#he has chosen violence today
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Dark-haired Seungsik aesthetic (intense vers.) for kind mutual @jongside and her rambling about Sikkie's muscles haha
I love how this is the third Sikkie collage I made in one day (whoops)~
#victon seungsik#seungsik#love this#kpop#kpop pics#kpop pic collage#victon pic collage#fanny🖤💎#for my lovely obsessive fangirl#he has chosen violence today#by slaying us all with his looks
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Mic snorts, failing miserably to hide his giggles, "Why are you so short?"
"Says the man who looks like a whole ass Cockatiel!"
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I already sent you an ask today so hiiii
(Alright so now I hopefully have your attention, imagine: ancient settling, mercenary könig is made prisoner and enslaved and reader, a cute noble girl, buys him to ☆have fun☆. He doesn't mind at all.)
Have a good day!
anon whoever you are… every message that you have sent has been like you putting a clawing animal in my brain. all of these concepts are so good. sorry it took me a bit to get around to this one. <:•)
captured mercenary! König x noblewoman! reader
content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. medieval au (so: gender role nonsense), slightly mean slightly pathetic König, very brief mentions of violence/beheading, masturbation.
“That one.”
You hear yourself speak without thought. Your voice is shy, almost. It’s unbecoming of your station to seem so meek… even as you eye the men lined up before you like cattle prepped for slaughter.
Prisoners, they were. All apart from the one you had chosen would be little more than toys for the executioner after what they’ve done: to think that such a little band of mercenaries would even be planning for a siege… ridiculous. Most of the men have already had their hair cut cleanly away from their necks in preparation for the blade that would be slicing past each vertebrae and layer of muscle to chop away their heads.
This one is saved only because he’s been stripped of his armors, and though his face is rather rugged… there’s strength beneath his skin and such a deep misery in his eyes it sets your chest ablaze with pity. He could be useful, a willing servant if you could only save him from what terrible thing haunts him.
Maybe it’s the old wounds that flare his skin with the raised flesh of scar tissue, perhaps it’s the harelip or the wild thing set between his thighs where he’s forced to kneel. It catches your eye, that last one…
The prisoner’s jaw sets when your finger does point his way, blue eyes narrow just a fraction as realization settles in the pit of his stomach. No freedom to be garnered here, no love, nothing but that blade he had intended to use against you sworn to you instead. If the giant spit at your feet then, it would be expected, welcomed almost with the way your chest roars with sympathy.
He only stares.
You pay off his captors with a few silver coins and watch as they lead him bound to your side. His arms are tied too tightly before him, muscles slack with exertion after trying to fight the ropes for what must have been hours. Whether he sees you as savior or something revolting remains unknown. He doesn’t speak, not even as a servant leads him into the back of your carriage and you step inside after him, holding up the middle of your gown as to not sully it with the dirt and old blood splattered over the stones layered for street.
When the horses begin to move you give the man a proper once over, hiding your smile beneath a handkerchief, free hand curled into the lap of your skirts. He’s not just tall and broad, but incredibly well endowed. Not just sad and downtrodden, but pissed, though the only tell remains his shaking fists. His gaze never meets yours for longer than a moment before it settles back to gaze at the passing tall grass and sheep prancing about the fields, but each time that it does… there is no denying the mixture of confusion, maybe even attraction upon his face.
Your home was something this giant had never had a taste of prior to you: a castle atop a hill, charming and stone with its high ramparts and blunt roof. You didn’t need his confirmation in words, though you do ask and get nothing in turn.
The carriage pulls you right through the gate and it is almost cute the way that this man’s eyes seem to wander as he takes it all in. There are other servants tending to the sheep and horses, the smell of fire and the chiming of blade meeting blade ringing out as men spar, there are cats to keep away pests and modest but cozy homes, a tavern, an inn all beyond the wall. A small city of your own: all for the perfect little noblewoman that you were.
The only thing that you lacked was the trained sword of a man to ensure your safety, and now you had that, too.
You explain to him his place here, the role that he would take for the price you paid as you both disembark from the wooden carriage. He would be fitted for armor donning your family’s crest come the morning, whipped into obedience should he dare raise a hand toward any one here. You even think to warn him of the executioner’s sloppy work, how he may even live with his head chopped only halfway off should you request it…. some horror you had heard one of the travelers speak of.
As the weeks pass, König does begin to settle immensely. His speech is disjointed and parsed, his mother tongue muddled with your own language in a way that is cute… terribly, horribly cute.
He’s intelligent and strong: spends much of his time out amongst the lower men aiding with the animals and teaching them the deft way he swings his blade. It is an art form in its own right, the way that he paints the air with swift strokes… For a woman to fawn over a man’s swordplay was absurd, but it was impossible not to enjoy when he taunts and jabs the way that he does.
He rarely wears that armor the blacksmith crafted for him, both a flattery and an insult. You don’t mind watching him best smaller men in solely his trousers, pressing their faces into the muck while he barks his insults to them in words they can not understand. To you, now, when he flashes the most beastly of grins in your direction and utters the words, “Verpiss dich.”
You aren’t even certain why you stand there rather than hissing out orders to have him taken away. Your stupid corset feels too tight, gown too small, and your chest aches. There's not been a thing you could do to have this man do more than simply tolerate you. He sleeps within his own room in the castle, eats his fill and then some, you talk to him and layer your words with praise. He has not once been punished for anything. Not even now.
“Come here,” you demand without thought, walking down the staircase to cross the yard with your hands balled into delicate fists at your sides.
Your giant only looks confused for a moment as he clambers off of the man he’s just wrestled to the earth and rights himself. His eyebrows raise, his nostrils flare… and then he laughs. At you like you’re the most puny of rabbits, hardly a threat. Your betters would have laughed too at just how fragile you sound, on the cusp of tears over what? Some ridiculous little crush on a captive soldier??
He eventually does as you ask, stomping over to stand before you- not kneel, he never knelt. If his height and stature were meant to intimidate… your god would have to forgive the thoughts that muddle your head then, like filthy water as you drink him in.
“Was…?”
So you explain to him as best you can just how insolent he’s being, how horribly he repays your kindness, how he would be dead on some shrouded mountain pass or have his body tossed into the river if not for you. You explain your heart out when tears come to your eyes and spring forth as your chittering continues, and you don’t even know if the moron can understand; he only stands there with the wildest grin on his face when he sees you beginning to sniffle and sob.
“Was?,” he demands again, blunt even as he takes your face into one of his large hands, turns your head to brush a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Why are you crying?”
“You need to learn your place!” And you know you’re being a hypocrite, that a proper lady should never allow a man to touch her like this, look at her the way that König does. You should call for a servant to have him dragged through the yard and whipped… or worse, but your voice only comes in a crestfallen whisper.
He shrugs those massive shoulders, rolls his neck and huffs a breath as he gazes down at you before his hand falls to his side and he merely walks away. That’s it.
Though you had the hopes that your warning had been taken seriously, the days following seem even worse.
König abandons his duties and takes up the most horrendous idea of courtship that he can muster. If courtship is even what it could be considered. It is more like a direct taunt, a jab now that he’s been made perfectly aware just how fragile the maiden he was sold to guard is.
He takes liberties once you’ve bedded down each night, your dresses stripped away to be replaced with a plain linen gown with nothing beneath: your only protection in the form of the wooden door between you two because König is no protector.
It always starts with the sound of spitting into his palm, then a drawn out sigh that rises to a near-animalistic groan. Sometimes he speaks, other times the soft, wet sounds rise in tempo until all that comes from his mouth are sharp hisses and whines.
This night proves to be the worst.
The wood creaks under his weight as he leans back against the door, stroking himself to the thought of you behind it. He makes it apparent when he breathes your name, low and shaky as you squeeze your eyes closed and pretend to not hear the words that follow.
“Scheiße… bet you’re tight,” he hisses between his depraved whimpers, the slick sounds increasing even as he rights himself to stand proper. You can almost hear the way he salivates, can almost imagine the way his jaw must fall slack and his eyes go dazed as he pleasures himself… you squeeze your thighs shut.
“Ja… you want it too, huh…” The bastard is most assuredly imagining you, knelt before him with the most helpless, reverent gaze as you plead for him. It should make you ill, yet it only stokes a fire in your belly, one that bridges between rage and need. “Ich will dich ficken…”
Your breath comes to a halt when your hand drifts beneath your thin gown, forcing yourself to listen as he brings himself to ruin in the halls as your finger presses to the spot that demands attention most of all. A fragile, shaking circle before your breath already begins to catch.
“Bitte…”
The brute sounds so helpless now, no longer the horrid thing that ordered you to “piss off” or scowled in your direction. He doesn’t know a thing about love… about how one should yearn for a maiden, only of spilling blood and seed. It’s only in the quiet of the night when the rest of the castle sleeps does he allow himself to be even this vulnerable… only his vulnerability seems even more terrifying.
His groans morph into pitiful sighs as he no doubt slows his motions, drawing out an impending orgasm in the hope that you will crawl to your door to let him in and fuck you rough on your bed.
“Just let me…”
Your thighs tremble as you weep between them in longing. The sooner it’s over the sooner you can close your eyes and drift back to sleep, no longer needing him the way he seems to need you now.
Your motions grow more heady, the patterns traced quicker and more deliberate as the heat rushes down further like the most vast wave of pure fire… When you tense, when your lips part to allow a low murmur of pleasure to slip from them, you’re met with laughter from the other side of the door.
“Ja… my lady… you do want it,” he hums as you draw your covers up and over your head in shame. You hadn’t been that loud, surely… but the way that he follows after, coming undone himself with a loud grunt as though it were some ridiculous competition…
“Let me fuck you next time,” he rasps, panting soft as he leans back. Depraved as he was, you were certain he was probably admiring the pearly paint he left along the stones. “That is my place, hm?”
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dr. barnes
pair: fbi instructor!professor!bucky barnes x fem!student!reader
word count: ~6.5k
summary: you ask for some advice from your reclusive and very attractive professor.
warnings: teacher student relationship so slight age gap but i had pictured it being less than 10 years, super soft bucky, smut at the end (~1.3k), fingering (f rec) but not super descriptive, crime scene descriptions, descriptions of blood, some christian/religious references at the crime scenes, (let me know if i missed any !!)
a/n: this one held me hostage for weeks. i literally could not stop thinking about it. do i have uni exams this week? yes. but did i spend my time writing this? also yes. i hope you guys like it !!
“Explain the killer. What does he do? What motivates him? How would you catch him? A thousand words printed by the next class. Have a good weekend,” your professor, Dr. Barnes, announces with a nod, cueing the shuffling of laptops and bags belonging to FBI trainees eager to get home on a Friday afternoon.
You load up your things, your mind still thinking about the brutal crime scene photos shown on the slides of the lecture today that made your stomach turn over. While you know you have chosen to be at the FBI, you can’t help but wonder sometimes what you are doing there. Your degree in psychology and doctorate in criminology has led you to the FBI Academy, but your mind still swirls when the most horrible acts of violence are placed in front of you. You chalk it up to you retaining your humanity and sanity, so you are not exactly upset over the fact. It just makes your job more difficult.
Dr. Barnes’ class is always the most brutal, but it is by far the most fascinating class you have. It does help that your professor is the most fascinating part, being very good looking and extremely private. He shares very little personal information, telling you only that he used to work homicide at the police department before beginning teaching. You notice that he does not talk to students often, simply giving his lectures, packing up and leaving after the sea of students flood into the hallways.
You are curious about him, about what he is like when he is not lecturing, and figuring that you have little to lose, you decide to come back after your classes to ask for some help.
…
“Dr. Barnes?” you call out as you step into the lecture hall that is still lit, leaving you to believe that someone is there. You take a few more steps and find your professor sitting at his desk, photos piled around, staring intently at the laptop in front of him. He makes no movement to acknowledge you, his focus completely locked onto his work.
You walk all the way up to his desk, repeating his name which does little to deter him. You reach a hand out and give his shoulder a slight squeeze, causing him to jump in his seat and look up at you, eyes wide.
“Sorry, Dr. Barnes. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
At your words, he scans your face, recognition dawning on his features.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says quietly, his eyes focusing on the books you are holding in your hands.
“It’s okay, Dr. Barnes,” you assure him.
“Is there something I can do for you?” he trails off a bit at the end of his question, asking for your name in its absence.
You fill in your name and explain, “I just have a question. I’m writing a paper for another class and was hoping that you could give me some insight on the topic. I’m really just looking for another perspective.”
“Of course,” he says as he leans back in his chair. There is not another chair, so you take to sitting on the edge of his desk.
“The paper is about female serial killers, and I was wondering what you think the most common traits and motives are. We have discussed some examples in class, but I wanted to ask what your experience has been.”
He thinks for a moment, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. “They usually work in health care professions. They’ll, um, they will be married or have been married before. They usually kill to improve their situation, so they’ll target people they know, usually men. But not all women,” he stops and looks up at you before continuing to explain a case he had while working homicide where they investigated a series of killings that followed the signs of a male killer but ended up being a woman.
Dr. Barnes runs a hand through his hair when he finishes, leaning back in his chair. You can’t help but notice how good he looks in this position and at this angle. His dark hair tousled and glasses twirling between his thumbs, you think about how it would feel to reach out and feel his hair between your fingers. You school yourself, your face becoming hot at the idea. He is your professor, and you would do well to remember that.
You continue the conversation, asking him questions and prodding for more insight. When you figure you have taken up enough of his time, you bow your head a bit and begin getting up from your place on the desk.
“Thank you for your help, Dr. Barnes. I really appreciate you taking the time.”
He nods in acknowledgment, a small smile adorning his lips which you watch perhaps a little too intently as he says. “It was nothing. I’m glad I could help.”
You begin walking toward the door of the lecture hall but are stopped by your name being called out.
“Would you actually mind taking a look at these pictures? I’d like to know what you see.”
You turn back around. The look on his face is one of curiosity. You wonder why he would want to ask you, and part of you wants to believe that it is because he wants you to stay, but you know better.
“Sure,” you shrug, making your way back to his desk. “I’m not sure I’ll be of much help, though”
“Just take a look. It’s not a test, if that’s what you’re worried about,” your professor says, standing up to hand you the crime scene photos.
They are gruesome, but you don’t know what else you could have expected with Dr. Barnes. You examine them all the while trying to ignore the way he leans over your shoulder as you fail to concentrate. You are so close that if you took a single step back, you would be flush to him.
Pushing those thoughts away, you focus your attention on the photos, flipping through them, noticing the odd blood splatter near the baseboard that doesn’t have a body laying anywhere near it.
“What would make the killer climb on top of the counter to shoot someone, get down, and move the body?” you think out loud as you turn your head to look at Dr. Barnes. You notice how close your faces are and let out a breath at the discovery. “Dominance?” your voice is more shaky than you wanted it to sound.
“I was hoping you could tell me. My guess is they were waiting there, but it still doesn’t make sense,” he says, looking past you and to the picture you are holding. You look back down as well, grateful you did not make eye contact, the idea of the intimacy of it alarming.
“If they were standing on it, that would make sense, but the angle doesn’t really fit. It seems as if they were waiting for them to get home, and they sat, swinging their legs, completely calm and casual about shooting this person,” you pause, mulling over your words before saying, “Maybe they even knew this person. The proximity to the counter could mean that the victim was comfortable enough to approach them, and that the victim was unaware of what was going to happen.”
He hums in agreement in your ear, and a feeling of satisfaction washes over you. Turning back around, you hand the photos to your professor and take a step back.
“I think you may be right,” he says with a nod, a small smile again creeping onto his features. You make eye contact and keep it, somewhat entranced by it.
“I’m glad I was able to help,” you smile. “Thanks again, Dr. Barnes. Have a good night.”
…
You anticipate going back to classes on Monday, knowing that you have to attend Dr. Barnes’ lecture. You don’t know if anything will be different after the night you spent talking to your professor. Part of you knows that nothing should be different. While there are only a few years between you, you are still his student.
But part of you wants things to be different. The entire weekend, you could not get out of your head the image of his face so close to yours or the sight of him as he leaned back in his chair, legs casually falling open.
Dr. Barnes is not in the lecture hall when you arrive for which you are grateful. You settle into your seat and wait for the lecture to begin by fiddling with your laptop. When your professor does come in, you notice that he combed his hair today, letting it fall neatly over his forehead. The plaid shirt he wears still doesn’t match his suit, but you find it charming. He slips his glasses on and begins teaching.
The whole lecture you try valiantly to focus on the subject, but you fail rather miserably, unable to think of anything but how you stood right where he is, your back a foot away from his chest with him humming in your ear. It is going to be a long term if this is how every lecture is going to go.
You are brought back to reality when Dr. Barnes makes eye contact with you. He smiles which you quickly reciprocate, then he turns around, gesturing to the screen before anyone notices.
It is definitely going to be a long semester.
…
Weeks go on with you and Dr. Barnes smiling at each other from afar, both of you knowing that you would be playing with fire if you do anything more than smile. But the longer you go simply smiling, the more you want to do something about it.
And one day, he does something about it. On your way out of the lecture hall, Dr. Barnes stops you, calling out your name. You walk over, anticipation coiling in your stomach.
“I’ve another case I’d like your opinion on. Do you have time tonight to take a look?” he asks you quietly so as to not draw the attention of the students still exiting the room.
“Yes. Here at 7:30?”
He nods, making a flash of eye contact which you return with a smile.
…
You make your way to Dr. Barnes’ lecture hall, your stomach roiling with nerves. You have thought too much about him, fantasized a little often for you to not think about it when you talk to him. The soles of your shoes click on the tile as you walk the hallway. You take a deep breath and open the door.
Dr. Barnes is reclined behind his desk, crime scene photos in his hand as he flips through them intently. At your entrance, his head flicks up to find your figure approaching his desk.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” he says as he stands up.
“Hi, yeah. It’s – yeah it’s no problem, Dr. Barnes,” you manage to get out, tripping over your words more than you would have liked. Another deep breath to collect yourself. “What can I do to help?”
He leans against the front of his desk and reaches behind him to grab the photos he was examining before. You take a few steps closer to grab them from his outstretched hand.
“A recent set of murders. It’s odd to say the least,” he starts, watching you intently as you study the photos.
The scene is horrifying, blood smeared across the walls, not as blood spray or splatter, but in an image. A lamb. Your mind spins as you look through more of the pictures, each of them showing blood splashed on the walls. You wonder what the killer did in order to get that much blood. There is too much for it to have come from just one body.
“How many people were found dead?”
“Only one,” he answers, leaning in to help you find the image of the body heaped over the table. You can’t help but notice everywhere his body touches yours, how his breath flutters against your neck, but you cast those thoughts away to focus on the case at hand.
“There had to have been more. There’s too much blood,” you mumble as you cart through the images again, counting as you go. A beat passes as you take in the scene, contemplating before constructing ideas.
“What do you see?”
“In ancient religious practices, a lamb would be sacrificed and the blood would be sprinkled around seven times. There are seven places where the blood was thrown on the wall,” you pause to show him each one. You glance up at your professor who is looking on intently, urging you to continue. “Then you have the body placed on the table. It could be sacrificial. The lamb was supposed to be perfect. Without blemish. Maybe – maybe the killer saw this person as their perfect – their perfect lamb, as someone who would put them in favor with God. The sacrificial lamb is sacramental. Symbolic. Messianic. It’s an act of repentance. So what was the killer repenting from?”
A hum from Dr. Barnes pulls you out of your reverie and breaks your focus from the crime scene photos. You lean around his form to place the pictures back on his desk, your shoulder brushing against his arm. His eyes follow you before he brings a hand up to rub his eyes, almost like he is physically rubbing away the images.
“Do you think the killer knew the victim?” he asks quietly, bringing his hands down to meet your eyes.
“I think they could be family. Family or close friends. They were their savior,” you answer, matching his tone.
Dr. Barnes nods in agreement and in that moment, you can see that he looks like a man who is carrying the world on his shoulders. He slouches forward slightly, his hair strewn around his ears with bags under his eyes. It takes everything in you to not reach out a hand to touch his cheek, to rub a thumb across his lips as you have in your dreams.
Appalled by your own thoughts, you take a step back to give yourself space to halt that train of thought. The movement makes him stand, subconsciously trying to keep the close proximity between you. You don’t break eye contact, making the moment intimate. Intense.
“This case has been keeping me up at night,” he confesses as he brings a hand to run through his hair with a sigh, breaking eye contact. “I wonder where the other bodies are. I can’t seem to get my mind around it.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” you say in nearly a whisper. “You’re good at what you do.”
“Thank you for your help. It’s some really great insight you had.”
“It’s no problem, Dr. Barnes.”
“Bucky,” he says quickly, rushing it out like he knows he shouldn’t let it pass his lips.
“Bucky,” you repeat, trying the name out on your tongue.
You then fall into easy conversation, learning more about each other. You discover that Bucky has a PhD in criminology as well, and that he used to be a field agent but decided to leave it to become a teacher at the academy. Part of you wants to ask why, but you figure that it isn’t a conversation he wants to have while still getting to know you. He asks about your life, your family, your education. He is interested in why and how you landed at the academy. You answer him honestly, not inclined to hide away as you normally do when people ask those questions.
Bucky is surprisingly sociable. Based on his reclusiveness when it comes to students, you were not expecting to hold such easy and fun conversation. It makes you want to spend the whole night chatting, joking, exploring. But you know you should not stay.
When the conversation lulls, you glance at your watch and ask, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Bucky? I think I might head home.”
Before you can even register what is happening, he takes a singular step forward and leans in to meet his lips to yours. In shock, you stand limply, not sure how to respond. You can’t deny that you have thought about this moment for weeks, dreaming about it, imagining what it would be like to kiss him. Bucky. But you hadn’t expected it to happen tonight.
And before you have time to respond, he pulls away, opening his eyes to look at you with wide ones of his own.
“I’m sorry, I–”
You don’t acknowledge his apology, instead leaning in to kiss him again, only you are prepared for it this time. He responds immediately as his lips move slowly over yours, testing the waters. Your hands are still by your sides, but his come to settle in your hair and over your arm. His kisses are controlled and soft, not pressing for more than what you are willing to give. A sigh flutters from your nose which ghosts over his cheeks.
Breaking away for a second, you open your eyes and find his already looking at you. The both of you know that you are playing with fire. You are still his student, and he is your professor, but the feeling of his lips on yours overrules any rational thought at the moment.
You give a slight nod and he takes that as a green light to kiss you again. Bucky pulls you closer, and your hands find their way around his torso, snaking up into his hair. It is his turn to sigh at the action which causes satisfaction to roll down your back in waves that has you leaning further into the kiss, opening your mouth ever so slightly. He takes advantage and kisses you deeper. A soft moan escapes you at the feeling, followed by a shaky breath.
He pulls away, a triumphant smile playing at his mouth.
“I’m not sorry,” he whispers.
“Me neither.”
He kisses you once more, chaste and short, but it carries more meaning than any of the other kisses. It tells you that he has thought about this, too. It wasn’t a spur of the moment, impulsive decision. And it tells you that he plans on doing it again.
…
You settle into a routine with Bucky. After class on Fridays, he stops you on your way out and quietly asks you to come back to look over a case or his lectures. You always nod and come back at 7:30.
The unspoken truth of the need for secrecy looms over your blooming relationship, but you are almost spurred on by the illicitness of it all. You haven’t done anything more than kiss. You haven’t even interacted beyond the walls of the lecture hall. You both know that it is safest that way.
The more time you spend together, the more you find yourself falling in love with Bucky. His quirks make you smile. The way he perks up when you walk through the door makes your heart flutter in your chest. You have never felt so valued by anyone before. He trusts your opinions. He respects your honesty. You admire his dedication to what he does. You find his quiet nature calming.
The list of things you love about Bucky keeps you up at night as you replay scenes of kissing at his desk behind your eyes as you fall asleep. Bucky kisses you like you are ice cream on a sunny day, slow and hungry like he savors every second of your mouth on his. He never presses you for more, only going so far as to set you up on his desk, pulling your hips to his, allowing you to wrap your legs around him as you wind your fingers in his hair. He always sighs when you tug at it which gives you the opportunity to kiss at his neck, your chin always getting scratched by his stubble.
You love the routine. However, it makes it hard to concentrate during the lectures since all you can think about when you look at his desk is how good his hands felt on your hips and how his lips were pressed to yours when you were propped up on the wood yourself.
The semester continues on following your routine. If anyone suspects anything, they don’t say. You can’t imagine that someone hasn’t picked up on the soft smiles he sends your direction during lectures, and stragglers leaving class late on Fridays must hear his whispers for you to come back.
Steadily approaching the end of the term, you begin to question how long your routine will continue. You will no longer be Bucky’s student. Could you actually date? Would he want to? Is that what you want?
…
The familiar tug of nerves settles in the pit of your stomach as you walk to class with Bucky — Dr. Barnes if you were still professional, but you figure that his lips have kissed you a few too many times and in a few too many places for you to call him that. It is your last class in his lecture hall, meaning that beyond today, you are free to make a decision as to whether this is serious or not.
In your heart of hearts, you want this to keep going. You love how you feel around Bucky. While you have not said it out loud, you love him. You feel yourself aching to hear him say it, too.
When you arrive in the room, Bucky is already there, nervously flipping through crime scene photos while running his hands through his hair, creating a rather haphazard mess on his head. He looks more anxious than usual, and it takes everything in you to not to stride to his desk and ask him what’s wrong.
Instead, you brush past him, trailing a quick hand over his arm, hoping that it has a calming effect over him. His eyes flash to yours as you cast a look over your shoulder, smiling at him. He sends you a tight lipped smile back as his shoulders shrug down from their place beside his ears.
From your seat, you watch Bucky pace around a bit, obviously concerned about something. You rub your palms over your thighs when you discover them clenched in worry. You wonder if his stress has anything to do with the reason you were nervous coming to class today — the talk you know is coming tonight. You figure it does when his eyes glance over at you every few minutes before beginning the lecture.
You find yourself becoming sentimental about the semester as you look around the room, taking in the feeling for the last time. If you and Bucky do decide to continue your relationship, you can never take one of his classes again. If you don’t continue to see Bucky, you doubt you will want to take one of his classes again. You will miss his funny side comments that come out of left field. You will miss his mismatched suits and disheveled hair.
The sound of Bucky announcing the end of class breaks you out of your thoughts, and the shuffling of backpacks and feet brings you back to reality. A stream of students thank Bucky as they flow out of the classroom for the final time. You stall a minute, waiting for the throng to exit out the doors before approaching your professor.
“Hey, Bucky,” you say quietly, clutching your laptop to your chest.
“Hey.”
You watch him lean against his desk, hands pressed to the edge of the wood.
“How are you doing?” you ask the question that has been waiting to erupt since you entered the lecture hall an hour previous. “You seem nervous.”
A chuckle that comes out more as a sigh escapes him. “Yeah. I’m fine. I, uh, I just didn’t get much sleep last night. How are…how are you?”
“Wistfully contemplating the end of my time in your class,” you reply playfully, hoping that the happy tone will hide the melancholy you really feel about the idea.
This elicits a laugh from Bucky as he looks at you through his lashes — a look that always has your knees threatening to come out from under you. You take steps closer and set your laptop down on his desk, then place your hands on his shoulders, running them down his arms to settle in his hands.
“Do you want to get dinner with me tonight?” you ask, the words barely more than a whisper. You want to catch them in the air, afraid that your proposal to disrupt the routine will be rejected.
But Bucky smiles immediately, thinking for a moment before saying, “Why don’t I cook dinner?”
Your stomach flutters at the thought of watching him in the kitchen. You nod in response.
“7:30?”
“7:30,” you repeat before letting go of his hands to walk out the doors, throwing a smile over your shoulder as you go.
…
The drive to Bucky’s house is quiet but comfortable. About halfway through the trip, your hands link together, resting on your thigh. You talk lazily, asking questions about each others’ days since your morning lecture. There is something so calming about Bucky. You trust him. You love him.
Every once in a while, your eyes flick over to watch him drive, eyes intently focused on the road ahead. He can feel your gaze, so he sends a glance over to you with a soft smile playing on his lips.
“What?” he asks when you don’t shy away from his eyes.
“Nothing, Buck. I just like being with you.”
“I do, too.”
The sweetness of his simple confession does more to your confidence than you ever thought possible. You feel comfortable around Bucky. You need only be yourself when you are with him, and hearing that same sentiment from him gives you hope that he wants this to continue just as much as you do.
You squeeze his hand, at which he laughs softly, squeezing yours back, brushing his thumb over the knuckles on the back of your hand.
Gravel crunching under tires and the faint sound of dogs barking indicates that you have arrived at your destination. You open the car door and follow Bucky to the front steps of a small house on the edge of town. A large open field is situated behind his house, neighbors nonexistent. Given Bucky’s personality, you are not surprised to discover that he lives alone, away from people, away from the city.
A flash of nervousness pricks at your mind, as no one would be around if Bucky shows you that isn’t the guy you think he is. But you trust him, and you trust him enough to accept your fate if it does prove to be your downfall.
The door creaks open, and Bucky flicks on the light. Two big dogs come bounding to greet you both, circling his feet until he crouches down to give them the attention they are begging for. To see Bucky with his dogs makes your mind go fuzzy and warm, the tenderness of the scene eradicating your doubts from before.
“Charlie and Duke,” Bucky says, showing you which dog belongs to which name, rubbing each of them affectionately before standing and grabbing your hand.
“They’re adorable.”
“They’re good dogs.”
He leans in for a quick kiss, the domesticity of it causing your breath to catch in your throat. He pulls away smiling, then tugs you into the kitchen where he drags a chair out from the table for you to sit on.
“Sit,” Bucky says with mirth in his voice.
You laugh but do as you are told.
“I was thinking of making steaks. Is that okay with you?”
“Sounds great.”
You watch Bucky make his way around the kitchen, obviously having done this a lot. He looks comfortable. He catches you staring, meeting your gaze head on, an easy smile adorning his mouth before asking, “What are you smiling at?”
“You. I like seeing you here,” you say quietly.
“Not as much as I like seeing you sit at my table. I’ve thought about this a lot,” he admits with his back to you as he throws the steaks in the pan. “I like being around you. I’m more comfortable with you than anyone else. You make me feel — you make me feel normal. Most people don’t do that. They don’t — they don’t want to understand me. My old friends can only think about who I was before I quit the force. They don’t — they don’t want to like who I am now.”
The words spill out of Bucky before he can stop them, opening up to you in a way that he has not before. He has let you in here and there over the months you have been spending together in the lecture hall, but he has stayed rather private even then. Not sure what to say in response, you simply move from your place at the table to stand behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso, resting your cheek on his back. You can feel him relax into your touch, and it is a comfort to you both.
“Bucky, I think I am in love with you,” you whisper into his shirt. His body tenses, the sizzling of the meat in the pan filling the silence. Your heart pounds in your chest as you wait for him to say something. Burying your face further into him, disappointment and embarrassment creeping in your stomach, settling heavily when he doesn’t say anything. When a minute that feels like an eternity passes in silence, you mutter a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
You let go of Bucky and take a step back. He quickly takes the pan off the heat and whips around to face you, pulling you back to him, whispering your name.
“I love you,” the words are sure and confident coming from his lips. “I know I do.”
He looks at you intently, not shying away from your eyes before leaning in and kissing you softly. You get lost in his kisses, the pounding of your heart racing at a steady quick beat. Bucky backs you into the counter where he cages you with his hands as you weave one of your hands into his hair, the other running up his spine.
