visited Tigris in forever, and I have to visit or she’ll come to my house. Unannounced. Again.”

Finn raises his brow, “You say that like it’s a bad thing your ex’s cousin wants to visit you.”

“Ha ha.” You push the door open, wind rushing through the sundress that you had in handy. “I already called earlier to tell her we were going to bake together and talk about what’s happening—“

“You should totally bring some of those pastries over for me tomorrow, sweets.” He leaned against the brick wall, waving at your driver as they were suddenly well acquainted over the past few weeks.

You narrow your eyes at the male, getting a toothy grin back. “Whatever, Finn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gave you a wave as you drove away toward the Snows’ new place. Tigris said that she would meet you at the front of the building, which caused you to delve into more confusion. Although you knew about their situation, you didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. According to the gossip being spread amongst the Capitol Elites, they were sent to live with a man named Pluribus, who apparently also knew about their poverty.

Even after all these years with the Snows, you still knew nothing much about that.

Your mind pretty much consisted of the same thoughts until — what you assumed was since Tigris was standing outside — their new place came into view. You traded your gym bag for your bag of goodies and ingredients for baking, thanking your driver before stepping out. Immediately, Tigris walked over to help you, giving you a small smile.

“I hope you’re up to make chocolate muffins. Grandma’am has been dying to have some.” The blonde guided you over to their flat, almost causing you to go into cardiac arrest when you saw the place. Even their old penthouse was better than this place.

For once, you and Coriolanus were alone in the Snow penthouse. Tigris was out for work late and Grandma’am was tending to her rooftop garden, which could take hours; not that the both of you were complaining. At first, you and Coriolanus were making a batch of cookies for his family. But it slowly became apparent that you both couldn’t focus on that task. Simply because Coriolanus was absolutely smitten with you.

You grinned into the kiss when Coriolanus pulled you up onto the wooden table, letting him slot himself in between your legs.

“You’re so gorgeous.” He squeezed your hip before nipping your bottom lip, causing you to gasp. “I don’t think I say that enough.”

You pull apart from him, slightly tugging at his blonde locks to get him to listen. “You say it a lot more than you think you do, Coryo.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He plants kisses on your neck, sucking softly on your sensitive spot — one he found a while ago and always used it against you.

You quietly shifted yourself against him, doing your best to stay still and hushed. “Coryo…”

“Mm?” He trailed his kisses lower, making you feel like your skin was on fire.

“I don’t think we should do this right now— Coriolanus!” You grip onto his back as—

“Coryo?” Tigris called out from the hall before freezing and whipping back around. “Never mind!”

You flush red at Tigris’ comment, quickly jumping off the creaking table and steadying yourself in Coriolanus’ arms. He quickly adjusted himself while you fixed his and your outfit.

“Beautiful—“

“Not a word.” You put a finger up to silence him, washing the dishes you used to make the cookies.

It was clear after that incident that you and Coriolanus were no longer allowed to be home alone anymore; Even if Grandma’am constantly questioned why.

You suddenly registered Grandma’am’s voice, causing you to blush at the memory that reappeared. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

The older woman shook her head, “You might have to ask Tigris about that mixture, sweetheart. I think she forgot a step in the muffin recipe.”

Glancing down at the bowl in your hands, you scrunch your nose at the lumps — thanking Grandma’am before carrying it over to where Tigris went to grab something.

“Tigris? I need your help with something. I don’t think I made this the right way.” You frown at the mixing bowl in your arms and show her. The lumps were following the rest of the batter down, making you grimace. When she didn’t answer, you glanced up at her, freezing when you met a pair of blue eyes that made your knees weak. You spun the ring on your finger, “Oh, I’m sorry… I didn’t know—“

“It’s just Coryo.” She gave you a sad smile, nodding when her cousin spoke to her.

You purse your lips and wander back into the kitchen, arms tighter around the mixing bowl. Not what you were expecting when you visited the Snow residence.

