#her in her sea foam green >>>

[call-me-oracle]

barbara gordon in nightwing #114

bonus:

[lexa-griffins]

Freckles 🥺 our sun kissed baby is so cute

She is so insanely pretty 🥹 those little freckles 🥰🥰

Alycia is just so damn dreamy 🥰

[thestuffedalligator]

The way necromancy works is this: Everything in your body — meat, bones, skin, blood — has something like a memory. They remember, in their own way, what it’s like to be alive. Skin remembers the sun. Bones remember what shape they’re supposed to be in. Muscle memory is more than just an idiom.

The way necromancy works is that the caster puts a little bit of their willpower into a corpse to order it to remember how it functioned in life and obey. This is easiest to do with bones, which are easy to trick, and becomes increasingly difficult the more of the original body remains.

To reanimate a full body to your command, you have to have a lot of willpower.

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently. Then, taking the lantern off its hook, she peered over the side of the little sailboat.

There wasn't much to see. The sea was dark and still as glass, except where the lanternlight turned a patch of seawater a yellowish-green. A tiny fish flitted into the gleam, attracted to the light, and then vanished into the murk again.

The necromancer chewed the inside of her cheek. She sat down again, the boat bobbing gently with the movement, and checked the map one more time. Then she opened the little wooden case on the floor of the boat, which unfolded into a neat arrangement of drawers.

There were. Things. In the drawers. Some wriggled. Others twitched little beetly legs into the night air. A few of them made noises, which ran together into a squeaky, wheezy squeal of horror.

The necromancer twiddled her fingers over the display as she considered her options. Then she grabbed a few of the twitching, wriggling things, held them in her palm and squeezed her hand into a fist as tightly as she could with a squelching noise.

She opened her hand to inspect her work. She breathed the spell into it, and then, holding her hand over the edge of the boat, dropped the spell into the sea.

And that seemed to be it. She sat back in the boat and closed the little wooden case. After a moment she started looking over the map again.

There were a lot of handwritten notes on the map. Each one was connected to a mark and some coordinates; some of them said, "Storm 1457," or "Struck a rock 1483." Others said "Total failure," or “Completely dissolved.”

The note the necromancer seemed most interested in was the one that read, “Battle of Salzstein, 1501.”

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently, and then she was suddenly thrown down to the floor of the boat as though a giant, invisible hand had crushed her.

Her mouth opened in a noiseless scream.

Two minds were fighting for control of the corpse; on one side was the mind of the caster, and on the other was the memories of bones, of flesh, of skin, trying to drive the caster out.

The weight of that mind was incredible.

Sweat poured off the necromancer’s brow; darkness whorled across her vision. Then slowly, every movement a bone-breaking agony, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees, lungs straining.

The trick was that this mind knew how to obey.

The necromancer stood, wobbled, steadied herself and poured her willpower into the sea. She tried to make hers the full willpower the thing had obeyed in life, the will of the wind, of the sea, of the rigging and the wheel.

Because of course it had been alive. In a sense, they were all alive. Sailors talked of them like they were alive, gave them names, called them “she.”

Sailors knew they were alive.

It was the cessation of that life that interested her.

The necromancer reached out with her power, seized the mind in her hands and pulled, blood and foam flecking out the corners of her mouth as she ground her teeth together with the titanic effort and ordered it to obey.

The sea roiled, hundreds of tons of water moving fast as something deep below boiled to the surface.

A bowsprit sprouted from the water. Then a wood-rotted figurehead of a mermaid. Then inch by inch, yard by yard, the huge barnacle-encrusted bulk of silt-stained timber rose out of the deep, seawater streaming out of every gunport.

For a moment the warship hung in the air like a monstrous fish held by the gills of a colossal fisherman. It dropped into the sea with a sound like a depth charge; the little rowboat lurched in its wake.

The necromancer released the spell. Then she threw up, and passed out.

———

Later, once she had woken, gathered together the tackle box, the lantern, and the map and had scrabbled aboard, the necromancer inspected the undead ship.

There was a hole in the hull where a magazine charge had exploded. This was, admittedly, fine. Undead men could walk with a hole in their bellies; an undead ship could sail with one as well.

Really, she thought, despite the discomfort the spell had worked masterfully.

It was a perfect start.

She unfolded the map on the soggy floor of the quarterdeck, sucked the end of a pen, and next to the last marker wrote “Total success.” Then her finger began to trace down the page to the next.

And the undead ship — unbidden and obedient — shifted its sails and began to move south.

[sunsetmade]

The Greenery

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Your the new cart girl in the country club and a certain Kook takes an interest in you.

“—you’ll be out on the course, rolling by in the cart, asking if they want drinks or snacks—only after they’ve taken their swing, of course. Just looking after the golfers, making sure they’re good. Makes sense?” Her words tumbled out as easy as the wind off the dunes.

I just blinked at her, the early morning sun catching her sunglasses while my nerves twisted in my stomach. I gave a quick nod, even though my mind was still trying to catch up and understand all the instructions she just gave me.

“Alright, perfect! Your cart’s just over here—good luck out there!” she said with a kind of chipper energy that felt straight out of a preschool classroom. I stood frozen on the sun-warmed sidewalk, watching her disappear like sea foam back into the clubhouse.

Wait—which cart was mine?

Did she even say?

A wave of quiet panic rolled in as I scanned the line of identical golf carts, each one baking gently under the Carolina sun. I let out a slow sigh and headed toward them, hoping one would somehow just feel right.

I peeked into the first beige cart, trying to spot anything that screamed claimed—a water bottle, a towel, maybe a rogue granola bar. Nothing. Just a cup holder and the faint smell of sunscreen. I shrugged. Hopefully this wasn’t someone’s pride and joy. If it was, well… I’d apologize later.

I slid my light blue bag under the seat and took a short walk around the cart. The drinks and snacks had just been restocked—coolers full, chips lined up. Everything looked ready for the day. I made a quick mental note of what was where, then went back up front and sat down.

It was quiet, just the sound of the breeze and a few birds in the distance. I checked my watch—10:00. There had to be golfers out on the course already, maybe even finishing up their front nine.

Okay, first day. You’ve got this, I told myself as I started the cart. I eased forward, trying to follow the path that looked the most familiar. The woman who trained me yesterday had pointed out the best routes—ones that usually led to better tips. I kept that in mind and turned off onto the grass, hoping I was going the right way. Up ahead, I saw a few golfers. Time to start.

I cruised up slow, tires crunching over the sandy path near the green, squinting toward the three guys teeing off. I waited until they swung, clubs slicing the humid air, then eased the cart closer. “Hey, y’all want anything this morning?” I asked, chewing the inside of my cheek, trying to sound chill.

The first guy looked up, hand raised to block the Carolina sun. “Uh, yeah, I’ll take a beer. Kelce, you want one? Rafe?”

The other guy—Kelce, I guessed—shook his head, already gripping his driver like he had somewhere better to be.

But the third guy just looked at me—really looked at me—with this kind of quiet intensity that made my pulse hitch. “I’ll take one too,” he said, voice low but steady. I gave him a nod, trying not to stare, but it was hard not to. He was tall—like, seriously tall—and every inch of him looked like it had been carved by the sun. That golden tan that only comes from living outside, not just visiting. His hair was buzzed close, neat and clean, but something about him still felt wild, like he belonged out here, chasing waves or something worse.

I stepped out, tugging down the edge of my pink skirt— that suddenly felt too short—and walked around to the drink side of the cart. The cooler hissed as I opened it, grabbed two cold ones, and handed it over.

Just as I turned to leave, the guy stopped me. “Wait—don’t I need to pay?”

My heart skipped, cheeks flushing. I spun back around, flustered. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, it’s my first day.” I fumbled for the tablet, feeling like a total touron.

“You’re good,” he said with a smile that read annoyed, cracking the beer open and taking a swig. But the other guy—Rafe—just stood there with an amused smirk, like he was quietly entertained by the whole thing. It only made my cheeks flush deeper.

And of course I had to screw up right in front of someone like him—tall, stupidly handsome, and clearly amused by what was happening. My cheeks burned hotter, and I hated how obvious it probably was.

After he paid, I mumbled a have a good day pretending I wasn’t totally mortified, and climbed back into the cart. As I drove off, slow and steady, I muttered to myself under my breath.

Behind me, I heard Kelce laugh. “Topper, you could’ve gotten a free drink, man!”

Rafe rolled his eyes at his friends, barely paying attention now as the beige cart disappeared down the path. His thoughts were still stuck on the girl in it—flustered, short, a little too innocent for this place. Cute, in a way that caught him off guard.

His heart stuttered, just for a second, and he frowned. What the hell was that?

“Looks like Cameron’s got a crush,” Kelce laughed, nudging him with that stupid grin.

Rafe shot him a look sharp enough to kill, and Kelce immediately got quiet. “Shut up,” Rafe muttered, jaw tight.

I could still feel the heat in my cheeks as the cart bounced along the path, the salty wind tugging at my hair. I didn’t dare look back—I already embarrassed myself enough.

But my mind wandered anyway, replaying the way he had looked at me. Like he was trying to figure something out. Like he saw through me, even in those few seconds.

It made my stomach flutter, and I hated that.

Get a grip, I told myself. Guys like that don’t pay attention to girls like me. Not really.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

I exhaled sharply as the blast of cool air hit me walking into the country club—finally a break from the heat. The place was nicer than I expected, all polished wood floors and white linen vibes, like money had been casually spilled everywhere. The only people lounging around were the kind with trust funds and last names that carried weight. I was a Kook, yeah—but not this kind of Kook.

I drifted toward the bar, eyes landing on the small “employees only” sign near the back. Just as I stepped forward, a girl I’d talked to earlier—cheerful, way too energetic for the heat—popped out of nowhere.

“Hey girl! Can you please do me a massive favor?” she started, eyes wide with that desperate sparkle. “There’s this party, and I have to go, but I can’t just leave the bar, like, totally unmanned. So could you maybe…?”

She trailed off, hanging on the question like it was already answered.

I blinked. “Uh, I’m actually on my break, sorry—”

Before I could finish, her hand was already on my shoulder.

“Perfect! You're the best, thank you so much! I owe you!”

And with that, she vanished, leaving me standing there, stunned, with her note pad to take orders. My stomach dropped when I finally caught up to the situation. How the hell was I suppose to do this?

After totally humiliating myself on the course, I knew I had to redeem the day somehow. No way I was walking out of here with just a sunburn and a bruised ego. I let out a breath and tried to shake it off, thinking back to when I used to help my mom at her restaurant. Long nights, sticky menus, endless refills—but I knew how to survive. This couldn’t be that bad.

I squared my shoulders and headed for the deck, the salty breeze catching the edge of my shirt as I pushed through the doors.

Outside, the scene was peak Outer Banks chaos. Golfers fresh off the green looked sun-tired and salty—either from their scores or the humidity. Rich moms clinked glasses while one-upping each other over SAT scores and college tours. And then there were the ones my age—tanned, tipsy, and desperate to prove they belonged. Designer sunglasses, backwards hats, practiced laughs. The summer elite.

I took a breath, rolled my shoulders back, and walked up to the first table—a well-dressed older man and a woman I assumed was his wife. They looked like they’d stepped right out of a luxury yacht.

“Hi there, can I get you anything to drink?” I asked, putting on my best smile.

The woman glanced up, her pearl earrings catching the light as she gave me a perfect, practiced grin. “I’ll have a martini, please, dear,” she said, voice smooth like she’d never been told no in her life.

Her husband barely looked up from his phone. “Beer,” he grunted.

Classy.

I nodded, keeping the smile on my face as I turned and made my way back to the bar. I slid their order over to the real bartender—wherever they were—and leaned against the counter for a second, trying not to look as out of place as I felt.

One table down. A whole sea of golf bros and country club queens to go.

I took a deep breath and slid another order onto the counter, mentally checking off another task. But just as I was about to rush off, a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Are you the bartender?”

I turned, heart skipping—and then stalling—when I saw him. The same guy from earlier. Handsome in that effortless, probably-drives-a-Jeep-and-surfs-before-brunch kind of way. Now standing way too close beside me.

The smirk that spread across his face made my stomach do something weird. “I thought you were a cart girl,” he said smoothly.

“I—I am,” I stammered, suddenly forgetting how to use words. “But I was asked to cover…”

Why was I nervous? No clue. Maybe it was the way he looked at me, like I was some sort of prey.

His brow quirked. “You must be new around here.”

I glanced up, straight into his blue eyes, and instantly regretted my next question. “How’d you know?”

Obvious. The golf course disaster practically screamed it.

But instead of calling me out, he let out a quiet chuckle. “Lucky guess,” he teased, flashing a smile that was entirely too easygoing.

I exhaled, thankful. At least he wasn’t reporting me to someone in khakis and a clipboard.

He stared down at me, and I found myself locked in, unable to look away from his eyes—blue and piercing like they saw right through the act I was barely holding together.

“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning casually against the bar like he had all the time in the world. All the time just to talk to me.

I hesitated, just for a second, before giving it to him. And I could’ve sworn—sworn—I heard him mutter “cute” under his breath, but it was so quick I couldn’t be sure if I imagined it.

“I’m Rafe,” he said simply.

I repeated the name in my head.

A small smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. “Nice to meet you, Rafe,” I replied, somehow managing to sound calm despite the full-blown gymnastics routine happening in my stomach.

Rafe knew he was a goner the second she opened her mouth to talk to Topper on the course. There was something about the way she carried herself—like she didn’t know the effect she had, and that only made it worse. Or better. He hadn’t decided yet.

But after seeing her smile? Yeah, that sealed the deal.

The way she nervously fiddled with her fingers when she spoke to him—it wasn’t fake. She wasn’t putting on some country club act. Her eyes held this softness, this kind of innocence he wasn’t used to. It didn’t match the crowd around them, and that contrast made her even more interesting.

And the crazy part? He just wanted to keep talking to her. Hear her voice. Figure her out.

And this was after one day.

Rafe’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the moment and snapping his focus away from the girl standing in front of him. He cursed under his breath, jaw tightening as he pulled it out.

Dad.

Of course.

He glanced at the screen, then back at her—still standing there, still looking up at him with those wide eyes like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

For a second, he considered ignoring it. Just letting it ring out. But he knew better. His dad didn’t call without a reason, and ignoring him only made things worse.

“I gotta go,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow—on the cart this time?” he added, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

I smiled without meaning to, nodding. “Yeah… I hope,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

As soon as I heard myself, my cheeks burned. Seriously? I hope?

His smirk deepened, like he’d caught it—but thankfully, he didn’t say anything. He just gave me one last look, then turned and walked off, leaving me standing there replaying the whole conversation in my head.

And for a moment, I forgot I was supposed to be working.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

I pulled into my employee parking spot and let out a sigh, gripping the steering wheel for a second longer than necessary. Okay, I told myself. Let’s just stay as a cart girl today. No mistakes, no surprises.

My first day might’ve been a total disaster, but I couldn’t get Rafe out of my head. As much as I didn’t to admit it— mainly because I just met him, the thought of running into him again was the only thing that made coming back this morning feel… kind of exciting.

I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and made my way across the lot, the air already warm with that early summer heat. I climbed into my cart, settling in behind the wheel like I belonged there, like yesterday hadn’t been a disaster.

I glanced down at the pink and gold watch on my wrist, checked the time, and gave myself a small nod.

Time to start.

I cruised slowly around the course, starting to get the hang of the layout. Each turn felt a little more familiar, each group of golfers a little less intimidating. The Outer Banks air was crisp that morning, cooler than usual. The sky hung low and gray, the sun barely pushing through the clouds like it was trying to make up its mind.

I silently cursed my outfit choice—my skirt offered zero protection from the wind, and my thin tee wasn’t much better. Not exactly built for gloomy weather.

As I pulled around another bend, I spotted two golfers near their clubs. I eased the cart toward them, and my heart skipped the second I realized who it was—Rafe and his friend from the other day.

I bit back a smile and drove a little closer. “Would you guys like anything?” I asked, suddenly unsure of where to put my hands.

“A beer, a really cold—” Topper started, but Rafe cut him off, stepping forward with that same grin that had been stuck in my head since day one.

He leaned against the front of the cart, looking way too comfortable. “Where were you yesterday?”

I swallowed, trying not to overthink my every move as I stepped out to grab a beer from the cooler. “It wasn’t my day to work,” I said, forcing casual into my voice even though my pulse betrayed me.

He hummed, eyes drifting away for a second, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What days do you work?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual, like it was just another question.

But it wasn’t.

Truth was, he'd spent more time scanning the course for her yesterday than actually playing the damn game. Every cart that passed, every flash of movement, he hoped it was her. And when it wasn’t—he noticed.

He glanced back at her, trying not to let it show. He just wanted to know when to look.

“U-uh, normally every day,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “They only gave me yesterday off because they found out I worked another shift.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized I’d probably given way more detail than necessary. I bit the inside of my cheek, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, how casual he looked leaning against the cart—while I stood there feeling like my heartbeat was on full display.

Rafe chewed the inside of his lip as he watched her pull out a beer for Topper. Her skirt shifted slightly when she reached into the cooler, riding up just enough to make his gaze flick there—then snap away just as fast.

He silently cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair like that would help shake it off.