“Stay the night,” he mumbles between kisses.
You pull away and nod, meeting his eyes again, kissing him once without breaking the contact.
…
Settling on his couch after laughing yourselves silly over the dinner table, Bucky is close behind you with bowls of ice cream in hand. He hands you a spoon before sitting down right beside you, pulling your legs to stretch over his lap. He runs a hand absentmindedly over your shins as the two of you eat your ice cream.
“Why did you come talk to me that night?,” he asks between spoonfuls. “You didn’t really need my help. You knew everything I was telling you.”
You smile like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “I did need your help,” you assert before admitting, “but I also just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
The sound of his laugh makes your heart flutter the same way it does when he looks up at you from behind his desk.
“Hey, not all my professors are attractive recluses who deserve a starring role in my nightly fantasies.”
“Oh, so you fantasize about me,” he presses, the smirk on his face unlike any expression you have ever seen on him. He looks smug, proud, teasing. It makes heat flash to your core.
You hum but it comes out more as a squeak, your focus turning intently on the ice cream melting in your bowl.
“Do you want to know what I’ve fantasized about you?” Bucky asks lowly, grabbing the bowl from your hands, causing your eyes to lift to his. You watch him set it on the floor. Your heart begins pounding again as he moves to climb over you, settling between your open legs.
“What have you fantasized about, Bucky?” you ask quietly, voice shaky.
You take a breath when he leans in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss. You open your mouth to deepen it, and he takes advantage, his tongue pressing to your upper lip. The feeling has your hips rolling and sighs falling from your throat.
He pulls away to murmur into your neck, “Every time I would sit on my couch, I thought about laying you down and kissing you until you can’t remember your own name.”
Your eyes are screwed shut as you tug at his hair, his words forming pools of heat between your hips where his own apply pressure. Your words fail you, only a whimper escaping you. His lips move along your neck, working their way back to your mouth, giving due attention to the places on the way that have you squirming beneath him. You hands tug at his shirt to slip your fingers beneath the fabric, skimming up his back, scratching lightly.
His kisses become feverish at the feeling of your nails down his back. One hand hooks your knee to pull your form even closer to his, hips slipping into place. You can feel yourself becoming wetter by the second, the slow circling of his hips against yours creating friction that has you moaning.
In one swift motion, his hands are gliding up your sides, taking your shirt with you. You lean up to help him before settling back down against the pillows. He sits on his heels to take his own shirt off which allows you to see him in the faint light casted by the lamp in the corner.
You notice a shining scar that extends from one hip to the other below his navel. Fingertips reach out to touch it, barely making contact before his own hand stills your movements.
“Is this why you quit the force?” you ask barely above a whisper.
He only nods, his feelings of vulnerability silencing him. You aren’t disgusted by it. It doesn’t change how you see him. You don’t pity him. You are simply curious. And amazed at his strength. He survived whatever left him this scar.
“Can I see it?”
Bucky takes a fluttering breath through his nose then nods again. You climb to the floor, resting on your knees between his legs. You glance up at him and see his head lolling to the side as he looks down at you, eyes hazy and soft. His eyebrows are scrunched, letting you know that he is concentrated, but the dam of secrecy surrounding Bucky is breaking with every passing second.
Tentatively, you stretch a hand forward, your fingertips grazing the scar. His stomach flexes beneath your touch.
No one has seen his scar since the doctor sewed him back up. He has a fear of pity. He knows that people won’t see him the same when they see the effects of what happened to him — of what was done to him. But he doesn’t see pity in your eyes. He sees awe and amazement.
Without warning, you press your lips to his stomach, the intimacy of it rendering his mind blank. You hear him swear quietly which urges you to keep going. You kiss all along the scar, his hips, then upwards before you climb into his lap. You find his lips again and kiss slowly, surely, passionately.
“I love you, Bucky.”
“I love you, too.”
You share a few more kisses before he stands up, pulling you with him to his room. He fumbles through his dressers to find a shirt and pair of shorts for you to wear. He hands them to you, then rummages through the bathroom cabinets to find a new toothbrush for you to use.
You thank him after he says that he will meet you back at the bed. The calm and comfort of being with Bucky is undeniable. The domesticity of the night has your heart skipping beats. You quickly change and brush your teeth before making your way to his bed. Noticing books stacked on the nightstand on one side, you slip under the covers of the other, sighing contently when you settle in.
Bucky comes in a moment later with only sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He decided to not put a shirt back on, relishing in the freedom that being with you gives him. He doesn’t climb into bed immediately, but rather stands and looks at you for a moment, curled up in his sheets.
“What have you fantasized about here?” you ask teasingly, but your voice comes out thinner than you had intended.
At your words, his tongue darts out to lick his lips. He approaches the bed slowly, kneeling down beside you.
“I want to know yours,” he says, his voice husky and low. You bite your lip, your eyes widening. A shaky inhale.
Soft kisses line the inside of your knee, trailing a path up your thighs. You let out a hitched moan when he places a kiss to your clothed core, your hands winding themselves in his hair. You tug slightly, inviting him to come up to the bed with you.
When he climbs up, you lean back, your shirt riding up over your stomach. Wordlessly, you pull his hands to your body, his calloused palms caressing the exposed skin. He runs his thumbs under your breasts, causing you to arch into his touch. Bucky can’t believe that you respond to him so keenly. He barely touches you and you are curving beneath him, aching for more.
His lips find your neck, behind your ear, sucking gently. Your hands pull his hips to yours, rocking steadily into him. You suck in a breath, gathering the courage to grab one of his hands to lead it to where you want to feel him the most.
Bucky follows your lead without resistance, kissing you softly in an expression of consent. He helps you pull your shorts off, then presses two fingers to the wet patch on your panties. The pressure has your hips jutting into his touch, overwhelmed by the sensation when his fingers push the fabric to the side.
Your hips move in circles with his movements, his lips kissing you through it all. Moans slip and tumble from your mouth, leaving you hiccupping in pleasure. The cords in your stomach begin snapping when he speeds up his ministrations, your body contracting through your release.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers to you as he helps you come down from your high.
Your eyes are crimped shut, but after a moment’s respite and a few encouraging kisses from Bucky, you come back to yourself. You open your eyes to find him watching you intently. You smile lazily then breathe, “Your turn.”
a/n: yayayay !! thanks for reading this !! let me know if you want to be on my taglist :):) and here is my masterlist if you want to check out my other work ! and check out MY SLEEPOVER going on right now !!
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes#james buchanan barnes#bucky barnes imagine#marvel#mcu#marvel imagine#james buchanan barnes x reader#mcu imagine#marvel fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x reader smut#bucky barnes x you#smut
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I do not want, you may well understand, to proceed today to a critique of the colonial system. I do not intend as a colonized man, speaking to colonized people, to demonstrate that the colonial state is an abnormal, inhuman and reprehensible state. It would be grotesque on my part to want to convince you of the unacceptable nature of colonial oppression. However, I would like to focus my reflections on the violence integral to colonial oppression.
The colonial regime is a regime instituted by violence. It is always by force that the colonial regime is established. It is against the will of the people that other peoples more advanced in the techniques of destruction or numerically more powerful have prevailed.
I say that such a system established by violence can logically only be faithful to itself, and its duration in time depends on the continuation of violence.
But the violence which is in question here is not an abstract violence, it is not only a violence perceived by the spirit, it is also a violence manifested in the daily behaviour of the colonizer towards the colonized: apartheid in South Africa, forced labour in Angola, racism in Algeria. Contempt, a politics of hate, these are the manifestations of a very concrete and very painful violence.
Colonialism, however, is not satisfied by this violence against the present. The colonized people are presented ideologically as a people arrested in their evolution, impervious to reason, incapable of directing their own affairs, requiring the permanent presence of an external ruling power. The history of the colonized peoples is transformed into meaningless unrest, and as a result, one has the impression that for these people humanity began with the arrival of those brave settlers.
Violence in everyday behaviour, violence against the past that is emptied of all substance, violence against the future, for the colonial regime presents itself as necessarily eternal. We see, therefore, that the colonized people, caught in a web of a three-dimensional violence, a meeting point of multiple, diverse, repeated, cumulative violences, are soon logically confronted by the problem of ending the colonial regime by any means necessary.
[...]
In certain colonies, the violence of the colonized is the last gesture of the hunted man, meaning that he is ready to defend his life. There are colonies which fight for freedom, independence, for the right to happiness. In 1954, the Algerian people took up arms because at that point the colonial prison became so oppressive that it was no longer tolerable, because the hunt was definitely on for Algerians in the streets and in the countryside and because, finally, it was no longer a question for the Algerian of giving a meaning to his life but rather of giving one to his death.
[...]
What we are saying is that we need to close our ranks. It is necessary that our voice should be powerful not only by being vigorous but also for the concrete measures that could be taken against this or that colonial state.
[...]
No, the violence of the Algerian people is neither a hatred of peace nor a rejection of human relations, nor a conviction that only war can put an end to the colonial regime in Algeria.
The Algerian people have chosen the unique solution that was left to them and this choice will hold firm to us.
Frantz Fanon - Why We Use Violence, address to the Accra positive action conference, 1960 (translated by Robert J. C. Young)
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I'm so fucking confused what did the Rock do
It's a very long and complicated tale, but the short version, the Rock recently joined the board of directors for TKO (WWE's parent company) and SEEMINGLY (as we don't know the full behind the scenes story just yet) used his clout to push himself into the Wrestlemania main event, challenging his sort of cousin Roman Reigns for the WWE Universal Championship and pushing aside Cody Rhodes, the guy that was supposed to be Roman's challenger, and thereby sabotaging a two-year story that everyone was invested in right when it was about to see it's conclusion. And people are pissed about it.
That's the short version. Here is the loooooonnnnnggggg version.
WWE has been plagued by a number of issues over the years (not the least being that it's been run by an actual rapist for the last four decades), but the two relevant issues is a tendency to rely on past their prime stars of yesterday at the expense of building new stars for today, and when they do want to build a new star, they have a bad habit of shoving their chosen golden boy down everyone's throat to everyone else's detriment in a nakedly inauthentic manner until the fans get sick of them (see: Ultimate Warrior, John Cena, and, most recently, Roman Reigns, who will become important later). Needless to say, they've had a lot of trouble getting the crowd behind what is known as the White Meat Babyface, or primary good guy.
The Rock started off as the latter, being introduced as Rocky Maivia, who was a wholesome good boy who was just so happy to be here. People saw through it and booed the fuck out of him. In rare case of the WWE actually listening and responding, they turned Rocky heel and let him vent his frustrations at the fans, which let everyone know that, holy shit, this guy is actually insanely charismatic and probably the best trash talker in the business! Thus, the Rock was born.
However, while he certainly earned his accolades during his heyday, his returns since haven't been so universally admired (see previous note about the WWE pushing the stars of yesterday). One instance about ten years ago involves him main eventing Wrestlemania against John Cena over CM Punk, who was the reigning WWE Champion at the time, and was quite annoyed. Okay, the Rock vs. John Cena could be excused on account of being that much of a dream match, but then they had CM Punk end his year long title run to the Rock so he and Cena could main event again, this time with the title on the line. This was one of the many issues that reportedly led to CM Punk walking out a few months later.
Now, let's move away from the Rock for a bit and talk about Roman Reigns, who was another example of the WWE ramming their chosen golden boy down everyone's throat. Like the Rock, he is part of the venerated Anoa'i Family, who are practically wrestling royalty with how many superstars they've produced (though they're not actually related by blood, but that doesn't matter, as those who marry or are adopted in are still considered full members of the clan).
Roman began as part of the massively popular trio known as the Shield, alongside Seth Rollins and Dean Ambrose. And during their two year run, the Shield were kind of incredibly awesome. Three badasses closer than brothers just wrecking a path of destruction against all those who stood in their way, a perfect combination of violence and genuine comradery...right until Seth Rollins betrayed the group and they all became single stars.
Now, despite the WWE having high hopes for all three, Roman was clearly the anointed heir, despite being the least experienced of the three. Unfortunately, they went about this by making him essentially a John Cena clone. Smelling another corporate babyface about to be shoved down their throats, the fans turned on him and turned on him HARD, making him the most loathed face in wrestling for years despite always being treated by the company as a beloved hero. Finally, the decision was made to turn Roman Reigns heel, unleashing his dark side and turning him into the Tribal Chief, a sadistic and manipulative monster who's held an iron grip on the title for literally years. Needless to say, it has been a massive improvement, and he is now quite awesome (though people are sick of how long he's been champion, but that's neither here nor there).
Anyway, heel Roman has been champion for basically forever at this point, and it's been a question of who will eventually be the one to dethrone him, because whoever it is automatically becomes the biggest star in the business. And given what an accomplishment that is, there really can be no place it can happen other than the main event of Wrestlemania.
Enter Cody Rhodes.
Like Roman and the Rock, Cody also comes from a prestigious wrestling family. Cody is the son of the late, great Dusty Rhodes, the American Dream. And this pedigree has weighed heavily on him, both in and out of storyline.
Now, unlike his plain-looking and tubby father, Cody looks like he was grown in a lab to become the perfect WWE wrestler. Movie star looks, an absolutely ripped body, and physical charisma for days. Despite this, his first WWE run didn't go how he wanted. While he saw a fair amount of success, he never seemed to break out of the midcard and was eventually saddled with the loathed Stardust gimmick, which he absolutely hated, and after realizing that things weren't going to change, he decided to bet on himself and leave the WWE to prove everyone wrong.
This ended up working beyond anyone's wildest dreams.
To say that Cody was successful post WWE would be a gross understatement. Rebranding himself as the American Nightmare, Cody became the opposite of everything his father was, dressing in snappy suits and carrying himself in an arrogant, sadistic manner. He worked for a number of places, from TNA to Ring of Honor to New Japan, and saw massive success, winning multiple titles across multiple promotions and building himself as a force to be reckoned with. He was also the impetus for the historically significant All In event, in which a number of wrestlers from a number of different promotions banded together to put on the first non-WWE show to have over ten thousand people in attendance in over twenty years, which eventually led to the creation of AEW, which Cody was an intrinsic part of as well. Needless to say, Cody was cooking.
Unfortunately, his own way of doing things didn't mesh well with the AEW audience, and they turned on him pretty hard after a year or two. Eventually he left to return to the WWE, and a lot of people questioned if he was making a mistake, given how he was treated the last time.
However, his gamble had paid off. His worth had been proved, and now WWE was all in (pun intended) on Cody Rhodes. In contrast to the volatile AEW crowd, the WWE fans welcomed the prodigal son back with open arms. And surprising all cynics (including myself), this love continued strong even after the novelty of Cody Rhodes back wore off, probably bolstered by how carefully his storylines were plotted, some truly killer performances in the ring, and the respect garner by him being an absolutely fucking champ and wrestling Seth Rollins in a Hell in a Cell match despite having a horribly torn pec.
Finally, the WWE had a White Meat babyface that the fans universally accepted and wanted to see more of, and they were going to capitalize. He won the Royal Rumble to rapturous applause and entered in a program with Roman Reigns to challenge him for his title at Wrestlemania. And unlike other challengers, he actually seemed like a credible threat. Much was made about how his father had also challenged for the same title but could never capture it, so he wanted to do what his father couldn't and finish the story. People were behind Cody all the way, and the time seemed right for Roman to finally fall and a new top star to be crowned.
And then Cody lost. Roman cheated, and Cody lost.
Needless to say, people were pissed. However, others said that maybe this was leading to a rematch at the following year's Wrestlemania, making his eventual victory all the sweeter. Certainly, WWE still seemed behind Cody, as he spent the next year in several high profile feuds that kept him looking strong, including going over Brock Lesnar of all people. And again, the fans remained behind him, when in past cases they would have turned on the guy by now. Believe me, this hadn't happened in a very long time.
But not all was well. There were rumbles that the Rock might be queuing up for a return one of these days, possibly to finally face Roman Reigns in another dream match to settle who the true Tribal Chief of the Anoa's family. People had been wanting that match for years, but for it to happen now, upsetting Cody's chance to finally finish his story? Well, that was the worst possible time. However, these rumors seemed to be nothing more than that. Just rumors.
And then CM Punk came back.
Now, Punk is a whole can of worms all in himself, and could easily fill a full post of his own. But the important thing is that he and Cody are very much dark reflections of each other, especially in how both were screwed over by WWE during their first runs, left under dark circumstances, and returned to the fans' adoration. And they both coveted that Wrestlemania main event.
In fact, during an awesome promo battle between the two, Punk specifically pointed out that he intended to do to Cody what the Rock had done to him ten years ago: be that bigger star who came back after not being around for a long time and take that Wrestlemania main event away. And sure enough, during the Royal Rumble, the final two in the ring were CM Punk and Cody Rhodes.
And Cody won. The first man in years to win back to back Rumbles. He singled out Roman Reigns as his target, cementing their Wrestlemania rematch. As for Punk, he had a main event of his own, as he was apparently scheduled to face Seth Rollins for the World Heavyweight Title at night 1 of Wrestlemania. It seemed that both of the prodigal sons were getting their wish!
And then CM Punk got hurt really bad and had to pull out of Wrestlemania.
Well, that sucks, but it shouldn't upset plans too badly. Seth could just wrestle someone else, and Cody's two year story could proceed like everyone wanted.
Well, we all know what happened next.
youtube
Yup. It happened. The Rock, likely with the backing of his new position on the TKO's board, had pushed himself into Cody's spot, while Cody (as it appears) will be replacing Punk to take on Seth Rollins instead. A two year story, flushed down the drain. Punk's words had turned out to be prophetic.
And while the fans were cheering in that video, once the buzz had worn off and people realized what had happened, that's when things got nasty. Over the last few days, people have turned on the Rock and turned on him HARD. Rocky sucks chants fill WWE events, #wewantcody trends for days, videos of the Rock get booed, and (unfortunately) even members of his family have gotten caught in the crossfire. People are NOT happy about this direction. Cody is their guy, and right when his story was going to be completed, right when Roman was going to be dethroned by the guy that everyone wanted to see beat him, this happens.
Plus, since then reports have been swirling that this decision was made by the TKO board, not WWE, with the Rock specifically pushing for it to "Save Wrestlemania." Which hasn't exactly warmed people to the idea.
Which is really funny, because the last time Roman Reigns and the Rock shared a ring together, it was in the middle of Roman's disastrous babyface run where the fans hated him, especially in Philadelphia, a city noted for its rebellious fans, and the WWE sent the Rock out to help Roman in hopes of changing their minds.
It didn't work.
youtube
And where is Wrestlemania this year? Oh right, Philadelphia.
This is going to be...interesting, to say the least.
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UHM-UHM-
Yeah I have no shame to just not ask anonymously- anyways!
May I please request a 6'1 reader who is stoic, bold, also handsome as Dazai but ain't a womaniser, and is VERY quiet. With Dazai. He works at the ADA with him. He follows Dazai around like literally, he acts and opens up more to Dazai than he does with others, he literally doesn't care if Dazai was In the pm (they met at 14) or abt his crimes, he can read Dazai's emotions And can see through him, they R lovers, he is loyal asf to Dazai. He Also is rich asf and has better fashion tastes! Pls make both a oneshot or hc or ANYTHING ABT THEMMMMM
(I'm very desperate BC of a certain fantasy of mine)
Ah, I gotchu you bruv.
[ Also, let's do a little quiz. What country do y'all think I originate from? Like, based on my language and writing and just... Yeah.]
And yep, I'm double posting today!
Canonically, there are no mentions of Dazai's past before the Port Mafia, so I made stuff up. Hope you like it!
Contents: Uhh...a lot. I got... *winces* I got carried away.
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of death, suicide and violence, Dazai's life is sad and so are these hcs.
You and Dazai met when you two were 14 each. It was a chance encounter, really. Both of you were orphans, and both of you were ability users, even though Dazai knew more about his ability than you did yours.
Both of you currently had no one in the world. That was the key factor that brought you two together. Struggling to get by and find a place of your own in the world, you met.
Neither of you opened up at first, cautious and calloused as you both were. It just happened; it didn't happen one particular day, and before you two had realized, you'd become each other's sole support.
You turned fifteen, and three months later Dazai met Mori.
He told you about it later, describing in the sort of detail no one else would get to hear how he'd rescued the Port Mafia leader from an enemy gang, unintentionally impressing him and securing Dazai a place in the Mafia.
You didn't like it. The job was dangerous, and you didn't want Dazai's hands to get stained with blood. When you told him this, he laughed it off, and said that he could handle it. You dropped the matter.
He was wrong.
You watched as Dazai changed, despite his promises and assurances. He grew ruthless, cruel in a way that made you ache as you watched him, silent. He started hating everything, even himself, and sometimes you thought he hated you, too.
He had a beautiful heart, you knew. But Mori was destroying it.
You talked to Mori about it, too. You might not have anything on him, yes, he was richer and way more powerful, but you had your ability, and you were ready to fight to death. Before you could, however, Dazai intervened.
That was the first time you two fought. After that, you went to him and told him you wouldn't care if he didn't want you to. If he wanted to keep going down the path that he'd chosen, you wouldn't stop him.
Sometimes, you look back and wonder if there was something you could have done for him other than what you did. You still can't think of anything.
You opened up a small business after that, and it slowly grew to a scale larger than you had expected.
Then you two turned eighteen. Finally, you were able to register your enterprises under your own name, being a legal adult. You and Dazai got wasted that night, and you watched fondly as he tried and failed to put his coat on so you two could go and meet Ango and Odasaku.
They had probably begun then, your feelings for Dazai. You were only comfortable enough with him to actually talk, and not just say what was absolutely required and then shut up.
He knew you in a way no else did. No one else knew what it looked like when you smiled, or threw your head back and laughed freely. No one else knew what it was like when you cared, when you brought over Dazai's favorite refreshing drink every time you visited him in summer. Or when you helped him change his bandages, touch gentle and careful against his soft skin.
And you knew him the way no else did. No one else knew what it was like when he was genuine, when he'd look up at you with earnest eyes. No one else knew what it was like when he flushed slightly, the red of his skin always starting from the tips of his ears and descending to his cheeks. No one else knew what it was like when Dazai protected, when he offered to use his contacts in the Mafia to get rid of your competitors, even though you declined every time. He had enough blood on his hands without you pitching in.
Eight months after that, he left the Port Mafia. He came to your apartment crying that day. His face was ashen, his shirt was covered in blood and his lips were trembling. The tears that had been collecting in his eyes for who knows how long finally spilled when he saw you, and the only thing you could do for him in that situation was open your arms and let him cling onto you. He kept saying 'Oda's dead... He's dead...'
That night, Dazai changed. Thankfully for the better. That flame in his eyes was gone now, the one that made you worry if he would burn himself and the world.
Dazai slowly stopped hating after that. You and Ango were the only two he trusted, the only two he would be genuine with. He didn't close up in a way that hid his smile, or in a way that made him withdraw from people. Quiet the opposite. He pushed himself outward, adopting a cheery persona that joked around and bewitched everyone.
The only smiles that weren't created but slid across his face on their own were ones that he smiled with you, and Ango.
You couldn't help but feel slightly bittersweet. Dazai was out of that hellhole, that cursed gang that was making his heart black. But Odasaku was dead.
After that, as your twenties arrived, Dazai joined the Armed Detective Agency. You were happy, then.
You two celebrated at a lavish restaurant. Your business had grown to be Japan's No. 1, and the money that spilled in with it was something neither Dazai nor you had expected.
But your hopes for the ADA were too high. Sometimes, Dazai still wanted to leave. He said he wanted to kill himself, and even though he would always laugh it off, you couldn't help but notice that his eyes would always grow hollow when he spoke of it.
And so the only thing you could do was love him. You loved him and tried your best to let him know, buying him unnecessary gifts and putting him on top of your mental priority list. Even your staff knew you loved him; it was apparent and obvious.
Dazai was probably the only one that didn't notice it, that genius dumbass.
And so you tried harder. You had never been good with words, but you tried to be vocal about your feelings, telling him he was cute when you thought so, and saying that he looked good when he did.
Dazai still didn't notice. The day he found out was when you got drunk and blurted it out.
You still don't have a lot of memories from that night, and Dazai says that you passed out soon after confessing. He finds it funny now, even though he didn't back then.
Your confession made Dazai pull up a wall against you. This surprised you, hurt you, and you tried apologizing, tried to get him to just talk to you. You told him that it didn't matter if he didn't return your feelings.
Something was hurting Dazai, you could tell. But he just wouldn't talk to you, going so far as to changing his phone number without telling you.
So you showed up at his workplace. Kunukida knew you by sight; you often came to pick Dazai up from work. You two had a big fight, shouting in one hallway of the agency building, making such a ruckus that Ranpo and the others came over to watch.
It ended with Dazai turning around to leave, and you were planning to let him go. But then you saw a tear glisten at his cheek last moment, and hence gave chase.
You chased him down all the way from Yokohoma to Kawasaki, only stopping when Dazai collapsed in the middle of a street, his frame shaking with sobs as he started hyperventilating. You crouched down beside him and pulled him to your chest, rubbing his back and conducting his breathing, your voice soft as it told him to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale....
He fell asleep on your shoulder, in the middle of nowhere. You carried him back to your house, and tucked him into a warm bed. The next morning, he wouldn't meet your eye.
Usually, you would have let him; there was hardly anything that Dazai would do that you would disapprove of. But lately, you had been going against his wishes a lot, so you decided to do that one more time.
When he tried to leave, you pinned him to a wall and forced him to look at you. It wasn't difficult, Dazai had never really worked out, even as a part of the Port Mafia. His fighting style was more quick and clean moves than brute strength.
It worked well in your advantage as he tried to struggle against your hold and failed miserably, tears collecting in his eyes and threatening to fall.
"Dazai," You said. "If you want me to disappear from your life, I can do that." He looked up at you, eyes wide and blurred. "But there's one catch. You have to say it. Say it to my face, tell me to leave, and I swear on my own life, I'll vanish. You won't ever see me again."
And then the tear that had been collecting in his eye all this time fell, sliding down his cheek and onto the collar of his shirt. His arms went limp in your hold, and he wobbled forwards. You caught him as he fell, and he sobbed into your shoulder again. His hands were clutching at your shirt as if for dear life, and even as you rubbed his back, more tears fell from his eyes.
You held Dazai through his breakdown. The next time he spoke to you, he said the words, "I like you too much." It was a silent confession, almost muffled into your shoulder as the post-crying exhaustion overtook. You pulled him closer and pressed a kiss into his temple.
It was alright after that. You asked Dazai why he tried to run away, and the only thing he said was that he got scared. He chose not to explain, and you chose not to push him.
Now, everything is good. Dazai's job at the ADA does worry you sometimes, even if it's for the good, it's dangerous, but you know he loves his job, no matter how many jokes he makes about Fukuzawa's violation of the Labor Laws. And he loves you, that's all you've ever needed.
Being in a relationship with him is not always easy. He still speaks of dying, and the thought of him leaving you makes you panic. Sometimes, you still don't know what to do to make him feel better. But you manage to work through it.
You love Dazai, after all. You have ever since you two were kids.
#dom male reader#top male reader#dom reader#bungou stray dogs#sub bsd x you#sub bsd#bsd x you#sub bungou stray dog x you#sub bungou stray dogs#sub character#sub character x you#sub dazai#sub dazai x you#sub osamu dazai x you#sub osamu dazai
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Secrets That Whisper & Shout
Pairing: Moonknight trio (Steven mainly) x Reader
Word Count: 3.9k
Warnings: idk brief mentions of violence
Genre: fluff & minor angst
Summary: you are extremely intrigued by your neighbor and the voices you can sometimes hear in his head because of course your neighbor seems extra susceptible to your powers
***
It's an interesting way to live life, being able to see into people's minds. To alter their memories, control their actions, hear their deepest inner thoughts even if you're not trying to sometimes. It can be weird but you just try your best to live your life normally. Right now the biggest hindrance to your delicate balance of normal is your neighbor. He lives across the hall for you and unfortunately, for some reason, you keep finding yourself inside his mind. It happens when you let your mental guard down for a little too long. You've always compared people's minds to houses, or offices full of filing cabinets, your powers give you a key basically but it seems like your dorky neighbor's mental door is never closed let alone locked.
The weirder part is what you hear when you do find yourself in his mind. For most people, the voice in their head sounds like them- and while you've never really spoken to your neighbor, you know for a fact there's no way he's simultaneously a nervous Brit, a cocky American, and a grumpy Spanish speaker. There are three voices in his head as opposed to one, they speak to each other and seem entirely independent of one another. You haven't intentionally done any snooping in his mind but you can imagine his mental filing cabinets are entirely different than any you've been in. It's not really your business though so you never look into it. No matter how curious you are about how and why he has three voices in his head.
You know very little about your neighbor. From accidentally listening to his mental debates you think his name is Steven. The other voices have names too but you're unclear who is who because you've never stuck around long enough to discern that. He's not very social and only leaves his apartment for work or errands. He hardly ever takes phone calls and he never really calls anyone- except, around the time you moved in he used to call his mom pretty often but you think she never answered and eventually, those calls stopped. The strangest detail you've realized is sometimes he'll sneak out of his apartment, through the window and you have no idea where he goes or what he does but he's always back within a week. You don't mean to keep tabs on him, sometimes you cast your magic out to scan for threats and you'll notice the lack of presence in the apartment across the hall.
He's a curious case, your neighbor across the hall, and today you've decided you're going to bite the bullet and speak to him. Your curiosity about him is the main reason and you hope that being able to assign personhood to the voices you hear will quell it even a bit. You cross the hall and knock on his door confidently before you can convince yourself not to on one Saturday afternoon when you know he's home. You checked first. There's some shuffling on the other side of the door and eventually, it opens a bit hesitantly but it opens.
"Hi! My name is y/n. I live across the hall from you." You say, your chosen tone is friendly but soft.
"I'm- Steven. Can I help you?" He asks sizing you up.
"I hope so! I was baking cookies and even though I went to the store before I started I guess I didn't make a complete list of things I needed because it turns out I actually don't have enough sugar so I was just wondering if you had any I could borrow by chance?" You ask. You are baking, but you also definitely have enough sugar, it just seemed like the simplest way to initiate conversation. A bit cliche but it's a classic for a reason.
"You want to borrow sugar?"
"Yes. A cup if you have it." You hold up your measuring cup with a smile. Steven pauses for a moment before he answers.
"Sure. I've got some. Come on in I'll pour some for you." He says walking into his apartment. You follow him in glancing around. The studio style flat is full of books littered everywhere, it's the first thing you notice when you walk in. Steven takes the measuring cup from you and quickly grabs his container of sugar to pour some.
"Thanks so much! I'll bring by some cookies to repay you!" You tell him.
"Oh, no thank you. I appreciate the offer but I am vegan and I'm sure you don't intend to bake vegan-friendly cookies so-" He trails off with a shrug. You frown but make a note of the information. He's vegan. "I've never seen you before." He says after a moment while he puts up his bag of sugar.
"That's probably because you don't leave much besides for work. I've lived across you for over a year." You muse.
"Hey! I- I leave!" He turns to look at you.
"To do your laundry at the witching hour when you're the least likely to run into people?" You smirk a bit at him.
"No." He huffs.