To say you came running to Finn’s place a week after your visit with no rhyme or reason was a lie. Where else could you go? You knew he was up at this hour, but he would question your motives for appearing at his house with no other explanation except for your needing to let off some steam.

“You come here in the middle of the night to what? Just brush up on some skills?” Finn blocked your punches, small grunts leaving his mouth at your intensity.

“Sure.” You sucker punch him in the stomach, causing him to recoil. All in all, you did come to polish up certain points in your boxing classes, but you couldn’t bear the weight of the news you received earlier — plus your small interaction with Coriolanus.

“A letter for you, Miss.” Em handed you the cream envelope, making you smile.

You thought Sejanus forgot about writing to you after weeks of zero contact. Swiftly, you peel the wax seal off and unfold the letter, eyes dragging across the perfect cursive.

That wasn’t Sejanus’ handwriting. You froze in horror at the last few sentences, your heart hammering against your chest. Sejanus was gone? No, he was fine when he last mailed you… Despite that being weeks ago. There was no way he was gone and taken away from the world.

“Miss?” Em called out to you, watching silent tears fall.

“Hey!” Phineas snapped his fingers in front of your dazed gaze. “What happened?”

“Sejanus is dead.” You choke out, finally letting the exhaustion and pain take over your body. You collapsed in his arms, sobs echoing through the gym. Gone was the numbness you succumbed to. The pain engulfs you like waves crashing down onto the sandy shoreline.

He stroked your hair — doing his best to soothe you. “I know, I know… You’ll be fine.” Finn continued to murmur small reassurances toward you, every so often checking in to make sure you were well enough to move up and out of the rink.

Eventually, you calmed down enough to stop the immense sobbing. But it didn’t stop the need for mourning and finding out the truth about Sejanus’ death.

“Hey, did we find information on the death?” You interrupt Finn’s rant about the bakery refusing him to give food out to the homeless and hungry.

He hummed, handing you the notebook. “According to some District Twelve officers, he was involved with rebels who then betrayed him to get back to the Capitol. But these could just be rumors, there’s no confirmation about anything.”

You quickly scan through the data Finn collected from the different sources, noting that they all had one thing in common. However, one officer reported something different. “Well we knew Sejanus was a rebel already, but what’s this about a peacekeeper betraying him and turning him into the Capitol authorities?”

Finn glanced at the page you were pointing at before shrugging, “That’s from a guy who’s always drunk during the weekends. Not a reliable source.”

“Then why write it?” You cock your head to the side with a lopsided grin.

“To make my job seem important, sweets.” He snatched the book from your hands and tossed it on the desk. “Besides, we have more pressing matters about this plan of yours now.”

“Are we confirming it was a rebel betrayal then?”

“Based on the information? Yes.”

Tapping your fingers on the cup of your hot chocolate, you bit your lip in thought. What did Finn say about the next rebel collision…? You shook your head and continued to write what your plans were for the rest of the week. You had to stop by the orphanage, visit the modiste for your dress fitting, and—

“Snow.” A barista called out in the cafe, causing you to snap your head up. Of course, you Tigris was here. She frequently visited this cafe with you this summer, so you scanned the store but ended up locking eyes with the only other Snow physically capable of making their way over to the cafe.

You watched his eyes flit down to your hand, causing you to tuck your hand underneath your planner and focus back on your planner.