When he glanced back, Topper was staring at him with that familiar irritated look. Rafe waved him off, not in the mood for whatever passive-aggressive comment was loading in his head. Topper huffed, turned, and grabbed his club, muttering something under his breath.

Rafe rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to her—because, yeah, she was the reason he was even out here this early.

“This is for your friend,” I said softly, offering the beer with a small smile.

Rafe took it from me, and his fingers brushed mine for just a second—but it was enough. Enough to send butterflies into full flight in my stomach.

“How much?” he asked, his eyes locked on mine with that same smirk from the other day, clearly still enjoying the memory.

I let out a quiet huff, trying my best not to blush as I looked up at him. He towered over me, jacket unzipped, shorts on despite the chill. Of course he wasn’t cold. Of course he looked good.

“Twelve dollars,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “And don’t worry—I’m not letting you get away without paying this time.”

A spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. A little feisty. He liked that.

Without missing a beat, he pulled out his wallet and handed me a fifty. “Keep the change.”

My eyes widened as I looked at the bill. “Rafe, I can’t take this—that’s way too much,” I said quickly, trying to give it back.

But he just shook his head, gently pushing my hand away. “No. I want you to take it,” he said, voice low. “You deserve it.”

The words hit harder than I expected, warming something in my chest. I hesitated, then slowly slid the bill into my pocket.

A breeze swept past, and I shivered, rubbing my hands along my arms. Rafe’s expression shifted—he noticed and he didn’t like it.

“I better go. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rafe,” I said, turning away to close the cooler and lock the protective door over it.

When I turned back around, he was still there. His expression was unreadable, but there was something lingering in it—something close to disappointment.

“I’ll be looking for you,” he finally said. The usual smirk was on his face, but his words carried a sincerity that made my knees feel just a little weaker.

I let out a quiet chuckle, feeling more confident than I expected. “Bye Rafe,” I said as I climbed into the cart.

Rafe stepped back as I pulled away, making sure he didn’t get clipped. I threw him a little wave over my shoulder, and he laughed, shaking his head before returning it.

The smile didn’t leave my face.

But as I drove off, shivering again from the cool breeze, something caught my eye in the passenger seat. I blinked, then felt my heart leap.

Rafe’s jacket.

He must’ve left it without realizing. I slowed down near the bathrooms, reaching over and picking it up. It was still warm, thick and worn in, and when I brought it closer, his scent filled the air around me—clean, woodsy, and something undeniably him.

I hesitated for half a second before slipping it on.

Instant comfort. Instant butterflies.

I could only hope he didn’t mind.

Topper let out an exaggerated sigh of relief as Rafe returned, beer in hand. “Finally, man. Thought you were never gonna stop flirting with her.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, choosing not to take the bait. Typical Topper.

As Topper took a long swig, his brow furrowed. “Hey… where’s your jacket?”

Rafe glanced down at his arms, like he was just now realizing it wasn’t there. But he knew. He’d known the second she pulled away in that cart.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face in fake frustration. “Must’ve left it on her seat.”

He didn’t bother to hide the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

It had been a week and a few days since the jacket incident, and Rafe hadn’t stopped thinking about it—or her.

Every time he caught sight of that golf cart in the distance, he found himself straightening up, scanning for her face, hoping she’d glance his way. She’d been wearing the jacket the day after he left it—he’d spotted it from across the green. He didn’t say anything, just watched her tug it a little tighter when the wind kicked up.

He liked that she kept it. Liked that she didn’t give it back.

Of course, they’d talked nearly every day when she stopped by his hole on the course—but the jacket? Never mentioned. Not once.

She was half-terrified that if she brought it up, he’d ask for it back. And honestly, she wasn’t ready to give it up. What she didn’t know was that Rafe had no intention of asking. He liked seeing her wear it. Liked the idea that a part of him was keeping her warm out there.

I drove around the course feeling more at ease than I had on my first day. Country music played softly from the cart speakers, mixing with the wind that cut across my bare legs—I’d forgotten to dress for the weather again. Rafe’s jacket rested on my lap, a comfort. I tugged it a little tighter.

As I rounded a curve, my eyes scanned the fairway like they always did. And there—tall, lean, standing alone—it had to be him.

I’d never admit it to him, but every time I approached a group of golfers, I secretly hoped it would be Rafe.

I drove my cart up closer to the golfer and smiled when I could confirm it was him. “Hi, Rafe!” I called out cheerily, the words rolling off my tongue with way more ease than they had that first day. I’d definitely gotten more comfortable around him—too comfortable, maybe.

Rafe turned at the sound of my voice, that familiar grin already tugging at his lips. It was like he’d been waiting for me.

“Hey, pretty girl. Whatcha up to?” he asked, voice low and cool as ever.

The nickname hit me —warm and unexpected—and I felt the blush creep up my neck before I could stop it.

Rafe had gotten bolder with his flirting over the past few days—it wasn’t subtle anymore. His compliments, the way he looked at her, lingered just a little too long to be casual.

Still, she played it off. Told herself that was just how he was—charming, smooth, flirty with everyone. But deep down, she couldn’t help but hope... that maybe it wasn’t just his personality. Maybe it was just for her.

“Just driving around, listening to some music,” I said with a shrug, the faint twang of country still playing in the background. “You’re alone today?”

I tilted my head, genuinely surprised. It was rare to see him without the other two guys trailing behind.

Rafe nodded, walking up to the cart and resting his hands on the roof, leaning in slightly. The move brought him closer—close enough to steal my breath a little.

“Yeah,” he said, casually. “Decided to come alone today.”

His eyes flicked over the inside of the cart, lingering for a beat too long. Then they landed on his jacket still draped over my lap—and something shifted in his expression. A small, barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he seemed... almost proud.

“Want company?” he asked, voice a little lower now, a spark of confidence threading through his words.

I looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips tugging into a smile before I could stop myself.

“Would you really want to come along?” she asked, the doubt in her voice betraying the slight nervousness she felt. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd get bored—it seemed unlikely, but still, it felt too casual.

But Rafe was anything but bored when it came to her. He nodded slowly, a low hum escaping his chest. "Yeah," he said, his tone confident but soft. "I’d like that."

She let out a light laugh, the sound warm and easy. "I guess you could join me. If I get fired, it’s your fault."

Rafe smirked, stepping closer. Without warning, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, the gesture light but meaningful. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. They won’t fire you,” he reassured her, his voice low and steady.

And even if they tried, he thought—he wouldn’t let that happen. Not on his watch

Rafe stood there, waiting with that confident look on his face, as if he expected me to do something.

I raised an eyebrow, confused. “Are you going to get in?”

He stared at me for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly, before the smirk spread across his face, as if he were offended by the suggestion that he might not.

“Yes. Scoot over, I’m driving,” he said, his voice firm with an edge of playfulness.

Before I could even protest, he was already sliding into the cart, practically nudging me to the side. His leg brushed against mine, and I immediately felt the heat crawl up my skin. It was a simple touch, nothing overly intimate—but it felt like a spark.

The warmth between us was suddenly so palpable, I almost forgot how to breathe for a second.

I could feel the heat from his leg radiating against mine, and despite myself, I shifted slightly, trying to keep the space between us. But Rafe didn’t seem to mind. He leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms above his head, completely at ease as if he owned the place. His confidence was infectious, and I found myself getting more comfortable with every inch he moved closer.

“Comfortable?” he asked, glancing at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I smiled, trying to act like I wasn’t completely aware of every inch of him next to me. But deep down, I liked it—more than I cared to admit. “Yeah, totally,” I said, though the way my heart was racing told a different story.

Rafe’s smirk widened, sensing my nervousness—or maybe enjoying it. He nudged my leg with his casually, as if to remind me of how close we really were. “Good,” he said, his voice low, his eyes flicking down to my lap where his jacket still lay. “You know, I like seeing you in my jacket.”

I chuckled, my heart fluttering a little. “I guess it’s better than being cold,” I said, my voice betraying the flutter of warmth spreading through me.

“Mm-hmm,” Rafe hummed, his gaze lingering on me, that same playful smirk tugging at his lips. “That’s one way to put it.” He knew I was covering up the real reason.

Rafe started the cart, the engine humming softly as we cruised along the course. The country music played in the background, its soothing rhythm filling the space between us. The wind had calmed down a bit, and the cool air felt refreshing as we made our way down the winding path. It was peaceful—more so than I had expected—and I found myself relaxing in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

After a couple of minutes of comfortable silence, Rafe’s eyes drifted toward me. His gaze wasn’t intrusive, but it was intense—calm yet purposeful, like he was taking in everything about me.

I glanced over at him, and for a split second, our eyes locked. I could feel the subtle tension between us, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the cart. His gaze softened, but the intensity remained, making my heart beat just a little faster.

“Y’know,” Rafe started, his voice casual but his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the steering wheel, “there’s this event coming up at the club. Some really formal, over-the-top thing my family always drags me to.” He glanced over at me, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. “I was wondering if… you’d want to go with me?”

His usual confidence was there, sure—but underneath, I could hear it. That slight edge of nervousness he was trying to hide.

I froze, eyes wide. Was this real? Was he seriously asking me to a fancy club event? As his date?

“L-like a date?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Rafe looked down at me, his playful smirk fading into something more serious. His gaze held mine, steady and unwavering. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and sure. “Like a date.”

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Then I quickly cleared my throat, trying to play it cool even though my face was probably on fire. “I—uh—I would love to. That sounds... fun,” I said, my voice steady enough, but the grin spreading across my face totally gave me away.

Rafe let out a soft laugh and shook his head like I was the funniest thing he’d seen all day. His hand moved without warning, resting gently on my thigh, his touch warm and grounding and gave it a squeeze.

“You don’t understand the effect you have on me,” he murmured, his tone more serious now, more honest than I’d ever heard it.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Not with the way my whole body was buzzing at the feeling of his hand, his words, him.

But inside, I was screaming.

His face was so close to mine—closer than it had ever been. I could feel his breath on my skin, warm and intoxicating. My gaze was locked on his eyes, but his flickered downward, landing on my lips. The world seemed to still around us.

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving me a chance to pull away. But I didn’t want to. I was frozen, heart racing, anticipation buzzing through every inch of me.

I’m about to kiss him, I thought giddily, my lips parting just slightly as my eyes fluttered shut. I felt his lips ghost over mine, a whisper of a touch that sent goosebumps up my arms.

And then—

Thunk!

“Watch out!” someone called from across the course.

Both our eyes snapped open just as something hit the roof of the cart with a loud clunk. Rafe let out a groan, dropping his forehead gently against mine in defeat.

His hand, still resting against my cheek, caressed it softly, his thumb brushing back and forth as if trying to soothe the moment we’d just lost.

I giggled, unable to help myself.

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, one brow raised as a smirk tugged at his lips. “Funny?”

I nodded, biting back another laugh. “Kinda.”

That teasing spark lit up in his eyes again. “I was so close,” he mumbled under his breath.

I smiled, leaning into his touch just a little more. “Yeah,” I whispered, “you were.”

But the moment wasn’t really gone. If anything, it left us wanting more.

“You drive me insane,” Rafe murmured, his voice low and laced with a kind of frustration that only made me smile wider.

“Good,” I teased, my eyes gleaming with mischief.

He chuckled, that deep, effortless sound that always made my stomach flip. Before I could say anything else, he dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to the side of my neck. Then another. And another. Each one slower, more deliberate than the last.

I giggled, warmth rushing up my face as I squirmed slightly in my seat. “Rafe!” I laughed, playfully pushing at his head. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, that smug grin on his face, eyes full of trouble. “Worth it.”

[humaling]

Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick came back a different man. after weeks of silence and indifference, you find a locket in his cot—a reminder that maybe not everything is lost.

warnings: very angsty!! mentions of torture, the usual hunger games

word count: 9.4k

author's note: very angsty. hopeful ending tho. i feel absolutely depressed since i was broken up with and needed a way to cope so i wrote this

How do you grieve someone who still breathes? Who still walks beside you, whose laughter drifts through the corridors like the tide, whose scent lingers in the air like salt on the breeze? How do you mourn a soul that hasn’t left—only drifted too far from shore to reach?

You search for him in the waves of memory, in the warmth that once lived in sea-green eyes now as distant as the horizon. Those eyes used to anchor you, a harbor of safety in the storm. Now they are nothing but glass—cold, unreadable, unfeeling.

You tell yourself to wait. Tides change. Currents shift. He will come back to you. But as the days melt into weeks, the shoreline erodes beneath your feet.

And in the quiet hours, when the ocean is still and your thoughts are too loud, the truth creeps in like a rising tide.

What if the man you love has already drowned?

You sit in the farthest corner of District 13’s massive cafeteria, a space large enough to hold a thousand soldiers. The wall behind you is cold and unyielding, pressing against your back like a ghost of something long gone. You feel just as hollow.

Around you, people gather in clusters, voices weaving together in conversation, laughter spilling from their lips as if there isn’t a war raging beyond these walls. As if their world hasn’t already been splintered apart.

To your right, Primrose Everdeen speaks softly, her voice carrying the weight of quiet sorrow. She tells you something about the medical bay—about Peeta—but the words barely reach you. They drift past like foam on the surface of the water, light and inconsequential, while you are caught in the undertow, dragged somewhere deeper. Somewhere darker.

Your mind is tethered to someone across the room.

Bronze hair, sea-green eyes—the color of the ocean at dawn, just before the sun touches it. The color of home.

You know what that skin feels like beneath your fingertips, warm and smooth, shifting over muscle that tenses like a pulled fishing net. You know the ridges of his scars, carved into him like the grooves of driftwood battered by relentless waves. The roughness of his palms, the gentleness of his hands—hands that once traced circles over your skin as if mapping out a place to return to.

You know he sleeps best when sprawled out, like a starfish on wet sand, limbs stretched wide to keep the nightmares at bay. That he hoards the blankets like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood. That he needs exactly five pillows when he sleeps alone, building a fragile fortress against the dark. That his fingers move with effortless precision when tying a knot, quick and deft, like a fisherman who has done it a thousand times before.

And you remember his laughter—the deep, rich timbre of it, rolling over you like the tide. You remember the way his voice drops to a lower octave when he wants something, as steady and unshakable as the ocean in a storm.

You remember everything.

And yet, right now, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe he is a stranger. Maybe that’s all he’s ever been. A ghost of someone who drowned long ago. A boy lost at sea, swept too far by currents neither of you could fight. A stranger with sea-green eyes that once cradled the sunlight and now hold nothing but the vast, endless cold of the deep.

Your heart sinks. Not breaks—it’s already done that. It shattered three weeks ago in the medical bay, splintering like a ship dashed against jagged rocks. His gaze—once warm, once yours—turned to ice. His voice—once a melody—lashed at you like saltwater in an open wound, venom laced between every syllable.

And now, whatever is left of your heart sinks further, past your ribs, past your stomach, past anything human, until it is nothing but flotsam on a restless tide.

You never thought it was possible to mourn the living. To grieve someone whose heart still beats, whose hands still move, whose voice still carries. But here you are, swallowing salt, lungs filling with something heavier than water. Wearing a jumpsuit that doesn’t fit quite right. Picking at food that tastes like sand. Sitting in a dim, lifeless room, playing babysitter.

Loss upon loss, and yet—somehow—there’s still more to lose.

~

“They’re here.”

Katniss’ voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and breathless. You snap your head up instantly, fingers freezing around the knot you were tying. She stands in the doorway, chest heaving, breath ragged like she’s been running—or like the weight of those two words is too much to bear alone.

You stare, pupils blown wide, the meaning slipping through your fingers like grains of sand before she speaks again, firmer this time.

“They’re back.”

The words crash over you like a wave, and suddenly, you’re moving.

Your body surges forward before your mind can catch up, feet pounding against the cold floors, the world narrowing to a single thought. Finnick. He’s back. He’s here. He’s alive.

Finnick is alive.

You don’t look back to see if Katniss follows. You don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart like a war drum. The world around you is a blur of gray walls and fluorescent light, too bright, too sterile, too detached from the wild chaos inside you.

You shove past people in the hall, muttering apologies you don’t really mean, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The scent of medicine and metal seeps into your lungs, and somewhere ahead, voices carry through the air—familiar, distant, pulling you forward like a rip current.

Your heart slams against your ribs, pounding like waves against jagged rocks, relentless and unforgiving. The roar of blood in your ears muffles everything else, reducing the world to a single, all-consuming thought—Finnick. Finnick, who is here. Finnick, who is alive. Finnick, who will be in your arms again, where he belongs, where he has always belonged.

You think about the words you will say when you finally reach him, when your hands find his skin, when the unbearable distance between you ceases to exist. You will tell him that you love him, that you will never leave him again, not for anything, not for anyone. You will tell him that you are sorry, that you tried, that you fought, that you did everything in your power to bring him back before they could break him. You will tell him that District 13 is no better than the Capitol, that their president is nothing but another tyrant wrapped in the illusion of revolution, that this place is suffocating, a prison disguised as salvation.

But then you see him, and everything inside you goes still.

He sits on the edge of the medical bed, his back turned to you, his shoulders hunched in a way that feels entirely wrong. The sharp curve of his spine is more pronounced, his posture heavy with something you cannot name. A nurse stands beside him, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm, but he does not move, does not acknowledge her, does not seem fully present in his own body. There is something unnatural in the way he holds himself, something that unsettles you, that makes your stomach twist in a sick, sinking way.