"Thanks for the sugar, Steven. Hope to see you around more." You toss over your shoulder as you walk back into your apartment.
You do make a handful of vegan cookies for your neighbor, even though it wasn't your plan, after checking to find that it really is just a couple of minor changes, vegetable oil instead of butter, water or nondairy milk instead of eggs, and since you don't already have vegan chocolate you leave out the chocolate chips- at least according to the recipe you found. They're basically sugar cookies and you only make six for Steven, some of which you sprinkle with cinnamon to make up for their plainness, but you imagine they're a decent thanks for the sugar you borrowed- even if it was a ploy.
A couple of hours later, you knock on Steven's door again, this time with a small Tupperware container for the cookies you made him. He opens it again with the same confused frown after a few moments.
"Hi again! I know you said not to bother with the cookies because you're vegan but I wanted to say thanks anyway so- I adjusted my recipe to accommodate. They're sugar cookies except two of them are cinnamon, I wasn't sure if you like cinnamon so I didn't make them all cinnamon but the cookies are vegan. So, thank you, for the sugar." You say handing him the plastic container.
"You adjusted your recipe so that I could have some cookies?" Steven doesn't seem to believe the words even as he says them.
"Yes. I know you said I didn't have to bring any but I wanted to anyway. Since I did use your sugar to make them."
"Thank you. I appreciate the effort. I can't wait to try them."
"If you ever need anything, just knock." You tell him and wait for his cautious nod. "I'll be seeing you." You say leaving without waiting for him to agree with that statement. From then on, Steven does in fact make a point to speak to you more often. The first time is a couple of days later, he runs into you in the elevator and tells you he enjoyed the cookies. He'll definitely speak to you when he sees you around the building but it's on you to actually make plans if you want to see him otherwise and sometimes you do. You invite him out to lunch, have him over for tea, suggest movies to watch together, you even visit him at work every once in a while. The first time you went to his job you didn't even know he worked there, I mean he'd told you he worked at a museum but you never thought to ask which one, but once you knew he worked there you definitely made a point to pop in and say hi when you're around and he's working. It takes a while but you manage to build a pretty good friendship with him over the next few months to the point where you're hanging out a couple of times a week these days. In fact, he's supposed to be over later today to show you some movie he's been dying for you to see. For now, you're sitting on your couch reading a novel until he gets here. It'll be another few hours before he comes knocking at your door.
You've really enjoyed getting to know him, more than you expected to honestly. He's as sweet and awkward as he comes off at first glance but there's something endearing about his gentle shyness even when he's raving about whatever thing has most recently captured his attention. You find yourself looking forward to the time you spend together more than you like to admit. You have no idea if your fondness is reciprocated to the same extent and you also have no idea how to broach the subject with him. Much like a skittish animal, you're always careful about how you make changes to your dynamic. It's something you try not to dwell on, if he likes you or if you'll tell him you like him and how to do so, things are good between you two and as they say, if it ain't broke don't fix it.
Your head snaps up at the sudden rush of fear you sense. The book in your lap long forgotten anyway as you had been lost in your thoughts until the dread you felt in your very bones pulled you from them. It's not your own though, that panic, and you have to take a moment to pinpoint the source. You gasp when you realize it's coming from Steven. It's been a while since you felt someone's feelings so uninhibited and you rush out of your apartment before you can even consider a plan. He must be in trouble for you to feel his alarm this way. When you reach for his doorhandle you hear some sort of crashing sound inside and you force open his apartment door to find Steven evading someone attempting to corner him in the apartment.
"Steven!" You gasp when the masked intruder chucks some sort of dagger at him.
"Y/n?! Get out of here!" Steven shouts at you from behind the couch. You ignore him and charge the attacker by launching yourself using Steven's side table. The attacker can't react quickly enough to the kick that you aim directly at their chest and they go down hard. You don't give the stranger a chance to get up and strike either of you, taking advantage of their disoriented state you slip into their mind, 'suggesting' that they leave and forget they ever came here, forget Steven even exists and forget you while you're at it. When the masked assailant stands again they climb out of the window they came through without saying a word.
"Are you alright Steven?" You frown turning your attention to where he's frowning from behind his kitchen counter. When did he move behind the kitchen counter?
"What just happened?" He blinks at you.
"I am- a magical being of sorts-"
"Like a witch?"
"Something like that. I mean- I can do magic in the more traditional sense, like spells and such but most of my powers are telepathic. I can read minds and alter memories, reshape reality-"
"What?" You hardly register Steven's shocked exclamation.
"I mean that can take a lot of energy depending on the scale, like I obviously can't do it for everyone, everywhere, at the same time but like- I could say, make it look and feel like there are spiders all over this room." You shrug.
"Why would you ever-"
"Arachnids are a common phobia, it's gotten me out of some touchy situations." You say.
"That doesn't explain what just happened though." Steven shakes his head.
"Oh, I can control people if it comes down to it. I just- made the person leave and forget you exist."
"You can do what?!" His eyes widen.
"I don't use it! Usually. I've only done it a couple of times to protect myself or someone who really needed it." You shrug.
"And your protection was to force someone to do something else against their will?!"
"Hey, that person was literally trying to kill you! I could've taken the violent route instead but I'm not a fan of it!"
"So that man-"
"Doesn't remember being here, doesn't remember attacking you, doesn't even remember you exist. You're safe." You say.
"Holy shit."
"Look I wanted to be honest with you because I care about you but if this is too much for you to handle then- I will leave all I ask is that you keep my secret to yourself."
"You won't just... take it from me?"
"I don't want to. And I won't, unless that information in your hands becomes a threat to my life."
"Have you ever used them on me? Your powers?" He asks. You pause for a moment considering how to answer. Admittedly he doesn't seem to be taking all this super well, you wonder if it would be worse to just say no but looking at him you can't bring yourself to tell the lie.
"I have. Not- on purpose and nothing altering. No mind control or memory changing or reality reshaping- absolutely nothing that changed anything about you it's just that sometimes your thoughts are loud. You yell in your head a lot- in several voices. Sometimes I can hear them." You explain.
"You can hear them? The different voices?"
"Yes. I don't quite understand it but I never snooped I just- would leave when I realized it was happening again." You say.
"I think you should go." Steven says avoiding your gaze. Your shoulders drop for a moment that you're sure he doesn't see.
"I see. Alright but Steven-"
"Your secret is yours. I won't tell anybody." He says quietly. You nod although he's still not looking directly at you.
"Okay. If you need anything- my door's open. Otherwise, take care- Steven." You say and exit his apartment before he can respond. Steven's reaction hurts more than you'd like it to, you suppose you wouldn't have been able to keep the secret from him forever though. It would've come out eventually, especially if you got any closer to him as you had considered.
The next two weeks are weird. Steven doesn't text you, or call you, or come over for tea or lunch, you make a point not to visit him at work as you are positive he's avoiding you based on the fact that he's clearly adjusted all of his habits so as to not run into to you around the apartment building. That- you think stings more than his initial reaction. To think he was so put out by your revelation that he no longer wanted to even risk seeing you... Whatever, you wouldn't dwell on it. The world keeps spinning. A sudden knock on your door interrupts you before you can focus back on what you were working on. With a confused frown, you walk over to the door and look through the spyhole to see Steven standing in the hall, and that surprises you immensely. For on that knock was sharp and harsh in a way you've never heard Steven knock on anything ever, but also for him to just show up at your door after 2 weeks is... unexpected. You pull open the door and lean casually against the frame.
"Hello." He nods and you immediately notice he does not sound like himself. You quirk an eyebrow at him.
"Steven? Hi. What are you doing here? And- why are you talking funny?"
"I'm not Steven my name is Marc Spector." He says.
"Did you hit your head or something?" You snort crossing your arms in confusion.
"No? I'm perfectly fine."
"Right except your name isn't Marc Spector it's Steven Grant. Unless you've been lying to me since we met which- would certainly be interesting but I don't think that's what's happening here." You say.
"Not quite. See we have a... condition-"
"Do not tell me about what's wrong with your body!" You put your hands up to stop him.
"It's psychological." He says.
"Oh okay. Proceed." You say.
"It's called dissociative identity disorder. My mind is- fractured. Essentially this body houses more than one consciousness." He explains.
"This sounds very Jekyll and Hyde and if you're coming to me to say you're a serial killer I don't-" You trail off when suddenly something clicks. "Holy shit you're one of the voices in Steven's head!" You gasp. You knew he sounded familiar but you didn't pinpoint it until just now.
"First of all, it's my head okay I am the original. Secondly- Steven told you about us?!"
"If he did do you think I would sound as confused as I do right now? No, he didn't tell me anything. I just realized why I recognize your voice." You say.
"Recognize my voice?" Now he's looking at you like you're crazy.
"I can hear you sometimes. You are quite loud- especially compared to the other one."
"You can hear us?" His eyes are wide as saucers.
"Yes, never on purpose though. I'm a telepath. I can read minds and change memories and alter reality and stuff like that so- sometimes I can hear you- which by the way we still haven't answered the billion dollar question why are you here?"
"Steven has been moping around for over a week now and every time we force him to leave he looks longingly at your door so I came to find out what the hell you did to him because I swear-"
"I didn't do anything to him. I told him I was a telepath and he freaked. He's been avoiding me since. All on his own. And before you start throwing around threats I'll warn you Marc Spector that I could take hold of your entire fractured little mind without even breaking a sweat. So tread carefully if you're going to start swearing things." Your eyes narrow at him.
"He's been avoiding you?" He blinks.
"We talked about my powers, he asked me to leave, and so I did. Probably assumes I'll take advantage of him using them or something." You shrug.
"Well you did just threaten me."
"It wasn't a threat it was a warning. Besides I'd never hurt Steven, you I don't know and you did start a pretty menacing sentence that prompted me to- never mind."
"Now I'm confused. If he's avoiding you, why is he moping around the apartment?" He frowns.
"You're asking me. You're the one that shares a body with him." You say.
"Explain to me exactly what went down?"
"I was in my apartment and someone attacked Steven- I don't know who or why but could feel it so I went over to help and I used my powers to get rid of them."
"What'd you do? Launch him out the window?"
"No? I just made him forget about us and where he was but when he mindlessly climbed back out the way he came in without attacking us I obviously had to explain some things. I guess Steven didn't take it all that well." You shrug.
"That doesn't sound right. I think you should talk to him."
"I- don't think he wants to do that." You shake your head.
"No. No, this has gone on long enough. Hang on." Marc says.
"Marc seriously mind your-"
"Y/n?" He grimaces. You recognize immediately that it's Steven you're talking to now.
"Steven- one the uh- voices? Marc? He thinks we need to have a conversation. Does he make a habit of meddling in your life this way?"
"Less often than you might think but- I do owe you an apology." His head drops.
"What for, exactly?"
"How I- handled things before. I was... cold, it's just that when you said you could hear Marc and Jake I was worried about what else you-"
"I'm sorry, who is Jake?" You shake your head at him.
"The identity disorder thing- there are three of us as far as we know. Myself, Marc, and Jake." Steven says and you nod as you piece it together.
"Would it be presumptuous of me to guess that Marc and Jake are not your only secrets?"
"No actually. Marc is an avatar."
"Of what?" You ask. Steven's shocked confusion prompts you to fill in the gaps, "I've met avatars for each of the sins so, one of those maybe? Or a celestial body of some sort? The moon perhaps- I'm guessing you don't mean in the same sense as the cartoon boy because people with elemental manipulation do not refer to themselves that way in real life so-"
"Khonshu." Steven says when you trail.
"What?"
"He's- Khonshu's avatar."
"Egyptian God. Interesting. Correct me if I'm wrong he's the god of justice, right?"
"That's right." He nods.
"So the guy that was attacking you a few weeks ago was probably mad at him for- something related to that."
"Most likely. Can't imagine a museum guest putting a hit out on me for not having any more pyramid pens or something." Steven scratches the back of his neck and you chuckle a bit at his joke.
"Interesting."
"Look- that day, I wasn't sure if this was something I was ready to tell you. I've never told anyone this before, the only person that knows is Marc's ex-wife, so when you said you could hear our thoughts I was worried you knew more than just that there were voices in my head and- I'm sorry." Steven trails off with a sigh.
"So- what changed? Why are you telling me now?"
"Well Marc revealed himself to you." Steven says. "But more than that I just- really hate not being able to talk to you. I like my life way more with you in it but I- after how I reacted I sort of figured I'd earned my misery, that I didn't deserve your forgiveness because when you chose to trust me with your secrets I turned you away, I even judged you, instead showing literally any modicum of support of the person I care about. I made an ass of myself."
"I wasn't upset with you, you know. I mean as far as shitty reactions go yours doesn't even make the top 5. You didn't tell the apartment building to gather their pitchforks so- I count that as a win." You shrug.
"I would never-"
"I know." You nod. "While we're- confessing our sins anything else you wanna share?" You ask with a chuckle. Steven holds your gaze for a long moment and there's a brief second where you consider finding out for yourself what he's contemplating so hard, you won't of course, but the silence drags long enough to make you want to rescind the question. Eventually, Steven's hand grabs your arm and yanks you towards him. His eyes are so wide at the action you'd think he's not the one who pulled you but before you can ask him about it his lips are on yours. The kiss is short and a bit unsure but his mouth is soft against yours and when he pulls away still with that wide-eyed look you do nothing but blink at him for a moment.
"I- I'm so sorry that was- I mean Marc was- I didn't plan- I wasn't going to-"
"Steven." You place your hand against his cheek to halt his frazzled rambling. "Did you want to kiss me?" You ask.
"I've wanted to kiss you for months." He breathes.
"Then don't apologize. I've wanted to kiss you too."
"Really?"
"Yes so- I think I'm going to do it again." You say pausing long enough to give him an out. When his eyes flutter closed you take that as your sign to lean forward and connect your lips again. You're sure in that moment you could do this forever and you silently wish to whatever powers above that you'll have that long to do it as many times as you wish.
***
A/N: I'm thinking of turning this into an anthology (like There is No Right Way) of the moonknight trio dating a telepath because I think it would be interesting idk- anyone interested in more of this dynamic?
#marvel#marvel fanfiction#marc spector#marc spector x reader#steven grant#marc spector fanfiction#marc spector fluff#steven grant fanfiction#jake lockley fluff#moonknight#moonknight x reader#moonknight fanfiction#steven grant fluff#steven grant x reader#jake lockley x reader#steven grant angst
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Bonny!! Can we please get more Lo:Yoongi and OC? Like maybe her transition into being Queen/ or him courting her.
Him courting her is so cute honestly haha
All the workers at the palace are talking about you.
Mostly, because ever since the King had chosen you, he himself has been slowly changing. And while a lot of people were worried he might become weak after what happened during the fight with Jungkook, it's clear now that that's not the case at all.
He's just a lot calmer now, having realized that he has now a person he can find some quiet company in.
You don't expect anything from him at all- you cared for him when he was injured with hands so gentle, and you're always understanding of his rough tone and even rougher ways of handling the palace and it's daily tasks. Even though your kind despises violence, you accept that his does not, and actively uses it to solve their issues.
Yoongi, at the end of the day, is a king who earned his crown through bloodshed and death. And one day, his own will be taken the same way.
But until then, he will let himself enjoy those tender moments you're gifting him- just like today, as he has his head in your lap, both of you sitting outside in the palace gardens, birds flying overhead across the skies while the fountain runs a few meters away from you. He's rarely ever felt this calm before, your hand on his shoulder, while you let him rest for once.
Yoongi has never wanted his spot.
With his father forcefully challenging him when he was just about old enough to be considered somewhat of a man, he had no choice but to see it through- killing his father that day, cries of his mother forever edged into his mind. He doesn't know where she is today- most likely passed away already, though even if not, he'd never be able to see her again.
The partners of Kings who lost their crowns are exiled, after all.
"I'd like to offer you something." Yoongi says, eyes still closed as he speaks.
"..huh?" You wonder, unsure what he means. "Like a present?" You ask, and he nods.
"Yes. A gift." He clarifies. "I have yet to properly court you."
"Oh that's not.. that's not necessary at all." You giggle. "I'll stay with you either way, for as long as you'll want me." You tell him, and at that, his eyes open.
"I know." He responds. "But you live here now, amongst my people. And it is my people's way to properly court a partner." He explains.
"Alright, I'll accept it then." You agree, and he quiets down at that, before he moves, face turning to look up at you.
"What would you like?" He asks. "I just.. realized I do not know what you.. like, and what not." He explains, eyes moving away from yours in thought. "I should most likely.. have more conversations with you.." He mumbles to himself.
"I mean, we're talking right now?" You say, and at that, he looks at you again, before he moves to sit up next to you, seemingly searching for something in your face.
"We should.. talk more often." He says. "I enjoy talking to you."
"Me too." You say, smiling at him. "Oh, you have a petal there-" You say, moving closer to blow a stray petal from the blooming trees off of his hair- and when you move back to tell him it's gone, you're met with his eyes wide open, staring at you. "-uh.. did I do something wrong?" You ask, unsure, your words making him snap out of whatever trance he was just in.
"Are you trying to play with me?" He challenged, eyes narrowing as they stare you down.
"I- no? I just blew the petal off-" You explain yourself, when he cuts you off.
"I know that humans show affection by kissing their partners." He tells you, and at that, you realize what he probably thought you were leaning in for.
"Oh- Oh, no, I wouldn't-" You start, and his head tilts to the side at that.
"You wouldn't kiss me?" He asks, amused by the way you seem to get shy now.
"No! I would but-" You continue, and suddenly, you can make out the hint of a smirk on his lips.
"Then what is speaking against it right now?" He asks. "We are partners. I believe that this gesture is more than appropriate right now." He tells you, before he leans in now, coming closer to you. "Or maybe that could be my.. gift to you?" He proposes, and you swallow thickly, thinking about it.
You do like him. And he's right- nothing speaks against it.
"I think.. it could definitely be considered.. a gift of sorts." You say, and he smiles a little more now.
"Well then?" He says. "I need an appropriate.. demonstration." He tells you, and at that, you gather all your courage, and move forward to just peck his lips-
but he makes it clear right away, that a quick little peck was not what he was looking for.
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THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN
KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]
You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.
18+, NSFW, 80k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Fem!Reader, Mentor!Price, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst
· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR ·
➤ THE GAMES
When you wake, your cheek is still pressed to Konig’s chest. Your lips have settled in a dot of your own drool that stains a spot on his shirt a shade darker. Your head raises to face the knock on the door, and Konig’s head follows in suit. You’re not sure if he was already awake or not, but your eyes meet, both of you already dawning that unsure stare.
You know what this knock means.
This is your call to death.
You take a dry swallow, body already shaking with fear.
You and Konig give each other one last squeeze before you pull away to roll out of bed to answer the door.
It’s Price, wearing a matching solemn expression, his brow creased in sympathy at your face drained of color and jaw that trembles.
He nods at you, and wordlessly embraces you, your face buried in his chest as his arms wrap around your shoulders.
“You’ll be alright, Pluck,” He whispers, giving you a squeeze before he pulls away. He looks over your shoulder and sees Konig, slouching off the edge of your bed, staring at the floor.
Price refrains from giving you that knowing, smug grin. He nods again, licks his lips, and the three of you still, staring off into nothing. Mourning in your last few moments.
At breakfast, Ruby has the sense to ease on the chatter, the four of you eating in a grave silence.
Neither you or Konig have much of an appetite. In fact, every bite you force down threatens to make a reappearance, but you have to. You have to eat and drink as much as you can hold because if you can survive the day, you will soon be starving.
No words are exchanged.
Wordlessly you and Konig are chaperoned down to the ground floor, led by Capitol guards to the hovercraft launch pad.
You are strapped into your seat, where you are given a tracker, implanted deep into your inner forearm with a thick, hollow needle. You don’t hold back your wince as it’s driven into your flesh.
There’s a lump in your throat that won’t go away. As you gnaw at your painted nails, your hand jitters in front of your face. You wonder if forcing down breakfast was a bad idea, because it’s swirling around your insides, stomach churning as you sit with nothing to distract yourself. In a futile attempt to soothe yourself, your thumb rubs over the smooth, golden front of Konig’s token.
When the hovercraft’s windows go black, you can’t help the sharp inhale you draw in.
You can’t bear to look at Konig as you’re separated in the catacombs deep beneath the arena.
Mauve’s waiting for you at your launch room. She looks a little pale today, her usually uninterested demeanor wavering.
Pressed to the far wall and immediately catching your attention is an open, crystal tube circling a metal platform that will soon deliver you to the arena. The sight of it widens your eyes, as if you were staring down an opponent in the arena. Your breakfast sloshes around in your gut, fists clenching at your sides.
Mauve sighs and hands you a pair of black pants with a matching tactical belt. The pants are wind resistant, a swishy material on the outside and a thin layer of wool on the inside.
You nod slow, jaw slack and shaking, breaths audible. Dizzy and unsteady, you almost trip as you step into your pants, catching yourself with a hop.
Mauve helps you into the most supportive sports bra you’ve ever had the pleasure of wearing, and a black shirt, reminiscent of the one you wore for training. Your arms fumble to make it through the holes of the fabric. Once on she takes a black jacket off a hanger and opens it for you. You make a half turn on unsteady feet, slipping one arm after another through the sleeves. She pulls it up onto your shoulders, brushing your hair from the back of your neck as she smooths the hood along your shoulders.
Your rattling fingers fumble for the zipper and fail to connect either side of the jacket. Mauve gently takes it for you, zipping up to your middle. You try to whisper her a thank you but it just comes out a breathy squeak.
The jacket was made for you, you can tell. The almost silken, water resistant material perfectly confirming to the curves of body, comfortably hugging you. Similar to the pants, another layer of wool lines the inside. At the absence of pockets, you slip Konig’s token into your bra for safe keeping.
“Look,” Mauve says, annoyed as ever, “I try not to get attached. But you,” She sighs, lowering her voice, “You make it hard.”
Your face loosens for just a moment.
Maybe you had pegged Mauve wrong. You hadn’t considered that she may be avoidant and uninterested to just her tribute. You assumed that’s all she ever was. But maybe outside of here, away from the kid she has to watch die every year, maybe she is nicer. Open and loving and supportive. It makes you think that if someone had tried to judge your entire personality based on how you’ve acted since the reaping, maybe they’d peg you wrong too.
“Thank you, Mauve,” Your words are nothing but a shaky whisper.
“Mhm,” She hums, “Now win.”
You scan her face, your entire body trembling in fear.
An even, robotic voice comes over the speaker and announces that the launch will begin in thirty seconds.
You choke on the lump in your throat, a hiccup leaving at your futile attempt to swallow.
Your feet are made of lead as they approach the launch pad, careful, shuffled steps up to the tube.
“Hey,” Mauve says.
When she looks at you, she gives you a single, slow nod.
“You’ve got it.”
With full blown eyes, you return her gesture, and the glass encloses you with a zip.
Immediately your palms are pressed to the glass, your instincts clawing to free yourself from this cage.
Mauve gives you one final nod.
Your entire body jumps when the platform begins to raise, and you watch Mauve until she disappears, ascending into darkness.
-
The first thing you notice as your tube breaks into open is the freezing air. Almost immediately your trembling intensifies, each shallow breath turning to steam that billows in front of your face. You are blinded, nothing but bright white as you jerk your head around. For ten seconds your vision struggles to readjust, twitching as you force yourself to orient to a shine powerful enough to bring tears to your eyes.
Once your eyes adjust to the sun, your focus is pulled to the cornucopia, centered equal distance from each of the tributes’s platforms. All twenty-four of you, in a circle, a minute away from a bloody slaughter.
Sixty Seconds.
The pure white snow that surrounds your feet reflects a brutal full sun.
You follow one of the tributes gaze, the boy from District Three, you think. He’s staring off into the distance, into the sandy landscape just to the left of you.
Desert.
Sand that stretches for what looks like miles, massive dunes that billow along the lifeless sea of orange. A mirage of heat radiating off the piles of sand, dotted with the occasional dead brush.
To your right, behind the story-tall cornucopia, the desert landscape seems to come to a grinding halt. As if a line had been drawn vertically down the horizon. The yellow, hazy sky that hangs over the desert abruptly turns to a blanket of crystal blue sky filled with fluffy, brilliant white clouds. Just next to the split, contrasting against the brilliant blue sky, is the border of a hedge maze. Thick, massive walls of foliage reaching well over the size of a redwood tree, pink flowers that look almost like cherry blossoms intertwined with the deep green walls running along the perimeter of its quadrant. From here you can see at least a dozen openings in its massive walls, leading into it’s chambers.
Forty-Five Seconds.
The arena is divided in four, with the mouth of the cornucopia in the exact spot where each of the landscapes meet, six tribute platforms in each quandrant. Surrounding yours, and the closest five other tribute’s platforms, is snow. Blinding white, the desert’s sun reflecting off its pure coat that comes to a perfect right angle pointed at the cornucopia. When you look behind you, you see the snow stretches along the entire quadrant, eventually obscured by a forest of pine trees. The sky above the pines is a solid, weak grey, flurries dotting the air.
When you look over your left shoulder, you find the snow and pine forest comes to a dead halt, another split in the sky and landscape. It’s picked up by a forest of red maple and ginkgo trees - vibrant crimson and yellow leaves that camouflages just a few feet beyond the treeline. The leaves’ colors immediately remind you of fall, and then it clicks.
Summer, Spring, Winter, Fall.
Cute, Capitol.
Thirty Seconds.
The desert was a death sentence. No water, no food, and heat that would collapse the strongest tributes in a matter of hours.
Snow was out of the question, too. With Price’s instructions to avoid the cornucopia, there’s no way you’d have the proper supplies to survive such a climate. Even just standing in the corner, with the desert quadrant being just a few yards away, you and the five tributes surrounded by snow are shivering from more than just fear, noses and cheeks turning red from the chill air. Staying close to snow would be important, through, as it’s the only source of water you’ve got eyes on from your platform.
The sight of the hedge maze is enough to make your stomach churn. A feeling in your gut that was hard to ignore, even with the rationalization of ideal temperature and concealment. It was too risky. An enclosed space like that, no way to tell what dangers and traps the gamemakers have hidden inside. Too easily cornered into hand-to-hand combat.
The fall forest - that’s your best bet. Dense trees to hide in. Survivable temperature and bordering the snow quadrant.
Fifteen Seconds.
With your arms crossed over your chest in a desperate attempt to keep warm, you do one last quick scan of the four jarring landscapes, just to ensure you’re making the right choice. You find the mouth of the cornucopia again, a pile of goodies spilling out in the exact spot all four quadrants meet. You see weapons made of the finest quality metal, shelter materials, full armor and gear designed with the extreme temperatures in mind. It’s no use eyeing them up, you’d never survive in a dash to the cornucopia. Your eyes flick down to the items scattered around your feet, the lesser value supplies sprinkled further away from the cornucopia. They stick out well in the snow, nestled into the top layer of ice. Just from your spot you can see an empty water bottle, a carabiner, a flashlight. A multitool the size of your index finger, a set of rubber soles - you think to attach to your shoes - and a pair of black, coarse gloves.
You follow the items that trickle into the hedge maze quadrant, and there you find Konig, about seven tributes to your right.
He’s hard to miss among the other tributes, and he’s looking right at you. Catching his stare, you share one last look of hesitance.
You realize you haven’t taken a breath in an uncomfortable amount of time, gulping one deep breath of sharp icy wind while you look to Konig with parted blue lips and eyes pooled with terror.
One last reassuring glance between two tributes that are both just as lost and just as unsure and just as deathly afraid.
When the gong goes off, your brain goes blank. The plan you’d so carefully crafted over the longest minute of your life untangles the moment twenty-three tributes race off their platforms. Half in a full sprint to the mouth of the cornucopia, the others scattering in a full dash to the quadrants.
No one dares rush into the desert, many going out of their way and stumbling through sand to escape the heat that coated them in layer of sweat. The tributes assigned to that quadrant had already removed their jackets and secured them to their waists to escape the dry heat of the sun. A handful of tributes rush for the hedge maze, less offput by its unknown in the interest of full concealment. Two male tributes, one who had snatched the shoe attachments, flashlight, and gloves, dare to brace the snow, running side-by-side and whizzing right past you as they disappear into pine trees. The rest of the tributes make a dash to the fall quandrant, quickly disappearing behind the coverage of yellow and red leaves.
You were still glued to your platform, giving everyone else a massive head start. Frozen in your place, sucked right back into that blackhole of dread and fear you experienced on reaping day.
There’s one thought that tears through the fog, and it’s Price’s voice.
What the hell are you doing, kid?! Get out of there!
It’s his voice that gives you the courage to step off your platform, daring a few feet forward to risk grabbing the canteen and carabiner with one hand, the multitool in the other. The metal wet with melted snow freezes your palms with a harsh bite.
When you look up to make sure no one’s targeting you, the color drains from your face at the sight of the boy from District One thrusting a sword into a boy’s neck. His blood sprays nearly a foot in front of him, coating his killer in a cup of deep red blood. The boy from district one smiles, his grin coated in the blood of his kill.
About ten yards from you, in the fall quadrant, the girl from District Four wrestles the scrawny girl from District Ten to the ground for a 3-inch long knife that was stabbed into the dirt. She managed to overpower her, pinning her down with a straddle before driving the knife into her stomach. She removes the blade several times, plunging it back into Ten - repeatedly slashing her guts and sending blood flying. Ten keeps her grip on the knife that punctures her, face frozen in shock.
The girl from District One, now back to back with her bloody companion, is successfully using a spear to skewer anyone in her reach.
Your head snaps to a figure rushing towards you. The boy from eleven, you think, has his eyes locked on you, running full speed in your direction. At his side is a scythe, its metal gleaming as it catches the bright desert sun with each of his strides. You stand straight from your half-ducked position, having been stuck in your squat after grabbing your meager supplies. The snow crunches under your boots as you make a few shaky steps backwards, palms rising instinctively to brace yourself. You’re still locked in fear, lower lip stammering and unable to get out even a plea for mercy.
Suddenly he’s stopped in his tracks, his legs and upper half folded forward by strong arms and hands clasped tightly around his ribs. You watch with a gaped mouth and blown eyes as he rises a foot-and-a-half off the ground. His limbs flail as he tries to swing the scythe behind him to defend against his assailant. It’s quick, Eleven’s tilted to the side and he’s thrown brutally into the ground. For a moment his body is a blur, and then his head catches on a raised platform. His skull hits the metal with a heavy thunk, followed by the distinct and unmistakable sound of his neck breaking.
When you’re finished eyeing the boy from eleven, dead the moment he hit the platform, your eyes dart to the culprit.
Konig.
He’s peels the scythe from the dead tribute’s hand, looking over his shoulder for any approaching tributes.
As soon as he meets your scared eyes, he starts in a full sprint to you, weapon at his side.
A breathy squeak turns to steam in the frozen air as you stumble backwards. Your heel catches on your own platform, seat hitting the snow and legs sprawled out on the chilled metal.
It’s the betrayal that shocks you back to your body.
Konig is trying to kill you.
Your feet kick desperately at the smooth platform as you turn over in the snow. Stiff, frozen limbs quickly scramble to get yourself up and into a sprint. You keep your few supplies pinned tightly to your chest as you fight against the snow swallowing your boots with each step. You break into full speed when you’re in the fall quadrant, the freezing air turning to a much more bearable temperature the moment your foot harshly hit the dirt littered with yellow petals.