When the fuck did Coriolanus come back from peacekeeping?

taglist 1: @peterparkerluvvbot @nathaslosthershit @springholland @psychicpuppyarcade @whodis-26 @coconut-dreamz @slytherinholland @lacysversion @perks-of-being-jojo @itzmeme @noodlesketchbook @upsidedownjill @mizuki80 @unclecrunkle @tiaamberxx @bxtchopolis @starrynightstory @namelesslosers @lugiastark @dangelnleif @aemondsb1tch @witchsbitchestime @ace-spades-1 @ordinarylokix @kookie29 @secretsicanthideanymore @angelscrime @ms-longbeach @rosieleej @alpha-mommy69 @loklaufeysonssgodess @aoi-targaryen @imaginebeingmentallystable @sighsophiia @innercreationflower @cascadingbliss @edb954 @castellandiangelo @nowitsmissing @lookclosernow @httpfandxms @goobitagoobre @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @captainbabybear @becauseseaotters @mvdhvtterxx @moonisu @boredperson120 @kuroosbby001 @dcylight-fciry (comment to be added!)

—

123 notes · View notes

0bticeo · 1 year ago

Text

may the odds be in your favour | coriolanus snow x fem! reader

series masterlist.

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5.

chapter summary: blood will have blood.

“what makes you think that, put in the same circumstances, we wouldn’t turn ourselves into beasts to survive?”

there’s silence. there are twenty four gazes pinning you down to your seat. there’s coriolanus snow, blue eyes a shade darker than they were before you started talking. you meet his gaze and sense something shifting. it’s in the way he leans a tad bit closer, lips parted as though to speak – no. to taste.

wc. approx. 2000 words.

cw. sexual tension. probably innacurate anatomical description. manipulation. reader and coriolanus being assholes. death threat (implied). religious imagery. sleep deprived author.

weeks pass. snow greets you every morning at your front door and extends his arm to you until you have no choice but to link it with your own. occasionally, he brings a rose, gently tucking it in the lapels of your coat. in your hair, fingers gently brushing your cheek. in your breast pocket.

you know it to be a blatant claim. here you are, proud descendent of the ash dynasty, allowing him to own you. you tell yourself it’s only for a few months. that, whatever the outcome may be, there’s no way that damned prize will escape you. you ignore the growing ache between your thighs, the way you lean into snow’s touch when he leads you back home.

let him think he’s playing you like a fiddle. let him think he’s turned your own game against you. let him think, and weaponize the truth to your advantage.

you have very few things left to your name. pride is one of them. you won’t discard it for his name.

what you will do is this. you will sit next to him in class, head held high, legs crossed under your skirt. you will not pretend you’re not enjoying the way his gaze burns into you whenever you turn one of his arguments against him in rhetoric class. oh, rhetoric.

etched in white remnants of chalk against the blackboard is the question you’ll have to treat today. there’s silence in the class, as you all take it in.

what are the hunger games for?

date’s fourth of february. in five months, maybe, you’ll get an answer that doesn’t rely solely on theory. that doesn’t rely on the minds of know-it-all, privileged bastards whose only experience of life has been luxury. for now, your only choice is to take your seat next to coriolanus snow and lean back ever so slightly, trying not to roll back your eyes.

they talk, all of them. felix ravinstill, arachne crane.

the hunger games are a proud display of savages from the districts—to remind us that we are better than them.

clemensia dovecote. lysistrata vickers.

the hunger games are a reminder of what befalls the districts. that they should not stand against the capitol.

sejanus plinth.

it’s barbaric.

at that, your attention shifts. you focus on him, the one from district 2. the one whose father’s wealth was enough to bring to the capitol. the one with the dark curls and passionate fire in his eyes—he dreams of justice and fairness. interesting.

he doesn’t talk. no, he argues. finally someone who understands the noble art of rhetoric.

“putting them in an arena to fight—they’re doomed the moment their names are chosen! it’s inhumane, having them slaughter each other for our own entertainment!”

you watch him, cheek cradled in your palm. he’d make a good lawyer, you muse. the naive, righteous type.

you watch the others. the way arachne crane rolls her eyes so far back in her skull you think they’ll stay stuck. the way felix ravinstill snickers, barely conceals his disdain for the district boy, for daddy’s precious boy. it’s palpable, the way they all disregard him. doesn’t matter if he’s wealthier than half the class—he’s district.