You try to tell yourself that this is normal, that exhaustion clings to him like seaweed tangled around an anchor, that of course he is different after everything he has endured. You tell yourself that the unease slithering through you is nothing more than hunger, that six hours without food is enough to make your body feel strange, that the nausea building inside you has nothing to do with the way his head remains bowed.

You force yourself to push the feeling down, to breathe past the doubt and the fear clawing at the back of your mind.

“Finnick.” His name leaves your lips on an exhale, soft and desperate, like the rush of air from a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the relief that crashes over you is instant, a tide that swallows every doubt, every hesitation, every ache you have carried since the moment he was taken. You barely register the stiffness in his movements before your body is closing the distance, arms wrapping around him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though he might slip through your grasp if you let go. The scent of antiseptic clings to him instead of salt, the sterile air of the medical bay stripping him of the warmth you have always known, but it does not matter. He is here. He is real.

“You’re really here,” you whisper against the curve of his neck, voice breaking under the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. “I thought—” But the words catch in your throat, lost to the sheer relief of having him in your arms again.

His body remains rigid beneath your touch, his muscles locked so tightly that you can feel the tension humming through him like a wire stretched too thin. The longer you hold him, the more you become aware of the way he does not lean into you, the way he does not return your embrace.

A frown tugs at your brows as you slowly pull back, hands settling gently on his shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Your eyes search his face, scanning every feature, trying to find something familiar, something safe, something that tells you he is still him. His jaw is set in a sharp line, his lips pressed together in a firm, unsmiling press. His brows are drawn, a deep crease forming between them, but it is not exhaustion that shapes his expression. It is not relief. It is something colder, something harder, something unrecognizable.

His eyes, the ones that once held warmth, the ones that once softened when they met yours, the ones that always carried the unspoken promise of home, are different now. The sea-green depths that used to hold so much tenderness have darkened, the waves receding, leaving nothing behind but cold, empty waters.

“Finnick?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as your thumb moves to brush against his cheek, aching to ground yourself in something, anything, that feels familiar.

The second your skin grazes his, he flinches.

The reaction is small, a brief, involuntary jerk, but it is enough to send ice flooding through your veins, enough to make the air in your lungs turn sharp and unforgiving. Your mouth parts, the words forming somewhere deep in your throat, but they never make it past your lips. What could you even say? What could you possibly say when the worst thing you have ever feared is unfolding right in front of you?

Before you can find an answer, before you can even begin to process the chasm opening between you, his hands press against your shoulders, and he pushes you away.

The force of it knocks you off balance, sending you stumbling back, feet tripping over nothing, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch yourself. The impact never comes. Someone catches you before you hit the ground, steady hands gripping your arms, but your mind barely registers the touch.

Finnick is already on his feet, his body moving with frantic, clumsy urgency as he rips the IV from his arm, the tubing snapping loose, blood welling in the space where the needle once sat. He does not seem to notice, does not seem to care.

Then he turns to you, and whatever remains of your world shatters into pieces so small, you know you will never be able to put them back together again.

There is no recognition in his gaze, no softness, no warmth, no love. There is only anger, sharp and seething, festering beneath the surface like a wound left to rot. There is only hatred, raw and consuming, filling the space where something else—something beautiful, something yours—used to be. There is only indifference, cold and unyielding, cutting through you like the tide swallowing the last breath of a drowning man.

“Finnick?” You call out again, your voice cracking as you struggle to regain your footing, your limbs trembling beneath the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. The distance between you feels vast, an ocean you cannot cross, a current too strong to fight against.

Your hands move frantically at your sides, grasping at nothing, unsure of what to do, what to say, how to make sense of what is unfolding in front of you. What do you do when the man you love—the man who once held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—now looks at you as if you are nothing?

Finnick’s lips part, and the scoff that escapes is sharp, cruel, void of anything familiar. “Don’t act like you’re so glad to see me.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving, but it is the way his words land that truly destroys you. They slice through your heart without hesitation, leaving gashes so deep you do not know if they will ever heal. The coldness in his tone, the sheer venom laced between each syllable, is enough to send your stomach twisting violently, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stutter.

You shake your head, your throat tightening as you struggle to make sense of it, to piece together something—anything—that could explain why he is looking at you like you are nothing more than a stranger, an enemy, something to be loathed. “Finnick… I don’t—” The words falter on your tongue, because how do you ask why? How do you demand answers when you are too terrified to hear them?

His expression twists into something cruel, something mocking, something that makes the ground beneath you feel unsteady. “You don’t what?” he sneers, taking a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with prey. “You don’t understand? You don’t get why I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound dripping with something bitter, something tainted. “That’s funny. You, of all people, pretending to be clueless.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. He is here. He is alive. He is back. So why does it feel like you are losing him all over again?

“Finnick, please,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I did.”

His expression darkens, his eyes flashing with something unreadable before his lips curl into a smirk, but there is nothing warm about it. It is hollow, cruel, a mockery of the smiles you once knew. “You don’t know?” He scoffs again, shaking his head. “That’s rich. That’s really rich.”

You reach for him, a desperate attempt to find something familiar, something that will bring you back to the Finnick you know, the Finnick who once traced the lines of your palms like they held the universe, the Finnick who pressed sleepy kisses to your shoulder in the early hours of the morning, the Finnick who whispered that he loved you like it was the only thing that ever mattered. But the moment your fingers so much as brush his arm, he jerks away as if your touch burns him.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, thick and suffocating. “Why are you doing this?” The words are barely more than a breath, shaky and broken, but they are all you can manage.

Finnick’s jaw tightens, his hands clenched into fists at his sides before his eyes meet yours again, his gaze colder than you have ever seen it. The weight of it crashes over you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, deeper and deeper, until all you can feel is the crushing force of the words he says next.

“Because I hate you.”

Your breath catches. Your body goes still. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, fading into nothing but the space between you and him.

No.

No, he doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that.

But there is no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt, no trace of the Finnick you know beneath the loathing that twists his features.

“You left me,” he says, voice steady, but laced with something bitter, something sharp enough to cut. “You left me there to die.”

Your head shakes before you even realize it, rejection spilling from your lips as if saying the words would make them true. “No. No, I—” Your voice wavers, breaking apart at the seams, but you swallow down the panic rising in your throat. “Finnick, that’s not true. I would never—”

His laughter is quiet, mirthless, like the hollow echo of waves against a broken shore. “Liar.” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair as if the very sight of you is exhausting. “I know what we were. What you were.” His eyes darken, and the next words come like a final nail in the coffin. “You were using me.”

Your breath shudders out of you, unsteady and uneven, but the ache in your chest only worsens as he continues, unrelenting. “I was nothing more than a means to an end, wasn’t I?” His voice is eerily calm, his gaze cold and unreadable. “All of it—the whispers, the stolen moments, the way you looked at me like I was something worth saving—it was never real. You had a motive, and I was too much of a fool to see it.”

Your entire body feels like it’s trembling, but you force yourself to move, to step closer, to reach for him as if you can pull him back from whatever abyss they’ve shoved him into. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “That’s not true, and you know that.”

He flinches away from your touch. Not violently, not aggressively, but in a way that hurts even more. As if your hands on him are unbearable. As if you are unbearable.

Your heart clenches so tightly it feels like it might collapse in on itself. “Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You’re breaking my heart.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickers across his expression. Something fleeting, something fragile. But it’s gone before you can grasp onto it, swallowed by the tide of whatever poison they’ve fed him.

His lips part, but no words come, only the silence stretching between you, cold and merciless.

Tears slip down your cheeks, hot against the numbness settling into your bones. You shake your head, refusing to let this be real, refusing to accept that the boy who once held you like you were his whole world now looks at you like you are nothing more than a ghost of something he wishes he could forget.

“I would never leave you there to die.” Your voice is hoarse, raw, carved from something deeper than heartbreak.

But Finnick only looks at you like he doesn’t believe you.

Finnick exhales, slow and sharp, like he’s trying to hold something in—something dangerous, something volatile. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching as if itching to lash out, to grab onto something, to make this feeling stop.

“They told me everything,” he murmurs, and there’s something distant about the way he says it, like he’s reciting a fact, like he’s just now realizing the full weight of it. “How you left me in that arena. How you saved yourself and let me suffer.” His sea-green eyes bore into you, darkened with something cruel, something unbearable. “I should’ve died there. I would’ve died there if I was lucky.”

Your throat tightens. His words are salt in an open wound, stinging, burning, seeping into the rawest parts of you. You shake your head, stepping closer, reaching out despite the way he flinches. “Finnick, please. That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He won’t hear you. His voice rises, every syllable heavier than the last, suffocating in its weight. “You let them take me.” The accusation slices through the air, through you, straight to the marrow of your bones. “You let them drag me away, and now you think you can stand here and pretend like you care? Like you ever cared at all?”

“I do care,” you whisper, but it’s drowned out by the storm unraveling in front of you.

Finnick’s breathing grows unsteady, his body taut like a wire stretched too thin, fraying at the edges. His fists clench and unclench, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting something unseen, something warring inside of him. His shoulders tremble, his entire frame locked in battle with itself, with the ghosts clawing at his mind.

“Get away from me.” His voice is lower now, raw and laced with something just shy of a snarl. “I can’t—” He swallows thickly, his breath coming out harsh and uneven. “I can’t be around you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your limbs feel heavy, your skin ice-cold, but you force yourself to stand your ground. “Finnick, I’m not leaving you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and desperate. “Not now. Not ever.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something you want to believe is hesitation, but before you can reach for him again, a firm hand clasps around your upper arm.

“Come on,” a voice urges—one of the soldiers, firm but not unkind.

You try to shake them off, to dig your heels into the floor, but Finnick’s gaze stops you in your tracks. The way his expression twists, the way his body shakes as his breathing grows erratic—it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“Get her out of here,” another voice commands.

“No, wait,” you plead, struggling as the grip on your arm tightens, as another set of hands joins the first, dragging you back, forcing distance between you and him.

Finnick stumbles back, his chest heaving, his hands threading into his hair like he’s trying to rip something out of himself. His entire body quivers, like a wave cresting too high, about to break.

Your own body thrashes against the hold keeping you away from him. “Finnick, please, listen to me! It wasn’t like that! You have to believe me!”

But he isn’t looking at you anymore. He turns away, his breathing sharp, his entire frame locked in place as if afraid to move, afraid to break.

And then you’re gone—hauled through the doorway, dragged down the hall, your screams swallowed by the sterile walls of District 13.

The last thing you see before the doors shut is Finnick, hunched over, hands gripping his head, like he’s drowning in a tide he cannot escape.

~

You sat with Haymitch outside of Katniss’ room, the dim, sterile hall stretching endlessly in front of you. The air was thick with something suffocating, something you couldn’t name—grief, maybe. Or something worse.

Apparently, Peeta was in the same condition as Finnick. Hijacked. Twisted. Warped. Their minds were tampered with, their memories poisoned, their love rewritten into something unrecognizable. Snow had not only taken them—he had turned them into weapons, sharpened and honed for one singular purpose.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Finnick despised you now, or the gnawing, gut-wrenching fear that the Finnick you once knew might never come back.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your knees to your chest. Your fingers curled and uncurled, your wrists rolling to shake off the numbness, to rid yourself of the ghost of his touch—the rigidness of his body beneath your hands, the way he flinched at your presence like you were something vile, something rotten. It made your skin crawl. Not because of him. Never because of him.

Because of what they did to him.

Because of the way you made him feel.

“It’s not your fault.” Haymitch’s voice cut through the silence, rough and low, but not unkind.

You turned your head to look at him, at the wreck of a man beside you. Haymitch looked like hell—more so than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but beneath it, there was something else. A deep, quiet horror. Like he had seen this before. Lived it. Survived it, but barely.

You had heard the stories. What the Capitol did to him. What he endured in his games, and after.

Your throat tightened, a bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “Should’ve been me.” Your voice was hoarse, raw from screaming, from pleading with someone who no longer wanted to hear it.

Haymitch scoffed, pulling a flask from God-knows-where, twisting it in his hands before taking a swig. “No, it shouldn’t have.” He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared ahead, gaze locked on something distant, something only he could see. “You wouldn’t have lasted long enough in there.”

Your jaw clenched, a protest forming on your tongue, but he cut you off before you could speak.

“You don’t have the mind for it. The will for it. You’d break faster than Peeta. Hell, maybe worse.” He finally turned his head, meeting your gaze, his gray eyes softer than you had ever seen them. It unsettled you more than his usual cynicism.

You sucked in a breath, tilting your head back against the cold, lifeless wall. Your eyes burned as you bit down on your lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. Your heart ached, a deep, gnawing pain that felt like drowning, like being dragged under a current too strong to fight.

It was unbearable. Unyielding. You didn’t know how to deal with it. You weren’t sure you ever would.

Haymitch sighed, running a tired hand down his face before taking another sip. “It’s a process, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “But you need to hang on. For both of you.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, gripping the fabric so tightly it might tear. He was right. You hated that he was right.

And you hated that, despite everything, despite the venom in Finnick’s voice and the ice in his eyes, you would wait for him as long as it took.

~

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a fight that will never come. As if standing like this, standing strong, will keep you from falling apart.

Your gaze is fixed on Finnick’s chest, on the slow, steady rise and fall that proves he is still here, still breathing. He looks peaceful like this. Almost untouched by everything that has happened, everything that has been done to him.

But you know better.

His fingers twitch from time to time, grasping at something unseen, someone unseen. A phantom touch. A memory slipping through his grasp.

You stay where you are, unmoving, barely breathing, watching him from a distance. Is this what it will be now? Is this all you’ll have left? Watching him from afar, knowing the only time he’ll ever look peaceful is when he’s unconscious? Knowing that the moment he stirs, it’s because of the nightmares?

Something acidic rises in your throat, burning, bitter, unbearable. The taste of grief, maybe. The taste of something you cannot name, something that twists your insides and leaves you hollow. You swallow it down, but it lingers, coating your tongue, settling deep inside you.

You hate this. You hate all of it.

All you want is to be in his arms, to lay your head against his chest and pretend that the world isn’t burning above you. Pretend that nothing has changed. Pretend that he still loves you.

But you stay in the doorway, feet rooted to the cold, unforgiving ground. Watching from a distance. Because that is all you have now. This is all you have now.

Footsteps echo softly against the cold floor, breaking the silence that has settled around you like a heavy fog. The sudden sound startles you, your body tensing as you instinctively turn on your heel, your fists clenching at your sides, ready to strike if necessary. But the moment your eyes catch the familiar cascade of long auburn hair, your shoulders ease, the fight within you slipping away just as quickly as it had risen.

Annie stands a few feet away, hesitant but unwavering, a quiet understanding reflected in the softness of her expression. There’s no pity in her gaze—only recognition, as if she knows exactly what kind of storm is brewing inside you without you having to say a word. A small, tentative smile tugs at her lips, a gesture so simple yet filled with warmth.

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it?" she says, her voice gentle, lacking the weight of expectation. She isn’t here to force words from you or demand answers you don’t have the strength to give. She is simply here.

You study her for a moment, unsure how to respond, as if the simple acknowledgment of time passing feels like an admission of how much has changed. Eventually, you nod, the motion slow, measured. "Yeah, it has," you murmur, your voice carrying the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered questions.

Annie doesn’t waver, doesn’t take the hint to leave you to your silence. Instead, she steps forward, closing the space between you in a way that isn’t intrusive, only familiar. She settles beside you, mirroring your posture as she leans lightly against the wall, her presence steady and unshaken.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your gaze cautious, guarded. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t probe. She only offers a quiet reassurance that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"Relax," she murmurs, as if sensing the lingering tension coiled in your muscles. "It’s just me."

Her words should be meaningless, just a simple reassurance, but somehow, they carry weight. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tightness in your chest easing—if only just a little.

Annie doesn’t expect you to talk. She just stays, letting the silence stretch between you in a way that feels less suffocating, less lonely.

Annie stands beside you, silent at first, her fingers idly twisting at the fabric of her sleeve. The air between you is heavy, thick with unspoken words, yet neither of you rushes to break it. The weight of everything—of what’s happened, of what’s still happening—lingers between breaths, settling deep in the space where grief and exhaustion intertwine.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but steady, as if she has rehearsed the words in her mind too many times before. “They kept me locked in a room without windows.” She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present, lost in a memory she can’t escape. “At first, it was just isolation. No light, no sound. Just me and the walls. I don’t know how long they left me there before they started asking questions.”

You don’t say anything. You barely breathe.

“They didn’t care about me,” she continues, voice devoid of emotion, like she’s reciting something detached from herself. “They wanted Finnick. Wanted to know how much he knew, how much he’d be willing to trade for me.” Her fingers curl around the hem of her sleeve, twisting it tighter. “I told them he didn’t know anything, but they didn’t believe me. They kept saying he would talk if he knew what was happening to me. If he thought they’d kill me.”

A sick feeling crawls up your throat. You grip your arms, trying to steady yourself.

Annie exhales slowly, as if forcing the weight of those memories from her chest. “But they weren’t just trying to break him. They were breaking all of us.” Her voice tightens slightly, but she pushes on. “Johanna—she fought them at first. Wouldn’t give them what they wanted. They stripped her of everything, piece by piece, until she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to steel yourself against the wave of emotions threatening to pull you under.