Finally! You hear Price in your head. You can even picture him, leaned towards the screen, hand coming off his knee with an annoyed wave.
Each time your foot slams against the dirt it sends a shock up your legs, still defrosting from the harsh bite of the winter quadrant. The adrenaline pumps through you with each pulse that pounds against your temple, breath as sharp as crystals with each inhale.
Branches grab hold of you as soon as you break through the trees, peeling up the first few layers of exposed skin. With each snap and break of the branches, the searing, white hot image of the boy from eleven flashes in front of your eyes. His eyes that had gone lifeless the moment he crashed into that platform, a small bounce of his head off the metal pillow before he landed limply in his final resting place.
You stay right on the border of the winter quadrant, just to the right of the snow-capped pine trees.
When your hearing comes back to you, previously deafened by an unrelenting replay of a broken neck, the first thing you hear is your heavy breaths, followed by the screams of tributes behind you. They’re quieter now that you’ve made distance from the bloodbath, but there’s no mistaking the raw desperation in their cries of pain and pleas for mercy. You can’t help but flinch at the particularly cutting shrieks.
You run until your legs hurt, until your face and hands are covered in scratches, until your lungs beg for respite, and then you run some more.
You’re thinking about all the tributes that ran into the fall quadrant. Most of the ones that didn’t make a dash to the cornucopia ran into the quadrant you occupy. Your focus had been elsewhere, but you think around six or seven tributes made a run for it as soon as the gong sounded. More may even follow after they’ve grabbed supplies from the cornucopia.
This doesn’t sit right with you, all of these tributes in such a condensed area, almost all of them bigger and stronger than you. They’ll surely stay close to the border of the snow district as well, drawn in to the water supply. It’s frustrating that these tributes had the same plan as you, but you don’t have much of a choice without proper supplies to survive the extreme climates.
Maybe the hedge maze was the right move after all. To your knowledge, only a handful of tributes were daring enough to head to the spring quadrant, and at the very least the hedge maze should provide decent cover. There may even be supplies hidden deep within it chambers.
This in mind, you don’t break your strides, heading deeper into the fall quadrant.
You don’t stop until your stomach threatens to retch, dropping to your knees in exhaustion. If a tribute were to run into you now, they’d surely have no trouble ending your life.
When you finally catch your breath, successfully spitting away the nausea and rubbing away the cramp in your arm from the deadly grip on your items, you’re surprised you’re still alive. That another tribute hasn’t found you and turned your throat inside out.
You’re eager to get away from the snow border, knowing that the tributes will be lingering close by. You’re thankful you risked the water bottle, even if it meant the vivid memories of so many brutal slaughters. You’re sure it will give you an advantage, able to move deeper into the fall quadrant without having to stay close to scoop up handfuls of snow.
When your legs permit you, you stand with a wobble, inching yourself toward the pine trees. You kneel down in the dirt littered with brilliant yellow ginkgo petals, and scoop handfuls of snow up to your mouth, letting it melt into a very refreshing swallow of ice cold water. You don’t even try to mute your noises of satisfaction and relief. Once you’ve quenched the unbearable thirst brought up from running, you uncap your bottle and begin to stuff snow into its small opening.
You can’t get the image, the sound, of the boy’s broken neck out of your mind. It’s stopped playing on a loop, but it now intrusively rips through your thoughts without warning, folding your whole body forward into a cringe.
You’d known Konig was strong. You’d watched him in training, lifting weights you could hardly roll.
It was nothing in comparison to watching him pick up that boy from eleven with ease. He lifted that boy, who was by no means small nor weak, spun him around, and threw him like he was a ragdoll.
You really thought that Konig would have the decency not to try and kill you immediately. Just yesterday you were friendly, sharing both a bed and your intimate thoughts. Moments before the gong you were benefiting from each other’s reassurance. Shouldn’t there have been a cool-down period? You didn’t realize that not agreeing to be his ally meant you were agreeing to be enemies.
It was naive of you to assume you’d be on neutral ground in the arena, you realize.
‘I would kill if I need to.’
You hear Konig’s words intertwined with the repeated sound of Eleven’s neck cracking.
Just a lie, something to keep your guard down.
He killed that boy not out of self-defense or necessity, but because he could. He was running right towards you, ready to pick you off too, just because he could.
He didn’t even have the decency to let someone else pick you off before he broke your assailant’s neck.
Konig specifically wanted to be the one to kill you.
You’re running over every moment you’ve ever shared with him, now tainted with the cruel truth. He had been tricking you all along, luring you into ease and comfort with his presence just so that he could draw you in to kill you.
You’d been right all along.
When your canteen is full, you wipe off the outside of the bottle with your jacket and use the carabiner to clip the bottle and multi-tool onto its rung. You fasten it into your belt loop, but your plan immediately falls apart when the multi-tool starts to bang against the metal of the water bottle with each movement, making far too much noise for your liking. You remove the multi-tool with the faintest annoyed grunt, and take the opportunity to shuffle through its insides. Your fingers are stiff from the cold snow, but nails manage to pry out the sheathed pieces of metal.
Inside you find a blade, about an inch long. The blade is sharp but thin, and would offer little use for self-defense, but will surely be helpful in terms of survival. There’s a second blade, one with a serrated edge, its jagged teeth varying sizes. The multi-tool also shields a corkscrew, a small pair of pliers, a file, and the tiniest pair of scissors you’ve ever seen.
Instead of putting it back on its rung, you stuff the multi-tool into your sports bra, raising goosebumps on your flesh as your body works to warm up the metal.
You begin at a walk further into the fall quadrant, away from the snow and slightly diagonal as you rub your freezing hands together to warm them up.
There’s not much sign of other tributes, but you be sure to head the opposite direction at the slightest rustling of leaves.
You walk at a steady pace now, one you think you can maintain as you dredge deeper into the forest.
You need to figure out a source for food. You weren’t lucky enough to get your hands on any rope or wire, so snares were out of the question. There’s no other vegetation besides ginkgo trees and red maples as far as you can see, but you can’t see very far past the low hanging branches and petals.
You don’t know much about ginkgo trees, so you have no clue if they bear edibility.
There are the last of the maple seeds that occasionally flutter to the ground with their mesmerizing dance.
You can work with maple seeds.
Something for your stomach to at least chew on, even if it meant malnourishment. The bark is also edible, you remember.
And sap! If you can figure out how to harvest it, you’ll get a sweet treat in reward.
There’s something about the trees that seem artificial, though. The colors are a little too bright, the branches a little too flourished with leaves. Not even the petals littered on the ground have a hint of rotted brown on them.
Even with the unease the trees invoke, you risk gathering maple seeds from the forest floor.
You’re not sure how far you’ve traveled, It feels like miles.
The boom of the cannon makes you flinch.
The bloodbath must be over, and they are now firing the cannon that signifies a tribute’s death.
You pause your walking to count on your fingers as the booms fire one after another.
Nine fires. Nine tributes dead.
For a moment, you are enraged. Nine children dead as punishment for crimes that took place well before their creation.
And then you hear Price again, reminding you to use that rage as fuel to survive.
Don’t think about it.
You let out a deep breath, starting up at a steady pace.
Another thought makes you stop.
Nine of you dead.
Is Konig still alive?
To your dismay, there is a pang in your chest that vibrates through your whole body, bleeding a strong emotion you can’t quite pinpoint throughout your entire being.
You… don’t want him to be dead.
He just tried to kill you, and even so the thought of him not making it through the bloodbath is twisting your guts in knots.
‘You don’t think that boy is going to have a giant target on his back?’
Shut up, Price! Shut up! Shut up!
Your feet kick up a few fallen leaves as you force yourself to keep moving.
He can’t be dead, you decide. Even if he had been hanging around the bloodbath with a pack of careers itching to use their weapons on him.
He’s not dead.
You need to tell yourself this, because you can’t afford to feel emotional, even if the emotion you feel is knotted up and begging to be unraveled.
He’s not dead.
Your legs are burning, feeling heavy and unsteady at the same time. Your bends to scoop up maple seeds slow, relishing in the breaks from walking a little too long.
As you walk you peel some of the maple seeds, hoping they can give you some energy to keep going. You’re doubtful, though.
You wince at the break of bitter seeds against your tongue. They’d taste sweeter cooked, but you’re working with what you have.
When you’re really at your limit, you plop down in front of a particularly large maple, thick trunk and camouflaged in a cluster of low-hanging ginkgo branches.
You eat a few more maple seeds, replacing them with the ones in your reach. You take a swig of your water, now melted and cool to wash down their taste.
You wonder how often you’ve been shown on screen, and when? At any moment you could be broadcasted live to every person in Panem.
Surely you wouldn’t get too much coverage, usually after the bloodbath they’ll be busy dissecting all the deaths that occurred all at once, but they will occasionally cut to you to show you’re still alive.
You freeze when you hear the rustling. This is no blow of the wind. This disturbance is animal, this is human, and both of those options mean danger.
You don’t so much as breathe, deathly still at once. From outside the coverage of the ginkgos, you see the flash of a large boot as it walks briskly through the foliage.
They walk like they’re not even afraid of danger, not stealthy in the least bit. Crunching leaves, snapping branches.
Long after they’re out of earshot, you let out a drawn out exhale. If you had killer instincts and a weapon, the tribute would have died by your hand. All you’d have to do is slink out silently behind them and do it before they even knew what hit them.
They’re lucky you’re docile.
Surely you were being featured then. Two tributes in such close proximity, they were probably gearing up for a fight.
So sorry to disappoint.
When the cannon goes off, you flinch again.
Okay, maybe you weren’t being televised.
It’s annoying how your first thought is of Konig. With each tribute that falls the odds of his survival dwindles.
You tell yourself you only care about his survival because it would be best for your district, best for your loved ones. Extra food parcels for every citizen in reward for giving the Capitol a victor.
You really hope he’s still alive.
Fourteen left. Thirteen not including you.
You rest against your maple until dusk, and decide this is a good enough place to set camp as any other.
You already know you’re not going to sleep tonight, but you hope you can at least get some rest.
With the fading light of day you slide out of your ginkgo hide out, and while making as much noise as you dare you begin to saw off some ginkgo branches, supporting them on their undersides to minimize the shake of the twigs and leaves. Only the sound of scratching wood and vibration of branch could draw any nearby tributes closer. You stop every few push and pull of the blade to check for signs of danger. It’s slow going for such an inadequate sawing tool.
By time the sun goes down, when the generously bright moon rises, you’ve successfully cut four decent sized branches dense with leaves. You arrange them around the trunk of your maple tree to conceal your resting body from the rest of the woods.
The cluster of trees does a good job concealing you, but the extra branches should ensure your black clothes don’t stick out against the ginkgo leaves and fill any gaps in the bottom of the branches. For good measure, you scoop up a decent pile of leaves, making sure to kick over nearby leaves to conceal the disruption, and sprinkle the bright yellow petals over your lower half in hopes of blending in with the dirt. You keep yourself propped up against the trunk of your tree, settling your legs in breaks of the tree roots.
You keep your supplies secured tightly to you, just in case you have to make a dash.
You disturb some of your ginkgo petals when the blare of the anthem starts. Over the defeaning music you poke your head into a clearing in the trees. Partially obscured through full branches you can see the Capitol emblem projected into the sky. They’re about to display the faces of the fallen shortly, and you will be able to figure out by elimination which tributes remain.
They appear in order of district, so when the girl from three projects in the sky, you know the careers from one and two are alive. No surprise there.
Her headshot is followed by her companion from three, both from District Five, the girl from District Six.
The girl from District Seven, the one you saw laughing on her chariot with the boy from her district. He’s still alive, though.
You hold your breath once her headshot disappears, bracing yourself to soon see Konig’s face in the sky.
The next face is the girl from ten.
For the first time in the arena, a smile creeps on your face, breathy and toothless. The wave of relief that washes over you is immediate and flooding.
Konig’s alive.
The warm feeling is cut short when you see the face of the boy from eleven hanging over you in the sky, and when you look at his picture, all you can see is his lifeless eyes. His limp bounce off the platform, the crack of his neck.
Konig’s alive.
And killing.
You wonder how many more lives he’s taken today.
Both the girl & boy from District Twelve flash in the sky, the anthem ends on a flare, and the forest seems unbearably quiet in its absence.
As you settle back into your nook, you try to figure out who’s left.
Both from District One & Two.
Both from District Four.
The boy from six, the boy from seven, and both from eight.
You remember Price’s warning about the boy from eight. About how something ‘ain’t right with that boy.’
You & Konig.
The boy from ten.
The girl from eleven.
That’s it, you think.
The air of a crisp fall day has turned to a harsh chill. Your breath turns to steam in the cool air, and a steady shiver twitches your body. You zip your jacket all the way up and tie your hood tightly around your face. In a desperate bid you even draw the branches closer to you, hoping for insulation.
You pull your arms out of their sleeves, tucking them close to your chest and rubbing them together for warmth. When this offers little respite, you pull your knees into your jacket as well, smushing your hands between thighs and chest. Your lower jaw chatters involuntarily, and you can’t help but wish you’d risked the bloodbath for a blanket, probable death be damned.
You close your eyes and long for the Capitol showers, hot and steamy and enveloping your whole body in a steamy warmth.
You think about the warmth you felt last night, how cozy it was to be pressed up to Konig’s body and leeching the heat that radiated from his skin.
Yesterday feels like a lifetime ago. How did Konig manage to cuddle up to you one night, and the very next day be hellbent on slaughtering you?
He must have hated you from the beginning. Hedging his bets, pretending this whole time. You can’t believe you’ve let yourself fall for the gentle giant routine he was peddling.
You got no rest. You experienced every bone-chilling moment of the night, shaking against the unforgiving bark of the maple tree. The closest thing you got to respite was a haze in between sleep and wake, a near dreamlike state where you felt slightly disconnected from the world around you.
It never lasted long though, snapping your head at every rustle of leaves or break of branch. Occasionally the sound of Eleven’s neck cracking will tear through you, and you’re having trouble distinguishing if it’s a hallucination or not.
You wonder how the boys who ran off into the snow quadrant are doing. It may have been their strategy to run from the cornucopia through the snow knowing it’s likely no tribute would follow them. They probably slipped into one of the other quadrants by now. You can’t imagine it’s survivable in the night of winter.
You wonder how all of the other tributes are doing, actually. Did they rest through the night, or did they use this time to be productive?
The career pack will be hunting, no doubt.
You wonder if the boy from seven is mourning his companion. You weren’t actually sure they were friends, but that moment of connection on the chariot seemed so genuine, you couldn’t help but think of them as friends.
Maybe you just look into things too much.
Maybe you just read too far into smiles and stares and never doubt well-intentions.
Maybe you need to grow up and stop being such an emotional, sensitive, needy parasite and find some self-preservation!
The tributes from District Seven probably hated each other, really.
Both of them pretending to let the other’s guard down.
He was probably the one who killed her.
Lured her in security with a genuine smile and a charming laugh just so he could get an easy target to impress the sponsors.
You take a deep inhale to wipe your thoughts clean. You don’t need to be think about the tributes from District Seven. You didn’t even know their names.
But maybe he does miss her.
Maybe her death did mean something to him.
The sun hasn’t risen yet, but you are eager to give your mind actual problems to chew on. Channeling the anger, and all that. You rise slowly, using the trunk of the tree to help sore, numb legs to a stand.
You take a moment to stretch and rub out your achy muscles while you plan for your day.
Your water bottle is about half-full. You tried to ration as much as you could but you covered a lot of ground yesterday and wore yourself to exhaustion.
Okay, snow day. No worries. No running today unless necessary.
Maybe you’ll even get a look deeper into the pine forest and find some berries you recognize.
The thought of a fresh winterberry bursting in your mouth makes your stomach grumble. You begrudgingly finish off the rest of your maple seeds. You’ll replace them on your walk today, but you’re hoping you won’t need to.
Water and food, that’s all you need to worry about today.
And also not dying.
After popping stiff joints, you get moving in a leisurely walk. Instead of your diagonal route towards the desert, you do the same to the snow quadrant. Simultaneously getting where you need to be while tucking yourself further away from the cornucopia. Unlike yesterday, you’re taking care to move stealthily through the trees, avoiding disturbing foliage or heavy treads. The ginkgo petals and packed chill dirt don’t leave behind much footprint, but that’s also true for any tribute taking refuge in this quadrant.
It happens so fast, you don’t even have time to silence the scream that leaves you. Yanked off the ground in an instant, kicking and flailing and instinctively crying out.
The pain in your ankles is shooting and immediate. With every thrash and struggle a restraint tightens around the tops of your boots.
For a moment, you thought you were dead. That another tribute had attacked from behind and you were about to succumb to your snapped neck, a slit throat, or a skewered abdomen.
After a painful three seconds pass you reorient yourself, and find that you are in fact, alone.
When you look up, you can see the ground is a five foot drop away.
Your legs had been jerked from underneath you, your body forced upside down, and yanked in the air by your ankles.
You’d walked right into someone’s trap, and you’re as good as dead.
Blood is rushing to your head and exacerbating your panic, thrashing desperately in the air to break free from the brutal hold of the rope.
Panic quickly turns to fury as you realize that someone has gotten the best of you. That someone had outsmarted you, had humiliated you, had strung you up dangling and helpless for every eye in Panem to see.
Mostly you’re upset at yourself, because the instinctual cry for help that left your lips was twisted into the letters of Konig’s name.
How pathetic. Calling for another tribute you were not allied with, a tribute who tried to kill you just yesterday.
‘Get your head in the fucking game.’
Face sweating and pulse pumping ruthlessly against your temple, you pinch your eyes shut and force yourself to stop fighting the hold of the rope, and find some fucking sense.
You take two deep breaths through flared nostrils before you thoughtfully survey your surroundings.
You’re strung with thick rope by your ankles along an especially study branch of maple. Five feet off the ground is a fall that would not fair well for you.
You need to get upside-right.
You look up to the knot wrapped tightly around your screaming and tender ankles. Your core was no where near strong enough to bring yourself up to the knot, but it doesn’t keep you from trashing anyway.
Think, think, think!
The world is spinning, the leaves and trunks of the trees swaying and blurring as you dangle in midair. Your view is curtained by your jacket, folded over itself and around the back of your head. You can’t hear a thing over the rushing blood in your ears.
You’re running out of time. You’re going to pass out soon, and that’s only if the tribute who set this trap isn’t running full speed in the direction of your initial scream.
Your fingers fumble for your belt, sliding it off with a whiz.
You force deep breaths, holding an end of the belt in each hand. You curl your core slightly and make a loose loop with the nylon.
You need to get it snagged to the soles of your shoes so you can hoist yourself high enough to undo the snare, or at least get the blood to drain from your face. With one choked breath you try to force yourself high enough to loop the bottoms of your boots, but you miss and end up falling back down and thrashing against the ropes.
Your breaths are heavy and your head is tight and pounding.
With grit teeth and a raw grunt, you fling yourself up, sliding the belt further up your legs.
You just barely graze the tips of your soles before the belt slips off and sends you back down fully horizontal, now with a swing.
The pain is unbearable, your entire body being supported by a tight rashy rope on your ankles. You’re getting dizzy and light-headed, surely close to an embarrassing end.
‘C’mon, Plucky.’
You begin to use your body weight to swing with the rope instead of against it, waiting until you’re at the peak of its swing before you flail your upper half up. Veins bulge from your forehead as you catch the width of the belt on your shoes.
Your biceps immediately strain to support your upper half, clenching your teeth as you pull yourself up by your own shoes.
You can’t help the grunts leaving as you struggle to get your head above your neck.
You take a break to catch a few breaths, the ends of the belt looped around either palm that support your upper half.
“Okay, c’mon,” you grunt under your breath. You grab both ends of the belt with one hand, jerking yourself upwards to get your other palm just above it.
Slowly, painfully, you climb.
One hand over the other, pulling yourself further up the rope.
Your arms are shaking, ankles begging for mercy, but you are just able to grasp your hand around the rope just around the end of the knot, so any weight on your upper half is now supported by the rope attatched to the branch, and not your ankles.
With your last bit of strength you hold the rope with one hand, and yank at the snare with the other, searching for the release loop with fumbling hands.
For a moment the world is a blur. Your back takes the brunt of the impact, vision blinded by a pure white light.
Every last wisp of air has been knocked from your lungs. A ripple of shooting, crackling, crunchy pain spreads from your chest and in every direction.
The groan that leaves you is entirely involuntary, breathless and guttural.
When you dare to take a breath, it goes in wheezing and spiked.
You find your ankles or ribs aren’t broken, merely rattled and swollen. One, shaking, weak arm shoots up in the air and gives a shaky thumbs up, before it collapses back onto the cool dirt.
Atta’ girl.
You’re not sure how long you lay, flat on your back, unable to find strength to move.
It’s not enough time for you to regain the ability to run when you hear the rusting of nearby branches.
You close your eyes and mutter obscenities just under your shallow breath. You did all of that work for absolutely nothing.
You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, alerting half the forest of your location, and someone’s come to answer.
You can barely lift your head to see the assailant bursting through the trees.
The boy from eight.
The tribute Price warned you about during the replay of the reaping. The one with the look so unsettling it made your stomach twist.
If you had any breath left in you, you’d laugh, but all you can manage is a faint huff through your nose. You couldn’t put up a good fight at your best, and now that you’re injured, you don’t stand a chance.
Those sinister eyes lock onto you and at once your stomach twists in knots. You wish you could ask him to make it quick.
“Where is she?!” His voice is booming just as it is demanding, he does not seem to care about attracting anyone else’s attention.
Your eyes widen at his voice, just as angry as he looks.
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out of your shaking body.
He stomps closer to you, putting either of his boots on either side of your ribs in the dirt. He towers over you like this, staring down at you like the pitiful prey you are. He bends at the core and grabs you by the front of your shirt with both hands, pulling you off the ground and inches from his face. He gives you a harsh shake, rolling your head on your neck.
“Where is she?!” He’s not stealthy in the slightest, his words booming throughout the forest as he spits in your face.
You try to form a word but it just comes out a hitched breath with a lace of a word in it.
“Wh-“
“Willow! The girl from my district!”
He gives you another shake, rattling your sore muscles and jerking your head around on your neck.
When he stills you, you shake your head as quickly as you can manage.
“You lying?!” His face is inches from yours, you can feel the heat of his breath.
“No,” Your voice is a wisp, each strain followed by a crunchy, labored breath.
He studies your face, nothing but fear and pain in your features. The boy from eight scoffs before he throws you against the ground by no means gently. He disappears into the forest with a jog, leaving you dumbfounded on the forest floor to catch what little breath he stole.
When he’s out of sight, your head lays back into the dirt. You force yourself up sooner than you would have liked in case he comes back and changes his mind, or someone else comes looking for the commotion.
You use your multitool to cut off lengths of rope from the snare, a reward for your triumph, and loop it in big circles you drape across a shoulder and your waist like a sash.
After replacing your belt, and even giving it a thankful kiss for saving you from an embarrassing ending, you begin to limp through the forest. You no longer travel diagonally, heading straight for the snow, eager to get your injuries on ice. It’s strenuous, each step a reminder of your swollen, sore ankles. Every stride shoots a sharp pain through them, you can feel your heartbeat throbbing around the swollen flesh.
You take a generous amount of breaks to rest.
During one break, your back flush with the dirt and your legs elevated and propped against a maple, you think of the boy from eight, who had spared your life moments before.
He didn’t seem the type to not kill unless it’s self defense. He volunteered, he had the look of a career, eager for bloodshed. Almost worse than a career. The careers are arrogant, cheerful in attitude. Like they’re happy to be here. The boy from eight did not seem anything other but rage-filled. Disturbed, but not in the way that gets you sponsors. Disturbed like a boy who’s truly lost his mind and yearns for bloodshed.
He’s looking for the girl from his district, though. Maybe you and Price had pegged him wrong. Clearly he wasn’t eager to kill you, he had you on a silver platter, and he chose to grant you mercy.
You’re trying to reframe what little you know about the boy from eight. You wonder if he had actually volunteered to protect the girl from his district. Maybe the seething, gut-twisting anger he radiated was directed at the Capitol for taking a friend away from him. Maybe he’s just determined to protect a girl he loves from a country that does not hesitate to take everything from you.
Adversary or not, you hope he reunites with her. You wish they can spend some time together before the inevitable happens.
The trip to the snow quadrant takes twice as long as it did yesterday, due to your small, limping strides and generous breaks for rest.
Once to the border, where the red maples and ginkgos bleed into pine trees, you take off your boots and socks, and let your sore, swollen ankles rest in the snow. You finish what’s left in your water bottle before stuffing snow to its brim. You scoop a few into your mouth until you’re quenched.
Your whole body flinches at the boom, shaking away what remained of your freezing handful as you look around for trouble.
Another tribute down. Thirteen tributes left.
You should probably get moving. You’re a sitting duck hanging out next to the only source of water near the fall quadrant, but the ice numbs the inflamed pain in your ankles.
Whatever , you think. You’re not going to win anyway. Might as well be comfortable.
You nestle back into the dirt, resting your ankles across the border and in the snow.
The lack of sleep, the exhaustion from traveling, the injury, the lack of food in your belly, it’s all catching up to you.
Your eyes have dark bags underneath them, stomach growling and cramping from hunger. Your body yearns for rest, and your mind aches for a break from fear.
Closing your eyes in a dangerous game, but you can’t help yourself. A sigh of relief leaves your mouth and you nestle into the even ground.
When you wake up, you’re already laughing.
It’s uncontrollable, a painful spasm of your muscles, stomach pushing out laughs that are beyond too loud. They’re raw, real, from deep inside your abdomen, tensing your core in a painful contortion.
You can’t stop it, it won’t stop. You put a hand over your mouth, but your hands and arms are spasming just as much as your gut.
The inhales for breath are few and far between, each one a gasp for air that doesn’t stay in your lungs for long. They’re forced only after the billowing laugher has stolen every exhausted breath of air.
It hurts. Every inch of muscle is screaming, twitching uncontrollably as boisterous, hysterical cackles leave you.
You jam a fist into your mouth, but your knuckles slam into your teeth and hinders your ability to wheeze for air.
The fog is dense. It’s clear, this is the gamemakers doing. A cruel trap designed to draw tributes together and keep the games interesting.
You can’t see more than a few feet in front of your face, your stinging, burning eyes bouncing around and blurring your vision with their jittering.
Your knees knock together as you attempt a run, tripping over both tree roots and legs that fail you. Branches grab hold of you as you stumble through the forest, smashing into tree trunks and knocking yourself to the ground.
You can’t get up.
You’ve lost complete control of your limbs, your voice, your breathing.
The laughs still flow, core begging for respite as they burn from overexertion.
The hallucinations hit like a ton of bricks, intense and sudden.
The sky turns to a starless, inky black void.
The bright cheery leaves of the trees melt like hot wax, transforming into a black, tar-like ooze that drips to the ground and coats the petal-covered dirt. The ooze transitions quickly from a drizzle to a heavy pour, swallowing your whole body, your twitching limbs, and lapping up your sides until it pools over your front. It sloshes up your neck, sealing your mouth, choking you but not at all stifling the howling laughter. It fills your nostrils and yanks on your hair with its sticky, heavy weight. It stops once you’re entirely covered, leaving you paralyzed with just your eyes peeking out from the heavy ooze. The tar sloshes and threatens to spill into your eyes with every involuntary twitch.
The tar is so heavy, your body has to work twice as hard to breathe and expel the laughter.
The ooze floods your eye sockets, and when it all dissipates with a whoosh, you’re still laughing, but you’re you’ve been transported back to the bloodbath.
The sword feels natural in your hands, as if it was just an extension of your arm. The boy racing for supplies only has less than a second to act, and he fumbles it, his eyes only having the opportunity to widen before you thrust the sword square in the center of his throat. Its blade is so sharp, it slices through him like butter, not a lick of recoil. The stream of blood launches at you immediately. You’re choking on it, gurgling a mouthful of warm metal as you stare down District One, who gives a proud, toothy grin as your hands instinctively reach for the blade, slicing your palms open on its sharp edges. Your neck slides from the sword before you collapse to your knees. When your face hits the ground, your arms are wrapped around the bent waist of the girl from District Ten. You don’t hesitate to shove her on the ground, hands shooting out for the knife in her grip. With her hands still clasped around its handle, you thrust the blade into her gut, swinging your arm and mechanically driving the blade into her stomach over and over and over again.
The intrusive piercing plunges through your core stuns you, pinned to the ground and unable to swat away the hands cupped over yours. She’s crushing your knuckles as your limp arms are controlled like a marionette, forcing you to drive a blade into your soft stomach as the knife rhythmically punctures you with little resistance.
You deliver the final blow, your hands wrapped tightly to your spear, the plunge of it sending reverb through the staff and straight up your arms. Each skewer through flesh and fat and muscle shreds your insides until your intestines are completely minced.
And then you see yourself.
Crouched over and grasping your few supplies, eyes blown with fear and frozen in your place, lower lip trembling and body shivering in the ice cold wind.
Your feet slam against the ground with each stride, locked on to your own cowering figure, wielding a scythe at your side.
Your breath is stolen from your crushed lungs when you fold around your sternum, stopped by a strong grip. Your limbs flail, legs kicking and arms swinging as you fight back. When you are launched at the ground with tremendous force, the sound of your bones deafening you with a snap is the last thing you hear before you’re staring down the corpse of Eleven, a heap in front of heavy boots, your large hands reaching to pry the scythe from stiff fingers.
There you are.
You start in a dash, watching yourself trip over your platform before your seat hits the snow.
The snow swallows and frosts your hands as your scramble to your feet and fumble for a run.
You don’t lose him this time. As you tear through the trees, you can hear him tailing you, snapping branches of his own as heavy boots move easily through the woods. You can’t hear any over the pump of blood in your ears and the harsh snap of a neck breaking.
A rough shove knocks you to the ground, your chin slamming on dirt and splitting open. Blood immediately pours from the wound, dripping down your neck and splattering on yellow petals in brilliant red drops of blood.
Konig climbs on your back, sitting on your legs as his hand threads through your hair, yanking the back of your scalp to pull you to your knees in one jerk.
His hiss is devoid of comfort, nothing but loathing in that horrifying voice.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
You can’t beg for mercy, cackling through each brutal kill, chest trembling on each wheezing laugh underneath Konig’s power.
His arm snakes around your body and pulls the scythe to your throat. With one swipe his blade slices your neck, leaving behind a clean, deep gash. The blood gurgles in your throat, flooding your mouth with the hot taste of metal. As you lie bleeding out on the ground, you have no choice but to stare into the eyes of the boy from Eleven, resting limply next to you.
For hours, days maybe, you are paralyzed in this position, front pressed to the chill dirt as your cheek rests in a pool of your own blood. For each grueling moment your stare is fixated right into Eleven’s lifeless eyes, his neck bent in impossible angles. Eventually his head begins to rotate, making full circles on a still body, catching your gaze on each rotation.
You can’t blink, you can’t look away, laughing in his lifeless, spinning face.
You’re sure that you’ve died, and you will forever be trapped in this never-ending hell, in this graveyard of Konig’s victims.
You wake with a start, shouting Konig’s name on your first coarse breath before you can stop yourself.
“I hear her! I hear her!” Someone shouts, and footsteps confidently break into a run through the forest.
You scramble to a sit as you survey your surroundings. Your head pounds and muscles moan at each movement.