“what about you, ash?”

fucking snow.

you glance at him, from the corner of your eye. he’s been watching you, too. wonderful mise en abîme. you watch them, he watches you. who watches him? are you all being watched?

ah, he’s waiting. they all are. as if your opinion matters to them. as if it matters at all. but you have to put on your usual show, display your wit. so you lean back against your chair, lips drawn in a sharp, sharp smile, and say:

“why, it’s a dreadful reminder of human nature is all.”

there’s silence, then. twenty-four gazes are on you, and they’re waiting.

what are you, a messiah?

snow smile, judas dressed in red.

“go on, ash.”

you do, martyr thrown to the lions.

“so far, the general sentiment has been that we’re better than them, those savages from the districts—don’t look at me like that ravinstill, i’m only quoting you.”

you pause. you can’t outright tell them they’re influenced by a centuries-long tradition of countless philosophers. you’ll lose their interest.

“we think they’re savages. we see what we think is proof—footage of the games, of how they use anything at their disposal to slaughter themselves for our own entertainment, as plinth wonderfully put it.”

you nod in his direction and watch the glint of confusion is his eye, perceptible even from afar. poor boy will be torn to shreds if he doesn’t learn to conceal his emotions better. this is the capitol—worse arena known to panem.

(you think of your father’s flesh being torn by a man-beast’s bloody teeth in what was supposed to be a beacon of civilisation. you think of the dark abysses of his eyes, of the silent promise in them – you’d be next.)

you intend to make that fact known to those oblivious to it.

“what makes you think that, put in the same circumstances, we wouldn’t turn ourselves into beasts to survive?”

“those are bold words from such a young lady, miss ash. you shouldn’t speak so lightly of such grave matters.”

you realise that in the brief time your gaze met snow’s, your classmates have looked up. up towards esteemed casca highbottom who stares you down, short silhouette all-encompassing. there’s something in his tone that makes your blood boil.

you smile, sweet and sharp.

“then maybe we shouldn’t brooch the subject in rhetoric class, sir.”

the odds switch and twist and turn with each passing second. you might get a glimpse of what’s in store in the way the dean’s hand trembles as it reaches in the recesses of his robe – morphine.

he gulps down the contents of the small vial in one go.

“class is dismissed for today.”

when you leave the room, you feel the weight of his gaze like a knife between your shoulder blades.

you don’t like the feeling of it.

philosophy’s only worth it if you’ve got someone to discuss with. unfortunately, you don’t. rhetoric class doesn’t count. after the dean’s impromptu interruption, you don’t get to debate. not anymore. instead, he makes you pour over law texts – capital punishments for traitors. you think of it as a warning and keep your mouth shut.

what you do enjoy is anatomy class. which is why you’re currently in the library, pouring over a heavy tome, nibbling on your lip as your fingers trace over the shape of a drawing. it’s beautiful, an inked figure detailing the different veins in the neck. jugular. internal. external. carotid artery. dorsal scapular artery. your finger follows the pattern, lips parted in an inaudible murmur as you stare ahead. inferior thyroid vein-

“what are you doing?”

fucking snow.

you have half a mind to throw him an annoyed glare and go back to your drawing.

“what does it look like?”

he raises an eyebrow. inquisitive bastard, that one.

“studying. badly.”

this time, you raise your head.

“and does the great coriolanus snow have a better way to memorise the anatomy of the cervical region? enlighten me.”

he slides on the bench next to you. close. close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him. to smell him. roses, as usual. the same fragrance of the roses he gives to you each time he notices one withers away. (you don’t tell him you’ve kept them. each of them, pressed neatly between the pages of what books remain of your family’s once grandiose library.)

he unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing the pale expanse of his neck. pale as snow. how very fitting.

“well? Where’s the external jugular?”

you let out a chuckle and move closer to him, until your fingers trail down his neck, following the path of his vein.