“And Peeta…” Annie hesitates. “I never saw him, but I heard him. Sometimes, in the halls. The way he screamed… I knew they were doing something different to him. Something worse.” She finally looks at you, her green eyes filled with something raw, something fragile yet unbreakable. “They weren’t just hurting him. They were remaking him.”

A sharp, searing pain twists in your chest.

You shake your head, trying to will away the image of Peeta trapped in the Capitol, his mind being twisted into something unrecognizable. “And Finnick?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie hesitates, and that hesitation alone is enough to make your stomach drop.

“When they realized they couldn’t break him, they made him believe something worse,” she says finally, her voice so soft it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights. “They made him believe you left him there. That you abandoned him.”

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“They told him you were never really on his side. That you used him. That he was nothing more than a tool to you.” Annie shakes her head, jaw tightening.

A sharp, visceral pain shoots through your chest, so intense that for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Annie notices. “I don’t believe it,” she says quickly. “And I don’t think—deep down—he does either. But they got inside his head. They took everything he was feeling and twisted it.”

Your vision blurs as a lump lodges itself in your throat. You’ve always imagined the worst, always wondered what they must have done to him, but hearing it like this makes it real. Makes it undeniable.

Your nails dig into your arms as you force the words out, your voice barely holding together. “I would never leave him.”

Annie’s expression softens, but there’s something pained in the way she looks at you. “I know that. You know that. But Finnick… Finnick isn’t himself right now.” She hesitates before adding, “That doesn’t mean he’s lost forever.”

But what if he is? What if the Finnick you love, the Finnick who loves you, is gone?

“I should have—” Your voice breaks, and you shake your head, unable to even finish the thought.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Annie says, her voice firm despite its softness. “Nothing any of us could have done.”

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like you failed him. Like you lost him.

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to keep the tears at bay. “I just want him back.” The words come out fragile, almost childlike. “The real him.”

Annie’s expression softens. “So do I,” she murmurs. “And I think, when all of this is over, he’ll find his way back.”

Neither of you speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say.

Instead, you both stand there, side by side, drowning in the weight of everything that’s been taken from you.

~

It has been a month since Finnick and the others were rescued. A month of waiting, of hoping, of slowly unraveling under the weight of what has been lost. Finnick and Annie were cleared after two weeks. Johanna still has one more week under observation. And Peeta—Peeta is making no progress at all.

You visit Annie and Johanna most often. It feels easier, in a way. Johanna makes jokes sharp enough to slice through your grief, her bitterness grounding you when you start to spiral. Annie doesn’t say much, but when she looks at you, there is an understanding in her gaze that makes it easier to breathe. Even in silence, she sees you. She sees the way you are trying to move forward, to convince yourself that there is still something ahead of you and not just the gaping void Finnick’s indifference has left behind.

But every conversation ends the same way. No matter how much you pretend, no matter how much you try to stitch yourself back together, you always end up right where you started—wallowing in the emptiness, drowning in the cold distance Finnick has placed between you. Every moment without him feels stretched thin, an unbearable ache that never eases. The man you love is right there, close enough to touch, but it might as well be miles. He does not look at you. He does not speak to you. And if he does, it is with an apathy that cuts deeper than any blade.

Sometimes, when the weight of it becomes too much, you visit Peeta. Maybe because you think if you can bring him back, there’s hope for Finnick too. Maybe because you need to see what the Capitol did to him—to both of them—to remind yourself that this isn’t your fault. But Peeta isn’t Peeta. He flinches when Katniss’ name is mentioned, his voice is sharp, and his words are laced with venom. And yet, all you can see is Finnick.

You see it in the way Peeta looks at Katniss like she is the enemy, the same way Finnick now looks at you. You see it in the way his hands curl into fists when she enters the room, the same way Finnick tenses whenever you are near. You see it in the way his voice is edged with something hollow, something broken, something that does not belong to him. And you remember. You remember the cold detachment in Finnick’s eyes, the way his hands no longer cradle your face but push you away, the way his words are no longer laced with warmth but with quiet, unshakable hatred.

It makes your skin crawl. Makes you want to run. Makes you want to claw at your own chest and rip out whatever it is inside you that still dares to hope. You wish this was just a nightmare, something fleeting, something you could wake up from. But there is no waking up from this. There is only time. And with every passing day, Finnick becomes less of the man you loved and more of a stranger wearing his face.

So you tell yourself that whoever came back isn’t him. That the Finnick you love is still somewhere out there, lost in the wreckage of what the Capitol did to him. That this man—the one who won’t meet your gaze, the one who does not say your name, the one who acts as if you are nothing—is an impostor. A hollow thing trying to be him. Because that is easier than accepting the truth.

Because the truth is, if Finnick is truly gone, you do not know how to keep going without him.

Maybe that’s why everything is starting to blur, the edges of the world dulling into shades of gray. Nothing feels sharp anymore, nothing feels real. You’ve stopped trying to move forward. Instead, you let the grief sink its claws into you, dragging you under, hoping—maybe even begging—that it swallows you whole. Anything to keep from waking up another day, from dragging yourself through the motions, from existing in a world where everything you do, everything you see, everything you feel is stained with the absence of him.

You speak less. See people less. The days pass without meaning, slipping through your fingers like sand. Most of your time is spent in silence, lying on the stiff mattress of your bunker, staring at the ceiling, waiting. For what, you don’t know. Maybe for Finnick. Maybe for something else. Maybe for nothing at all.

But no matter how much you try to numb yourself, no matter how much you try to pretend it doesn’t tear you apart, the truth still sits in the hollow of your chest, pressing against your ribs like a caged scream.

You don’t last like this forever. Although you wish you had. But Coin doesn’t let opportunities slip through her fingers, especially not when she sees potential. And you? You’re efficient. You know weapons, you know how to track, how to move unnoticed. That makes you useful.

So she forces you out of your bunker, shoving you into training, into preparation, until suddenly, you’re being sent out on expeditions. To hunt, to kill, to spy. It doesn’t matter. You don’t ask questions. You just get the job done. Because what else is there to do?

Of course, the others notice. Katniss has been trying to get you to talk, to tell her what Coin is making you do. You learn, unwillingly, that she’s being forced to make propaganda films to strengthen the revolution. The idea of it makes you want to laugh. What difference does a camera make when people are already dying?

But it’s Haymitch who’s the most persistent. And that surprises you.

At first, you assume it’s just boredom. He doesn’t have alcohol to drown himself in, so maybe he’s looking for something else to pass the time. But the more he seeks you out, the more you realize it’s something deeper. He watches you too closely, the way your hands stay clenched at your sides, the way you don’t sleep, the way you barely eat. He sees through you.

And he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Come on, sweetheart, we both know what she’s doing,” Haymitch mutters one day, cornering you outside the training room. “She’s using you up until there’s nothing left.”

You scoff, shouldering past him. “You say that like I have anything left to begin with.”

He doesn’t let you go so easily. His grip snags your wrist, firm but not forceful, just enough to make you pause. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” His voice is quieter now, but sharper. “You’re letting her turn you into something you don’t even recognize.”

You rip your arm free, glaring. “What do you care?”

Haymitch exhales roughly, raking a hand through his hair. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, he says, “Because I’ve been where you are. And it doesn’t end well.”

You freeze. Something tightens in your chest, but you shove it down, scoffing. “I’m not you.”

“No. You’re not,” Haymitch agrees. “But you’re on the same damn path.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think if you throw yourself into this, if you bleed enough for the cause, it’ll make up for everything? That it’ll bring him back?”

Your stomach twists violently. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in, relentless. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? To watch the people you love get taken from you, piece by piece, until you don’t even know who you are anymore?” His jaw tightens, his eyes dark with something old and painful. “I drank myself into oblivion to cope. You? You’re letting Coin use you as a weapon, like that’s any better.”

His words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. Because you know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while now. But admitting it—saying it out loud—that’s something else entirely.

Your throat burns. “You don’t understand.”

“The hell I don’t.” Haymitch shakes his head, exasperated. “You were Mags’ girl. She would’ve died before letting you turn into this.”

Something inside you cracks at that. You whirl on him, rage and grief twisting together. “Mags is dead.”

“And so is Finnick, if you keep this up,” Haymitch snaps back. “Because when he finally does come back to himself, do you think he’s gonna recognize you? Or are you just gonna be another ghost?”

The words hit deeper than you want to admit. A cold, ugly truth settling in your bones.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the anger, the bitterness, the grief—it’s all rising too fast, threatening to suffocate you. Haymitch sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not saying this to piss you off,” he mutters. “I’m saying it because someone has to.”

You swallow hard, looking away. “So what? You want me to stop?”

“I want you to remember who the hell you are,” Haymitch says. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna lose yourself completely. And I know for a fact Mags didn’t raise you to be some mindless soldier.”

The silence between you is heavy, filled with too many unspoken things. But for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirs. A flicker of something—doubt, regret, maybe even hope.

Haymitch doesn’t push you any further. He just exhales and steps back, giving you space to decide for yourself. “Think about it,” he says, before walking away.

And you do.

For the first time in a long time, you really do.

~

The underground bunker hums with quiet activity, a constant murmur of voices and the soft scuff of boots against the cold floors. The air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of too many people forced into the same confined space. You should be paying attention, listening for updates, but none of it registers. It hasn’t in a long time. Your mind remains distant, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the dull ache of something deeper, something you don’t have the strength to name.

Your feet carry you forward without thought, drawn to a space you shouldn’t be seeking out. Finnick’s cot is just another part of the bunker, another piece of fabric stretched too thin over metal, indistinguishable from the dozens of others. And yet, you always find yourself looking for it, searching for some trace of the past, as if by sheer force of will, you might bring back what has already been lost.

The dim lighting catches on something small resting against the rumpled sheets. A glint of gold, barely noticeable but impossible to ignore. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, stopping you in your tracks before you even realize what it is.

Your fingers close around it almost on instinct, the cool metal familiar against your skin. You don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The weight of it alone is enough to tell you that this is the same locket, the one you once traced with your fingers on nights when the world felt too vast, too cruel. The one that held a piece of you and a piece of him.

The clasp resists when you try to open it, as if the locket itself is reluctant to reveal its secret, but after a moment, it gives way. Your breath catches the moment you see what’s inside.

Your own face, captured in a moment frozen in time.

The sight of it steals the air from your lungs, a sharp ache blooming in your chest. You knew this locket, knew what it contained, but seeing it here, now, in his possession—it doesn’t make sense. If he believed what they told him, if the Capitol had truly twisted his mind against you, why would he still have this? Why would he keep something that tethered him to you?

Your fingers tighten around the locket, the edges pressing into your palm as if grounding you in reality. For the first time in weeks, doubt begins to take root, curling into something almost dangerous.

A voice breaks through the silence, low and familiar, stopping your thoughts in their tracks.

"Did anyone tell you that touching someone else’s stuff is rude?"

The words send a shock through you, and your breath stutters in your throat. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Finnick.

His tone isn’t harsh, isn’t cold or cutting like you feared it might be. It simply exists, filling the space between you in a way that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. After everything—after weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending you don’t exist—he’s speaking to you. Acknowledging you.

Slowly, you force yourself to turn, meeting his gaze for the first time since the medical bay. The sight of him knocks the air from your lungs. He looks like himself, and yet not at all. The sharpness of his features remains, the familiar curve of his mouth, the green of his eyes—but there’s something different. The exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his expression guarded in a way that sends a painful twist through your chest.

For a moment, neither of you move. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant noise of the bunker around you. Then, hesitantly, you lift the locket, the gold catching in the dim light as you hold it between you. His gaze flickers to it, something unreadable passing across his face.

He doesn’t snatch it away, doesn’t shove it into his pocket as if ashamed to have been caught with it. Instead, his fingers brush against the metal, slow and deliberate, before he takes it from your grasp. His thumb traces over the worn surface, lingering over the picture inside, his jaw tightening slightly as he studies it.

You watch him, heart lodged in your throat, afraid to speak and shatter whatever fragile moment has formed between you. For the first time in weeks, something shifts in the space between you—not enough to undo the damage, not enough to bring back what was lost, but enough to spark the faintest flicker of something you thought had been extinguished forever.

"Why do you have it?"

Your voice is quieter than you intended, barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. The question lingers between you, pressing against the silence, desperate for an answer. You need him to say something—anything—that tells you he’s still in there, that beneath all the hatred, all the distance, there’s still a part of him that hasn’t let you go.

Finnick’s brows knit together, his gaze still locked on the locket in his palm as if the answer might be hidden in its worn edges. His fingers tighten around it, thumb tracing the familiar grooves, but he doesn’t speak.

The silence stretches, wrapping around you like a slow-moving tide. The world around you dulls, fading into nothing but the space between you and him. It’s been so long since you’ve had this—just him, just you. Even now, when everything feels different, wrong, broken, you can’t help but reach for what you lost.

Seconds drag into eternity, but you won’t back down. You’ve spent too many weeks pretending you could survive this distance when all you really wanted was to collapse into his arms, to hear him say something that could put you back together again.

Finally, he exhales, the sound barely audible, as if he’s been holding it in for too long. "I don’t know."

His voice is rough, strained, like the words cost him something. For the briefest moment, his eyes soften, something vulnerable flashing through them before it’s gone. He closes them, his lashes brushing against his cheek, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

You watch him carefully, memorizing him all over again. As if you haven’t traced every inch of his face before. As if you don’t already know every scar, every freckle, every shift of emotion that he tries to hide.

He looks exposed beneath your gaze, like the weight of your stare is too much, like he wants to run from it.

“I’ll tell you what,” you say, voice softer than you meant it to be. His eyes open at that, locking onto yours, and for a second, your breath falters. You could drown in that gaze. You always could.

Swallowing, you force yourself to keep steady, to say what you need to say. "Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

"Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

Finnick doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just holds your gaze like he’s caught between disbelief and something else, something heavier. His fingers curl around the locket, his grip tightening for a second before loosening again.

"What truth?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s daring you to say something he won’t be able to ignore.

You take a breath, steadying yourself even as your chest tightens. "That the Capitol didn’t take everything from you."

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "You think you know what they did to me?" His laugh is humorless, bitter, the kind that scrapes against old wounds. "You think you understand what’s in my head?"

"I don’t have to understand it to know that this—" you gesture to the locket in his hand, "—means something. That you kept it for a reason."

Finnick exhales sharply, his fingers flexing, his shoulders rising with tension. "Or maybe I just forgot to throw it away."

The words sting, sharp and cruel, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you step closer, closing the space between you. His breath hitches for just a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his body tenses, like he’s fighting something within himself.

"Then do it." Your voice is steady, a challenge. "If it doesn’t mean anything, if I don’t mean anything, then throw it away."

Finnick says nothing. His grip tightens around the locket again, but his hand doesn’t move.

Your throat feels tight, but you press on. "I know you, Finnick. I spent nights tracing your scars on your skin, and so did you. And I know that no matter what they did to you, no matter what they forced into your head, some part of you still remembers."

His breath is uneven now, his gaze flickering away, like he can’t bear to look at you.

"Tell me I don’t matter," you say, voice softer now, almost pleading. "Tell me that locket doesn’t mean anything. And I’ll leave you alone."

Finnick stares at the locket in his palm, shoulders drawn tight like he’s caught in a battle you can’t see. His fingers hover over the clasp, as if debating whether to close it, tuck it away, or crush it in his grip. But he does none of those things. Instead, he just stands there, the weight of your words pressing down on him like an anchor.

You wait, heart hammering against your ribs, but he doesn’t speak.

"Finnick." You take another step, your voice softer now, hesitant. "Please."

His jaw clenches. "You think this changes anything?"

"It changes everything," you counter. "You’ve been pretending I don’t exist, but you kept this. Why?"

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes, something that makes your stomach twist painfully. "I don’t know," he admits, and for the first time since he came back, he sounds… lost.

It guts you more than the indifference ever did.

You don’t realize you’ve reached for his hand until your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm, familiar, but he flinches like you’ve burned him. He doesn’t pull away, though. Doesn’t shove you aside like you half expect him to.

"You do know," you whisper.

His breath shudders as he finally lifts his gaze to yours. The exhaustion clings to his face, but beneath it, there’s something else—a flicker of recognition, of a battle waging inside him.

"You said if I told you that locket doesn’t mean anything, you’d leave me alone." His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.

You nod, forcing yourself to hold steady, even as your chest tightens. "I meant it."

Finnick swallows, gaze dropping to the locket again. His thumb brushes over the worn gold, over the tiny latch that guards your picture inside. Another long silence stretches between you, the tension pulling tight, suffocating.

Then, finally—so quiet you almost miss it—he exhales, "I can’t."

Your breath catches. "Can’t what?"

His fingers tighten around the locket, his shoulders rising with a shuddering breath. "I can’t say it doesn’t mean anything."

The air between you shifts, something fragile and dangerous crackling in the space. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative and unsteady, but real.

"Then stop pretending like I don’t exist," you whisper.

Finnick’s throat bobs as he swallows. He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, teetering between fear and familiarity. His lips part, but before he can say anything, a voice calls from across the bunker.

"Odair, let’s go!"