“Ni-iiine! Where you at Nine?!”
Another wheezing, coughing breath leaves you as you stand, wobbling on your feet as you make an unsteady jog away from the taunting voice.
“Ni-iiiine!” Titan, you think, calls in a sing-song.
Your muscles are useless, made of jelly and folding with every step.
You can’t keep it up, so you do the best you can. Hiding in a dense patch of ginkgos behind the base of a tree trunk thick enough to conceal your body.
You try and hold your noisy breaths, hoping the careers can’t hear your heartbeat rattling against its ribcage.
“Where’s your boy toy District Nine?!”
There’s close, so close. Surely they can hear and smell your fear.
“We just want to talk!”
Your hollow stomach twists, pressing yourself further into the coarse bark.
“Yeah, we won’t hurt you,” The voices are closer now, faux kindness dripping from their words.
The hairs on the back of your neck are on end, arms coated in goose flesh as your fingernails dig into the gaps of the bark.
No one should be this cheerful in the arena.
It’s not human.
“Where’d she go?”
“Really, we won’t hurt you!” Someone calls in an unnaturally high-pitched tone.
“Yeah, no hard feeling about before, honest!”
You force your heaving breaths through your nostrils, pinching your eyes closed as you focus to keep still and silent.
“If you don’t want to come out and play it’s fine! We just have a few questions.”
“Yeah - we just want to know where your little friend’s at, that’s all!”
“You hungry Nine? We’ve got food if you’re good!”
Your stomach actually growls at the mention of food, loud enough you’re sure they can hear it. You bite down on your knuckles to keep quiet.
They want to know where Konig is - that’s clear enough. Whether it’s to ally with him or to eliminate the ultimate threat, you don’t know.
You’re not sure how many cannons, if any, have fired since you’ve been drugged by the gas, but if the careers are this confident he must still be alive.
It’s spreads a singular burst of warm, cozy relief through your chest at the thought that he’s still alive.
You can hear them split up, branches scraping as they fan out in the vicinity of your voice.
By some miracle, you go undetected.
They’re convinced you ran further into the woods, and they regroup to head deeper into the forest.
You wait an unbearable amount of time until they’re out of earshot before daring to leave your hiding spot, moving as quickly as your body will allow in the opposite direction.
You’re not at all graceful, an infant fawn learning to use its legs, slamming into trees trunks and ripping through branches as you crash through the woods. A shooting pain fires up your legs with each cry of your ankles.
When the trees suddenly come to a jarring stop, you take a few steps backwards and crouch down, keeping yourself camouflaged in the tree line.
You’ve stumbled upon a large, open, perfectly rectangular plowed dirt field. What’s sitting in the ruts of the dirt rows makes you salivate.
A plot of corn stalks, cobs of corn fanned out in their ripe husks. Flawless pumpkins and squash looking too clean and vibrant to be resting in a dirt patch.
The sight of these beautiful fall vegetables has your stomach lurching at the idea of something to chew on. You haven’t had anything of real substance since being in the arena, and who knows how long you’ve gone without food while drugged.
Your heart does not trust these vegetables. Like the trees that look almost artificial, they are too perfect.
On the other hand, the maple seeds are not cutting it.
You do one last scan of the perimeter, peering deep into the trees to see if you can make out any figures, and before you can stop yourself - weak, clumsy legs attempt a dash straight for the stalks of corn. You quickly shed as many husks as you can from the hold of their stalks and hold them close to your chest with a tight forearm. With the other hand you wrap around the stem of a squash and haul your goodies back to the safety of the tree line. You don’t stop until your knees give out, dropping to the ground in a defeated heap.
You catch your breath before running your fingers over the grain of the husks and the waxy sheen on the outside of your squash.
They could be poisonous. A trap, laid out for the gamemakers that lures in anyone hungry or lacking willpower.
Your stomach is growling, cramping in a beg for food. You feel almost nauseous as your stomach chokes on itself, threatening to retch what little it holds.
They look delicious.
If you had to die - which is no doubt certain - you think you’d rather have it be at the hand of a vegetable than a bloodthirsty tribute.
You unwrap your corn, revealing uniform, mustard-yellow rows of kernels.
Fuck.
Your thumb glides along the glossy, bumped ridges of the kernels as you make one last attempt talk yourself out of it.
You can’t do it.
You bury your face dead center in the cob of corn, sweet juice bursting from the kernels and dripping down your chin. You roll your eyes at the taste of the ripe corn, not bothering to thoroughly chew before you swallow.
The relief is immediate - euphoric even. Your stomach almost instantly relaxes, the nausea and cramps dissipating at once. The moans that leave you are downright erotic.
You inhale the entire cob against better judgement, tossing the remains at the root of a maple, and wait.
You don’t feel ill, and you don’t feel poisoned. In fact, you feel better than you’ve felt in days.
After brief consideration, you shed another corn from its husk and inhale the whole thing.
When the cannon fires - your first thought is that it’s you. That the poison has killed you, and your brain is making its last fires before it catches up to a heart that stopped beating.
Moments pass, you even check your pulse for good measure, and it’s clear it’s not you.
Unfortunately, your next thought is of Konig.
No.
You cannot think of him.
It’s only a matter of time now.
After rest, you use knots you learned to tie in training to sloppily secure the corn with your rope and return the looped sash around your waist.
The gourd is tricky, but by using extra rope length and a generous amount of time you manage to weave a rope hanger to secure the squash at your waist.
The extra weight is noticeable, so you don’t plan on traveling far. Pushing yourself just far enough to make comfortable distance away from the field. You’ll eat some squash tomorrow before traveling to lighten the load.
At one point the anthem plays, and you keep your exhausted eyes open long enough to see the boy from District One.
This comes as a shock. A girl from District Nine should not outlive a career from District One.
One’s face is followed by the boy from District Ten, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Konig’s still alive as far as you know. The career’s taunts seemed to confirm this.
The face of the girl from eleven flashes and then the sky goes dark.
At maximum there are eleven tributes left. Maybe less if you missed deaths while you were paralyzed.
The arms of sleep are not difficult to fall into. Your body and mind is completely worn out, and you’re still feeling a sluggishness from the fog.
You have one last thought as you succumb to the sore exhaustion.
Eleventh place isn’t so bad.
Sleep is nothing short of horrific. The nightmares are worse than the bone chilling fall air.
The nightmares - reliving the bloodbath. Cycling through every haunting memory, taking on the tribute’s perspectives one after another.
Staring into Eleven’s eyes.
But it always seems to come back to Konig.
You fight him all night - a choreographed dance of playing out every death resurfaced by the hallucination, taking turns between being slaughtered and doing the slaughtering.
Those signature hooded eyes switch between ravenous and blood thirsty to pleading and petrified without transition.
Sometimes he’s the one lying limp on that metal platform, neck twisted and bouncing off his final resting place, sometimes it’s you. Often when you look up, it is not Konig standing over his own corpse, but you.
You must wake up twenty times throughout the night, stifling your apologetic cries and begging pleads all leaving you in shouts of Konig’s name.
How humiliating.
How you call out for him time, and time, and time again. The audience watching you cry for his aid at every sticky situation you get yourself into. How he has proven himself to be not worthy of your comfort, but you’re stupid enough to let him worm his way into your heart anyway. To care about him enough that the very thought of him turning on you, the thought of you turning on him, is frightening enough to startle you from a nightmare.
The sound of a cannon wakes you with finality, and you shoot up in the chill early dawn air.
When the anonymous threat you anticipate doesn’t come, you make slow movements as you get ready for the day.
You break into the squash, slicing into the rind with your multitool and biting into sloppily cut chunks of the bitter gourd. You wash it all down with half a bottle of water, and survey your bruised ankles.
They’re still swollen, and the lack of hydration and surplus of poisonous fog hasn’t helped. Red, inflamed veins streak pink bruises that fade into a dark purple.
Maybe you’ll just sit under this tree and wait for death. You have corn, this bitter gourd, and a half a bottle of water - surely that’s enough to hold you over until somebody finds you, right?
But they don’t come.
The number of tributes must be dwinding, more than you thought.
For the first time, you’re thinking Price had a point. Maybe you could hunker down and wait it out until the end.
Not that you’d stand a chance in the finale.
You’d have to face the career pack, and if your suspicions are correct and Konig is alive, the possibility you’ll have to face him grows with every fallen tribute.
You wonder if anyone’s betting on you.
You curiously comb over the possible tributes that remain.
The girl from one.
Both from two.
Both from four.
Boy from six. Boy from seven.
Both from eight.
You.
And Konig.
Probably not. Certainly you have the longest odds of anyone left.
You wonder if Price is proud of you for making it this far, struggling your way forward with each step.
Surely this is the best he could have hoped for, both his tributes alive in the second half.
You wonder what Konig thinks of you still being alive.
Is he impressed? Surely he didn’t think a weakling such as yourself would make it this far.
Is he relieved that you’re still alive, and confused about why, just as yourself?
Maybe he’s dreading the possibility of having to be the one to kill you.
Maybe he’s happy you’re alive.
Maybe he’s eager to be the one who watches the life drain from your eyes.
It’s confusing - why you think about him so much. Why you hope he’s okay. Why you want him to want you to still be alive. Why you dream of him. Why you call out his name instinctually before you’ve even regained consciousness.
All after he tried to kill you.
You find a scrap of motivation in the late afternoon, spending the entire morning with your head lulling against the trunk of a large ginkgo, finishing off two more cobs of corn, and hoping whoever finds you makes it quick.
Back to the snow today.
You need something to do to keep your mind off him.
You tie up the remaining half of the gourd, sling your rope of corn over your shoulder, and head for the snow quadrant. You don’t think you’re far off, the fog having paralyzed you and prevented you from going far. It didn’t take you long to find the field after ditching the careers, but you’ve been disoriented and you’re not confident you know the way.
You head in what you think is the right direction.
You take your time, taking lights steps through the forest, more careful than you have been not to leave tracks. Extra cautious to listen for danger.
You have the sense that your death is approaching. An ominous feeling of finality deep in your gut that grows with each step. Surely the next tribute you encounter will be your death.
You know you’re walking slow, but it’s taking much longer than it should to get to the snow quadrant. You’re less sure you’re going the right way.
You walk until dusk, your steps slow as the day stretches on, ankles throbbing with each step. The tree roots give the terrain an unevenness that contort your feet awkwardly with each step, and the weight of your vegetables aren’t helping.
You’re daydreaming about Capitol dishes. What you wouldn’t give to sink your teeth into the crust of a warm loaf of bread, inhale an entire cut of the finest steak, swallow a heading scoop of potatoes, finish off two servings - No! Three servings of hot stew!
And why not admit it?
A glass of whiskey doesn’t sound too bad right now.
You realize you’re in trouble when you see the unmistakable landscape of orange sand.
You’re swallow the harsh reality that you’ve completely gone in the wrong direction just as you hear it.
It’s faint, far in the distance, the sounds of a dying animal.
Against better judgement, and with a tented brow, you near closer, and are surprised to find the snow quadrant, both the desert and the vast snow visible through the gaps in the trees.
You have unintentionally trekked the entire way back to the cornucopia.
When you reach the tree line, you peer with squint eyes through the gaps in the trees, focusing in the direction of the low, guttural moans of a maimed creature.
It’s the boy from District Eight. He’s posted at the cornucopia, wielding a thick, slightly curved blade. Out of thick logs of wood and rope, he has constructed a pulley. Strung up by its arms is an animal, slightly swaying on the end of its restraint. The animal has been skinned head to toe, but is still alive, the red muscle stitched with small white pockets of fat, rising and falling with each muted moan.
No.
That is no animal.
That is a person.
You can tell it’s a girl, but there’s no way to identify the tribute, entirely unrecognizable and coated in blood.
The sight has you stumbling backwards, your heel catching on a tree root and landing harshly on the dirt. A squeak leaves your lips without thought, your hand shooting up to cover your mouth. The boy heard it, because his head swivels in your direction. He can’t see you, but you catch him scanning in your section of the forest. You roll over in the dirt and make an ungraceful dash into the trees, your vegetables banging against your torso with each stride.
After making sufficient distance, you duck behind a tree, pressing your back against the trunk as you stop to catch your breath. Your hands find your knees, doubling over and gagging as you process the horrific sight. Each of your gasps for air are skewered with guttural croaks, your face drained of color.
Killing each other, that is the name of the game. You cannot blame the tributes for that. But what you just saw was uncalled for, barbaric, cruel. Dragging out her excruciating pain and suffering, and for what? A show?
When you realize what you have to do, your heart twists and a curse leaves your lips.
You look up to the sky, and speak, much louder than you should, “Give me something,” You say, voice raw, scratchy, and desperate, “Give me something to put her out of her misery.”
“Please,” Whispered like a desperate prayer.
Your head ducks between your knees again, dry heaving towards the dirt.
Just when you think your plea has been ignored, you see it. The parachute takes its time as it descends from the sky, landing gracefully in the dirt at your feet.
You open the large metal canister attached to the parachute as if it’s an explosive. Careful fingers reveal a long hollow tube and two darts, tied in a neat bundle with a patterned, textile ribbon.
You blink, face blank as you undo the knot with shallow breath and roll the darts between your fingers.
Engraved onto the bulbous tip that secures the sharp needles is the number ‘8’ in beautiful, elegant writing.
One for her, one for him.
She must be the girl from eight, the girl who stood as far apart as she could from the boy on the chariot. The girl who prompted the boy to lunge forward and volunteer, the girl the boy had his tunnel-vision set on seeking out.
You grasp your hands tightly around the darts, take a deep breath, and head toward the tree line.
This is risky, so risky, but you know you cannot let this girl suffer. Every moment she is alive, moaning miserably and dangling in the air, your insides will be knotted with guilt. This girl, that you don’t even know, will haunt you for the rest of your short life if you do not free her from her pain. You have nothing to lose. Even if you end up just like her, you’ll know you tried.
You will have to kill the boy who spared your life. How is that going to play with the audience? A cruel, heartless girl with no mercy, who refuses to treat others how she has been treated.
Through a particularly thick cluster of trees, you crouch down and observe the scene.
The boy from eight has moved on from searching for the source of the disruption you made, now casually peeling an orange as if there’s not a skinned-alive human dangling and groaning in pain a few feet away. Each of her low, maimed cries twists your insides a little tighter.
You’re not sure how you’re going to pull this off.
You could wait for him to leave, but each moment you don’t act that girl will suffer.
You could go right for him. From here, you don’t see him armed with a long range weapon, only his medium-sized blade, while you can get him from a distance.
If you don’t miss.
You could lure him into the trees, hide yourself in the thick foliage. You might be able to get away with missing if you can camouflage yourself.
This seems like your best bet.
You tuck yourself further into the trees, load the dart gun, and take a deep breath. Hopping from one foot to the other as you work up the courage, you let out a whoop, as loud as you dare.
You wait, eyes pinched in a brace and body shaking against the tree bark. When the trees don’t rustle, you let out another yell, louder than before.
Your eyes pinch shut for a moment, mumbling unintelligibly under your breath.
It’s the third whoop that draws him into the trees. You can hear him, he must be only twenty feet away.
You get a glimpse of him through the trees, the flash of a blade pushing branches out of the way or the black of his clothes moving slowly into the forest.
When he passes you, you slink through the trees, tailing him with silent feet, side stepping branches and exposed tree roots. Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, your skin pulsing with each pump of your heart.
You get as close to him as you dare before you place the tube to your lips.
Your face tightens, you take a deep inhale-
But you can’t do it.
You can’t kill this boy.
He deserves it, more than deserves it. But you can’t do it.
Your eyes flit behind you.
Without little thought, your feet break into a run towards the cornucopia, sore ankles making a beeline for the girl. With one hand you hold the dart gun, the other on your rope sash to keep the vegetables from banging against you.
From this close, each wheezing breath and raspy moan that leaves her clenches your teeth a little tighter. It’s like she’s using her breaths to scoop out your heart bit by bit.
You can see the wrinkle of her exposed muscles, the bones of her fingers, her eyes coated in her own blood.
“I’m sorry,” You whisper to her, maybe you yelled it, you’re not sure. Tears well in your eyeline and blur your vision.
You do not hesitant to take the spare dart in your hand and thrust it right into her side.
“I’m sorry!” You hiccup, the tears flowing relentlessly down your cheeks, “I’m sorry!”
She lets out three final rattling breaths before she succumbs to the poison, her chest stilling.
You let out a sob, turning away from her lifeless body.
You flinch when her cannon fires, another choked sob leaving you. She’s gone but you can still hear her moans of pain in your ears.
The tree branches are disturbed, your head whipping in the direction of the fall forest.
Your weak ankles break into a run, wobbling as you get up to speed. You look over your shoulder, vision blurred with tears, but see no one.
Excited voices, more than one, are approaching.
You’re coming to the conclusion just as the careers break through the pine trees and confirm your suspicion.
Out of the fucking frying pan.
Your strides double in speed, feet running along the border of the spring and desert quadrants.
“There she is!” They call, just as they did when they heard you yelling out for Konig in the forest.
The careers seem to glide over the snow, not the slightest bit hindered by the terrain as they chase you.
The boy from eight breaks through the trees, you know because he’s yelling in the same voice that screamed at you while searching for the girl he wanted to skin. Booming and frothed in rage.
You can’t make out what he’s saying, deafened by your own crystallized breaths and the blood pumping in your ears.
When you dare look over your shoulder, both the careers and the boy from eight are merging at the cornucopia, the boy from eight raising his blade and running straight for the pack of careers with fervor.
For a moment, the three remaining careers and Eight redirected their attention to the new threat. You hear the sound of metal clashing, indecipherable screaming.
It’s the girl from one, you think, who orders one of them to follow you as you run along the border of the hedge maze.
You do not want to duck into the hedge maze, but you are injured, lacking concealment, and being chased by a trained killer.
Maybe this would be a good time to die.
Let it be done by someone who knows how to land a fatal blow in one strike, a quick death.
A cannon fires, but you don’t slow, feet slamming ruthlessly against the ground. Your ankles beg for respite, and your body isn’t in the best condition, every muscle croaking out their ache with each jostle.
If it’s the cannon for the boy from eight, the careers will have no problem catching up to you.
Each breath is painful, and between your own wheezes you can hear the footsteps drawing closer.
You really did give it your best shot.
You hope Price knows that. You hope he’s proud of you, proud of you for not giving up.
You did better than you thought you would. Surprised yourself, surprised the nation, by making it this far.
It’s quick, so quick, the arms snagging you by the waist and forcing you to exhale the rest of a broken breath. At once you’re slammed into the sand, stunned at the sharp pain that explodes in your ribs, losing grip of your final dart.
The arid environment, the scalding sand, it doubles the beads of sweat that pull from your pores.
There’s little to do about Titan, the monstrous boy from District Two, pinning you to the ground with minimal effort.
It’s laughably weak, but you still swing at him, your shoulders digging further into the boiling sand with each swing. Frustrated but exhausted grunts leave you with each swipe at him. He doesn’t bother to restrain your hands, he swallows each swing without so much as a flinch.
He puts his knife to your throat - not yet pressing against your flesh, but enough to threaten you into keeping your upper half pinned to the gritty sand. The heel of his palm digs into your collarbones hard enough it’ll surely bruise.
Your nails scratch at his massive arms as you bury your head further into the stand, squirming away from him as instinctual squeaks of prey leave your throat.
“Sh, sh, sh,” Titan coos, trying to place a finger to your lips but pulling away when you snap your teeth at him, “We’re not gon���na kill you.”
He gives you a smile, exposing his menacing canines.
“Yet.”
He laughs at his own stupid joke, throwing his head back, the cool steel of the blade brushing against the crook of your neck as he laughs.
He finishes on a deep inhale, giving you a wicked smile.
“I think you know what we want, yeah? So tell us where he is, and we’ll let you go! It’s that simple!”
“Just kill me!”
He snorts before throwing his head back in another laugh.
“Adorable,” He says with a sigh, “You’ve really got the stuff, don’t you Nine?”
Titan swivels his head, “He can’t be far, right? I know you don’t like to stray.”
He gives another laugh.
“Or are you having a fight?” He laughs again, and you grunt in annoyance, “Trouble in paradise, hm?”
Just get it over with.
“Why don’t you yell for him?” He asks.
“Fuck you!” You grunt.
Titan’s smile falls. This Titan - a cold faced Titan - is much more nervewracking than an irreverent one.
Titan’s eyes have gone absent, his lips bored. His knuckles scrape down your chest as his hold tightens around the handle of the blade.
Your face is plastered with regret, lips parting to rectify but it’s too late.
His other hand springs to wrap around your throat, cutting off your breath without hesitance.
Your legs kick underneath him, but your strength is no match for the powerful boy planted firmly on your front.
His eyes have unfocused, he’s not even staring at you - he’s staring through you.
Before, at least he was human, even if he was insane. Now his features are entirely devoid of emotion, of empathy.
His hand relaxes, but his grasp remains firmly around your throat. Immediately you’re choking in breaths, coughing on the air you gasp desperately for.
Titan’s stare is still icy, but his teeth grit, and his light requests turn to threatening demands, “Call for him.”
You’re still trying to catch your breath, eyes blown in fear and lips parted around fearful huffs.
“Call for him!” He yells, emphasizing his sentence by squeezing your windpipe for just a moment, to remind you he can, and jostles you by the neck.
You won’t.
You won’t succumb to this lunatic’s demands. You will not give him the satisfaction.
He may kill you.
Your life, he can have. That is the name of the game.
Your dignity, he may not.
That is something that only you are entitled to tarnish.
He presses the knife further into your skin, slicing through just hard enough for blood to bead on your flesh, “Call for him or I’ll make you!”
When he yells, his shout tears from the back of his throat, the words ripped from low in his gut. His whole body jerks with his words, his spit flying from his lips and splattering on your face.
It’s his spit - momentarily stunning you as you wince away from the spray - that activates something in you. It forces your thoughts back into the body that was reacting solely on fear, and at the same time gives you an idea.
You do not hesitate.
With a deep pinch of your eyes and an animalistic grunt muffled by tightly pursed lips, you fling two fist fulls of sand in the direction of his face.
Immediately he flings himself back, his hands retracting from you as forearms move to wipe the gritty sand further into his eyes. He scrambles to his feet and fumbles backwards away from the pain that follows him.
You can hear him spitting in between his cries as he tries to rid his mouth of the sand.
You keep your face pinched tightly even after the sand stops raining back down onto your face. You blindly kick away from him, rolling over on the scalding ground and rising to your feet.
You shake your head, stumbling blindly through the desert as you clear off your hands to brush clean your face.
You pull up your shirt, the rough grains like sandpaper against your skin as you rub away both sand and his spit with the fabric.
You open your eyes, blinking rapidly to test your vision and find it unscathed. You make a rush back for the spring quadrant, shoes swallowed and kicking up sand with every step.
You run past Titan, folded in a heap on his knees, grunting in pain and trying to rub out his eyes. He curses you with every breath.
You scoop up your final dart and its tube, and for a moment, you consider driving it right into Titan’s flesh, but your feet are already scrambling away from his foaming threats and grit wails of pain with no desire to look back. You’re still powered on adrenaline, snap decisions made with little room for consideration.
It feels like you’ve been running for miles, but it couldn’t have been far. When your ankles give out, you’re sent stumbling onto the plush grass of the spring quadrant.
You have no strength to attempt getting to your feet, so you lay face first in the grass in the position you collapsed in.
You go over all of it in your mind as you catch your breath and try to pry the ghost of Titan’s fingers from your throat.
You already knew the careers had wanted to know where Konig was, but Titan demanded you to use your voice to lure him to your aid. In fact, Titan refrained from killing you so he could use you to draw Konig in. He had you on a silver platter, blade to your throat, and he let you slip through his fingers because he wanted to use you to get to Konig.
You assumed your brush with the careers in the forest was their shot in the dark, the best lead they had to find their white whale. But this run-in with Titan has given more than enough credit to their taunts in the forest.
The careers think that you and Konig are allies.
Why else would they think your voice would lure Konig in?
The only other possibility is that Titan thinks that Konig hates you enough to come running at the opportunity to be the one to end your life.
But that doesn’t make sense, because Titan suggested the reason you weren’t together in that moment was because you were having an argument.
‘Trouble in paradise’ as Titan said, which implied there was an established partnership between you and Konig in the first place.
Price, you think.
It was Price.
Price saved you back there, not you.
He didn’t assign Konig as your chaperone in training because he actually thought you were trouble, he did it for the same reason he put you in matching outfits for the interview, the same reason he ensured Konig was caught off guard by being asked about you in front of the entire country.
Price wanted the tributes to think that you and Konig cared for each other. That you were something more than just two tributes from the same district.
Because Price knew that if he could make everyone believe you and the strongest tribute were friendly, the other tributes would keep you alive as leverage against the ultimate threat in the arena.
Konig didn’t have a weakness, so Price made you his weakness.
Titan could have easily ended you, then and there. But he didn’t, because he thought that with you at his fingertips, he held the key to taking down his toughest opponent.
But of course, that’s a mislead, tipping the advantage back to Price’s golden boy.
And you unknowingly laid the groundwork for it - didn’t you?
Holding Konig’s hand at the opening ceremony, him accepting yours without hesitance.
Is that when Price got the idea?
It’s genius.
It directs the heat off of his star tribute’s back and onto yours, and simultaneously gives the other tributes a reason to keep you, the bait, alive. It gave you the opportunity to make an escape from Titan, which of course, Price knew you would.
Because you fight dirty, you fight smarter, and the careers only know how to fight right . They are trained to kill, not keep alive. And everyone knows, especially Price, that as long as it is not a fight to the death - it will be a fight that you win.
Why didn’t you think of it?
Price has manipulated the others into keeping both of his tributes alive, all without your knowledge.
Of course Price couldn’t tell you that was the plan, you would have never accepted it. Konig needed to be blindsided on that stage, and you would have fought Price tooth and nail at the implications. At the very suggestion that you are ‘bait.’ That you and Konig cared for each other enough to come running into trouble to save each other.
The plan only works if both tributes stay alive, which is something you would have never agreed to. Tethering your life to Konig like that, so blatantly relying on him when the entire time you’ve been trying so hard not to do so. Surely even Konig would have put up even a bit of a fight at being assigned a weakness.
Konig is not only overshadowing you, but Price has stitched your fingers to his coattails.
It’s an impossible arrangement.
If Konig dies, you have no worth to the other tributes. If you die, the size of the target on his back doubles.
And if you both manage to pull it off until the end - well, what happens then?
The plan both ensures your survival and destines you to die at the same time. No matter how you work it through in your head, Konig always comes out on top.
You almost don’t even notice the parachute that lands by your head. You barely have the energy to lift your head from the dirt, cheek still nestled into the grass as you pry open the container.
It’s a single, modest dinner roll wrapped in ribbon. You roll onto your back and hold the gift in front of your face, using the bread to block out the sun. The ribbon is beautiful, a neatly trimmed scrap of patterned textile that matches the one that tied the blow darts to their tube. It’s knotted into a perfect, perky bow on the roll’s apex.
You carefully undo the ribbon and rest it on your core as you inspect the loaf. Underneath the bow lies the number ‘8’, branded with slightly darkened crust.
It is a gift, but not from Price. The ribbon, the bread’s branding - this is a gift from the people of District Eight. If the ribbon is anything to go by, then the darts were a gift from them as well.
The bread is a thank you for putting that girl out of her misery. For risking your life to put her pain first. For eradicating the boy from eight, one way or another.
You hold the loaf just under your nose, taking a deep inhale. It’s still warm, you can feel the heat radiating on your lips.
“Thank you,” You whisper to the wind, to District Eight, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You eat half of it right there in the dirt, in the wide open air, not even muting your groans of pleasure as you take bites into something hearty for the first time in the arena.
The bread isn’t the rich Capitol bread, it’s district bread. Inferior in every way, but it is the most delicious loaf of bread you’ve ever tasted in your life.
You wash it down with what’s left of your canteen, which isn’t much.
You’re going to have to get back to the snow soon, and unless you want to go the long way around, you’ll have to cut across the cornucopia again.
Your head drops back into the grass in defeat.
You’re debating whether or not you should give up, whether or not to just lay out here in the open and wait for someone to come along and kill you.
Because you know what the alternative is.
It’s nightfall when you finally move from the dirt, moved by your own thirst.
When you stand, the ribbon you’d placed on your chest flutters to the ground. You stare at it with deep breath before bending over to pluck it from the grass. You’re not sure why you want to keep this reminder of the girl from eight, but you can’t stand to discard it. You loop the ribbon around your wrist and sloppily tie it into a bracelet.
You shake all the sand you can off yourself, fix your poor, knotted hair, and make your way back to the cornucopia. You need to get back to the fall quadrant, back to the precious snow and camouflage.
You don’t have much of a plan other than haul ass as you approach the edge of the hedge maze and break into the open air of the cornucopia.
You’re not sure if it’s the darkness, the dwindling number of tributes, or a mixture of both, but you manage to go undetected as you make the clearance.
Good. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.
You dig yourself far into the forest just in case, getting lost in thick branches on every side before you stop to fill your canteen.
You find a place to settle in for the night, already aching for warmth of the spring quadrant. You briefly consider risking sleeping in the open air just so you don’t have to freeze on the chilled dirt of a cool fall night, but you barely manage to fight the urge.
You find a thick patch of trees to hide in, doing your best to camouflage yourself as you settle in for rest.
The anthem plays, but you don’t bother getting up to watch the faces in the sky. You don’t want to see the girl from eight, you don’t want to put a face to the girl turned to butcher meat.
You’ve lost track of how many tributes are left, but you know the pool is shrinking.
And for the first time, you’re thinking maybe you could actually win. It’s a thought that you immediately reject, but it creeps its way back in through the image of the careers and Konig simultaneously receiving life-threatening injuries, and maybe a lucky shot with a blow dart for whoever remains. Maybe the gamemakers will somewhat tilt the scales in your favor, some rigged trap that wipes out the heavy hitters.
Rest does not come easy, but you manage to sneak in a few hours of sleep over the course of the night, in between nightmares and the shutter of your own teeth.
The morning is quiet. You have no plan, sitting at the trunk of a tree and resting. You finish off a good chunk of your vegetables, only a few husks of corn remaining.
You haven’t heard a cannon since the boy from District Eight. Things have quieted on the field, which is bad news for you. If the audience gets bored, the gamemakers will make it interesting. Soon, when the tributes get sparse, they will begin to force you together, manipulating you into confrontations.
The exhaustion has fully caught up to you. You spend the entire day resting by your tree, occasionally getting up to stretch your sore limbs. You elevate your ankles, nurse your water. For a moment, you even forget you’re in the arena. It’s like you’re having a solitary picnic in the forest on a day off in District Nine.
It is hard to ignore how lonely you are.
You are aching for human touch, or even just a conversation that doesn’t revolve around fearing for your life.
And there he is again, worming his way into your brain like an infestation of parasites, memories of his comfort multiplying on an infested mattress of loneliness.
For the first time since you’ve been in the arena, you reach into your sports bra and retrieve the golden locket that’s made its home against the flesh of your chest.
You smooth your fingers over the front, staring down at the shimmer of the gold. It’s warm from the heat of your skin. You flip it in your fingers, fidgeting with it. Nails pry the locket open just to close it again with a satisfying snap.
You should probably get rid of it. Why would you want to carry around a trinket from someone who tried to kill you?