“what’s next, snow?”

he gulps, adam apple bobbing up and down ever so slightly. Leans into your touch as he glances down at the book – your fingers dig into his neck, until you feel his pulse, quick as the fluttering wings of a jay bird.

“inferior thyroid vein.”

there’s no pattern to the veins he’s asking you to map out on his skin. your fingers move slightly to the left. if you squint, you can make out its contours, faint blue line under the pale, pale skin. You wonder if you’d see it better if you’d blow on it. you do, softly, until you feel his breath catch in his throat – he coughs.

“next.”

“anterior jugular vein.”

you chose to start your path from the bottom, lightly pressing your finger over the button of his shirt – not yet undone, this one. you trail up.

“next.”

“external carotid artery.”

you chuckle at that. Ssomehow, you’ve moved closer to him. His hand has come to rest on your hip, steadying you as you trace the patterns that make up his life. you look up at him. he meets your stare, stark blue eyes darkening. pretty, deadly eyes.

“do you know the difference between the jugular vein and the carotid artery, snow?”

you move to his jaw, pressing your fingers lightly against the bone, until you’re all but cradling his face between your hands, a breath away from his lips.

“tell me.”

“the carotid’s harder to reach with a knife.” you lean forward. his eyes dart to your lips. “however, If i were to succeed, it would take you two minutes to die.”

when you lean back, you’re the one smiling.

"thank you for helping me study, snow. it's been most... enlighting."

#obticeo writes #tbosas #coriolanus snow #president snow #the hunger games #sejanus plinth #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you

175 notes · View notes

super-cosmic-library · 2 years ago

Text

loosely based on this post

tw: mentions of blood

Look, everyone had gone through a vampire phase. One Mrs. Stephanie Meyer had a heavy hand in that. And even if one had somehow managed to skirt the whole Twilight saga, there were a litany of other vampire books/tv shows/movies that came in its wake. Almost everyone in the 2010s wanted a vampire boyfriend. Even Robin, whose taste veered toward the more extraterrestrial side of paranormal fiction, had confided in Steve that she wouldn’t mind having an undead, blood sucking vampire girlfriend.

All in all, Steve didn’t get it. Why did nearly all of the girls in his grade fawn over the idea of getting with someone older than their great grandfathers? It was gross. Not to mention the fact that vampires didn’t have blood, so how would they even be able to get it up in the bedroom?

The whole mess baffled him to no end, and he was grateful when its popularity died down. He didn’t know if he would be able to take listening to Max and El giggling over Edward What’s-his-face.

His relief, however, was short lived. Just as the kids he baby sat started to enter high school, the Twilight saga had a resurgence of popularity all thanks to TikTok. Only this time, he didn’t just have to hear it from the girls. Max and El had gotten Lucas and Will to watch the movies with them, which led to them reading the girls’ copies of the books. And, look, Lucas he understood. When Steve was in high school, he would have done anything to please Nancy. (Luckily, she had been more interested in the rising popularity of the dystopian genre. He had thoroughly enjoyed listening to the Hunger Games series on audiobook.) But Will? Even if he was just doing it to bond with his sister, Steve thought the boy had more taste than that.

And when Lucas and Will became obsessed with it, so did Mike and Dustin. Again, Steve understood Mike, even though unlike Lucas, he was totally oblivious to his crush on Will. But Dustin? As far as Steve was aware, Suzie wasn’t allowed to read the series, even though the creator was also Mormon.

At least Erica was still at the age where she turned her nose up at any hint of romance.

But, you know, it wouldn’t be such a big deal if the kids obsession with vampires contained itself to the fictional world. He could deal with it better if it did. If then, they might be able to talk about other topics of interest. Hell, Steve would give anything to listen to the boys ramble all day long about their Dungeons and Dorks game. But Steve wasn’t so lucky.

Because while he loved the kids’ strong, creative imaginations, it meant that sometimes their fictional obsessions would spill over into the real world. And that. That was what he was really fed up with.