Finnick tenses, something closing off in his expression again. His fingers curl around the locket, hiding it from view, and just like that, the moment shatters.

You watch as he steps back, his face unreadable again. But before he turns away completely, you see it—the way his hand lingers near his pocket, the locket still clutched tight in his palm.

He doesn’t throw it away.

And this time, you let yourself believe that means something.

[mcumorningstar]

Prove It, Cowboy

pairing: dodge mason x reader

summary: after the player's ball, you find yourself without a bed for the night until dodge offers for you to stay at his, but when his mom and sister catch you sneaking in they get the wrong impression.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dry humping, protected sex (p in v), dodge’s mom and sister being kinda invasive about his sex life (?)

a/n: dodge and his mom being so open about her sex life was so funny to me. this is kinda the reverse of a canon conversation... kinda! also i had a dream i went to one of dodge’s rodeos but he was flirting with all the girls so he was my enemy for a few days <3

A midnight sky hung over Carp, Texas when you arrived at Dodge’s house. Dodge put a finger to his lips fruitlessly as the front gate creaked loudly. The curtains of the front room twitched.

A female voice came from inside the house, “Dodge’s brought a girl home!”

Shit.

“That’s Dana,” Dodge sighed, fiddling with his keys and rubbing his forehead with a tight smile. Before he turned the keys in the lock, he turned to you, “Sorry, in advance.”

Your brows screwed together as he guided you inside.

After the player’s ball, Heather disappeared and so you were left without a bed for the night. God forbid you sneak into your own house and face the wrath of your parents.

Dodge came to the rescue.

A sigh fell from his lips at the sight of his mom and sister waiting in the living room doorway with excited smiles and hooded eyes. They behaved more like sisters than mother and daughter. It was sweet.

A dim lamp on the entrance table and the bright colours of the TV cast shadows across the room.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” You smiled politely despite two pairs of unfamiliar eyes trained on you.

God they must think you’re here to sleep with him or something.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m Jessica. You want something to drink?” Dodge’s mom raised her glass of red wine, “We’re watching Jeopardy.“

She was a very beautiful woman, cherub cheeks and bright green eyes. Dodge was all hard angles, he must take after his dad.

Dodge ducked into the sea-foam coloured kitchen to grab two waters from the refrigerator.

“I’m Dana!” His sister beamed. She shared an unspoken look with Dodge, who rolled his eyes. Before you could thank her, Dodge rejoined your side.

“She’s locked out and just wants somewhere to sleep,” He quelled their unspoken barrage of questions.

His mom nodded along, as if he was lying, “Okay well there’s spare blankets in the laundry room, condoms in the bathroom...”

“Oh my god,” Dodge cursed under his breath, “We’re going now.”

Jessica and Dana giggled behind their glasses of wine, the right side of drunk, “The book, Dodge.”

She winked with exaggeration, her filter totally gone with the amount she’d drank but she was clearly having a fun night in.

Dodge shook his head with a flustered laugh.

With a hand on your back, Dodge guided you to his bedroom. Your face flushed at the unexpected attention and the suggestive situation.

The two laughed rather loudly, saying how pretty you are and how Dodge will fair with a girl spending the night, for the first time you assumed.

The sound of the women stifling laughter echoed around the house. Dodge closed his bedroom door with a sheepish and apologetic smile.

His room was pretty plain; grey bedsheets, grey walls, rodeo trophies and medals, a bookshelf with framed photos on. It smelt like laundry soap and his cologne.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” He offered, tossing his backpack onto the carpet.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t bite,” You teased, as you looked at his collection of trophies and books, “Plus they already think we’re fucking.”

Dodge gave a quick laugh, watching you read the spines on the shelf.

“What book was your mom talking about?” You turned to him and his face flushed.

“You heard that, huh?” He mumbled, “It was a joke really. She thinks she’s funny.”

Even more intrigued by his avoidance, you sized him up with squinted eyes.

Dodge cleared his throat, tidying away a pile of laundry sitting on his bed, “They uh… god this is… They used to worry about me with- with girls. They thought I was a virgin because I never brought girls home to meet them or anything… and so for Secret Santa one year I got a book about… women… My mom insists it wasn’t her and that whoever it was was trying to be funny…”

There was a long pause. Dodge shied away from your eyes, his body turned away from you, despite the little air of embarrassed laughter.

Dodge cleared his throat again, “Super weird, I know. She had kids super young and didn’t want us to make the same mistake. Not that me and Dana are mistakes but it was hard for her. She’s cool about that sorta thing though. Dana’s ex-boyfriend used to stay over all the time and she didn’t care. So if you’re worried, she won’t say anything about you being here or anything.”

Another bout of silence fell between you as Dodge assessed your features, his lips pursed and shoulders tight.

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me,” You laughed and Dodge visibly relaxed.

“No, it’s cool. Not cool but, you know, I wish my family were cooler about sex. My dad saw your name in my phone and reached for his shotgun,” You laughed, “Anyway, a book is probably better than drunk hook ups at the lake.”

“Yeah probably,” Dodge nodded, leaning against the bookshelf, and there was a lull in the conversation.

“Oh… did you read it?” You giggled, a flush of red creeping up his neck and ears, “You did!”

“You can’t prove anything,” Dodge shook his head with a half-cocked smile.

“But you could,” You raised your eyebrows and he furrowed his. It was a joke, he knew that, but Dodge steeled his expression and licked his lips.

“Yeah?”

You kept your eyes on his for a long moment before smiling, “Yeah. Prove it.”

You reached out and rested a hand on his stomach. His abs were tight and lean under his button-up shirt.

One by one, you unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, running your hands along the sturdy plane of his stomach and chest.

Conflicting thoughts ran through your head. Heather was like your sister and Natalie had been planning to win Panic for years.

Would fucking Dodge Mason, their competition, be a good idea?

Your judgement was clouded by the heat radiating from his skin and the smattering of hair on his chest. His dual coloured eyes watched your face as you stood before him, admiring him.

“I saw you like this at the jump but not up close,” You rested your hands on his shoulders, biting your lip, “Thank you, saddle bronc.”

Dodge couldn’t fight the smile that spread across his cheeks, as a sputtered laugh escaped his lips.

In one movement, Dodge threw you over his shoulder and deposited you on his bed, kneeling over you.

A soft line of kisses traced along your arm to your shoulder. With every press of his lips, you itched to feel them against yours, whining at the wait.

Pink and plump, his lips pressed to the corner of your mouth before he pulled back to look down at you, stilling hovering over you.

Taking his head in your hands, you craned your neck to kiss him. Each press of his lips had you sighing contently and the swipe of his tongue had you moaning.

Dodge licked into your mouth with fervour, tongue and lips colliding with no precision, only desire.

You hooked your leg over his hips and rolled him onto his back beneath you, straddling his hips.

Dodge instinctively gripped your hips and watched with kiss-bitten lips and doe eyes as you discarded your dress onto his bedroom floor.

“You gonna give me some tips, cowboy?”

Dodge groaned, your hands pressing against his chest, as he slowly guided the rocking of your hips against his.

With every roll of your hips, your tits bounced in the lacy cups of your bra. His eyes flickered between your chest and your pink panties, rubbing against his bulge.

Dodge groaned, tightening his grip on your hips, “Lean forward.”

Following his instructions, a loud moan escaped you at the change in pressure against your clit.

“Good girl, you’re doing so good,” He rumbled, rutting his hips against yours in a perfect rhythm. Warmth bloomed in your chest at his praise.

Thank you, saddle bronc.

His muscles rippled and bulged underneath your hands as the slick between your legs dampened the skin of your inner thighs.

Cupping a hand at the nape of your neck, Dodge guided your mouth to his, kissing you with pinched brows and deep groans. Pulling away from the heated make out and pressing a deep kiss to his lips, you sat up and unbuttoned his jeans.

Dodge lay back, stroking your thighs and watching you with bated breath. Pulling him from his trance, you hooked a finger into the elastic waistband of his boxers, twanging the material against his alabaster skin.

A smile twitched at his lips as he slowly sat up and kissed you softly, rolling you onto your back. Dodge pushed his jeans off and lay between your legs, the hard length of his cock pressing into your inner thigh.

Settling your hands on each other's heated skin, Dodge kissed you deeply and nipped at your bottom lip playfully. His strong arms wrapped around you, his hand palming at the globe of your ass.

Warm and plump lips mouthed at your neck, teeth tugging the strap of your bra from your shoulder and kissing at the newly bare skin. He unhooked your bra, tossing it onto the floor and laving his tongue at your pebbled nipples.

"Please, need you," You whined, clawing at his shoulders. Dodge pressed a final kiss to your chest before sitting on his haunches and pulling your panties down your legs.

With firm hands on your inner thighs, Dodge parted your legs and bit his lip, staring at your dripping sex. You squirmed under his undivided attention, hooking your calf around his waist and pulling him on top of you.

Kissing him deeply, you pushed his boxer briefs down his hips, dragging your nails across his back once his erection sprung free. The wet tip smacked against your heated skin.

Dodge kicked his boxers off and reached into his nightstand, tearing the foil of a condom wrapper with his teeth and rolling the rubber onto his cock.

Caressing his biceps, you watched as he hovered over you and lined himself against your entrance. You hooked a leg around his hip, gasping into his open mouth as he slowly thrust into you.

Dodge's eyes fluttered shut as his hips pressed flush against yours. A ragged breath escaped his lips, tickling the skin of your neck. Dropping his head to your shoulder, Dodge sighed shakily.

"C'mon cowboy," You rolled your hips, "Buck."

Dodge let out a mix of a soft groan and a laugh into your neck, "You feel really good."

A small giggle fell from you, scratching your fingers through his hair. You bucked your hips again and Dodge clamped a hand on your hip, pulling back and rolling his hips against you.

Picking up the pace, Dodge fucked his thick cock against the sensitive spot deep within your cunt. Sloppy wet sounds echoed around the room with each buck of his hips.

Sweat beaded on your skin as the coil within the pit of your stomach tightened. Your nails clawed at the rippling muscles of Dodge's back, his skin slapping against yours.

Groans tumbled from his lips, pressing heated kisses to your skin, silencing your loud moans with his tongue in your mouth.

Digging your heels into his ass, you tightened your legs around his hips, letting him push one against your chest and his cock sinked deeper into you.

A broken gasp escaped you before his hand clamped over your mouth and his hips stopped, pressing his weight onto you.

The sound of footsteps outside his door and the subsequent flicking of light switches and closing doors alerted Dodge to the presence of his mom going to bed.

Dodge met your eyes, willing you to be quiet, as he continued to fuck you. Your brows pinched together as your interrupted pleasure began to build again, noises muffled by his strong hand.

Pressing his forehead to yours, Dodge slowed his pace and you took the opportunity to turn him onto his back, keeping his cock nestled in your cunt.

A surprised grunt tumbled from his chest and his hands groped at your body, holding you against him. You wasted no time before raising your hips and bouncing on his cock.

Dodge moaned and his eyes rolled back, covering his own mouth. A sheen of sweat on his skin glistened in the limited light. Leaning forward, your clit caught against his pubes, igniting a hotter flame within you.

"Good," Dodge praised, brushing your hair out of your face and watching your tits bounce in his face, "Such a good cowgirl."

He tipped his head back further into his plush pillow and his knees bent off the bed, fucking into you, his body pulling taut at the impending release.

"Gonna cum," Dodge rasped, panting and licking his dry lips.

You couldn't form words, only nodding, meeting his eyes and rocking your hips with the uncoordinated buck of his. The band within you was one thread away from snapping before Dodge gripped your jaw and pulled you into a heated kiss.

White hot bliss coursed through your body as you moaned into his mouth. Dodge mouthed at your unresponsive mouth, too preoccupied with moans of pleasure to reciprocate his kisses.

Dodge pulled back to watch your orgasm wash over you before he hit his peak, white ropes of cum filling the condom as he groaned deeply.

Sinking into the mattress, you lay on his sweaty chest, both trying to catch your breath. Dodge discarded the condom in the trash by his bed and pulled you into his side.

His cheeks and neck were rosy with exertion and he ran a hand up and down your back, "You should try saddle bronc."

Fucked out, you laughed into his sweaty chest, "You should keep that book."

Slowly you drifted into a blissful sleep, bodies entwined and satiated.

[dollyswishingwell]

Hello! What about one for mama’s prince or princess where somehow reader hurts herself? maybe needs to go to hospital or be put on bed rest.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Prince P.5

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, angst? i really had to brain storm ideas for reader to be hurt lol

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Mama’s hurt

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It happened fast. You were just in the middle of arranging the massive seashell chandelier in the sunroom, something you and Raf had picked out in one of his whimsically romantic moods, when your darling baby boy toddled in, calling for you in his tiny lisped voice.

“Mamaaa…”

He looked so much like Rafayel it was unfair, those soft purple curls, sleepy blue-pink eyes, and even that lazy little smirk. And like his papa, he had a knack for pulling your attention in the most inconvenient ways.

So when he clung to your leg just as you stepped off the small stool…

Crash.

You don’t remember much after that except the sound of glass, your little one’s startled cry, and pain blooming sharply in your ankle.

Now, you’re on bed rest with a splinted foot, propped up on silken pillows in the center of your marital bed, surrounded by plushies and baby boy curled tightly against your side, clinging to your arm like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth. He hasn’t let go since Raf brought you home from the hospital.

And speaking of Raf,

He’s furious at himself. Pacing the room in a loose robe, wet hair still dripping from the bath he’d barely taken before racing to your side again. His jaw is clenched, the sharp angles of his cheekbones stark in the dim lighting, but his voice is soft as sea foam when he finally settles beside you.

“You’re not supposed to get hurt, pearlie. That’s not in your job description,” he murmurs, carefully adjusting your pillows and smoothing your hair back with trembling fingers. “Your job is to be pretty and pampered. That’s it. That’s it.”

Your baby boy sniffles, his small head nudging into your side. “I sorry Mama… I didn’t mean…”

You coo and pull him into your lap with effort, kissing his curls despite the ache. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mama just got distracted by her two cutest boys.”

Rafayel scoffs softly but leans down to press a kiss to your bandaged foot, then one to your forehead, and finally one to baby boy’s.

“You’re both grounded,” he mutters. “Indefinitely. And I’m wrapping you both in bubble wrap.”

You giggle despite the pain. “You’re the one who bought the chandelier, Raffy.”

“…Shh.” He gently tucks the blanket around you both. “We don’t talk about my bad decisions. Only yours. Like standing up when you could’ve just called me.”

And just like that, you’re back in your estate, tucked in, spoiled, and loved to the moon and back. Even with your foot wrapped up, Raf makes sure you don’t feel anything but adored.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No wild incident, no fall from heights. Just you, in the kitchen, preparing Zayne’s favorite lemon tea, because he’d been working late again, and your sweet baby boy crawling around your feet, giggling every time you turned. You were smiling too, distracted by how adorable he looked in his tiny doctor onesie, a mini Zayne clone with that serious little pout and messy black hair.

But then your foot slid. Water from the kettle you’d just filled had splashed. You didn’t even realize until the sharp pain shot through your wrist as you instinctively caught yourself on the counter.

Your baby boy blinked up at you from the floor with wide hazel-green eyes, and your heart broke, not from the pain, but from the way his lip wobbled.

Zayne had you in the hospital within minutes. He left mid-surgery prep, coat still half-buttoned, his voice calm but terrifyingly cold as he gave orders over the phone to prep imaging for your arm.

Now, you’re home, wrist in a soft cast, on strict bed rest per Doctor Husband’s orders.

And Zayne? Zayne hasn’t left your side. He’s in full overprotective mode, cool, composed, but with a gaze that keeps flickering to your arm like he’s blaming himself for everything.

Your baby boy lays quietly on your chest, fidgeting with the blanket, sniffling every now and then.

“Mama… hurt ‘cause me…” he mumbles.

“Absolutely not,” Zayne says instantly from his seat beside the bed, voice low but firm. “Mama got hurt because I wasn’t there. That’s on me.”

You reach out with your good hand and thread your fingers through his.

“Zaynie, don’t say that…”

He leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple with a tired sigh. “You’re not supposed to be doing anything. Not chores. Not making tea. Not carrying the world while I’m gone. You’re supposed to be spoiled rotten, remember?”

You smile faintly. “I was trying to be sweet.”

“You are,” he murmurs, kissing your wrist just above the cast. “But next time you want to be sweet, you’ll call me and I’ll come running. Understand?”

Your baby boy lets out a big sigh and hugs your tummy, mumbling, “Mama stay in bed forever now…”

Zayne gives a rare, soft chuckle, and shifts onto the bed to cuddle you both, cool palm resting over yours protectively.

“Not forever,” he says quietly. “Just until she’s healed. Then she’s back to being my overly pampered, dangerously distracting wife.”

He kisses your cheek again.

“And I wouldn’t have her any other way.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You weren’t even doing anything particularly wild, just reorganizing the top shelf of your shared closet, humming softly to yourself while your little boy toddled around nearby, dragging one of Xavier’s oversized sweaters like a blankie. He looked exactly like his papa. silver hair, calm blue eyes, and that distant, curious look like he was always thinking about the stars.

“Mama,” he called softly, holding the sweater up toward you. “This one smells like Daddy.”