You should throw it into the forest, just get rid of it.
Konig did borrow it from Ruby, though. It needs to get back to her.
You tuck it away.
There’s really no other way to describe how you spend the rest of the day other than fooling around. You make a crown out of some leaves, undo the thread of your rope and braid it - you even grab an extra handful of snow on your water run so you can make tiny snow-people in your hideout.
It’s as you’re working the multitool into some bark of a maple tree, trying to figure out how to get sap, when you hear it.
It sounds like a wave, or wind, or both? You can’t see or feel anything, blinded by leaves, but just the sound alone is enough to prep yourself to run if needed. It’s coming from the desert quadrant, you’re sure.
There’s a vibration that shoots through your boots, the sound of scraping and grinding. The ground is shaking beneath you, the world now turning to a vibrating blur. Its rumbles intensify until you lose your balance, knocked onto your front to support yourself as your body is roughly tossed around.
You hear the sound of trees uprooting, snapping, the sound of danger approaching. With the instincts of a scared animal, you sprint away from the roar of the trees crashing to the ground.
Running seems impossible on the dirt that jostles you around and makes the tree branches harder to navigate.
With each break of the branches and crack of the trees uprooting, the image of the boy from eleven sears in front of your eyes and robs you of precious breath.
After a small tumble you get back to your feet, tripping over tree roots and scraping yourself on branches.
The rumbling grind of shifting ground draws closer, and you risk a jerk of your head to see chunks of earth and entire trees being swallowed into a glowing pit of lava below a fifty foot drop.
A squeak leaves you as you force yourself forward, flinging yourself through the forest. When you clear the trees, your eyes lock onto the cornucopia, desperate for safe ground.
Your attention is shifted to the left, where the desert quadrant is nothing but a raging dust storm. It’s the sound you heard earlier, gusting winds pulling up an orange fog of sand you can’t see a foot beyond.
When your feet find the soft grass of the spring quadrant, you risk looking over your shoulder to survey the chaos.
The fall quadrant has completely deteriorated, leaving nothing but a gaping hole filled with hot lava. The tops of trees are swallowed up by the mesmorizing orange pool, once colorful petals now erupted in glorious flame.
The thunderous disruption of ground does not just come behind you, because the sound of a forest being destroyed does not stop when the last piece of the dirt littered with ginkgo petals slips away into inferno.
The pine trees are being wrung out, the sound of bark snapping and pine trees uprooting. You can see the snow being shaken off the their snow-capped peaks as they are jerked around under extreme force.
When you hear the shrieks your attention is immediately stolen by the boys who had run into the snow district during the bloodbath clearing the tree line. Your body immediately tenses at the sight of them, but you can’t take your eyes off the ten-foot wave of snow at the boys heels. In an instant they are swallowed by a wall of snow that does not even brake at the two boys who have disappeared in its stomach.
As the avalanche draws closer, you make a run for the hedge maze until you hear an unearthly impact that reverberates like glass being struck. You look over your shoulder and slow when you see that the avalanche has been stopped at the quadrant’s border, not daring to spill into spring’s grass or the abyss of molten rock.
It piles up against the quadrant border, a perfect right angle wedge of a snow. It doesn’t stop until the pine trees are completed swallowed and the snow easily covers three stories above your head.
Those two boys are dead for sure, you think, but there’s no way you would have been able to hear the cannons over the snow.
From your left, you catch a figure emerging from the raging dust storm.
You turn on your heels to run, hesitating when you realize your only choice is the hedge maze. This, this is where the gamemakers wants the final tributes to go.
This is the finale.
You swivel your head to the figure behind you, heading right for you. He’s covered head to toe and obscured by a haze of sand, but there’s no mistaking a figure that large. It’s Konig, and the sight of him rushing towards you makes you push through the gut-turning fear of the looming hedges.
You’re in a full sprint into an entrance, legs already begging for you to give it a rest, lungs fighting against each stride, but you don’t slow.
You clip your shoulder on the entrance and hiss with pain, hand immediately springing up to rub out your shoulder. As you run, you pull your hand away to find your palm coated in bright red blood.
Your arm stays firmly pressed to your upper arm, futilely trying to staunch the flow as you push forward, careful not to brush against the hedge’s walls.
The ground starts to rumble again, vibrating under your feet but with much less intensity than the fall quadrant. It’s still enough to throw you off balance, a hand springing out to find support but only slicing open your palm on the hedge’s defenses. Your hand, now dripping with blood, pulls to your chest as you fall to your knees from the shaking earth.
This is it.
You are surely going to die in this awful hedge maze. The maze that offput you so before will be your final resting place.
It takes you a moment to realize the walls are sinking into the ground. Its leaves and pink blossoms being swallowed up by the dirt. You squint up to see the tops of the mazes revealing more and more sky as they descend.
You bring yourself to shaky feet, surveilling the descent of the walls.
Your heart pounds at the possibilities that will soon be revealed to you. Surely what lies behind these walls will be your death.
When the walls have descended to your height, you shakily get to your feet, peering over to find only more hedge.
The walls disappear, the tops coated with a layer of grass that melds perfectly to the ground and leaves no evidence of their existence, and the earth stops shaking beneath you.
Only four walls remain in an equal square with no exits, trapping you alone in a large grass field. You take a moment to survey your wounds, peeling your hand off your shoulder. Your shoulder was flayed, inflamed four-inch slashes burning along your upper bicep. Oozing, thick red blood drains freely from the raised flesh, staining your jacket and coating your hands in its warmth. The slices on your palms were serated, whatever having sliced it carving out extra flesh as the ground jolted you around.
With your good hand you reapply pressure to your shoulder in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood as you inspect one of the remaining hedge walls.
They were barbed. What seemed like inviting leaves and cherry blossoms are actually spikes and petals of razor sharp blades.
Once you’ve made the discovery you make distance from the walls, looking around for the horror they clearly wanted you to face.
For a moment your eyes are searching the hedges, waiting for impossible beasts to slink from the wall’s blades. Capitol mutts bred designed with psychological and physical damage in mind.
You get the opportunity to catch your breath, checking on your wounds in between scans for threat.
A flinch tears through you when the ground rumbles again.
Through the disorientation of the trembling dirt, you make out that only one wall is descending, and it was not one that leads to open air, but one that lead to another chamber within the maze.
At the massive hedges sink lower, you can see the area leading to it has also shed its complex chambers, revealing a similar square pen of hedges.
Whatever awaits for you on the other side, you’re about to be ensnared with it in a rectangular prison with no chance to escape except to bury yourself through the hedge’s razor sharp blossoms.
You reach to prime your blow dart, but your hands come up empty. Frantic hands pull the rope from your torso and scramble through the loop of rope, but it’s gone.
It’s gone.
Surely lost to the lava, knocked free from your shoddy knots during the earthquake.
The dread is instantaneous, flooding you from head to toe with a nauseating heat. Your only shot, you just let your only shot drain through your fingers.
Fuck.
When the wall is three feet from the ground, you can see a singular tribute on the other side, bent over in a similar position to support themselves on the ground that thrusts you about.
As soon as the tops of the maze sinks into the ground and disappears, the tribute is already tearing through the grass and in a beeline straight towards you.
It’s the girl from District One.
“Nine!” She yells in a war cry so daunting it makes your gut instinctively twist.
In her hand she wields her spear, coated in layers of blood. From the old, crusted brown of week-old kills to the deep red at its silver tip, freshly drained from minute-old wounds.
Your breath catches, eyes wide.
You were surely going to die, another blood stain to decorate her spear.
You’d never seen so much rage coming from one person. Not even the boy from eleven or Konig, both moments from killing you, didn’t wear an expression with this degree of loathing.
A sickening, animalistic wail rips from the back of her throat as she raised her spear, not breaking her lengthy strides.
“He killed him!’ Her froths carry when she’s close enough, “He killed him!”
You’re not sure who ‘He’ or ‘Him’ is, but you know you’re about the take the blunt of her vengeance.
‘Just don’t let anyone in there use it against you, okay?’
Your brows pinch, you take one breath to steady yourself, and you brace.
When she’s only a few yards away, she launches her spear at you, another pained cry shrilling throughout her grunt. When you make a dive out of the way, you can hear the spear whiz right by your ear and disturb tufts of your hair. You’re sure it nicked you, but when your hand comes up to your ear to confirm you’re not sure if the blood on your hands is from the wound inflicted from the hedges or her.
You rush for the spear that lodges in the dirt three feet from you. You’re quick but she beats you to it, and you have no choice but to cling onto the blood-stained handle with your injured hands and hope that she can’t make enough distance to pierce you with it.
“He killed him!” She repeats, words so savage she’s spitting in your face.
The spear lays horizontally between your chests, erratically jerking in the space between you as you grapple for it.
She’s all muscle, arms toned and her face doesn’t look any more hollowed than it did when she stepped into the arena. It’s easy to see she’s overpowering you, flinging you around as she yanks on the spear in your firm grip.
“He killed him! He killed him!” These words punctuate each torque of the blood-stained handle, a vicious replay spewing from her mouth on repeat until it turns into a brutal harmonization. With each pull you wince as the tainted wood forces against your sliced hands.
It’s the neck snapping of the boy from eleven, and with each yank that pulls you forward you see Konig snapping the boy’s neck.
“He killed him!” Yank, snap! “He killed him!” Yank, snap! “He killed him!” Yank, snap!
From here you can see the tears streaming down her face.
It must be the look of bewilderment, or maybe pity, that flashes across your face, because as soon as you notice her tears her face relaxes for just a moment, like she’s waking up from a dream. She cuts off her repeated cries with another vicious grunt, tightening her grip onto the spear’s staff, and runs full force at you.
The weight of her pulling the spear closer suddenly disappears, knocking you off balance. The handle catches on your collarbones and sends you both crashing to the ground.
You don’t let go of the spear as she moves to straddle you, sliding down your thighs and planting herself firmly on your stomach. White knuckles contrast the blood you’re adding to her collections of stains, mutilated palms fighting for the spear.
With one hand she forces the staff of the spear into your sternum hard, and with the other she swings at you, connecting her fist to the side of your jaw with enough force to make you see a blinding white.
When you return, hands still clasped firmly around the spear, she’s digging into her waistband for something that will surely end your life.
You trash violently under her before you find some fucking sense and use your good hand to reach through the hem of your collar, into your sports bra, and retrieve your multi-tool.
Pluck and a multi-tool, that’s all you have.
You were most certainly going to die.
You manage to flip out the first tool your blood-covered fingernail found as she reveals a six-inch long silver blade.
“He killed mine, I kill his!” Her scream is guttural, her words through hysterical tears barely registering when she swings using both hands to thrust the blade down into your skull.
With a swing of your arm you block the knife, slicing a deep, lengthy gash into your forearm as your other hand jams the inch-long corkscrew straight into her eye.
The shriek of pain is unlike any other you’ve ever heard. It completely swallows your cry from the deep gash on your arm elicited. The feeling, the sound, of her eyeball squelching as the corkscrew pierced is still shooting up your arms, making your body cringe more than the nasty gash she left behind. Immediately her tensed body folds in on itself, her fingers shooting up to thread through the multi-tool and coating her hands with the steady stream of blood.
With all you have, a grunt escaping from deep in your diaphragm, you work yourself free from her restraint while she’s distracted by her wounds.
You retrieve her spear, now stained heavily with the same blood that spews from the gashes along your shoulder, arm, and hand, coating you in dark red sleeves of dripping blood. The girl swings at you, but not yet used to her loss of depth perception and debilitating pain, misjudges how far away you are.
You take a moment to let yourself wallow in your pain, to shake the feeling of skewering the girl’s eye that still shed tears as you back away from her haunting wails.
She’s foaming obscenities at you, trying to come to her feet but dropping to her knees as the jostling of the multi-tools shoots pain through her with another haunting wail of agony.
When she reaches up to yank the multitool from her eye, you prime yourself with the spear, pointing it in the direction of a howl so piercing it deafens you. Her blood covered eye is still threaded onto the corkscrew when she pops it free, ripping out a chunk of her shredded optic nerve with it.
You have to close your eyes, your heart sinking as you wince in sympathy at her pain.
You can’t bring yourself to end her like this. Now would be the time, it would be the smart thing to do. You’re perfectly justified, you know that. She attacked you, she tried to end your life, and you are completely in the clear morally and legally.
Through her sharp sobs you can hear Price’s voice. He’s screaming at you through the screen, he’s giving you permission, he is telling you to use that pluck to give her spear one last poetic stain.
But you can’t do it.
Her maimed wails are drawing nothing but pity, knowing you are the one who is responsible for her pain, even if she had just tried to wedge a knife through your skull.
“Nine!” She shrieks a yell of vengeance and pain from her mouth coated in the blood that pours from her eye socket.
“Nine!”
She shakily gets to her feet, her hands already swiping for you, blindly swinging the multi-tool still stabbed through her own eye even though you’ve trailed your blood at least twenty yards away.
“Stay away!” You yell as your slices palm screams under a tightened grip on her spear.
“Nine!” She cries, her feet picking up into an unsteady jog toward the sound of your voice.
You back away, keeping the spear firmly pointed in her direction.
The girl from one, blinded by her injuries, tears, and rage, does not slow when she runs full force into her own spear, the entire silver tip disappearing into the flesh just under her rib cage.
The wooden, round end of the spear thrusts into your gut with a breathtaking amount of force. Your eyes were already closed when she coughs a warm, sticky spray of blood onto your face.
She’s choking on her own blood, the last haunting sounds of life gurgling from the back of her throat.
You don’t let go of your grip on the staff until the girl from one goes limp, her body dropping to the ground and pulling her spear from your blood-covered hands. Even when the cannon’s boom fires to signify her death, you can’t open your eyes, can’t bear to see the girl from District One’s lifeless body. Your tears begin to streak the fresh blood on your face.
“I’m sorry!” You scream in the direction of her body, “I’m sorry!”
Your pleading cries become hysterical, your words repeating as foaming as the girl from one’s as she charged at you with the same spear that killed her. The feeling of her squishing eye still shoots up the bones of your arms and down your spine.
Your eyes finally snap open at the encore of the ground shaking.
You try and move away from the girl from one, her body bouncing up and down like a rag doll - and suddenly you’re staring at the Eleven’s lifeless body bouncing off the metal platform.
You’re knocked to your limbs, blood draining freely down your arms and painting the grass with generous red streaks as the earth quakes.
The large hedge wall is descending, and as it is swallowed into the ground you can see what remains of the hedge maze, entirely stripped of its inner walls and chambers. Over the top of the descending wall you can see another large, rectangular pen of equal size that will soon form a square of the hedge’s outer most borders with no exits in sight.
When the wall has fully descended, you rise to shaky feet and find two tributes rising from the ground that finally settles. Two more tributes lie dead in heaps on the grass at the far end of the maze.
The tribute on the right is The Mountain, no mistaking that size, but he’s covered from head to toe in gear. Thick gloves. A pair of green cargo pants. Black guards on his joints and forearms. A holster sits at his upper thigh, carrying some sort of blade. He wears a thick black vest on his front that spills over with supplies.
The most haunting is the mask, a nearly uniform black fabric that drapes over his neck and bunches around his vest, pinned in place underneath a tactical helmet. It reminds you of an executioner.
He doesn’t even look human . Any comfort you had found from him before the games, any scraps that remained after he snapped that boys neck and raced to kill you, has completely disintegrated.
The mask has two circular cutouts above two faint streaks of color and reveal the only part of him exposed to light, those eyes that have shared so many reassuring glances with you - and they’re staring in your direction.
You hear him shout something at you, your name, you think, that harsh voice carrying all the way from across the hedge maze. His hands find his head before he starts in a jog to you, slowing when he sees the body of the girl from one, imbedded on a spear and lying limp in the grass.
He looks back to you, and then his head whips in the direction of the other tribute to find a knife flying in his direction. He throws himself to the ground in a dodge, and the boy from two takes his opportunity to advance on Konig in a full sprint, already reaching into his jacket pocket for a replacement weapon.
Konig rolls forward before getting to his feet, making a run for you.
You’re frozen again, eyes flicking between both of the imminent threats before you, trying to figure out who you should focus on first.
You start in a run towards the girl from one’s body, not slowing, but wincing as you pull the spear from her abdomen without looking down. You run a few more yards before whipping around, slightly crouched as you extend the spear in the direction of Konig and the boy from District Two. Titan, the boy with canines that come to perfect, razor sharp points.
Konig fumbles when he meets your eyes, the fear and the determination in them as you point your weapon at him. He slows, his eyes momentarily finding the tip of the spear, and then the body of the girl from one before he turns to look for Titan. He retrieves a large knife, it’s not the scythe you saw him wielding at the bloodbath, but it’s similar. A long, silver blade that almost constitutes a sword raised in warning at Titan.
Titan slows, and sidesteps to survey you both. The body of the girl from District One lays limp in the center of a three-way standoff, with two boys who very much dominate you in size and strength on either side.
Titan gives a cruel laugh, showing off his razor sharp canines. The knife he had retrieved from his jacket falls to his side, as if he’s not even worried about either of you atttacking.
“Where you been District Nine?!” He yells almost teasingly from his spot, clearly directed at you. You tighten your grip on your spear with your blood-soaked palms, brows furrowing.
“I’ve been looking for you!” Titan follows up in an almost sing-song tune.
He laughs at your confused face, the way your eyes uneasily flick from Konig to Titan.
Titan takes two slow yet confident steps in your direction, and both you and Konig prime your weapons with a flinch.
Titan laughs again, bending his core - as if you treating him like a rabid lion was just so hilarious it steals the breath from him.
“You two, wow. What a pair!”
You and Konig share an unsure glance before returning your careful eyes to Titan.
He points at Konig with his knife, “You I expected. It was always you, right?” He sloppily points the blade in your direction.
“You I didn’t expect!”
He laughs again, taking a few more slow steps toward you, “We knew what you were, though!” He shakes his head, “We knew you were important. Just didn’t think you’d make it this far.”
“It’s a good thing you did,” A cruel smile unwinds across his face, canines fully exposed, “I hate admitting this, but I don’t think I’d be able to do it without you.”
He finishes by taking a few more steps towards you, and Konig follows his lead this time, both of them closing in on you.
You have to stop taking steps away when the end of your spear brushes against razor sharp leaves.
“Back up!” You spit, thrusting the tip of the spear in the air in Titan’s direction as a warning. He holds his hands up, the knife held with just a few of fingers as he displays his palms.
“Easy now, Plucky,” He says with a condescending smirk, “I wouldn’t want to end up like your friend here.”
Titan doesn’t drop his smile in the slightest when his boot steps on the corpse of the girl from one, a symphony of ribs snapping under his boot.
You suck in a breath at the noise, the boy from eleven blinding you with his lifeless eyes. Your whole body cringes, eyes pinching closed and stomach threatening the retch.
Snap, bounce, dead.
The boy from two’s boots break into a sprint towards you, followed shortly by the sound of Konig’s footsteps, and all you can see is Eleven’s lifeless eyes as you swing your spear blindly through the guts of the girl from District One.
You hear Konig’s harsh voice shout.
The spear’s handle scrapes painfully against your flayed palm as it’s ripped from your grasp, a pair of brute arms trapping around you as you flail your limbs, scratching and clawing at faceless muscle.
You’re quickly jerked so that the assailant is behind you, pressing your back to his chest. A sturdy forearm wraps across your collarbones, the other digging firmly into your lower stomach.
When you’re firmly pinned, you can see Konig, frozen in place and staring right at you through his hood as you thrash in Titan’s arms.
You can feel the vibrations of his words on your back you when he speaks, his lips tickling your ear as he coos into it, “Oh, it’s okay, Funny Girl. You don’t need to fight it.”
Your head trashes violently against his sternum, spitting grunts leaving your raw throat as your bloody, injured hands scratch at his forearms.
“I said don’t fight it!”
You flinch at the volume of Titan’s voice, no longer playful and teasing, booming his direct order in your ear as he shakes you in his grip.
His arm slides up from your chest to wrap around your neck, nestling you between a bulging forearm and bicep. He gives you a warning squeeze, cutting off your air just to show you he can.
“Behave!” He hisses in your ear.
Your hand comes up to grab onto Titan’s crushing arms, futilely pawing at him in an effort to give yourself more breathing room.
All you can do is stare wide-eyed at a faceless Konig, his blade primed as you wriggle in Titan’s grip.
Titan lifts your feet off the ground by your neck, drawing half of an inhuman squeak from you before your windpipe is fully constricted.
“Now drop it!” Titan yells.
Your legs kick in the air as you search for ground, fingernails scratching at Titan’s arm and leaving streaks of your own blood behind. Eyes wide with terror and mouth gaping for air that can’t be inhaled.
“Drop it or I kill her!”
Konig lets his weapon fall to the ground, slowly raising his arms to show his empty palms to Titan.
Titan laughs, letting you dangle and struggle for air a little while longer until he sets your feet back on the ground. He takes his arm off your neck and puts his palm to your forehead, pinning your head against his chest.
Immediately you’re pulling in breaths, choking on the air you’d been fighting for with everything you have.
Titan’s just giddy with excitement, even doing a shuffle with his feet to release some of his energy.
“Do you see this, Funny Girl?” Titan whispers, his lips pressed against the grooves of your ear as you cough for air, “See how you reduce a mountain to a molehill?”
You jerk your head away from him, squirming in his grasp, but he applies more pressure to your forehead.
“This is just perfect! This is rich,” Titan laughs before he continues, “You know only one of you can leave, right?” He throws his head back in a laugh, forcing your body to turn slightly to the right.
His voice drops, each word coming to a point that digs at Konig, “And yet you’d still sacrifice yourself to save a girl that never had a chance.”
Konig must have some sort of plan you don’t fully understand, because none of his actions are rational.
“Don’t be shy, Konig. Come on down!” He says with an over-the-top voice.
Titan laughs again as Konig takes careful steps closer, palms still displayed in surrender.
Titan presses his lips back to your ear and speaks excitedly through clenched teeth.
“I am so glad you made it this far.”
He gives your body a shake before he leans down to plant a sloppy kiss on your cheek from behind.
You wince in disgust, giving a few more earnest thrashes against his arms.
It fills you with fury, actually.
This brute can have you restrained, manhandle you and steal your breath - that’s part of the game, you can’t blame him for that.
But to tease you like a cat does his prey?
To kiss you?
You’re over Titan, you decide.
“Oh, what’s the matter, Funny Girl?” He says in mock sympathy, removing the hand from your neck to cup your jaw, fingers creating indents on your face as he smears your own blood with his fingertips. He tilts both your body and your chin to force you to look at him.
“Don’t be upset,” He coos, ignoring your grit teeth and glaring eyes, “Some people were just born to serve me, to die for me.” His voice falls to a dangerous growl, his fingernails digging painfully into your cheeks, “Get over it.”
His eyes flick to Konig, who’s approaching too fast for his liking, “Woah, woah, woah there, lover boy.”
Titan’s arms switch positions, the one across your stomach rising to skim his knife across your front, the other letting go of your face to secure your waist to him. He presses the blade up to your throat, grazing the metal against the crook of your neck in a clear threat.
You tilt your chin up to get away from the blade, looking down your nose at Konig, who freezes.
“Did you not like that?” He asks Konig, applying more pressure on the blade to your neck, not yet breaking skin, but pulling a fearful squeak from you as the cool steel creases your flesh.
He lowers his voice to a purr, “Do you not like it when I touch your things?”
Titan takes his hand off your waist, knowing the knife on your throat will keep you firmly in place. He brings his other hand back up to your jaw, pinching your cheeks and shaking your head teasingly at Konig.
You and Konig have no choice but to lock eyes, his gear offering little comfort as you pull down on Titan’s arm. You can’t read much behind that half-lidded cold stare and black hood.
“Just do it!” You yell at Konig, “What are you waiting for?! Just kill us both!”
“Oh, I’m going to,” Titan presses his fingers tighter into your face in the assumption you were addressing him.
He shakes your head again and lowers his voice, pressing his lips back into your ear.
“But I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life,” He says, “I’m going to take my time.”
“Do it Konig! Kill us both!” You yell, furrowing your brows and thrashing against Titan.
“Do it Konig!” Titan mocks. He puts his mouth back to your ear again, “Let’s see if he can do it.”
He pulls away to shout to Konig, keeping your face firmly in his hold, “Do it! Kill us both!”
Konig stays still in his spot, not reaching for his weapon, just flitting his eyes between you and Titan.
“What are you doing?!” You scream, “Do it!”
“Stupid girl,” Titan grits in your ear, “Don’t you know he can’t?”
You elbow him hard, and he makes a low guttural noise, briefly letting go of your face. You go to push free from his knife but his hand quickly snatches a head full of your hair.
You let out a yelp as he jerks your head backwards, his knife briefly jutting out in the direction of Konig, who used your distraction as a chance to near closer. He’s close now, but when Titan notices this he takes a few steps backwards, dragging you back by your hair with him.
Titan laughs at Konig, giving you a harsh yank on your scalp. “Trying to save her?”
The hand with the knife pulls back and snakes around your neck again, threatening to squeeze the life from you.
“Kill us! Don’t let him win!” You get out.
“I am so sick-” Titan cuts off his statement the same moment he cuts off your air, lifting you off the ground.
“Tell her!” He booms, “Tell her why you can’t do it!”
Konig’s hands lower, eyes widening as he watches you claw at his arms, blood still gushing from your wounds.
“Tell her or she dies! Tell her!” He jerks you around by your neck, body swaying like a rag doll.
Your nails dig into Titan hard enough to draw blood, your legs kick his with the soles of your boots, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Tell her!” He shouts, his spit dotting your cheek. He makes a show of tightening his grip on you.
You’re vision is getting spotty, the swings of your fists slowing against unmatched strength.
“Last chance!” He says.
Konig sees the life fading from you, and breaks into a sprint, full force in your direction.
If you could speak, you’d tell him ‘finally.’
You close your eyes and brace for death, listening to the sound of Konig’s boots rapidly approaching and the blood pumping in your ears.
You take the brunt of his impact, your face and already injured arms on the receiving end of the supplies tucked in his chunky vest.
The three of you lose balance, toppling backwards until Titan regains his footing, and then you’re smushed in between two monstrous boys, waiting for one of them to take the win.
It happens so fast, and for most of it you had your eyes closed, but as soon as Titan releases his grip on your neck you’re roughly flung to the side where you drop to your hands and knees, coughing and wheezing as you try to catch your breath.
There’s the sound of impact after impact, and when you have the strength to lift your head, your heart stops.
Titan never regained his footing.
Konig had shoved you both backwards where the razor sharp hedge walls had imbedded themselves so far into Titan they’re supporting his weight. His knife lays unreachable at his feet, blood pouring generously and coating the leaves under his back in thick, dark red trickles.
Konig isn’t letting him slide off, one hand pressing firmly into his chest so the blades in the hedge walls work their way further into him.
Titan’s eyes are wide with shock, his head being forced to the side with each blow Konig lands to his face.
You jolt at the sight and fumble back into the grass as you crawl backwards from the altercation, eyes locked onto the scene you can’t bring yourself to look away from.
Konig lands a hit to Titan’s jaw, and blood sprays from his mouth. You hear a crack, Titan’s cheekbone shattering you think, and you finally pinch your eyes shut as the Eleven’s neck breaks behind your eyelids.
He’s delivering blow after blow, almost mechanically. One after another in beats so rhythmic you can anticipate and wince for the next strike before it even lands.
At least with the boy from eleven he made it quick and painless. Dead before he even knew what hit him.
This is overkill.
It’s twisting your gut, nausea boiling under your skin and bile creeping up the back of your throat.
You’re not sure why he doesn’t just grab the knife and finish him off.
You can’t think of a worse end. Beaten to death, feeling your skull steadily cave in, each punch pushing you closer and closer to death while jostled against a thousand blades.
When Konig is finally done with him, Titan is unrecognizable. Face mashed in, skull caved, beaten to a bloody pulp. His teeth chipped and broken, probably having swallowed his defining canines after Konig knocked them down his throat.
The boom of the cannon makes you flinch.
When Konig turns around and takes a couple steps back, he doesn’t look at you right away. He stares off into the distance at a far hedge wall. You can see the gear in his vest rising and falling with his heavy breaths. Filtering out whatever emotion must come with killing a man with your own fists, surely.
Titan’s body begins to slide forward, what’s left of his head pressed limply to his chest. He reaches a tipping point and his upper half drops, the rest of the blades on his lower back brutally ripping through his flesh as he collapses in a lifeless pile on the grass.
When Konig’s cold, deadly eyes find yours, you can’t help but start, letting out the squeak of a prey. You can’t move, lips parted, eyes blown in disbelief.
“Wait, please!” Your bloody palms shoot out defensively.
“You can have it!” You shout through a raw throat, voice desperate. You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but to no avail. Your voice lowers, “You can have the win, but please.”
Your words spill out one after another in a jumbled mess, “I just don’t want to die fighting, and afraid, and - “ You cut yourself off, your voice dropping to nothing but shallow breath, “Please.”
He’s silent, the half-lidded eyes through his black hood revealing nothing to you, still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“Let’s just talk, before you do it, please. I - I don’t have any weapons,” You keep your arms up, your whole body shaking.
You pinch your eyes shut when it elicits no reaction, your voice shooting back up to raw and desperate, “Konig, please! Just let me prepare myself!”
“Please,” Your final beg finishes with a whimper, sight still cut off with a tight pinch.
And then you hear his boots take off in a full sprint, and you know that this is it.
He wants you to die scared and fighting.
· THE TRIBUTES I · THE TRIBUTES II · THE GAMES · THE VICTOR ·
More works by uhohdad :)
#call of duty#cod#konig#konig cod#konig fic#könig#könig cod#könig fic#x reader#konig x you#konig x reader#konig mw2#konig modern warfare#könig mw2#mwii#modern warefare ii#cod mw2#uhohwriting#the hunger games#john price#captain john price#captain price
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Another avatar request. Imagine Jake as a yandere, and the reader admits to him that a few of the other woman in the clan are being cruel to her out of jealousy that she’s mated to him.
So he’s livid, goes off and “teaches them all a lesson”, and then comes home and is super sweet and comforting to the reader?
Love this idea!!!
No one will hurt you again (Jake Sully x fem! reader)
Content warnings: it has been proofread, English is not my first language, let’s pretend that Na’vi blood smells like human blood, okay?
General warnings: yandere behavior, reader being harassed, a little bit of violence if you squint.
[ 3rd person POV ]
Y/n’s head hung low at the communal dinner. The Omatikayas sat in a circle eating as usual, but Jake knew something was up just by looking at his mate. Y/n was always cheerful, beaming at him the moment he stepped in a room.
But today was different and he would find out why.
“Y/n” he called her attention, she turned to him. She hummed listening to him. “What happened, my love?” He said, starting off sweet. Y/n sighed, looking at him. “Nothing, just forget about it”. Her tone soft and her eyes pleading.
Jake huffed in frustration. Later on, when they were all in their huts going to sleep, Jake cuddled Y/n and gave her affection for being away all day hunting. “Some women…” she started. Jake’s ears peaked in curiosity and satisfaction, he knew she couldn’t keep things from him. He hummed, his chest sending vibrations to her. “Some women weren’t nice to me at all” her voice cracked and he knew that something was up.