“I swear, it’s him,” Dustin nearly shouted over the other boys. “Same name. Same exact hair. He’s a vampire.”

Steve restrained a groan as he looked up from the dishes to see Dustin, Lucas, Will, and Mike at the dining table crowded around what appeared to be a high school yearbook.

“He can’t be!” Thank god, Mike was being the voice of reason. (Something Steve never thought he would be.) “I’ve seen him walk to his van in the sun, and he was totally fine. Also, on spaghetti day in the cafeteria, he ate, like, three slices of garlic bread!”

Steve had thought too soon.

“Then how do you explain this?” Dustin asked, gesturing to the page.

“Maybe it’s someone he’s related to?” Will offered.

“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

Curiosity got the best of Steve. What could he say? Even if he hated this whole vampire thing, he enjoyed the weird little adventures his kids went on. Steve didn’t have many friends growing up. Hell, aside from Robin, he didn’t have many friends now. At least, friends his own age. It made his heart warm, seeing all of them getting to be a bunch of idiot children together.

But they didn’t need to know that.

“What are you little shits looking at?” He slung the dish towel he had been using to dry the flatware with over his shoulder, and made his way over to the table.

“Steve, we think our new DM is a vampire!” Dustin announced excitedly.

Steve put his hands on his hips (his signature mom pose, according to the kids), and rolled his eyes. “Vampires aren’t real.”

He didn’t say it to dull the kid’s enthusiasm. If anything, antagonization was their form of love language. Plus, Dustin always took the discouragement as a challenge to double down on whatever stance he took. Steve had to admire the kid for his confidence in himself. He knew first hand how easily that could be stripped away.

“Then how do you explain this?” Dustin slid the yearbook over for him to look at, pointing at the man in question. “He’s been in high school for years.”

Steve glanced down at the page. “Oh, Eddie Munson? He was in some of my classes last year. He was held back twice; though, that may have been because he almost never showed up to class. But that doesn’t mean he’s a vampire.”

“This is an old yearbook, though,” Lucas countered.

“If last year is old, then how ancient do you think I am?” Steve snipped. He pointed to the class picture that captured his likeness. “Look, there’s me. Does that mean I’m a vampire?”

“Steve, this isn’t your yearbook.” Dustin held the cover of the book up for Steve to read. There on the cover, in green and gold, were the words “Class of 1985.”

“What?” He snatched the yearbook from him, and flipped back to the page they had been studying. “No, that’s . . .”

He trailed off. Yes, that picture had captured his likeness; however, it was his father’s name that was written underneath. His father, who he was apparently the spitting image of.

“Maybe it’s his dad,” Steve tried, flipping through the pages. “Or his uncle. Doesn’t he live with his uncle?”

“We already checked the rest of it.” Mike snatched the book away from him. “He’s the only Munson in there.”

“His dad and his uncle could have not been in high school together,” Will countered.

“Thank you for being the only reasonable person here.”

Will blushed at Steve’s praise.