You turned to answer, smiling, so sweet, so warm, and then your foot slipped.

A sharp thump. The world tilted. A heavy ache bloomed in your side.

The next thing you remember is your son crying, trying to pat your face with his tiny hands while you gasped from the pain, whispering, “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay…”

Xavier was home within ten minutes, the entire top tier of the building in lockdown, a storm of calm silence and lethal precision. He lifted you into his arms so gently it made your eyes well up, not from pain, but from how tenderly he held you, like you were something rare, irreplaceable.

Now you’re in bed, ribs bruised and movement limited. Baby boy is curled into your side, unusually quiet, cheek pressed to your shoulder like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

Xavier sits nearby, pale hair slightly tousled, fingers steepled in front of his lips. His eyes are fixed on you both like he’s trying to memorize every breath you take.

“You should never have been standing on anything, my love,” he finally says, voice low and steady, but there’s that unmistakable tightness, his quiet, haunted guilt. “You should’ve called me. You know I would’ve come.”

“I know,” you whisper, brushing your son’s hair gently. “But I didn’t think, he just wanted to show me your sweater…”

Xavier rises slowly, moves to your side, and kneels so his face is level with yours and baby boy’s.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then gently kisses your son’s forehead too.

“It’s not your fault, little one,” he says softly to him. “It’s mine. I wasn’t here. That won’t happen again.”

“Xav…”

He cups your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye.

“You’re everything to me. You and him. There’s no universe where I let either of you get hurt again.”

Then, in a rare act of vulnerability, he climbs into bed with both of you, curling around your side like a protective shield, one hand lightly covering your stomach, the other stroking his son’s back.

The three of you lie there in silence, safe in your quiet cocoon, Xavier’s breath warm against your neck, baby boy’s hand curled around your shirt, and you in the middle, where you’ve always belonged.

“I’ll stay like this until you’re better,” he murmurs. “Longer, if you want.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You were trying to be good. Really, you were. Sylus had warned you, sternly, not to touch the upstairs gallery until his private curator arrived. Something about new sculptures being too heavy to move. But your inner perfectionist itched, especially with your little boy toddling around proudly in a mini black turtleneck and slacks like his papa, holding a clipboard made of cardboard and pretending to inspect the art.

“Mama,” he said, puffing his cheeks like a tiny executive, “that’s not where the flower statue goes.”

You laughed and followed his lead, adjusting one of the smaller pedestals.

Then you tried to lift the marble vase.

Crack.

Your knee gave out under the weight, sending you down hard. A sharp yelp escaped you, echoing off the vaulted ceiling, and your baby boy’s clipboard clattered as he scrambled over to you in panic.

By the time Sylus arrived, you were on the floor clutching your leg, your son sobbing into your side, and your voice strained as you tried to calm him. The expression on Sylus’s face was the kind that made grown men beg for mercy, but when he reached you, it was all wiped away, replaced by something far more dangerous:

Pure fear.

Now you’re in bed, leg elevated and wrapped, his most trusted personal doctor on standby downstairs. Your little boy lies beside you, curled up against your good leg like a baby cat, sniffling every few seconds.

Sylus stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, red eyes dark with a smoldering intensity.

“You,” he finally says, voice low and dry, “are banned from every room above the ground floor until further notice. And he, ” he points to your son, who flinches, “—is no longer allowed to give artistic direction without adult supervision.”

“S-sorry, Daddy…” the little boy mumbles tearfully.

Your hand reaches out to rub his back. “No, baby, you didn’t do anything wrong, Mama just didn’t listen to Papa.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Finally, some honesty.”

You pout at him. He moves closer.

The teasing tone fades as he kneels beside the bed and rests his forehead against your blanketed leg, brushing a kiss to your shin.

“I should’ve locked the damn gallery. You never listen when you get into decorating mode,” he mutters, voice almost too soft to catch.

Then his eyes flick up to you, and he reaches out to caress your cheek with a gloved hand.

“Next time you want to move something, you wait for me. Understand, kitty?”

You nod slowly. He leans in, kisses your nose, then kisses your son’s forehead.

“Daddy will fix it,” he whispers to both of you, curling onto the bed with that feline grace of his, gathering you into his arms.

“You just focus on being pretty and fragile and impossibly mine. I’ll take care of everything else.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

It was just a moment, barely a blink.

You were in the solarium, watering the wall of rare blooming vines Caleb had gifted you from his Farspace expeditions. Your little boy was nearby, dressed in his miniature Skyhaven cadet jacket, toddling after a stray butterfly that had wandered inside through the open glass doors.

“Mama! Look!”

You turned instinctively, smiling, he looked so much like Caleb it was unfair. That dark brown hair, those star-bright purple eyes, and even the same stubborn set to his jaw. But in that split-second glance, your foot twisted awkwardly on the garden step. You tried to catch yourself, but your shoulder took the full impact against the stone tile

Your baby boy was at your side in seconds, big eyes filling with tears. “Mama, Mama, owie?! Mama—!”

And then Caleb’s voice, sharp through the comm link, demanding to know why the med sensors in the solarium had activated.

He was home within ten minutes.

Now you’re tucked in bed, arm in a sling, with your little boy curled tightly into your uninjured side. He hasn’t stopped clinging to you since, little hands fisting in your robe like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Caleb sits beside the bed, still in his uniform, gloves off, medals forgotten. He’s cleaning a tiny scrape on your knee with the same precision he’d use to defuse a bomb, jaw tight, expression unreadable, eyes darting between your face and every bandaged spot like it physically pains him to see you hurt.

“This was preventable,” he finally mutters, voice low and sharp with guilt. “I told them to install railings. Why weren’t they installed yet?”

“Caleb, baby… it’s not anyone’s fault,” you murmur. “He just got excited. I got distracted. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he snaps, then pauses, breathes, his tone softening instantly as your son sniffles into your chest.

Caleb rises, leans over the bed, and cups your cheek with a rare gentleness.

“You’re everything to me. Both of you. You’re not supposed to fall, or bleed, or even flinch. I’ll have the solarium redone. Safer. Padded if I have to.”

“Ca—”

He hushes you with a kiss to your forehead, then one to your son’s head. “No more guilt. You protect our boy. I protect you.”

Then he pulls a blanket over all three of you and slides into bed, his body curling behind yours protectively, arm wrapped around your waist.

“From now on,” he whispers, breath warm against your ear, “you don’t lift a single finger without me watching.”

And true to his word, you don’t.

He becomes your shadow, protective, possessive, and maddeningly tender, because in Caleb’s world, his wife and baby are sacred.

[inkfal]

Albatrio designs for The Black Sea! I messed them up more than usual whilst also trying to find a way I’m happy drawing them.

[WARNING: DESIGN RANT AHEAD, RUN WHILE YOU CAN]

JAY:

-Wanted to include a nod to her fire hair in eps #53 by making the ends of her hair flame like! Also started headcanoning that her hair glows when she uses magic, and scorches/blackens when she’s badly wounded or stresses (AKA: all the time in the Black Sea)

-Green feather in her hair is meant for Gillion, and the blackened one was originally red for chip, but burned after he died.

-Also headcanoning that her wounds glow when she first gets them, but then blacken like a burn when it heals before fading.

-Gave her smoke tattoos because why not

-Gold wings on her jacket

-Goggles for when she’s flying fast high up, or when she’s tinkering on things

CHIP:

-ohh chip my son, I wanted his design MESSED UP

-Roses on his bandana and on his jacket

- Black veins up his neck and on his forehead

-His bones are pulling against his skin and he is hauntingly frail-looking. And one of his eyes has completely sunken into his skull.

-Flaky skin everywhere, bones sticking out all over the place. He probably started dressing more modest after he started getting really disgusting to catch the breaking bits.

-Keeps the FNC ring on a necklace because his hands are just bone

-Tattoos are warped and ashy

GILLION:

-I’m still not happy with his colours, they might change later because I CANT DRAW HIM CONSISTENTLY FOR THE LIFE OF ME

-Bandages all over from eps #114, bro is the 2nd Riptide pirate to lose his skin.

-Waves in his hair like foam because pretty

-The little scale marks under his eyes and on his arms are bioluminescent and bleed a different glowing colour than his normal blood.

-Not shown here but his fins on his tail are tattered

-Stars on his cape and the moon cycle on his armour for Lunadayius (or however the hell you spell her name)

-Lightning scars because Grizzly loves tossing lightning bolts at Gillion like darts

-Still wears the FNC ring on a chain under his armour because it rubs against the new wounds on his hands.

I think I’m pretty satisfied with Chip and Jays design. But Gillion tidestrider is a challenge for another day lmao

[girlkisser13]

clara bow

"you look like percy jackson" "in this light, we're loving it" "you've got edge he never did" "the future's bright, dazzling"

pairings: percy jackson x fem!reader

warnings/tags: none. purely fluff. dad percy.

summary: your daughter looks just like her father.

the sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the sandy shores of montauk beach. percy jackson, now in his mid-twenties, stretched out on a towel, enjoying the peaceful sound of the waves crashing against the shore. you lay beside him, watching your four-year-old daughter as she ran along the water's edge, her laughter mingling with the sea breeze.

"she's got your energy," you remarked with a smile, glancing at percy. his dark hair, tousled by the wind, and his sea-green eyes were mirrored in your daughter. her curls bounced as she chased after the foam, her excitement palpable.

"yeah," percy replied, his voice filled with pride. "and your curiosity. look at her go. she's like a little explorer."

you watched your daughter with a mix of amusement and nostalgia. the way she fearlessly dove into the waves, her little feet leaving imprints in the wet sand, reminded you so much of percy when the two of you first met. he had the same fearless nature, the same insatiable curiosity about the world around him.

"do you remember the first time we came here together?" you asked, your voice softening as you looked at percy. "you were so determined to show me how to surf, even though the waves were huge."

he chuckled, recalling the memory. "i remember. you wiped out spectacularly, but you got right back up. that’s one of the things i love about you, y/n. you're as stubborn as i am."

you laughed, leaning your head against percy's shoulder. "and now our daughter has inherited that stubbornness. but you know, she has something else, too."

he raised an eyebrow, curious. "oh? what's that?"

"an edge," you said, your eyes twinkling. "she's got this… determination, this drive, that goes beyond what either of us had at her age. she's not just fearless; she's fearless and focused. it’s like she knows exactly what she wants and won't stop until she gets it."

percy watched as his daughter stood on a small sand dune, her eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for something only she could see. "yeah, i see it too," he admitted. "she's got this fire in her. It's amazing."

you smiled, feeling a swell of pride. "that's your influence, percy. but she also has my patience, my ability to think things through. she’s a perfect blend of us both, with her own unique spark."

he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. "we make a pretty great team, don’t we?"

you nodded, resting your head on his chest. "we do. and we’re raising an incredible daughter. she's going to do amazing things."

as the two of you watched your daughter build a sandcastle with unwavering determination, you felt a deep sense of contentment. your journey together had been filled with challenges and triumphs, and now, watching your daughter thrive, you knew that every moment had been worth it.

"hey, y/d/n!" percy called out. "come show us your castle!"

she turned, her face lighting up with a bright smile. she ran towards the both of you, her small hands covered in sand. "look, mommy! daddy! it's a castle for the mermaids!"

as your daughter continued to describe the intricate details of her mermaid castle, you and percy exchanged a tender glance, your hearts swelling with love and pride. the sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the beach and turning the waves into sparkling gems.

percy, still holding you close, leaned in and whispered, "so, what do you think? want to make another one?"

you looked up at him, your eyes wide with surprise and amusement. "another castle?" you teased, knowing full well what he meant.

percy laughed, shaking his head. "you know what i mean. another little jackson running around, making sandcastles and chasing waves."

you pretended to ponder the idea, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "hmm, well, y/d/n is pretty amazing... maybe another one wouldn’t be so bad."

percy grinned, leaning down to plant a soft kiss to your lips. "i think we’d make another pretty great team project."

you swatted him lightly on the shoulder, "you did not just call our daughter a project!"

you both laughed as your daughter came running back to the two of you, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "what’s so funny?"

"nothing, sweetheart," you said, scooping her up into your arms. "just talking about how much we love you."

she giggled, wrapping her arms around your neck. "i love you too, mommy. and you, daddy."

as the three of you made your way back to your beach blanket, the sun setting behind you, you and percy knew that whatever the future held, the both of you would face it together, your hearts forever intertwined by the love of your little family.

"maybe one day," percy murmured to you as you watched your daughter settle down with her favorite blanket, the waves lulling her to sleep.

"maybe," you agreed, squeezing his hand. "but for now, this is perfect."

and with that, the two of you sat together, watching the stars emerge in the night sky, your hearts full of love and gratitude for the life you had built together.

[laurasimonsdaughter]

A flock of seagulls screeched overhead, providing very unwanted backing vocals to the screaming of the flailing young man that was currently being hauled towards the shore by a particularly ill-tempered selkie.

“Seabed below, could you please cooperate!” she snapped, beating her tail against the waves. “I am trying to help you!” It was hard enough to swim half transformed like this, let alone having to use both arms to keep hold of this panicking idiot.

At long last she reached shallower waters. Shallow enough at least, to safely let go of the human.

“There!” she cried, heaving him in the general direction of the beach. “Get yourself ashore!

He flailed some more for a few moments, screaming his head off and thrashing in the shallow water, until he realised he could stand and began wading frantically to the shore.

The selkie watched him go with exasperation. “You’re welcome,” she barked after him, and then pulled her pelt back up over her head and dove back into the waves.

She did not show her human face again until she had reached her favourite rock. A nice, big, flat one, that rose just above sea level. Arms were helpful in pulling yourself out of the water. The selkie flopped comfortably on her stomach, her lower half still in the foamy water, determined to still enjoy at least something of the early morning. It had been such a nice morning, before all the screaming, with the wisps of mist that drew from the sea towards the shore only barely dissolving.

It was not to be, however. She had barely folded her suntanned arms under her head, or an annoyingly familiar shape came through the faint haze of the last morning mist. A black mare, the gate of her hooves as smooth as poetry and her manes dark like the night. Kicking up and trampling pebbles under gleaming black hooves the horse charged across the beach and straight into the water. The selkie watched the proud head disappear beneath the waves with narrowed eyes. A moment later there was a splash of water beside her rock and two pale hands gripped its slick edge.

The selkie met the sea-green eyes of the transforming kelpie with a scowl. In the grey light of morning her skin seemed almost silvery, but she knew the lighting didn't matter, her frustrating kelpie companion always looked equally and annoyingly beautiful.

“I swear, if I have to rescue one more of your stupid victims—” she growled.

“Good morning to you too,” the kelpie tutted, arranging herself on the rock with an effortless grace the selkie felt she never possessed while she had human limbs.

“I mean it,” she snapped. “That was the third one this week!”

She was sick and tired of it. You’d think humans would eventually learn, but they never did. There was always someone stupid enough to mistake the kelpie for a normal horse and anyone foolish enough to climb onto her back got galloped straight into the sea. She didn’t actually hurt them, she just left them to splash around, but only very few of them managed to swim back to the shore on their own. Most of them needed help. Help that usually took the form of a very annoyed selkie.

The kelpie grinned, teeth gleaming in the pale light of morning. “You don’t have to rescue them.”

“I like my sea free of screaming humans, thanks,” the selkie grunted. “Seriously. Can’t you give it a rest for a while?”

“I would, but they make it so easy,” the kelpie grinned. “Besides, if I stop, who knows how long I’d have to wait for you to come and chat to me again…” She winked and slid off the rock back into the water. The silky ripple of the kelpie’s long, black hair fanned out wide and seemed to stain her skin until a moment later a beautiful black horse raised her head up above the water.

The selkie gave a furious scoff, jumping out of her pelt in order to stand up, tracking the dark shape in the water with her eyes. “You came to see me!” she yelled after the equine form galloping triumphantly into the sea foam. “You always do!”

There was no reply. Just a distinctive kelpie laugh, sounding loud and neighing across the waves.

[the-nerdy-libra]

Ἀφροδίτη, βασίλεια κάλλους, θεὰ ἔρωτος καὶ πολέμου

Aphrodite, Queen of Beauty and Goddess of Love.

She is the goddess of Love, Beauty, Fertility, Pleasure, Sexuality, Marriage, Sea and Maritime Protection Harmony, War, Victory, Healing, Transformation, Nature, Creation and Mysticism.

Her symbols are Doves, Sparrows, Swans, Roses, Myrtle, Seashells, Pearls, Mirrors, Girdles or Belts, Apples, Swan Chariots, Eros' Arrows, Planet Venus, Foam of the Sea and Golden Light.

Notable sites of Worship

In Cyprus, Paphos was home to one of her most ancient and famous sanctuaries, possibly linked to her birthplace. Amathus was the centre for the worship of Aphrodite in her fertility aspects, and Kouklia was another site with strong ties to her cult and ancient rituals.

The island of Cythera was considered her mythological birthplace and housed sacred spaces dedicated to her.

Corinth was renowned for its temple of Aphrodite and the practice of sacred prostitution as part of her worship.

In Athens there were the Acropolis Temples dedicated to Aphrodite Pandemos and Aphrodite Ourania, as well as the Demosion Sema, the public cemetery, which honoured her as a goddess of civic harmony.

Sparta venerated Aphrodite Areia as a protector in battle.