Jake turned her around, looking into her watering eyes. She refused to cry. “They pulled my tail and my braid, pushed me around and made fun of me. Some were saying that I shouldn’t have mated you at all because I was a good girl and you had demon blood and my children will be devil spawns. Some said I shouldn’t have mated you because I am not worth enough Toruk Makto” she started crying, hugging him. Jake’s eyes flashed with anger. While her head was hidden in the crook of his neck, his hands balled into fists and he even punched the wall of the Hometree out of rage. This startled the Na’vi woman. Looking at him with a sad face and tears streaming down her eyes.
“Shh, don’t cry, my love” Jake cooed at her, hugging her tighter and peppering kisses all over her face. “You are perfect for me in all ways possible” he carefully caressed her braid, reminding her that no one could break their bond, they had mated before Eywa. “Y/n, I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t want you. But I want you, every piece of you. From the way you look at me early in the morning, the way your eyes look when I teach you things from my world. That beautiful body of yours” he continued to list all the things he liked about her. When he finished, she had stopped crying.
“They’ll learn that they should treat you right” he thought. The next morning, Jake woke up earlier that usual. Y/n was still sleeping. He went out, nearing a group of Na’vi women who were laughing. When he heard Y/n be named in the conversation and the way they talked about her, he knew what he had to do.
Y/n woke up and prepared herself to do her daily chores. She saw her mate, Jake Sully cleaning his hands from some strange liquid. Her nose filled with the smell of iron. She ran to his side. “MaJake are you okay?” She hollered. “Relax, baby, this is not mine”. A wicked smile was spreading on his lips. Y/n looked at him dumbfounded.
She hugged him, still not understanding the whole situation. Jake relaxed, he loved the way his body fitted with hers. The way their hands looked like they were made for each other. “No one will hurt you again, not as long as I am here” he stated, playing with her hair and holding her close.
#yandere avatar (james cameron)#yandere avatar#avatar 2#avatar james cameron#avatar#avatar x reader#yandere jake sully#jake sully#jake sully x reader
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橘 (TACHIBANA/JÚ) haitani rindou
nsfw (no smut), complicated relationships, canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, wounds & abuse please proceed with caution
thank you for 300 followers! i thought i might as well upload this today ^^
masterlist | playlist
part iii / your lips, my lips; apocalypse
2004
Rindou had experienced true homesickness when he was 16.
Middle of December when the snow had just started falling in Tokyo, and he is home alone, disassociating to some Mozart playing at max volume along some other things (or thoughts) while laying flat on his bed. If Ran was home to hear the kind of music he is currently playing, he'd be a dead man by then.
But he doesn't care about Ran, no. He cares about you. You're the one who's been plaguing his mind -- so sticky and frustrating -- after he'd left your pouty figure back home in Kanagawa with kiss-swollen lips 5 months ago. You and your stupid, pretty lips that has taken his first kiss, your laugh that feels a lot more effective than those pills his Mother tells him to swallow for his migraine, your soft, shaky hands when they reached up to cup his cheeks as you open your mouth wider to allow his tongue in . . .
Requiem in D Minor reaches its peak, and he finally finds it in him to turn the volume down with a click of his tongue -- he's to become a madman if he continues this any further.
It's been 2 years since the boy's moved up to Tokyo alone with his brother. Rindou doesn't think he's struggled much in adapting to the lifestyle -- in fact, it suits him a lot more than he's expected it to. He likes to think he's adapted to it sooner than Ran, although the older seems to be much more put together than he is -- judging from the listening habits and different lifestyles both brothers have chosen to adopt in this big city as two young teenagers -- because Ran is actually doing something useful right now: staying back at school for extra Physics lessons and then attending his Track and Field club meeting after class, and Rindou is here: still dressed in his uniform, still not yet finished his McDonald's that he'd abandoned at the dining table before retreating back into his room to sulk because he's been missing a certain somebody a little too much.
He admits that things are more fun in the city -- the nightlife that he finds himself getting excited to when walking past the centre of Roppongi to get back home after night class, easily accessible skate parks that he frequents with a few friends after school in his half-buttoned uniform, the drifting culture he's taken up after spending most of his savings on a second-hand MX-5 to drift illegally on weekends where he doesn't have to get up early . . . It is all so different and fresh, and Rindou thinks he hasn't felt this good while having fun before.
But you wrote him a letter 2 months ago for his birthday and he still hasn't replied to it yet.
I still think about our kiss in summer. I also miss you a whole lot. See you next summer, and again, happy 16th, 竜胆.
You'd wrote it in the ending paragraph of your lengthy four-paged letter -- all the things you wished he was there back home to experience together with you, your stupid little thoughts flashing by your head while laying flat in bed at 3 in the morning, your already-planned new year resolutions that he knows you're never going to finish despite your sudden burst of motivation, recent hobbies that you've started picking up due to extreme boredom now that December is here and everything outside is cold and slippery -- and Rindou finds himself thinking about you and you and you over and over again.
Summer of 2004 -- when he finished his can of beer and crushed it in his hands as he silently admired you through the curtains of his eyelashes. When you caught his eyes and bit your lip before shifting closer to him on the floor while fixing the loose strap of your tank top. When he inched closer to your face and smirked, before puffing out a small, warm air that smells like beer with a hint of peppermint over your cupid's bow.
When you blushed and decided to be bold by placing both hands on his sturdy chest as you knocked your forehead against his very warm and red cheek. When he looked you in the eye one last time before pressing his dry, boyish lips tight against yours that tasted a lot like your favourite honeydew flavoured lip balm and he'd smiled into it.
Sweet, peachy, and the kiss wasn't perfect; it was merely just a quick peck, but it was so lovely that he finds himself growing warm at the memory of your eyelids fluttering open when he pulled away, only to lean back in and peck at your lips once or twice more before shoving in a tongue and getting you all worked up in the process, because he just couldn't help it -- you were so addictive. You were so pretty.
You are so pretty.
The boy sits back up in one swift motion and looks out the window to his right. He stares down at the bustling, happening city below from the comfort of his high rise.
A train passes by through the underground tunnels of Roppongi. Pristine, white snowflakes falls heavily from the sky and lands on the ground before slowly piling up on the sidewalk as a young child happily tugs on her mother's hand while pointing at it. The yolk of the sun is hidden behind thick clouds, but it is still bright outside.
The wires connect. Stars align. Clouds fade away.
He blushes.
Rindou wants to kiss you again.
He glances at your crumpled letters still splayed across his desk for the past 2 months, and the boy comes to a realisation.
Things are fun in Tokyo.
Life isn't.
And the next thing he knows, he is shoving a bunch of winter clothes and a few bags of expensive taiyaki into his black Jansport, before leaving a quick note on a yellow Post-it to Ran on the coffee table while finishing up his leftover McDonald's.
Going back home for Xmas *a badly drawn Christmas tree*
Will be back before the new years... or not
Depends on my mood. C u
🖕 - ur 弟
He throws the pen down, not before doodling yet another huge, ugly and messily drawn middle finger on the remaining space in the Post-It, and he slaps it on the table.
Rindou leaves for Kanagawa in the earliest train at 5 in the evening with your letters folded, safely tucked into the left pocket of his puffer jacket with a bag of warm chocolate chip muffins placed into the confines of his jacket to keep warm on the ride home. An elderly lady sitting beside him points it out with a teasing laugh and a silly pat to his forearm.
"Who are these for?"
He says it with a lopsided smile.
"My girlfriend."
Three more days to Christmas and Rindou is standing outside of your school gate.
He'd came straight after he arrived, not bothering to phone his parents or inform his brother of his safe arrival back home. Seeing you seemed to weigh far heavier to him, judging from how he's waiting patiently in the cold for you to get out of night class. Rindou knows of your schedule well -- he's memorised it ever since you showed it to him the last time he visited home.
"Fuck," he cusses, nose growing redder and patience growing thinner with each passing moment that you don't appear at the entrance. "Did I get the wrong time?" He murmurs to himself and pulls out his phone to check. Did he perhaps be smart that day and snapped a photo of your timetable? But he's sure you finish at 8 on Tuesdays, with Math being the last period -- he remembers you complaining about it because you have always been one to hate Math, while him on the other hand, is an absolute beast at it.
White snow slowly covers his two-toned hair as he shuffles his weight from one foot to another, and a deep crease forms between his brows after realising that his stupid ass did not, in fact, be smart that day and snap a photo of your timetable.
Rindou clicks his tongue. He's contemplating on leaving -- to turn around and just go over to your house right now. Maybe you are actually home this whole time as he's stuck here pondering his thoughts and you're getting bored out of your mind.
He thinks he cannot waste another moment to see you.
And after a few more analysing and breaking down on what would be the best option to do, a voice calls out for his name. A girl's voice -- smooth and filled with so much excitement, it seems -- and he turns around to look at her.
Himeko approaches him from the entrance -- dressed in her cozy uniform and a heavy book bag is slung over her shoulder. "Rindou, you're home." She jogs up to him, leg warmers falling off her calves as she runs and stops just right in front of him. There's a wide grin stretched across her face as she stares up at the much taller boy and doe eyes squints a little from the lamppost shining down into them. Light snowflakes cover her eyelashes and she simply dusts them away with a little smile.
"Oh, hey." Rindou blinks. He then turns on his heel to head towards your house and Himeko follows along with a finger hooked onto a strap of his Jansport. "Why are you back home? It's not Summer." She states, and she soon realises that the last sentence had sounded a little stupid -- so she attempts to make it less awkward for her by asking more questions and attempting to converse with Rindou, to which the boy doesn't oppose on answering.
"It's the last week before winter break." She states while picking up her pace behind him to catch up with the boy's wider steps.
"I know. How's school?" He asks, his vacant hand shoving down into the pocket of his jacket to keep warm but Himeko nudges his elbow. He looks down and sees that she is handing him her book bag.
Rindou fishes the hand out to get a hold of the strap and he slings it over his shoulder -- just as habit allows. Himeko seems delighted at this, as she crosses her hands behind her body and starts skipping beside him on the sidewalk. But a brown bag hanging off his left hand catches her attention and curious hands starts inching towards it without him knowing.
"Just fine. It's been a little boring though, even the teachers are getting ready for the holidays." She replies. Rindou simply hums at it. He's never been great at conversations -- always the listener with you as his speaker.
And he feels a sudden jolt at the bag in his hand. He snatches it back quick, eyes sharp and movements turning defensive as he stares at the girl who is clearly shocked at his behaviour over a bag of chocolate chip muffins.
". . . What?" He clears his throat and stops in his tracks. He's getting irritated. Himeko tilts her head to the side. She points at the bag of muffins with a pointer, "Are those for me? I like muffins."
"'S for Mom. She wanted me to buy 'em before coming back." And with that, Rindou hands Himeko back her own bag to take. He doesn't say anything further, and he shoves its strap back into her hands, the weight pushing her arms down and she furrows her brows at his suddenness.
It's so awkward. But she is Himeko -- always the peacemaker of the group -- and she decides to clear the atmosphere with a change of topic.
"Ran didn’t come home with you?"
Rindou remains quiet for a while -- obviously feeling a little pissed, but ultimately, he decides to reply to her anyway.
"Nah, he's still in Tokyo. I came back without him."
"Why’d you come home then?"
"I just missed Mom's cooking, 's all." He shrugs. A lie, but Himeko doesn't need to know that. Though she beams at his response, "I went to your house for dinner yesterday. Your Mom's cooking is way too good." My house, dinner?
"Did Y/N go, too?" He asks a little too quickly, the steady beat of his chest growing quicker at the thought of you most probably sitting on his chair at his dining table while enjoying his mother's cooking before finding ways to sneak up to his room and mess with his DJ set that he'd purposely left home for you to play with. He smiles a little at the possible scene playing in his head.
The smile on Himeko's face falters a little at his sudden burst of emotion with the mention of you, but she fixes herself fast and shoots back a response just as fast.
"No, her father came home on Sunday. I haven't seen her since."
Rindou turns his head to look at the shorter girl beside with a worried expression -- a total contrast to all that he's felt just now. He stops in his tracks, and Himeko stops too -- just two steps ahead of him -- with the smile on her face completely gone now.
"What's wrong?" She asks, face full of genuine concern.
"What do you mean?" Rindou frowns.
Himeko tilts her head to the left, trying to grasp what exactly that he's asking, so she repeats her words from earlier by talking slower.
"Y/N's dad came home on Sunday . . . ? She hasn't attended classes today or yesterday. I haven't seen her since she left to pick her father up from the airport. That was Sunday. But we know how it is. Her dad's probably just looking for some family bonding time with her."
Rindou scowls at it.
No, you don't.
Though she doesn't notice it, she shifts a little awkwardly at Rindou's visible shift in mood.
"Bye." He bids curtly and he leaves Himeko behind. The boy quickens his steps and turns into the road that leads straight to your house. He can see the building from a distance and Rindou can faintly make out that the lights are on.
You must be home.
"Rindou? Where are you-" Himeko calls out, but she pauses after realising the road that he's taking. He hears faint footsteps behind him but he doesn't reply -- his beating heart way too frantic for him to say anything at this point, let alone actually think for a response.
Her words play in his head over and over again, and it gets so overwhelming to the point that he has to take a breather and fix his unruly hair that's starting to block his vision.
Your dad is home.
A step closer to your house. Snow crunches beneath his sneakers.
Your dad is home.
The gate is open. He sees the quick wagging of a fluffy tail just beside the metal.
Your dad is home.
Inu-sama sits by the gate and upon sensing his owner's childhood friend's arrival, it barks at him. And it doesn't stop barking despite Rindou being someone who it has grown so familiar with over the years of your childhood and Inu-sama's place in your family.
"Hey, bud." He reaches down to pat your old Shiba, combing down its fur and giving it a few belly rubs before reaching into the pocket of his Jansport to fish out a little treat for your dog. He's not forgotten its treats despite leaving the house in a rush. "Where's 姉さん?" He asks -- as if Inu-sama could speak -- and it can, actually. It barks again to the door after his question and Rindou takes it as a hint that you are probably inside.
But the gate is open. Weird.
So he kicks off his shoes by the entrance and brings a nervous knuckle up to knock on the door. His hearts thumps fast in his chest, breath stuttering in his throat -- not because the thought of you possibly opening the door for him makes him giddy, but because the thought of your father possibly opening the door for him makes him weak. Scared.
Rindou is scared.
Everyone is afraid of your father. Even Ran who is known to have no fear towards anyone in his life -- not even his elders -- is scared of your father. But everyone except Himeko, though. Somehow through her rose-tinted eyes she still holds on to the idea that your father is just like any other: a man who leads and a man who brings structure. But you can't blame her, for she hasn't seen your father in ages. She hasn't seen the man he has become.
And Rindou knocks again, but still, no response, so he tries his luck by twisting the knob. It's unlocked and he pushes it open. Perhaps it'll earn him a black eye for attempting to enter your house without your father's approval, but he'll risk it just this once.
"Y/N?"
He's half-expected the house to be empty -- from the state of your unlocked door and gate to the awfully quiet and icy cold atmosphere of your house. Rindou doesn't think there's anyone in the house.
That is until he looks down at the sound of a sob.
The monster has done it again.
You're crouching on the floor, surrounded by what seems to be broken shards of glass and a few blood stains tainting the marble white of your floor.
He bolts towards you in an instant, not before throwing off his bag by the foot of the door and stepping over the sharp glass to reach over to you on his sock-clad feet. They cut into his flesh and he hisses a little at the sting, but he ignores the pain, and he diverts his attention back all on you.
You're not moving from your position, but he can tell that you're crying. You're hurt -- the cuts and dark bruises that's starting to swell on your arms and legs cracks his heart at the sight, and you're cold -- God, you're so, so cold when he scoops your frail body up and into his arms, away from the wrecked floor.
Weak, shaky hands immediately move to grip on his shoulder, nails sinking into the flesh as you suck in a deep breath upon realising that there's someone holding you -- someone is touching you. You panic a little, a whine escaping your throat and you try pushing him away with all the strength that you can muster. You hadn't realised that it is Rindou. You hadn't realised that he has entered the house. It doesn't hit you that Rindou is back home in the middle of December. You continue fighting against in his arms with more tears springing up to your bloodshot eyes.
"Stop, Dad. Please. It hurts."
That alone sends the boy into a shaking mess.
But he gathers himself, and he attempts to ground you by sitting you both on the couch and pressing your cold body into his warm chest. He buries his nose in your neck and kisses the skin gently, feeling the quick pulse of your heartbeat against his lips while rubbing warm circles on your upper back -- a means to soothe you, a means to tell you that he's here. "'S me, babe. It's me." He says it so softly -- right next to your ear, only meant for you to hear, meant for you to listen.
You shudder a little at the sudden warmth invading your skin and into your bones, and it then strikes you that the person holding you is Rindou. Rindou is home. The peppermint of his smell that you've long grown to love makes its way in grounding your senses and you eventually relax in his secure hold.
You're safe now.
Rindou is home. You are not alone anymore.
And then you start crying again.
"Where's the bastard? Your mom too." He asks, tone rough but he's gentle when cleaning away the blood on your lips from being busted by no doubt a harsh strike and he wipes it off on his jacket. You hold the other hand of his on your cheek to kiss the palm. "The airport. He says he's going back to the States. Just after a day." Your voice is shaky as you try your hardest to explain to him clearly amidst your choked sobs, "Mom is still in Osaka." And he doesn't make you speak any further after that -- he simply nods at your reply and opting to hug you close to his chest and calm your cries instead.
Rindou sighs angrily at your answer, a deep breath escaping his nose. You only bury yourself closer to him at it.
So your father did actually leave you in here all alone like this and went back to continuing his career. He wonders just how long you have been staying like this, in this state.
He looks around the house to make sure the man is actually gone and his purple eyes don’t miss the heavy stacks of medical textbooks and printed samples of medical reports scattered all over the coffee table. Your test paper -- Math, Tachibana Y/N, Fail -- sits atop of the books, the papers crumpled and a little torn at the sides. The large frames that hangs on the walls of your living room -- none of them are yours, all are his -- are all displaying professional photos of him attached with the many titles and prizes awarded to him.
Doctor Tachibana Hiroji, PhD in Oncology.
Doctor Tachibana Hiroji, board member of Harvard Medical School.
Doctor Tachibana Hiroji.
Doctor Tachibana Hiroji.
Tachibana Hiroji.
What a man of noble character and high intellect, but is such a monster behind closed doors to his only daughter, his family.
Rindou turns his head back, and he’s gentle with you - soft hands wiping away the free-flowing tears and light bloodstains off your face.
And he decides that he doesn’t want to see you like this anymore.
Rindou presses his forehead to yours.
"I'll kill him, you know?"
"No, don't. You'll-"
"I'll kill him. I promise.”
Himeko stands behind the two of you -- scared behind the couch -- with eyes so wide and a heart pumping blood so fast underneath the bones of her chest that she thinks she might die.
But a broken sob from you on the couch breaks her out of her bubble.
She looks around the house.
She looks at your state.
She takes it all in.
"But we know how it is. Her dad's probably just looking for some family bonding time with her."
Oh.
tags: @nana-osakii
this took so long omg but i had time today to finish it so here it is ^^
reblogs are appreciated! thank you for reading :3
#解#橘 series#rindou x reader#rindou haitani x reader#haitani rindou x reader#rindou haitani#haitani rindou#tokyo revengers x reader#tokrev x reader#tr x reader#haitani brothers#tokyo revengers#tokrev#tr
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passenger seat.
pairing: seth cohen x fem!reader.
summary: you try so hard to help your best friend seth recover from his broken heart you forget about yours
content warnings: underage drinking, mentions of sex and drunk sex. the timeline is like... beginning of season 2, when seth comes back and finds out summer is dating zach. yes i'm gonna work on a part 2 i'm not that mean.
word count: 1,8k
summer summer summer summer, it's honestly annoying how seth can not seem to be able to talk about anything else anymore. and sure it has been like that since you were children, but since he was able to catch a glimpse of what dating her would be like and then lost it, well, he was down right impossible to be around.
"cohen, you're getting out of this bed right now, and you're getting some good music in your brain." you pull the cozy blankets from him with full strength while he tried to fight for it.
"first of all, my brain is always full of good music. and second of all, my summer is gone, my sun, all i have right now is the cold of winter and the solitude of being single, leave me in the warmth of my bed, please." you rolled your eyes and actually felt like you could reach enough to see your brain, his antics were usually amusing but summer summer summer, you almost felt like warming up his face with a punch, but instead you took a deep breath, let go of the blankets and got closer to him, taking advantage of the element of surprise and pushing him out of his bed.
"i have concert tickets, whiny baby, and suuummeeer won't get back to you ever if you look that lame." that sparks his interest, you can see, and you're left to pretend it doesn't sting just a tiny bit, what matters is that he gets up and gathers some nice clothes before heading to his shower.
"you're mean today, stop hanging out with ryan." he yells from a distance, probably hoping it won't give you enough time for a snarky comeback. obviously, he was wrong about that assumption, you both grew up together, you could almost predict what he would say already, you were always with a reply on the back of your mind.
"we're taking turns so you stop being an ugly crying whiny mess."
"oh... that's why we took a cab." you stare back at him hoping he won't open his big mouth as the bartender serves the several, several shots of tequila you ordered using the not so good fake i.d you handed him. although orange county wasn't the best at keeping minors away from alcohol (beachy city full of rich kids) you still didn't want your plans to be ruined at the very beginning of the night.
"seth, i'm getting you hammered so you feel better for a night, and i don't hate you for a night." he seems concerned for a second, but knows you well enough not to argue, just as much as he can be annoying with his longass monologues, so can you, and you're not afraid to use violence if needed, misogyny needs to come in handy somehow, and not having your best friend fight you back has got to be it.
you slide his half of the shots towards him and start quickly gulping yours, only half way in reality sets that maybe, maybe, that was not your best idea. but by then seth was also doing his own shots and laughing as the tequila burnt his throat, his nose and lips twisting around each time. you hear screams and realize the band is probably beginning the set, so you get your beer and give one to seth, and he makes a comment about how you weren't kidding about getting him hammered, but you almost can't hear him as you pull him by the shirt running so you both can get a reasonably good spot.
cohen was a death cab for cutie fan, you knew it, everyone knew it, and if there were any concerts, meetings, or if you had their addressees, you would've chosen them for tonight, but coldplay was all you could get last minute to get your curly haired boy out of his fortress of solitude at least for one night.
you both enjoyed some indie rock music so the concert was fun from the start, especially with the alcohol that went straight to your brain as company to the songs that made your body move ever so slightly. seth obviously didn't dance, he made it quite the point not to, "this is music to enjoy, not to dance, don't disgrace us like that" he says in between laughter and hiccups, giving his beer a tiny sip only because honestly he can not stand the smell of alcohol anymore.
"stop being such a looooser, dance with me!" you took the bottle from his hand and threw it along with yours on the nearest bin, leading his hands to your waist. this isn't weird. you don't think it's weird, but weirdly, seth doesn't think it's weird either. you're more than thirty minutes into the concert and it's not a slow song at all, don't panic roars from the stage and from the audience, you both try to keep up to the rhythm, guiding him to twirl you around and showing him a two step easy peasy dance to follow.
seth almost falls down, you both laugh uncontrollably, he's way too drunk for this, you're way too drunk for this, his hands go back comfortably to your waist, as if it was a rooted reaction already, you felt your stomach turn as the music notes changed and you knew what song was coming. you looked up and seth was already looking at you, his beautiful brown eyes staring at yours like he had just discovered something new.
he wanted to kiss you, he really did, was that weird? was that bad? maybe he was too much in his head, and maybe he was too drunk, but he was single and you looked at him like that and you were oh so beautiful and trying so hard to make him smile and maybe he shouldn't because he was still hooked on summer—but was he really? the more he looks at you, and the more you don't look away, the more he thinks that maybe this is just how things are supposed to be.
and he didn't even notice what song was playing, too busy paying attention to your breathing, only when your drunken self decided that for some reason this was the time to confess, if anything, you could just play it off as if you were just singing along to shiver "you know how much i need you, but you never even see me." and before you can hide your eyes and glue them to your feet, seth pulls you by your neck for a sloppy drunken kiss, your hands grab his shirt but you waste no time and kiss him back.
both of you couldn't even wait for the concert to end, leaving and getting into the nearest cab you could find as soon as you can let go of each other for air. his address at the tip of your tongue not mattering how drunk you were.
you get into the mansion tripping around as you try to kiss each other, not make a sound that could wake his parents, and also find his room, and when you do you almost fall on your ass due to his goddamn skateboard being right in front of his bed, you end up laughing out loud, but seth closes the door before anyone can hear it.
"i'm starting to think your parents won't like me sleeping over." guilt starts creeping in and you're not even sure why, like you're doing something bad, something that won't be approved of, your best friend looks at you with a warm gentle smile, pulling you to him by your hand and having you sit on his lap as he's on the edge of his bed, both of your legs on each of his sides, your arms go to his neck.
"my parents love you, they probably love you more than they love me. ryan loves you more than he loves me." an overreaction, that's what that is, and you know it, very dramatic that boy, but it gets you giggling and you lean in for a tender, long kiss. but a question pops your mind and you stop it, you're not sure if it's the time to ask it, you might be ruining your only chance to have seth.
but you have to.
"i know that. the real question is... do you?" your teeth nervously gnaw on your bottom lip, and seth knows he loves you, he would never hesitate on that, so it's easy for him to get you close and touch your forehead with his, even if he doesn't know right now if it's the love you're looking for, he knows right now he wants to be with you, so it must be right.
"of course, dumbo." you roll your eyes and push him till his back hits his bed, continuing what you two had started and leaving sloppy kisses to his neck as your hands found themselves under his shirt, your hips purposely taking advantage of your position and grinding slowly down his crotch, you imagined it would be easy to get seth moaning but you didn't think it would be that easy. you loved it.
you were both horny drunk teens, it took minutes for your clothes to be on the ground and for seth to be inside of you, your legs surrounding his waist and your fingers pulling on his hair. and it isn't weird, it's familiar, it's hot, it's sensual without the need to pretend to be anything else. it's the best you've ever had simply by how connected you feel to seth.
you sleep into his arms, feeling his scent and you're afraid this is a dream you're soon to wake up from.
you do panic when you wake up at 5am, not feeling like facing the rest of the cohens after what you did to their precious son, seth was still sleeping like a beautiful baby and you wouldn't wake him up, you hoped he wouldn't be mad at you for leaving without saying goodbye, but you brush your lips against his before sneaking out and you feel like the world is about three times brighter.
that is, until 8am. you took a nap in your own bed to at least pretend you were home during the night, and woke up to seth's texts after he woke up.
cohen: i rmbr coldplay
cohen: i rmbr tequila
cohen: nd i rmbr laughing a lot
cohen: so even tho i might die of a hangover, thx
cohen: might txt summer yellow lyrics dont stop me
the lightweight bastard had forgotten everything, everything that made your night special. and went right back to summer talking, maybe you should've just punched him the first time you thought about it.
#the oc fanfiction#the oc fics#the o.c. fics#seth cohen x reader#seth cohen x you#seth cohen x y/n#at this point im just a nerd collector
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Shadows | LN4
Summary: [Mafia] In the face of dire financial troubles, Lando receives a desperate plea from his father to unearth a lucrative solution within the family business. Fueled by the pressure to rescue his family from ruin, Lando stumbles upon a seemingly perfect venture—using luxury cars as a facade for the clandestine world of drug trafficking. With the unexpected partnership of Amelia Rossi, his father's best friend's daughter, Lando believes he has found the ideal accomplice. However, as the Norris family collides with the ambitious Russells in a ruthless bid to establish their dominance, the perilous path Lando has chosen places not only his newfound enterprise at stake but also entangles Amelia in the dangerous crossfire that unfolds.
Warning: Violence, drugs, blood, smut, fluff, guns, pregnancy
Pairing: Lando Norris x OC (Amelia Rossi) - appearances from other drivers
Masterlist
Chapter 16
News of Steve and George Russell's arrest sent shockwaves through the underworld and the upper echelons of society alike. The headlines blared the downfall of the notorious crime family, striking fear into the hearts of those who had once cowered under their influence. For Lando, Amelia, and Adam, it was a bittersweet victory, a crucial step in their quest for justice and redemption.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange hue over the skyline of São Paulo, Lando paced the villa's terrace, his mind swirling with a whirlwind of emotions. Steve's arrest marked a significant milestone in their plan to dismantle the Russell empire, but it also brought a heightened sense of urgency to their mission. With the Russells on the defensive, they would stop at nothing to protect their secrets and retaliate against those who had dared to challenge their reign.
Inside the villa, Amelia sat by the window, her fingers tracing the contours of her growing sixteen week old belly as she watched the city come alive with the glow of streetlights and the hum of nightlife. The weight of their situation pressed heavily upon her shoulders, the reality of impending motherhood mingling with the uncertainty of their future. But amidst the chaos, one thing remained constant – her unwavering faith in Lando and their love, a beacon of hope in the darkness that threatened to consume them.
Lando's heart swelled with love and pride as he beheld the sight of Amelia's burgeoning baby bump. It was a tangible reminder of the new life growing within her, a symbol of their shared journey and the unbreakable bond they shared. He approached her with a tender smile, his eyes alight with warmth and affection.
“Hey there, little peanut.” He murmured, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “How's our little one doing today?”
Amelia looked up at him, her eyes shining with a mixture of joy and anticipation.
“I think peanut's doing just fine. You want to feel?” She replied, reaching out to caress his cheek.
Lando nodded eagerly, crouching down beside her. He pressed his hand against her belly, feeling the subtle movements of their unborn child beneath his fingertips. It was a moment of pure magic, a connection forged in the silent whispers of their shared dreams and hopes for the future.
“I can't believe we're going to be parents. It feels like just yesterday we were kids ourselves.” Lando murmured, his voice filled with wonder.
Amelia smiled, her gaze softening with affection.
“I know.” She agreed, leaning into his touch. “I really want to go home, Lan.”
“I know, baby. Just a few more weeks so we’re sure it’s safe to go back, then we’re on the first flight out.” Lando's words were filled with reassurance, but Amelia couldn't shake the feeling of longing for the familiarity and security of home.
The past months had been filled with uncertainty and danger, and while they had found temporary refuge in their secluded hideaway, it was far from the comfort of their own home.
“I need to have this baby back home.” She admitted softly, her voice tinged with homesickness.
“You will, just a few more weeks.” Lando murmured, wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace.
“I miss my Mom, believe it or not.” She sighed, resting her head against his chest.
As the details of her passing unfolded, it became clear that Marilyn, Amelia’s mother, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when Harold was shot and killed. She had been going about her day, perhaps running errands or attending to her own affairs, when fate cruelly intervened.
“My father said my Nan sent down a whole box of that chocolate you like so much.” Lando informed Amelia, attempting to change the subject.
As Lando attempted to shift the conversation away from the sombre topic of Marilyn's passing, his mention of the chocolate brought a faint smile to Amelia's lips. It was a small gesture, but a welcome distraction from the weight of her recent loss. The thought of indulging in a sweet treat, especially one that held sentimental value, offered a brief respite from the grief that loomed heavy in the air.
As Lando stepped out of the room to make the call, he couldn't shake the sense of unease that had settled in his chest. The distance from home weighed heavily on both him and Amelia, amplifying the usual challenges of pregnancy and adding an extra layer of complexity to their situation. With each passing day, the longing for the familiar comforts of home grew stronger, tugging at their hearts and fueling a deep-seated yearning for the safety and security they had left behind.