“I am telling you,” Dustin trudged on. “Eddie Munson is a vampire. And we’re going to prove it.”

~~~

Proving it ended up being more challenging than the boys had thought. As Mike had already proved, Eddie had no aversion to garlic or the sun. Crosses, Lucas pointed out, had no affect on him either, seeing as he wore one on his ring. So there went that theory. Dustin had even followed him into the bathroom one day to see if Eddie had a reflection in the mirror. He ended up having two Eddies stare at him like he was a creep.

Either none of the stereotypes were true, or--and Dustin was loathe to admit it--Steve was right.

There was still one more thing they could try.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Lucas said.

Dustin huffed. “Well, do you have any better plans? Because the only thing we haven’t tried yet is a stake to the heart, which is a dumb thing to begin with because that could kill anyone.”

“What about holy water?”

“And how are you going to get a priest to agree to bless a bottle of water?” Mike asked.

“My pastor might do it,” Lucas said.

“Let’s just try this first,” Dustin said. “And if it doesn’t work, you can call your pastor.”

The plan was simple, really. While they were playing DnD that afternoon, Dustin was going to “accidently” get a paper cut. Eddie’s reaction to the fresh blood would determine whether or not he was a vampire. It was fool proof.

Unfortunately, it seemed like Dustin was a fool. Who could blame him, though? Eddie was an amazing Dungeon Master. He knew just how to craft a story to suck just about anyone in. It wasn’t until they were packing up at the end of the session that Dustin remembered the plan. That probably explained the looks the other boys had been shooting him the entire time.

Dustin was just about to drag the edge of a piece of paper across this hand, when the drama room door banged open.

“Alright, you little shits. Get in the car. I’m already having a bad day, and I don’t need your moms blowing up my phone asking where you are.”

“Steve, why do you have a tampon in your nose?” Will asked.

Dustin glanced up at Steve, only to find that the man indeed had a bloody tampon in his nose.

“I had a nose bleed, and didn’t have any Kleenex in my car. It’s the only thing Robin or I had. And it works, so I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”

Blood.

Dustin nearly gave himself whiplash turning his head to look at Eddie. Eddie, who was staring at Steve with eyes that could only be described as ravenous.

“King Steve,” Eddie drew out as he approached Steve.

“Munson.”

“Now why’s a pretty jock like you carting around a bunch of nerdy freshmen?”

“I baby sit them.”

Eddie chuckled. “Yes, they are a bunch of babies.”

That was met with a round of protests from the kids.

“How hard was your nose bleeding? Aren’t tampons supposed to be super absorbent?”

Lucas was right. There was a ring of blood leaking down the tampon.

“Are you okay?” Will asked.

Eddie, however, did not look okay. Dustin had never seen him so focused on one thing as he was with Steve’s nose. And that included DnD.

“Yeah, it just happens sometimes. I’ll be fine. Now come on, or Robin’s going to start honking.”

They were being corralled out of the building before Dustin could come to any concrete conclusions, but judging from the way Eddie had stared at Steve’s nose, he was sure their hunch was correct.

Now they just had to prove it.

~~~

Turned out, the best way to prove their DM was a vampire was to show up at his trailer unannounced. Catch him off guard while he was at his most comfortable. In fact, the hardest part about the whole thing had been trying to convince Steve to drive them over to the trailer park. In the end, he was a push over as always.

Dustin bounded up the steps to the trailer, the other boys close behind. He pounded on the door. “Eddie!”

A crash came from inside, followed by a grumbled “shit.” A few moments later, Eddie swung open the door.

“Couldn’t have given me a heads up?”

“We have some urgent DnD questions. Couldn’t’ve waited for you to respond.” Dustin and the rest of the boys pushed passed him into the trailer. Only Will hesitated, sheepish look on his face.

“Hey, wait, what are you doing!” Eddie called after them.

“Oh my god, have some manners,” Steve slammed his car door closed.

“Steve,” Eddie began. “They roped you into this?”

“They threatened to walk otherwise. Couldn’t let them get hit by a car or kidnapped.”

The four boys searched around the tidy trailer, not even trying to appear like they weren’t.

“What are you knuckleheads doing?” Eddie asked.

Steve, who they had not informed what they were doing, seemed to have caught on to their plan. “Not this again.”

“You know what they’re doing?”

“Guys, look!” Mike, staring in the fridge, exclaimed. The boys ran over to him.

“Hey, you guys, get out of there!” Eddie exclaimed.

“Yeah, knock it off. Let the man live in piece.”

Dustin, Lucas, and Will gasped when they saw the contents of the fridge. Yes, there was normal people food in the fridge--nothing to write home about. But stacked on the top shelf was the motherload: bags and bags of blood.

Mike grabbed one and held it out for Steve to see. “We fucking told you!”

“Eddie’s a vampire,” Dustin vibrated with excitement. “Eddie, you’re a vampire.”