The island of Delos featured a sanctuary dedicated to Aphrodite, alongside other major deities.

Thebes was important for the worship of Aphrodite, particularly in connection with her role in love and beauty.

Mount Eryx was an essential sanctuary for Aphrodite in her role as a fertility goddess.

Aphrodisias was a city named after her, with a grand temple dedicated to her worship.

In Magna Graecia, then later as Venus in Rome, her worship continued and merged with Roman cultural practices.

Epithets

Aphrodite Ourania, Representing spiritual and celestial love.

Aphrodite Pandemos, Goddess of common, earthly love and civic unity.

Aphrodite Philommeides, “Laughter-loving,” associated with joy and charm.

Aphrodite Kallipygos, “Of the beautiful buttocks,” celebrating physical beauty.

Aphrodite Genetrix, “Mother,” emphasizing fertility and motherhood.

Aphrodite Praxis, Associated with the practical aspects of love and relationships.

Aphrodite Epistrophia, “She who turns to love,” guiding affection and attraction.

Aphrodite Anadyomene, “Rising from the sea,” reflecting her birth.

Aphrodite Pontia, “Of the sea,” protector of sailors and maritime journeys.

Aphrodite Euploia, “Of smooth sailing,” ensuring safe sea travel.

Aphrodite Areia, “The Warlike,” associated with war and protection.

Aphrodite Nikephoros, “Bringer of victory,” tied to success and triumph.

Aphrodite Androphonos, “Killer of men,” highlighting her paradoxical role in love and destruction.

Aphrodite Antheia, “Flower goddess,” linked to blooming nature and gardens.

Aphrodite Melainis, “Black Aphrodite,” associated with the chthonic or underworld aspects.

Aphrodite Ambologera, “Delayer of old age,” granting beauty and youth.

Aphrodite Peitho, “Persuasion,” influencing harmony in relationships.

Aphrodite Limenia, “Of the harbor,” ensuring safety in ports and harbors.

Aphrodite Areia Pandemos, Civic love linked with wartime unity.

Aphrodite Morphou, “Shaper of form,” tied to transformation and beauty.

Aphrodite Urania Kourotrophos, “Heavenly nurse of youth,” nurturing life and vitality.

Worship and Practices

Rituals included offerings of flowers, incense and perfumes as well as libations and the sacrifice of animals such as doves and goats.

The Aphrodisia festival was celebrated annually in many Greek cities, particularly in Cyprus, involving rituals of purification, processions, and sacrifices.

The practice of sacred prostitution, particularly in places like Corinth, was a controversial yet integral aspect of her worship in some areas, symbolizing devotion and fertility.

Modern Practices

Personal altars are adorned with symbols of Aphrodite such as seashells, roses, mirrors, and candles in colours like pink, red, or seafoam green, serving as sacred spaces for prayer and offerings.

Common offerings include flowers (especially roses), perfumes, honey, milk, wine, and items symbolizing beauty or love, such as jewelry or makeup.

Practicing also involves meditating on her attributes and visualizing her presence to foster a deeper connection.

Worship often takes place near bodies of water, such as beaches or rivers, to honor her connection to the sea. Gardens and flower-filled spaces are also favored. Devotees also set up altars in private, serene locations within their homes.

Many worshippers focus on Aphrodite's role in fostering self-love, confidence, and personal empowerment. Modern worship also emphasises Aphrodite's acceptance of all genders, sexualities, and identities, reflecting her universal appeal. Devotees may also honor her through artistic expressions, such as painting, poetry, or dance, celebrating beauty and creativity.

Aphrodisia

The Aphrodisia festival is typically celebrated during the ancient Greek month of Hekatombaion, which corresponds to July and August in the Gregorian calendar. However, the exact dates can vary among practitioners:

Some choose specific days, such as July 13-15 or July 27-30, based on historical references. Others align the festival with the lunar calendar, celebrating it on the fourth day of Hekatombaion, which is sacred to Aphrodite.

Cleansing rituals are performed to prepare sacred spaces, often using water, incense, and/or symbolic items like rose petals.

Devotees present flowers, perfumes, honey, wine, and other items associated with Aphrodite. Unique offerings like phallic-shaped bread or salt may also be included, echoing ancient Cypriot practices.

Statues or representations of Aphrodite are carried in processions, accompanied by hymns and prayers.

Celebrations often include communal meals, fostering unity and joy.

Artistic expressions such as poetry, music, and dance dedicated to Aphrodite are common, emphasizing creativity and beauty.

The Aphrodisia serves as a time to honour Aphrodite's domains of love, beauty, and fertility, while also promoting self-love and empowerment.

Personal Notes

Aphrodite is many things to me. She has been calling to me since at least 2008 and I, stupidly, did not recognise this until around August 2023. In my time working with her however, through meditation and personal prayer, I have come to see her as my main patron and guide.

She is a teacher and advisor, guiding me towards a self love that I never truly had, teaching me to be fine with how I am yet to improve as I wish because it's what I want for myself, as opposed to some vapid desire to be more attractive to others. She is patient, kind, loving (naturally) and honestly? She is the mother I never had, or rather, the mother I wish I had. She does not judge me for my preferences nor my appearance, she does not hold me to an impossible standard or see me as a failure. She sees me for who I am and, rather than finding me wanting, accepts me as I am and aids me in bettering myself for my own benefit and no one else's.

She also acts as a guardian, not just a guide. There have been many times lately I have felt overwhelmed emotionally and yet, simply following breathing exercises and focusing upon Her washes those worries and fears, the pain and doubt, all of it away with the feeling of a gentle hug and the sound of waves lapping the shores. She has also helped me learn to find confidence in myself and gather the determination to do what I must in life. To me, this is simply proof that no matter the refusal of her status, She remains a fierce warrior goddess.

It's certainly..interesting, being a man and worshipping Her. I don't think I have ever actually met or heard of another who does as, understandably, She typically attracts women to Her. I would like to say though that there's no shame at all for a man who does and anyone who says otherwise is deeply insecure about themselves in my no-longer-so-humble opinion.

Aphrodite is not just the Goddess of Romantic love; she is love in all its forms. She is a true Libra in that sense as she becomes what it is you need of Her. A mother, friend, guardian, protector, teacher or a mix of all the above and so much more.

Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite

Heav'nly, illustrious, laughter-loving queen,

sea-born, night-loving, of an awful mien;

Crafty, from whom necessity first came,

producing, nightly, all-connecting dame:

'Tis thine the world with harmony to join,

for all things spring from thee, O pow'r divine.

The triple Fates are rul'd by thy decree,

and all productions yield alike to thee:

Whate'er the heav'ns, encircling all contain,

earth fruit-producing, and the stormy main,

Thy sway confesses, and obeys thy nod,

awful attendant of the brumal God

Goddess of marriage, charming to the sight, mother of Loves

whom banquetings delight;

Source of persuasion secret, fav'ring queen,

illustrious born, apparent and unseen:

Spousal, lupercal, and to men inclin'd,

prolific, most-desir'd, life-giving., kind:

Great sceptre-bearer of the Gods,

'tis thine, mortals in necessary bands to join;

And ev'ry tribe of savage monsters dire

in magic chains to bind, thro' mad desire.

Come, Cyprus-born, and to my pray'r incline,

whether exalted in the heav'ns you shine,

Or pleas'd in Syria's temple to preside,

or o'er th' Egyptian plains thy car to guide,

Fashion'd of gold; and near its sacred flood,

fertile and fam'd to fix thy blest abode;

Or if rejoicing in the azure shores,

near where the sea with foaming billows roars,

The circling choirs of mortals, thy delight,

or beauteous nymphs, with eyes cerulean bright,

Pleas'd by the dusty banks renown'd of old,

to drive thy rapid, two-yok'd car of gold;

Or if in Cyprus with thy mother fair,

where married females praise thee ev'ry year,

And beauteous virgins in the chorus join,

Adonis pure to sing and thee divine;

Come, all-attractive to my pray'r inclin'd, for thee,

I call, with holy, reverent mind.

[elleaitch22]

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 11: Built Soft, Held Firm

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: School is finally out, so I have the freedom to write more! Is this too much of a slow burn for y'all? It should be picking up heat in the next couple chapters. Anywho, the last scene was written when I was very much not sober, so ignore errors pls&thx. As always, I hope you love it! xx Elle

Warnings: Trauma responses, trauma, reference to past abuse

Word Count: 3.7k words

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On Sunday, Azzi woke up to a text saying that Paige and Soleil were having brunch, and that she was welcome to come if she wanted.

She rode up to the penthouse and was greeted with a wet kiss on her cheek and sticky hands around her neck. “G’mowning, Azzi!”

“Good morning, Lei! Did you have nice dreams?” Azzi replied, toting her to the kitchen.

“Yes! Mommy gotted me a unicown and she had wainbow haiw and glittew!”

Azzi gasped and giggled as Soleil continued her dream. Then she reached the kitchen.

She paused, face heating. Paige was standing at the stove in a tank top that had ridden up a little, giving Azzi the perfect view of the band of her boxers and a sliver of skin. She wore sea foam green sweats, looking like a picture of comfort.

“Hey, Az. I hope you got good sleep last night.” Paige said, turning towards the pair.

Azzi’s brow furrowed. She hadn’t slept well, and she didn’t know how Paige was going to react when she told her. “Um, I couldn’t stay asleep, so not great. What about you?”

Paige nodded. “That’s okay, hopefully we can have time for a group nap. I woke up a few times last night too.”

“We take a nap in the fowt?!” Soleil exclaimed.

“That sounds like the best idea, Sunshine,” Paige smiled, “Is that okay with you?”

A shy smile and a nod, Paige was being so understanding. It made Azzi a little anxious, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but she tried to tell her brain that the blonde was safe and trustworthy. “I love a good fort nap.”

“Can you get a couple of glasses down while I finish cooking the eggs?” Paige asked over her shoulder.

Azzi put Soleil down and moved further into the room. She reached into the cabinet the same time Paige reached for the salt and pepper, holding back a gasp when their hands brushed.

She placed the glasses on the table and waited for instructions.

“Thank you, Azzi. Do you want to drink a glass of water before you have coffee or tea?” She could hear the suggestion and relaxed at the lack of command.

She did what was asked of her and waited, fidgeting with the hem of her pajama shorts.

I should’ve put on real clothes before I came over. Azzi thought to herself. Well, Paige is in comfy clothes and Soleil is in a Princess and the Frog nightgown, it’s probably fine.

Azzi didn’t notice her breathing start to come a bit quicker, but Paige did.

“What are you feeling right now?” Azzi didn’t answer. “Are you sad?” Head shook. “Nervous?” A hesitation, then head shook. “Anxious?” A nod. “Can you tell me why you’re anxious?”

Azzi tossed a look at Soleil, not wanting the little girl to hear her struggles. She was occupied with watching Miss Rachel on the purple iPad. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, and that makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong. And I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop with you.”

“Oh,” Paige started. “Maybe we should table this until Soleil’s asleep.”

Brown eyes focused on the wood grain of the table.

“I’m not mad! I just think it might take time to talk, and I want to give you all of my attention instead of splitting between the two of you.” The blonde rushed to add.

The tension in Azzi’s shoulders melted a bit, disappearing when wavy brown hair and blue eyes popped into her face.

“Azzi,” she pouted. “I wanna sit with you.” Azzi opened her arms, and Soleil whined. “But I wanna sit with Mommy too.”

“Hmph” Azzi sighed, pensive. “What if we made a fort in the living room and ate there?” She questioned, turning to Paige.

Soleil let out a loud whoop. “That’s a good idea, Az. Lei, why don’t you get the blankets. I’ll bring the food, and you can move the couch cushions to the floor, Azzi.”

Before Azzi reached the living room, Soleil had already found three chunky blankets to use in their fort. She pushed the coffee table into Soleil’s art corner and shoved two ottomans out of the way. The couch cushions were thrown to the floor when Paige entered. Azzi couldn’t see her, but she felt blue eyes tracking her movements across the space.

Soon, their plates were on the coffee table, four stuffies were perched on the blankets, and pillows had joined the chaos. Paige walked up silently, rolling her sleeves up. Her face was attractively focused as she spent ten minutes constructing.

Azzi smiled, happy with how serious Paige seemed to be taking the task. “This is probably the most engineered and well-structured pillow fort I’ve ever seen.”

“My girl deserves the best,” Paige shrugged, grin wide across her face.

The three of them sat on the floor by the coffee table, Soleil deciding she didn’t want eggs in her fort. She went back and forth between the two women with every bite she took.

After she’s had enough the little one squeals and scrambles to the pillow paradise. “C’mon! Can you wead with me?”

The curly headed woman chugged the rest of her tea and crawled under the blanket, gasping at the constellation of fairy lights twinkling in blanket seams.

She turned to the blonde responsible. “You staying out there, or you coming in with us?”

Paige’s eyes darted between the beautiful pair in the fort and the cold, silver MacBook on the couch. Her arm shot out to grab her computer before she ducked into the cozy space.

“Wead this one fiwst,” Soleil held A Family Is a Family Is a Family, crawling into Azzi’s lap. “But we have to be quiet so Mommy can work.”

Azzi smiled, happy to read the book about different kinds of families. She opened this book and began reading in her slow, warm tone.

She gave Soleil chances to interject.

“I think I look like me, but I look like Mommy when she was little.”

And “I only have one mommy like her!”

Paige smiled at her comments, resting her back against the sofa.

When Azzi read the final line – And each family is the right kind of family – Paige smiled softly, part love for Soleil, part longing for Azzi. Soleil clapped and quickly placed another book in Azzi’s waiting hands.

Love Makes a Family was one of Soleil’s favorite books. Azzi’s too; it told children the only important thing in a family is love. It made her heart ache in desire.

Love is lending a helping hand. “Like when you and Mommy maked bweakfast!”

Love is making things better again. “Like when you hugged me after they sayed mean things about ouw family.”

Love is reading one more book. “Mommy always weads me mowe books!”

Love is chasing monsters. “Mommy chase the monstews befowe bed so I’m not scawed.”

Paige’s eyes flicked to Azzi’s several times. Neither of them spoke, but something passed between them. Something soft, sweet, and real.

After they finished the second book, Soleil crawled to her mom. “Now a movie. With snacks. And cuddles.”

Paige put her MacBook away and brought her daughter to her chest while Azzi crawled out of the fort.

“You two pick a movie, and I’ll get a couple snacks.” She threw over her shoulder.

Frozen II was just getting started when she came back with a tray of apple slices, peanut butter, celery, and yogurt covered pretzels.

“Azzi, come cuddle too,” Soleil whined, adorable pout on her face.

The girl smiled as her body became squished between Paige and Azzi’s. The blonde’s hand hesitantly reached over, landing softly on Azzi’s side. Her eyes met brown ones, silently asking is this okay? Azzi gave a small smile and nod, turning to one of her favorite movies.

The trio didn’t make it to the sister’s venturing into the forest before they’re all sleep. Safe and happy.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi woke to a blank tv screen and a foot to the ribs. Her eyes trailed the leg to a precious face buried in her mother’s stomach.

Her gaze continued upward until it landed on the one holding the child.

Paige’s face could be harsh. Absolutely beautiful, but harsh. Her angular cheekbones and sharp jawline could be intimidating based on the lighting. And when she glared with her brows furrowed, she was downright terrifying. But when she’s asleep, the angles soften and she looks younger, more innocent. With her hair fanned out like a halo, Paige looked like the closest thing to an angel Azzi had ever seen.

Azzi gave herself five more seconds to trace the slope of her nose and the color of her lips before she got up to be productive.

She carried the snack tray and brunch dishes back into the kitchen, deciding to wash them by hand, give herself time to think.

She still didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing, what Paige expected of her. And that made her anxious. She didn’t know how Paige would react when Azzi eventually disappointed her.

It made her want to bolt. To leave the city.

Then

Soleil

The girl had latched onto Azzi quickly and deeply. And Azzi had done the same. In her three years of teaching, Azzi had never felt so attached to a child before. Obviously Soleil was a special case, but even before the agreement, Soleil had filled the void left by her family.

Her mind wandered more.

Her family. Maybe she could reach out to them again.

Tim and Katie were amazing and supportive; they would probably welcome her back with open arms. But they lived in Virginia. Would Azzi be able to give up her new family for her family of origin? Would they even want to know her after everything that she’d done?

A soft tap broke Azzi from her trance.

“You’ve been washing the same fork for the last thirty seconds. What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Paige smiled.

Azzi felt her cheeks heat at the words, “Was just thinking about what you asked me earlier.”

The older woman nodded, reaching over to turn off the tap. “We should sit if we’re going to talk about this.”

Azzi dried her hands on her oversized t-shirt, following the blonde back to the living room. They dropped onto the couch, far enough to speak without waking Soleil, but close enough to hear when she stirred.

She nervously picked at a loose thread on her pajama shorts.

“I’m not upset, Azzi. You’re allowed to feel anxious. I just want to help you figure out how to feel safe.” Paige said gently.

Azzi pushed her shoulders back, calming herself. “There’s just too much. Too many options. Too many unknowns. I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t know what’s gonna happen when I make you upset. It’s just too much.” She said quietly, staring at a speck on the floor. “It feels like you’re watching me, waiting for me to mess up. And I know you aren’t, I know you aren’t like that, but it really makes me anxious.”