With a heavy sigh, Lando dialled his father's number, his mind swirling with a myriad of concerns and uncertainties. He needed guidance, reassurance, anything to ease the burden of responsibility that weighed so heavily upon him. As the call connected, Lando's voice was laced with a hint of apprehension, a reflection of the tumultuous emotions that churned within him.
“Hey, Dad.” He began, his words tinged with a mixture of relief and anxiety. “We need to come home.”
Lando's plea hung heavy in the air as he awaited his father's response, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. He knew the risks involved in returning home prematurely, but the thought of Amelia enduring the challenges of pregnancy without the support of family was unbearable to him.
“I understand, son.” Adam's voice resonated through the phone, his tone weighed down by the gravity of their situation. “But we can't afford to take any chances. You know how dangerous it is right now.”
Lando's jaw tightened as he absorbed his father's words, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness that gnawed at him, knowing that he couldn't provide Amelia with the comfort and reassurance she so desperately needed.
“Dad, she’s pregnant.” Lando insisted, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. “She needs Mum, and Savannah, and anyone who can just support her through this. Please, Dad. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
There was a brief moment of silence on the other end of the line, the weight of their conversation hanging heavily between them. Adam's sigh echoed through the phone, a testament to the internal struggle he faced in balancing his desire to protect his family with the undeniable need for support and comfort.
The gravity of the situation weighed heavily in the space between Lando and his father, the urgency in his voice underscoring the importance of his plea. Adam's silence spoke volumes, the weight of his own concerns mirrored in the sombre tone of his response.
“I understand, Lando. I'll arrange for a secure escort to ensure Amelia's safety.” Adam replied, his voice tinged with a mixture of apprehension and determination. "But I need you to promise me that you'll prioritise her safety above all else. There’s a baby to think of now.”
“I promise, Dad. Thank you. It means everything to us.” Lando affirmed, a sense of relief washing over him at the prospect of finally bringing Amelia back home.
As the call ended, Lando felt a sense of resolve settle within him, a renewed determination to do whatever it took to ensure Amelia's well-being.
Lando entered the room, his heart buoyed by the prospect of bringing some relief to Amelia amidst the uncertainty they faced. As he approached her, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, a mix of anticipation and apprehension etched on her features.
“Hey, baby.” He greeted softly, taking her hands in his as he sat down beside her. “I've got some news.”
“What is it?” Amelia looked up at him, her eyes reflecting a blend of curiosity and concern.
“We're going home. Dad’s making all the arrangements now and he’ll let me know once everything has been sorted.” Lando announced, a flicker of excitement dancing in his eyes.
“Really?” A wave of relief washed over Amelia, her tense shoulders relaxing as the weight of uncertainty began to lift.
Lando nodded, a tender smile gracing his lips. Tears welled in Amelia's eyes, a mix of gratitude and overwhelming emotion swelling within her.
“Thank you, Lando. Thank you for everything.” She choked as she tried to hold back her tears.
Wrapping her in a warm embrace, Lando held her close, his heart swelling with love and determination.
As the jet's door swung open, the familiar sights and sounds of London greeted Lando and Amelia, signalling their return to the place they called home. Max Fewtrell, Lando's trusted childhood friend, stood at the ready by the armoured SUV, his expression a mix of relief and anticipation as he awaited their arrival. With practised ease, Lando emerged first, swiftly retrieving their luggage before returning to assist Amelia down the steps of the jet.
Max's eyes widened in surprise as he caught sight of Amelia's unmistakable baby bump, a visible symbol of the new chapter awaiting the couple. His expression softened into a warm smile as he approached, offering a hand to help Amelia onto solid ground once more.
“Welcome back. Looks like I arrived just in time to see the next generation of troublemakers in the making.” Max greeted, his voice laced with genuine warmth and excitement.
“Thanks, Max. Flip, have I missed you.” Amelia chuckled softly, a hint of exhaustion mingling with the overwhelming sense of gratitude flooding her senses.
With Max's help, they made their way to the waiting SUV, ready to embark on the next leg of their journey home. As they settled into the familiar comforts of the vehicle, a sense of hope and anticipation filled the air, a testament to the unwavering bond shared between friends and the promise of new beginnings on the horizon.
As they settled into the SUV, Max couldn't contain his curiosity, prompting him to broach the topic that had been swirling in his mind since he laid eyes on Amelia's baby bump.
“So, a baby?” Max inquired, his tone a mix of surprise and genuine interest.
“Yep, a little surprise that kept our spirits up while we were away.” Lando's smile widened at Max's reaction, a flicker of pride evident in his eyes.
“How far along are you?” Max's eyebrows shot up in amazement.
“Just over sixteen weeks.” Amelia replied, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and tenderness as she glanced at Lando, beaming with impending fatherhood pride in the passenger seat.
“Wow, you two were away for a long time.” Max remarked, a hint of playful teasing in his tone.
“Yeah, yeah. Missed you too, mate. But now that we're back, we've got some catching up to do.” Lando chuckled in response, reaching over to give Max a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“Your parents are going to do somersaults about their new grandbaby.” Max remarked, causing both Lando and Amelia to chuckle in response.
Almost an hour later, Max pulled up in front of the Norris family home and almost instantly, Lando’s family came rushing out from his father, to his mother, to his sisters and brother. Lando got out in a haste to open the back door of the SUV for Amelia to step out.
As Amelia stepped out of the SUV, she was greeted by the enthusiastic embrace of Lando's family. His sisters, in particular, were ecstatic to see her and the baby bump. They showered her with hugs and affection, their excitement palpable as they welcomed her into their home.
“Amelia, you're glowing!” Lando's mother exclaimed, her eyes shimmering with joy at the sight of her son's partner.
“We've been waiting for this moment for so long.” Flo, one of Lando's sisters chimed in, her smile radiant with happiness.
Amelia felt overwhelmed by the warmth and love emanating from Lando's family. Despite the challenges they had faced, being surrounded by such genuine affection filled her with a sense of comfort and belonging. She exchanged grateful smiles with Lando, silently acknowledging that they were exactly where they were meant to be.
“Careful, girls. There’s special cargo in that belly.” Lando’s mother, Cisca, warned her daughter as Adam wrapped his arms around his son and kept him tight against him.
As Lando's family continued to fuss over Amelia and the baby bump, his mother's gentle reminder brought a sense of protective unity to the moment. Cisca's words served as a subtle reminder to everyone that Amelia and the unborn baby were precious cargo, deserving of extra care and consideration.
Adam's embrace around Lando spoke volumes, conveying both love and a silent promise of protection. In that moment, Lando felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for his family's unwavering support. They had been through so much together, and yet, here they were, embracing the future with open arms and loving hearts.
With his father's reassuring presence anchoring him, Lando felt a renewed sense of determination to ensure the safety and well-being of Amelia and their growing family.
“You did a great job, son, keeping her safe.” Adam acknowledged as he whispered into Lando’s ear.
“Thanks, Dad. And, thank you for your help.” Lando told his Dad.
“Amelia, dear, what do you need?” Cisca asked Amelia as she led her into the house.
As Lando and Amelia made their way into the house, the warmth of familiarity enveloped them. The comforting scent of home-cooked food filled the air, triggering a wave of nostalgia and anticipation for the meal ahead. Despite the challenges they had faced during their time away, being back in the familiar embrace of family brought a sense of peace and reassurance.
“Just a hot shower for now.” Amelia chuckled, keeping her exhaustion at bay.
“You do that, sweetie. I have a full roast going at the moment. I assumed you kids haven’t had a real home cooked meal in a while.” Cisca assured Ameli and Lando.
“That sounds lovely, Mum.” Lando smiled. “I’ll take Amelia up and get her settled and we’ll come down for dinner.”
As had become a norm in their relationship, Lando ran the shower allowing it to heat up for her. Amelia caught Lando's gaze lingering on her as she undressed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Despite the familiarity of their relationship, there was still an undeniable spark between them that never failed to ignite a rush of warmth and affection.
“Not as hot as you thought I’d be pregnant?” She wondered, suddenly self-conscious like she had been all the times he paraded his model ex-flings.
“The exact opposite, actually. You’re beautiful, Amelia.” He assured her and then proceeded to place a loving kiss on her lips.
With a teasing glint in her eyes, Amelia stepped into the shower, feeling the warm water cascade over her skin, washing away the weariness of their journey and leaving her feeling refreshed and invigorated. She closed her eyes, relishing in the sensation, until she felt Lando's presence behind her, his strong arms enveloping her in a gentle embrace.
As he began to massage shampoo into her hair, his touch was tender and intimate, sending shivers of pleasure down her spine. She leaned back against him, letting herself melt into his embrace, feeling his heartbeat against her back as they stood together beneath the soothing stream of water.
In that moment, with the comforting sound of the shower filling the room and Lando's reassuring presence surrounding her, Amelia couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude for the man standing beside her. Despite the challenges they had faced, their bond remained unbreakable, a testament to the strength of their connection and the depth of their love. And as she turned to meet his gaze, her heart swelled with a profound sense of contentment, knowing that she was exactly where she was meant to be - finally out of the shadows.
#f1 fanfic#f1 fic#f1 imagine#formula 1#lando norris#lando norris fanfic#lando norris fic#lando norris smut#mclaren#mclaren f1#lando norris x oc#mafia!au#mafia!f1#f1 drivers#f1 driver x oc#lando norris x reader#f1 driver x reader#f1 x reader
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New Drabble! On The First Day of Christmas, My True Love Gave to Me...
This is a drabble! To read the first part click here! And please I hope you all read this since you guys seem to love this pair.
Pairing: Yandere!Namjoon x Reader x Yandere!Jungkook
Genre: Yandere AU, angst
Word Count: 3.2k
Summary: Before you had gotten kidnapped by your boss and his fiancé, you had to first meet the Mr. Jeon that you heard so much about. So, how exactly did your first meeting with him go? Well, why not reminisce about the last time you were truly free? When you were not yet locked to your unfortunate future of being added into your boss’ relationship.
Content & Warnings: Gender neutral reader, yandere themes, angst, Joon and Kook are in an established relationship, CEO!Joonie, stay-at-home-boyfriend!Kook, assistant!reader, polyamory, reader’s sexuality is nondescript, talks of violence, Jungkook wants to hurt the reader a lot during this, general discomfort, making out, use of pet names, reader being none the wiser to what the two of them are talking about as they continue to type away on their keyboard lol
Author’s Note: Hi hi! It’s been a while. I’ve been swamped with school and just haven’t been able to write anything for you guys lately. But today, I logged into Tumblr and saw some very kind reblogs and asks and I just wanted to write something for you guys! I really appreciate the kind comments and It really does fuel me to write for you guys. So here is a drabble for your guys’ favourite couple! I hope you guys enjoy seeing how Jungkook and the reader’s first encounter went. It’s funny cause Jungkook is like fuming and they’re just like “this guy seems stressed :(” and then they get chosen (kinda) to be pursued by Jungkook and Namjoon lol. I apologize for not having posted part two last Christmas, but I was honestly just really stressed around that time. And then I wanted to have this small inside Easter egg (?) for something in part two but then I realized it was kinda hard to explain without having a previous explanation for it. So this drabble worked out! It was a little incentive to add that little tidbit into this and maybe you’ll have a little “oh!” moment when you read something later on when I post part two (whenever that will be lol, don’t ask me, idk. I’m aiming for this Christmas). Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. I need to stop writing this author’s note, it’s has gotten too long anyways lol. So yeah, enjoy and let me know what you think!
Jungkook was fuming as he tapped his foot impatiently on the floor of the elevator, seething for the elevator to spit him out on Namjoon’s floor. He was gonna figure out what was going on with his boyfriend one way or another.
His dearest Joonie had refused his daily cup of coffee… again. For the past few weeks, Namjoon, the love of his life, had been eating everything during breakfast that Jungkook woke up oh so graciously to make for him each morning. Joon finished everything except his fucking cup of coffee. Some days he’d be kind enough to take a sip or two before leaving the still very full mug standing in its place on the dining room table beside his empty dishes.
Seeing the mug full of the coffee that Namjoon used to always say Jungkook made better than anyone else left Jungkook feeling insecure. Insecure and just a little bit angry. Okay, maybe a bit more than a little bit, he’ll admit. Okay, fine, he was boiling with fury. He hated to imagine that Namjoon was drinking coffee made by someone else. Because he knew for a fact, if Namjoon wasn’t drinking his coffee, then he was getting it from somewhere else ‘cause Joonie was never able to get anything done without his morning coffee. And knowing Joonie’s disdain for store bought coffee, Jungkook knew it had to be someone making it for him, homemade. And if he was drinking someone else's, that must mean that he was falling out of love with him and falling in love with this awful, boyfriend-stealing, shameless person. And Jungkook was gonna stop at nothing until he found who this fucking person was and got even. He was gonna win Namjoon back one way or another.
The ding-ing of the elevator woke him from his murderous thoughts just in time to see the doors open to the empty space that lead to his boyfriend’s office. Or at least, the once-empty area, because now, unlike the last time he’d come here about a month ago, there was a table placed just before the office doors. And behind that table was a person, who upon hearing the elevators open perked up from their computer screen to smile at him. This person had a sweet smile, kind eyes, and the smoothest voice as they asked him what they could do for him.
He walked up to their table, arms crossed over his chest as he analysed the person sitting below him. The person still smiling up at him even throughout the awkward silence as Jungkook left their question unanswered. The person was dressed nicely and they had a kind aura around them. Their workspace was covered in flowers from the flower shop that Jungkook knew Namjoon frequented. Usually, his Joonie brought home flowers only for him, but here was this new person who was now swimming between countless bouquets covering every free inch of their work table.
When they asked him what he wanted for the second time, he finally graced the person with an answer. “I’m here to see Namjoon.”
The person nodded their head, before prodding for more info. “Alright, and who might you be?” the person asked, turning to scroll through their computer, searching to see if they had accidentally double-booked their boss’ time.
“I’m Jungkook,” he began, back straightening in pride when he saw the worker tense up in their seat. “Joon’s boyfriend,” he concluded, mentally doing a mic drop, hoping that those words etched themselves in the worker's skin, the one who was stealing his Namjoon from him. He hoped it hurt.
What he didn’t expect is for the worker to turn back to him after X-ing out of the calendar that they had been frantically scrolling through, before turning to him with a polite smile.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jeon,” the person began, “I think this is the first time we’re actually meeting in person. I’m Y/n L/n, Mr. Kim’s assistant. I just got shifted up to this floor about a month ago from my previous place a few floors down.” You reached your hand out to him for him to shake, just for him to completely ignore it, not even glancing in your hands direction.
“Yes. I’m sure he’s mentioned me before.” Jungkook was gonna make sure that you knew that Namjoon was his, no matter how nice you pretended to be.
“Yes, he has,” you replied pleasantly. “And of course, I’ve spoken with you before too, if you recall?”
When he thought about it, he had spoken with you before. The few times he’d call Namjoon’s assistant when his boyfriend wasn’t picking up. He would pace in this same area, back when it was still empty and call the number for Namjoon’s assistant to know when he’d be free again. The conversations would be semi-mannerly, at best, as he would ask where his boyfriend was before hanging up as soon as he got his answer. He never expected the assistant, that he never spoke more than a few clipped sentences to, being the one who was stealing his love away from him.
That they would have been moved up to be on the same floor as his boyfriend.
The two of them.
Alone.
And when he saw two cups of steaming coffee on your table corner, one half finished and one still untouched, he knew that you were the one making coffee for his man. He felt deep hatred rise in his chest, bubbling up his throat, ready to let out his rage on the home-breaker in front of him.
But he pushed his feelings down before giving you a pursed smile. “Right. You sound different in person. I didn’t even recognize you.” It was true, he wasn’t expecting your voice to be as sweet as it was, though he could tell it was strictly professional. Even when you were so obviously putting on a kind smile for the sake of your job, your voice was so saccharine. He could only imagine how much more saccharine—sinful—your voice must sound when you were using it for your more devious desires.
Jungkook wondered if you’d ever used that syrupy voice on his boyfriend. Walked into his man’s office with your probably sub-par coffee between your hands. You were attractive, that he will give to you, but he hoped that Namjoon wouldn't think the same way that he did. He hoped that any attempts that you’d made on him were met with bitter rejection.
But seeing you surrounded with all the flowers, making your soft features look even more attractive—though he hated to admit it—he knew that Namjoon must feel at least something for you. Why else would Namjoon have gotten you all these flowers? Flowers that Jungkook indignantly noticed were his favourites.
You were perfect and that’s what made his heart hurt more.
In another life, maybe Jungkook would have fallen for you himself, he thought sorely.
You laughed at his remark about your voice. “I guess no one really sounds the same over the phone though, right?” You asked him. “I mean, you sound pretty different yourself.”
Jungkook felt his eye twitch. Was that a dig at him? Were you implying that he was being rude? Were you saying he was anything less than the kindest, best person in the world? He restrained himself from reaching over your desk and pulling your hair out, telling you how Namjoon always told him that he was the best person in the world. He wanted to tell you that you’d never compare to him in Namjoon’s eyes.
Instead of doing any of that, he decided it was better to just ask for his boyfriend. He had a few choice words that he wanted to have with him.
“So will you please tell me if my boyfriend is available?” he asked you, steering the conversation back to the original topic of conversation.
Your eyes widened. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Mr. Jeon. In my surprise of meeting you for the first time, I forgot to tell you that he’s in a meeting right now. He should be done in…” You turned to check the clock on the wall. “...in just about ten minutes.”
You turned back to the man in front of you who stood there with a small pout that you were sure he didn’t realize was there and you observed the way his eyebrows scrunched slightly together. It was funny to see how his overly expressive face had changed so many times in the little amount of time that he’d come up to you. Clearly something was bothering this poor guy, so you tried to be as nice to him as you could. Though it only seemed to make him look even worse.
“You can wait for him in the sitting area over there or you could wait for Mr. Kim in his office.” You left it up to Mr. Jeon choose what he’d rather do, only for him to scoff slightly.
“I’ll wait for him in his office,” he answered curtly. He began to walk away and you turned back to your computer only for him to step back up to you. He pointed at the mug sitting beside yours. “Is this for Joonie?”
“Uh yeah.”
“I’ll take this to him.” He gave you another half smile and one last glance at your pretty face before finally entering Mr. Kim’s and taking the suffocating aura that was surrounding him with him. You sighed in relief. You hated having to deal with this job, but the paycheque wasn’t anything to scoff at, and so you settled back into your chair and hoped Mr. Kim would get here soon.
Namjoon found Jungkook sitting in his chair when he returned from his meeting on one of the lower floors of the building. His younger boyfriend sipping on a cup of coffee that he recognized was the one that you usually set out for him. He could see Jungkook’s eyebrows furrowed in disgust, as he continuously sipped loudly from his drink.
Namjoon could tell immediately that his beloved was in one of his moods. He knew that he had to get control of the situation, and quickly, especially if he didn’t want you to overhear whatever Kookie was upset about.
“Hi, love. What are you doing here?” Namjoon rounded the table to press a kiss against Jungkook’s temple as he continued to sip from his cup.
“They make some good coffee, huh? I see now why you’ve been rejecting my coffee now.” Jungkook got right to his point. His voice was cold and he refused to look at his boyfriend as he set down the now empty mug.
Namjoon sighed. “Don’t be like that. I was just being kind to them. I didn’t want to upset them by not accepting their coffee.” He pulled Jungkook up from the chair momentarily before sitting down in Jungkook’s place. He then smoothly pulled his boyfriend to sit down sideways on his lap. He rubbed his large hand up and down Jungkook’s back, trying to calm him down.
“Oh really?” Jungkook shoved Namjoon’s arm away from him. “‘Just being kind’? What about all the roses on their desk?! I saw the labels on them, they’re from Sirf Ek Phool! The same place you always get flowers for me!” Jungkook folded his arms against his chest, stopping himself from beating his fists against his boyfriend’s chest like he wanted to.
“Honey, that is just because they take such good care of me—”
Jungkook’s eyes darkened, his mouth dropping open in disbelief. “Take care of you? Excuse me? Taking better care of you than me? Your boyfriend?! In which way is this assistant taking care of my boyfriend, hmm? Do I need to beat their ass?!” He began to push himself off Namjoon’s lap, eyes locked at the door with a barbaric look in his eyes.
Namjoon swiped a hand over his face, before pulling his boyfriend back into his chest, closer than he was before, his arms locking over his waist. “Love, you know that I love you more than anything else in the world. No other person could ever take your place. They are just very kind, I promise I’m not doing anything that would harm our relationship. I promise you.”
He pressed a kiss against Jungkook’s cheek, before pressing another against his jaw. He pulled a content sigh from Jungkook, and Namjoon knew instantly that he’d deescalated the situation. At least enough for Kookie not to go and murder his assistant. At least not right now.
“Why should I trust you?” Kookie let out softly in between whimpers as Namjoon nipped at his neck.
“When have I ever lied to you?” Namjoon said against his Adam's apple.
“Many, many times,” Jungkook replied.
Namjoon let out a half laugh against Jungkook’s shoulder, letting his forehead rest against him. “I guess I should clarify. When have I ever lied to you in a way that was bad for you?”
“Never.” Jungkook pulled Namjoon’s face to face him. “You always know what’s best, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.”
“Don’t be that way. I’m not asking you to be best friends with them or anything like that. Just give them a chance to be your friend.”
Jungkook thought for a second, thinking back to you sitting at your desk and your friendly nature. You weren’t that bad, and you were rather pretty… Ugh, couldn’t Namjoon just be clear with what he meant? Did he expect… more from you than just an assistant?
Jungkook’s bottom lip was jutted out in sadness, calling out to Namjoon with its plump red appearance. Namjoon was again taken aback by his boyfriend’s beauty and just how amazing he was for him. After all, look at him. Just a second ago, Jungkook was ready to beat up his assistant and now he was clutching Namjoon’s suit jacket’s lapels with a vulnerable look on his face. He looked so worried, waiting for Namjoon’s next words and his next course of action. Fuck, Namjoon loved that man.
He pulled his boyfriend in for a kiss, letting the shorter man melt into his embrace. He could taste your signature coffee on Jungkook’s tongue which only made Namjoon push his tongue more eagerly in his mouth. The taste of your coffee and the love of his life together making his head spin in ecstasy. His brain painted a picture of what could come if he was able to make this whole thing work.
He knew what he wanted, and he knew he’d get it.
Don’t mistake him for being selfish, oh no. He wasn’t doing this just because he wanted you. It’s because he knew that in due time Jungkook will fall for you too. He knew he would. He wouldn’t have to push it, nor would he have to force it. You were perfect for the two of them, he’d figured that out in less than 8 months of you becoming his assistant after the last one quit. You were incredible and he knew that you were just Jungkook’s type. He knew Jungkook and he knew that in less than a month he’d be just as smitten with you as Namjoon was with you now. Actually, Namjoon knows that Jungkook would be even more in love with you than he was now.
And with Jungkook now in his arms, Jungkook’s hands gripping the sides of Namjoon’s neck possessively, his thumbs pushing into Namjoon’s jaw. The way that Jungkook had finished your whole cup of coffee leaving nothing for Namjoon to even get a taste of, and how Jungkook despite his furious expression had the slightest bit of a flush on his face when Namjoon had first walked in, he knew that Jungkook already was falling for you.
Namjoon pressed one final kiss to Jungkook’s lips before pulling away.
Jungkook had a blissed out expression on his face, a soft smile etched on his features as his eyes remained shut in happiness.
“Do you really hate them that much?” Namjoon asked Jungkook, watching him carefully.
Jungkook slowly opened his eyes, a blush slowly making its way up his neck. He turned to look to the side, revealing his bright red ears to Namjoon. Jungkook thought back to your sweet voice, your pretty face, your kind smile, and the coffee you had made that he couldn’t get enough of even as much as he had wanted to hate it. He turned to glance at the empty mug on the table that he wished would refill on its own.
He waited for a minute before: “No.”
“But no more ignoring my coffee, you still have to drink mine! And you have to say that mine's better than theirs” Jungkook added.
Namjoon smiled. Perfect, he knew this would be perfect. He knew just how perfectly you’d fit in with his little family. How you’d fit in Jungkook’s heart. He knew the both of you very well. He was proud.
Namjoon forced Jungkook to turn back to him before attacking him with kisses again.
You turned to see Mr. Jeon skipping out of Mr. Kim’s office. You expected him to go directly to the elevator because of his short attitude with you earlier, but he instead turned to stand in front of your table once again. Smiling down at you genuinely for the first time since he first walked into the room.
You waited for him to say something, but when he didn’t, you figured you should say something instead. “All done?” you asked.
Mr. Jeon just nodded his head, which only made the newly blossoming marks on his neck more visible to you. “I had a sip of the coffee you made Joonie, it was good.”
“Oh thank you,” you replied, a bit taken aback by his sudden change from his previous conduct from before Mr. Kim had shown up. Mr. Kim had given you a small nod in greeting before entering his office when you’d told him Mr. Jeon was waiting for him. Mr. Jeon must really love Mr. Kim for his personality to do such a 180 after seeing him for just half an hour.
Damn, is that what love does to a person?
“I would like to have a proper cup the next time I come visit Joonie.” Mr. Jeon looked down at you expectantly. He seemed to be looking for something deep within you and when you agreed to make him a cup the next time you saw him, he seemed to have found whatever he was looking for.
He smiled at you though a bit hesitant. He pulled a rose from one of the vases of your bouquets, twirling it between his fingers. He seemed to still be a bit stuck thinking of something, but then he was turning away from you. He pressed the button calling the elevator, before turning back at you. “It was nice meeting you, Y/n. I hope we’re able to get to know each other more in the future.”
“Yes, of course!”
He waved the flower at you in goodbye before stepping into the elevator, flashing you one final bunny smile.
What an odd man.
Does 3k still count as a drabble? I have no clue. Anyway, thanks for reading! 💕💕💕
#yandere bts#yandere bts x reader#bts x reader#bts fanfic#yandere bts fanfic#yandere jungkook x reader#yandere namjoon x reader#jungkook x reader#jungkook fanfic#namjoon x reader#yandere jungkook#yandere namjoon#poly bts x reader#namjoon fanfic#Ev's writing#Ev's bts poly fic#fic: on the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...
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A Test: Slade Wilson X Male Reader
Pronouns: None Mentioned, Reader referred to as ‘boy’
Physical Sex: AMAB
Rating: E/Smut, violence
Warnings: Unhealthy relationship, power dynamics, mentor/protege, Reader is referred to as younger, forced masturbation, hand job, anal fingering, left unsatisfied, voyeurism, first time anal penetration
Summary: During the usual sparring session of your training Slade gives an unexpected order.
Learning under Slade is not easy. Constant training, lacking privacy, overwhelming expectations. But you signed up for it. Still, your body aches from sparring, your head hurts from keeping up with tactics, nothing is ever rested and well. Everything is a constant test. Including now, dead center of the training room with fresh bruises all over your skin and sweat soaking through your clothes. For a moment you think you’ve misheard him because you’re so tired, but he’s just standing there waiting for you to follow orders.
“What did you say?”
Slade crosses his arms, looking down at you like you’re some little insect. “Play with yourself.” He repeats.
“I… w-what?” You stumble over thoughts.
Slade steps forward, putting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing enough to make your knees bend in an effort to relieve the pressure. “Get on your knees, pull out your dick, and play with yourself until I say you can stop. Understand, kid?”
Before you can manage an answer, he pushes you down. You land hard on your knees and feel the shock all through your body. Slade takes a step back, crossing his arms and looking down expectantly. He’s tested many things before and this is just another. Something about commitment or loyalty or some other value he expects of his protégés but doesn’t bother with in return. And there will be consequences if you don’t comply or if you fail, there always are.
Your hands tremble as you move them to your pants, fingers finding the button. Slade picked the gear you train in, heavy cargo pants so you’re ready for the Deathstroke armor in the field. At the moment you’re just thankful it has a zipper so you don’t have to pull anything down. Him seeing your dick is humiliating enough.
Trying not to look at him, trying to forget he’s there, you follow your orders. You bring your hand up to your mouth and spit, then lower it down and fish out your flaccid dick, holding it firmly and starting to stroke. The cold air feels odd, the burning gaze on your head is worse. No matter what you think of, no matter where you look, you know Slade is there watching. His orders were to continue until he said to stop, and knowing Slade he’ll make you stop just before you’re about to finish. So, in a way, you’re kind of glad you can’t get hard.
Slade doesn’t share the sentiment.
“Pants off.”
His voice makes you jump and you dare not look up at him for fear of upsetting him. He must be in a mood today given the pain you now feel in your ribs from sparring just moments ago. Best not to do anything that could make that worse. So you follow orders, tugging your pants down and kicking your boots off before returning to your kneeling spot on the floor.
Just as you’re about to continue, Slade speaks. “Look at me, kid.”
Humiliated, heat in your cheeks, and bare from the waist down, you look up at your mentor. For a moment you wonder what it would be like if you’d been chosen by Batman or Green Arrow instead, men with mercy. But Slade’s cutting eyes slice those thoughts like his swords do people.
“You’re mine, kid.” He says, showing nothing but sternness in all of his expression. “Every piece of you belongs to me.”
“Yes, sir.” You breathe out, mind still trying to make sense of this test but still knowing how he likes your responses.
“So when I tell you to fuck yourself, I mean it.” Slade’s eyes look over you for a moment before they float back to your own. “Both ends, boy.”
Your heart drops, air choking itself in your throat. You’ve never done that, always been too scared to. “Slade, I—“
“Fingers in your mouth first, I’ll teach you.”
Your mouth opens slightly, no sound coming out despite effort to protest. The looming idea of what Slade might do in the face of disobedience with this new context open, you raise your hand and timidly suck on a few fingers.
“That’s a good boy.” Slade chuckles. “Get them nice and coated then reach around and feel. You’ll know it when you find it.”
For a moment the image of Slade doing this to himself crosses your mind because how else would he know how to do it?
Slowly, you pull your fingers from your mouth. For a moment you eye the way they shine in the light, then you follow orders. It feels humiliating, but that’s probably what Slade wants. Killing, dying, pain, are all easy but embarrassment is hard to take, especially in front of a superior. Your fingers slide along skin, poking between cheeks until they brush against a spot that makes you sit up straight. Your spine tingles and you can hear Slade chuckling but you keep your eyes fixed on the floor. Carefully, you poke around and manage to push a finger inside of yourself for the first time. You grit your teeth, not wanting to show weakness of any kind in front of Slade.
“Both ends, kid.” Slade scolds.
You will your other hand to stroke again, the dual sensations becoming overwhelming quickly. It hurts to fuck yourself on your fingers but there’s little tingles of pleasure in there when you push deep enough and with the new sensation, you dick finally starts to harden.
“Stop.”
You freeze, looking up at Slade with trembling muscles and twitching hands. Finally turned on and he makes you stop.
“Take a cold shower and don’t touch yourself for a month.”
He doesn’t say more, just turns and leaves you alone in the room with your dick in your hand and skin hot with need that you’re not allowed.
#slade wilson#deathstroke#dc comics#slade wilson x reader#slade wilson x male reader#deathstroke x reader#deathstroke x male reader#dc comics x reader#dc comics x male reader#x reader#x male reader
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