“Eddie’s not . . . there’s gotta be . . .Eddie?” Steve looked to Eddie as if asking him to deny the kid’s claims.

Eddie crossed his arms over his chest and heaved out an exasperated sigh. “Looks like you caught me.”

“I fucking told you!” Dustin shouted at Steve.

“Language.” Steve snapped. “Eddie, come on. Be serious. Vampires don’t exist.”

“Telling the truth, Harrington.” Eddie flashed them his fangs. “I am a vampire.”

“You’re teeth aren’t normally that sharp,” Will said.

“I can control when my fangs come out,” Eddie said with a shrug. Then, to demonstrate, he retraced his fangs, so his teeth looked human again. “It’s been handy in hiding from mortals. In fact, you guys are the first to figure it out. Surprised it took this long for anyone to notice, honestly.”

“So you’ve been able to hide in plan sight for, like, hundreds of years?” Dustin asked.

Eddie slouched down onto the couch, understanding that he was about to be pelted with about a million questions. “More like forty.”

“Forty?” Will asked.

“I was turned in the ‘80s. ‘86, I think. I don’t know, the years start to blur together.”

“So, you’re just as old as our parents?” Mike scoffed. “Lame.”

“But I look much better than them.”

The boys took his nonchalance as permission to start their rain of questions.

“So do you have vampire powers?”

“How can you eat garlic?”

“Does the sun not burn your skin?”

“Do you have to get permission to enter new places?”

And on and on they went, only briefly pausing for Eddie to get a sufficient answer out. Meanwhile, Steve just stood by the door. Dustin could tell he was trying to process the fact that he had almost graduated with a vampire. Dustin could understand. Had he not already been convinced himself, the information would have taken a bit to accept.

When Steve finally came back around, he joined the group surrounding Eddie.

“Why are you still at Hawkins High?” Steve asked. “You were in class with my parents. Couldn’t have you gotten out and gone someplace people won’t recognize you?”

Eddie paused, actually giving that question some thought. The other boys let him think it through instead of feeding him more questions. They wanted to know the answer too.

“Well, I tried to once, but then Wayne started having health problems, and I didn’t want to leave him alone. When I realized that I had stopped aging, I decided to stay with him even after he recovered. Realized that if I don’t grow old, I’m going to outlive him. I’d rather spend the rest of his life with him, than in hiding and regretting it when he’s gone. As for people recognizing me: you’d be surprised how little attention the freaks of Hawkins get.”

The group sat in silence for a moment, letting his words sink in. Dustin supposed that if he were turned into a vampire, he would stick around to spend as much time with his mom as he could.

“Speaking of, where is your uncle?” Lucas asked.

Eddie smiled to himself. “Technically, he’s my little brother. We started doing the whole uncle/nephew thing when he got too old to believably be my brother. And he should be finishing up his shift at the hospital. Decided to become a nurse after finishing chemo. He has always been the smart one. Besides, it helps with procuring my stash of blood.”

Mike perked up at that. “So you do drink blood?”

“Yes.”

“But we’ve seen you eat real food.”

“You’re point?”

Mike huffed. “So do you need blood to live, or is it just a craving--like wanting a Coke?”

“I can eat real food, but it doesn’t fully satisfy my hunger. Only drinking blood does that.”

“Have you ever?” Steve gulped. “Have you ever drank blood from a person.”

“You offering?” Eddie smirked.

Steve flushed.

Weird.

As his friends continued to talk, Dustin’s mind wandered. It was no secret that Steve found men attractive. He was the biggest slut in Hawkins, after all. And Dustin had only ever seen him nervous around men who he thought were really hot.

Oh, Dustin could have fun with this. After all, didn’t everyone want a vampire boyfriend?

okay, well this completely got away from me. will I make this a series? mayhaps.

#steddie #vampire eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #Eddie Munson the boomer vampire

432 notes · View notes