Paige waited a few seconds, “That makes sense. I’m sorry I didn’t think of that.” She paused, shifted on the couch. “Do you think rules might help? So you know what you should be doing?”

Azzi looked up, head tilted to the side as she thought. Rules and expectations. She could follow those if she knew what they were. “I don’t know. What happens if I break a rule?”

“I don’t know, maybe we could talk about it. What your headspace was and why you broke the rule. It doesn’t have to be anything crazy, but we would just need to talk about it and if anything needed to change.”

The brunette nodded.

“If you don’t want to do rules, we can get you a therapist. It doesn’t have to be Kyrie, but having someone to talk to might help?” Paige offered.

Azzi shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve been to therapy before and all I got from it was I’m hard to love. That I struggle in relationships because of my anxiety, PTSD, and fearful-avoidant attachment style.” She gulped. “And I know all therapists aren’t like that, but I don’t want to try to find a new one right now. I’d rather try the rules; I’m just a little nervous.”

“The rules won’t be to trap you, Azzi. It’s just so you have structure, rhythm to keep you feeling safe and secure.” She moved closer, placing her hand on the tanned knee. “I know we’re both…new to this, but the other shoe isn’t coming. Nothing’s going to drop.”

“I’m scared,” she breathed. “I know what all this means. I know I’ll have to let you in. But the last time I did that; he hurt me for years. And even if you don’t hurt me, I know I’ll disappoint you eventually. What if it’s not worth it?”

Paige cupped her cheek softly. “You’re worth it. Anything that you do, it’ll be worth it, I promise.” She swallowed. “Just – just let me take some of it. Let me take care of it. Just let me know what you’re feeling and let me carry it. You’re not alone anymore; you don’t have to do it alone.”

Azzi exhaled, melting into Paige’s hold. Eyes fluttered closed, “Okay.” She started. “I’m trying to trust you. I’m trying to believe you. Thank you.”

“Do you want to make the rules now? Are you in a good headspace for that?” Paige questioned quietly.

“I’m okay,” She replied with a nod.

They go over rules the same way they went over their agreement. Paige led, and Azzi agreed and offered suggestions.

“I’ll write a plan, or a list of things you need to do every day. Your first rule is to try to do everything on the list.”

“Try?” Azzi questioned.

“Try. There may be days where you can’t do everything, but I care more about you making the effort than getting everything perfect.”

Azzi nodded, and they moved to the next one.

“If you don’t know what to do, ask.” A nod.

“You can say pause whenever you feel overwhelmed.” Furrowed brow. “You can always ask for a break, a time to breathe.” A nod.

“One meal with us every day.” A small smile and nod.

“At least ten minutes doing something for you every day. It can be reading, or going for a walk, or going to get your hair or nails done. Something.”

“Why?” Azzi questioned.

“You have to pour into yourself, Azzi. I need you to know it’s okay to prioritize yourself and that you’re allowed to serve yourself and no one else.”

Brow furrowed again. “Okay. I think I understand.” She nodded slowly.

“You journal every day. Just dump everything from your mind so you aren’t thinking about it all day. I won’t read it unless you ask me to. You can use a sticky note or something if you want.” A slow nod.

“This rule is the most important.” Paige said. “No disappearing.” She said firmly. “If you need space, if you need a break, let me know. Soleil is depending on you; you can’t ghost her.”

“I – I love her. I would never do that to her.” Azzi whispers, looking to the fort where the girl was snuggled deep in blankets.

Paige followed her gaze. “Do you want rules about Soleil too?”

Azzi nodded slowly.

“Soleil’s comfort comes first. Even if you’re pissed at me, wait until she’s not in the middle. She’s an empath, she’ll pick up on it and be confused.” Another nod.

“You do a bedtime story with her when she asks.” A smile and nod.

“We do one family thing together every week. And we take turns choosing. Soleil, then you, then me.”

“That sounds good.” Azzi said slowly, thinking through all of the rules. “Can I add some?” She questions hesitantly.

The smile Paige gives her is brighter than the sun. “Of course you can.”

“Okay,” Azzi gives a matching smile. “If I do something wrong, please explain and tell me kindly. I want to know, but I don’t want to get in my head about it.”

“That’s a good rule, Azzi. Keep going, please.”

Her face reddens a bit. “I like helping, but I don’t like being forced or ridiculed when I don’t do enough. Can you let me help with something every day?” Azzi questioned.

Paige nodded. “What would you like to help with?”

“Um, anything. I like to cook, as long as it isn’t forced. I like doing things with Soleil.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll keep that in mind.” Paige encourages.

“I think we should start and end the day with a check-in? That way you don’t have to see the journal every day, but you can still know what’s going in. And if you’re upset about something, we can talk about it.”

Paige smiled, “That seems doable. I’ll figure something out for the mornings I have to leave early.”

Azzi nodded in thanks. “If I get quiet, that doesn’t mean I want to leave. I just shutdown sometimes. If I get too overwhelmed, or if there’s too much going on in my head. It doesn’t mean I’m running – I just need time to process.”

Paige grabbed on of Azzi’s hands, stopping the fidgeting. “I get that. I do that too sometimes. A lot of times, actually.”

A lull fell over the pair. “Did you have any more?” The blonde questioned.

Azzi shifted nervously. “Just one. You already kind of do this. But if you feel like it, you can always remind me I’m safe.” Her eyes darted to Paige’s quickly. “It helps when you hold my neck or my knee. Touch helps. You speak a lot too, that helps a lot.”

“I’m happy it’s helping,” Paige smiled. “I’ll keep doing that. Thank you for helping with the rules, Azzi.”

Paige got up, coming back after a minute. “Here’s a journal for you.”

The journal was hardbacked and soft pink. Written across the front in delicate, gold script were the words Bloom Where You Are Planted. The pages were thick, lined in light pink. A gold, satin ribbon would mark Azzi’s place. It was a beautiful journal.

Azzi took it and turned to page two of the journal, writing the title Our Rules. She underlined it twice.

Paige waited until Azzi was distracted with Soleil waking, then gently wrote one more rule at the bottom of the original list:

16. You’re allowed to want more. You just have to tell me.

She didn’t point it out.

But Azzi saw it. And she didn’t cross it out.

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It was well after lunch when Paige remembered something, something that could have been jarring for Azzi.

“Hey, Az,” she started nervously. Azzi looked up from the coloring sheet she was doing with Soleil. “I know it’s last minute, but there’s a dinner tonight that we’re supposed be attending.”

Dark brows shot up to her hairline. “Tonight?”

“Yeah,” Paige answered with a grimace. “If it’s too short notice, I can go by myself.” She rushed out.

“It’s okay, Paige. What time are we supposed to be ready?” She giggled.

Paige’s face reddened as she stood slowly, ready to flee. “In 37 minutes.”

“PAIGE!” Azzi exclaimed, giggling stopped.

“I’m gonna go get ready and call KK to watch Soleil, bye!” Paige said, running to her bedroom.

She messaged her best friend, who replied that she was on her way up. Turning to her closet, Paige thumbed through her suits, landing on a custom Alexander McQueen option. She pulled the pants on quickly, trying to decide if she should wear a shirt or not. They would be outside, and the temperature dropped a bit at night. Azzi may need a jacket when the temperature did fall, so Paige needed something under hers so she could offer the green blazer when the time was right. She pulled on a crisp white shirt and a pair of platform loafers. She slicked her hair back into a bun, putting on the armor needed to survive a night with these investors. Her makeup was simple; neutral eyes, concealer, and lip gloss. And she was ready.

Azzi was walking back into the living room when Paige came out, heels clacking on the wood. She was gorgeous in her fitted, black dress. There was a slit running up her left leg, letting the blonde see the strappy, gold sandals she’d selected. The neck was high, hiding her cleavage and showcasing her shoulders. Her hair was tied up in an elegant bun complemented nicely with pavé gold hoops.

Her brown eyes glared at Paige. “I’m so mad at you.” Lips twitching upward. “Less than an hour to prepare for a fancy event is diabolical.”

“I’m sorry, I swear I just forgot!” Paige exclaimed.

“Come on, Blondie. Let’s get this over with.” Azzi rolled her eyes.

The ride to the restaurant wasn’t long, but it was enough for Azzi to go silent with anxiety.

“What’s up, Az.” Paige questioned as they rode in her Porches Panorama.

Azzi sighed deeply, “I don’t know what to expect.” She paused. “For the first event, I wasn’t really expected to know anything, because it was my first event. But now? I should know the proper rules of etiquette. I should know everything because they’re going to expect me to,”

Azzi should have seen Paige’s vibrant smile and her thoughts at the dress was wearing, but instead, she saw all the ridicules people could say about her and her body.

She put all the thoughts away and took a deep breath. She could do this.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Rules if you didn’t track them all:

Try everything on the day’s list

Ask if I don’t know what to do

Ask for a break if I need

One meal with Paige and Soleil every day

Ten minutes for myself every day

Mind dump in the journal every day

No disappearing

Soleil’s comfort comes first

Bedtime story with Soleil whenever she wants

One activity with Soleil and Paige every week

Be gentle with corrections and criticism

At least one thing to help every day

Check ins at the beginning and end of the day

Quietness doesn’t mean running

Safety checks and comments

You’re allowed to want more. You just have to tell me.

[lexa-griffins]

I missed seeing Alycia's pretty face. You can see her contacts

I just wanna squish her face in my hands. She is so so pretty 🥺

At this point, spoting her contacts is a cute little game we like to play 🥺

[justdavina]

Jake Warden: OMG!!! Such a sweet transgender girl wearing a sea foam green itty bitty mini dress and top! I love her fifties inspired hair-do!

[januaryembrs]

hot chocolate + a drabble about reader and jaime lannister having a baby at casterly rock? 🥹

BABY MINE | Jaime Lannister x reader

description: you give Jaime an heir to Casterly Rock

length: 500 wds ish

warnings: AFAB!Reader, use of mother to describe reader, nude, rough Labour mentioned.

“She’s so beautiful,” You cooed, stroking the faint honey curls, the sparse few she’d been born with thin and wispy and you would have thought she was entirely hairless had the two of you not held her close since your labours. 

It had been long and arduous, just like the entirety of your third trimester, and there was a moment where Jaime was struck with a worry that you would succumb to haemorrhaging like his mother had when Tyrion was born. It wasn’t entirely uncommon, it had played on his mind more than he’d ever admit. But the second you’d heard that wailing cry of your baby bursting into the world with all the dramatic flair of her father, you’d quickly found the strength to pull through. 

“Of course she's beautiful, you’re her mother,” Jaime said, the two of you entirely topless as you leaned back against his chest on your bedding, a squirming bundle of creamy skin and silken blankets in your arms. You hummed with a small smile, leaning back to rest your head against his cheek, his left hand squeezing you tightly to his body. He paused for a moment, and it was like you could hear him thinking, “Help me take this off, darling. I don’t want to frighten her,” 

His right arm came up to where you wriggled a hand free, resting her tiny body in the crook of your arm. Jaime’s golden hand glinted in the soft chamber light, cold to the touch and just that bit too rough for a newborn’s skin despite the fact you wanted to reassure him he could never scare his little girl. 

Biting your cheek, you unstrapped his wrist for him, the solid weight slipping off the side of the bed with a thumb that stirred her little eyes to bat open, not that Jaime cared particularly about the prosthetic when his baby’s eyes fluttered behind thick, dark lashes and she looked up at two faces that smiled dotingly at her despite only knowing her a few hours. 

Jaime brought his good hand up to the back of her scalp, his residual limb on his other side slipping under her body to hold her warm skin lovingly. 

“I don't care if I sound bias, she’s perfect,” You murmured, tired eyes roving over every inch of her unable to pick a single fault. She was like the Seven had blessed her between each of their gifting hands, like an angel had befell your arms, like you wouldn’t be surprised to see a halo and wings sprouting any second now. A thought struck you, and you bit your lip, glancing up at the side of Jaime’s face, as she let out the world’s smallest yawn, her gums entirely toothless and pinker than peonies, “You’re not disappointed she’s not a boy, are you? I know your father wanted you to have an heir-”

Jaime interrupted you with a soft kiss to your hairline, sticky where you’d sweated in between curse words as you’d began contracting, where he’d held your hand the entire time. 

“I don’t care if she were born with twelve toes and green hair, I love her more than I ever knew it possible; I love you, more than I deserve to,” He replied gently, his sea foam eyes roving over your face where you sighed happily and lay back on his collar, feeling his heartbeat raw and steady against your back, almost rocking you to sleep the way yours had done your baby. 

“I love you too, Jamie Lannister,” 

[notintattooine]

if only for a night

pairing: padmé amidala x anakin skywalker x fem!reader 

warnings: 18+, polyamorous relationship, sexual content (ffm). not proofread bc i overthink <3

a/n: this was shorter and sluttier than intended...i actually took months to finish this....anyway!!! enjoy!!!!<3

inspo credits to @bimbo-baggins17 <3 you made me realize i could absolutely post this :)

the gilded elegance of the senate meeting room felt like a dramatic contrast to the sterile meeting areas the council seemed to favor. you’d been trying to focus on anything but the ethereal beauty of the woman in front of you, senator padmé amidala. she was really impressive…… with a wonderful taste in windows, you thought to yourself. you’d (really) tried your best to listen to the discussion occurring but found yourself drifting into a daydream. finally, master windu suggested beginning preparing a celebration that was to be thrown later. you’d practically shot out of your seat- anything to regain the sense of control you 're supposed to have instilled into your being. (maybe that’s why you and anakin got along so well) 

of course the jedi goodbyes had begun, pleasantries engaged back and forth until obi wan finally put you out of your misery. accomplishing this by dragging you and anakin out, or (rather) trying to persuade the two of you to join in. padmé was talking about the celebration as she finally made her way over to the three of you, catching you first.

“and y/n, you’ll be there?” her voice had a slight hopefulness to it as her soft amber eyes met yours. “you’ll join anakin and me, won’t you?” the last part was low enough for only your ears to catch as she grazed her forearm against yours. her perfectly glossed lips pressed up into a smile as she placed her hand on the small of your back to lead you toward anakin. it was as if she’d electrocuted you, excitement trickled through every nerve in your body as you approached. 

anakin’s gaze shifted to something less friendly and more…playful as you two approached. his grin widened and his body language softened, welcoming you and padmé into his personal space. “we were hoping you’d join us?” 

“oh- of course” you managed to get out, flustered by the attention from the hottest couple in the galaxy. “i would love to.” 

-

“you’ll join anakin and me, won’t you?” padmé’s question had gripped your mind since it left her  lips. would you join them? it was risky, taboo, maybe even wrong. of course you would.

your mind seemed to be elsewhere while you laid out a dress from your closet, running your fingers along the silky fabric. deciding to put it on, slipping it onto your figure, you turned to the mirror. a smile crept upon your face as you admired the dress and its delicately embroidered lace details. it was rather flattering in the way it ruched and flowed in all the right places- it had been a birthday gift from padmé years ago. the color matched the sea foam green waters of naboo and brought fond memories of your youth along with it. fleeting moments of confessions in castle corridors and years of forbidden longing. 

-

you’d managed to make it to the celebration, eyes scanning the crowd of jedi for a set of more familiar faces. as you did, a metallic hand placed itself on your lower back. anakin smiled down at you, eyes traveling over your body.

“care to grab a drink?” his signature smile graced his face. “padmé will be here soon.”

you followed him to the bar, his hand sitting comfortably on your waist. you took a seat next to him before he ordered.

“two of my usuals.” he smiled, holding up two fingers. “thank you.”

you shrugged as the drinks arrived, hoping his taste in alcohol was as decent as his taste in women. you held the glass up to your lips before taking a sip.

you grimaced “oh stars-  anakin, what was that…. jet juice?”  his lips upturned in amusement. “not a fan?” he mused, wiping at the droplet that fell from your lip. 

“anakin, stop tormenting the poor girl,” padmé’s amused voice called as she approached, her figure resting gently against the bar counter. “you’ll scare her away.” 

-

“you sure?” padmé asked again as anakin’s teeth grazed your collarbone, intrusive thoughts winning as he sunk his teeth into the flesh. eliciting a yelp from you, swallowed by padmé’s kiss.

“never been so sure about anything.” you pulled back mumbling against her lips. switching to suck slightly on her bottom lip as you reconnected. 

anakin’s deft fingers slipped under your dress straps, urging it off. he gawked for a second, marveling at the sight of your nipples hardening against the cool air mixed with the aching in your core. mischief crossed his face as he attached himself to one of the nubs, licking a stripe then biting and repeating. your hands were searching for his hair as padmé slipped her tongue into your mouth. anakin tugged at the perked flesh, eliciting a moan that was straight of a holopad midnight porno from your lips. desperate for relief, your hips bucked, getting the message, anakin shoved his knee between your legs to part them. staring at you like he was going to consume you, he used his metal arm to bunch your dress up to your stomach, his fingers lightly grazing over the soaked fabric of your panties. 

“oh padmé, come look at this.” anakin grinned, looking at his wife. “she’s fucking soaked.” 

padmé smiled widely, “we’ll take care of you, y/n. won’t we ani?” anakin nodded in agreement. 

before you knew it padmé had her hips positioned over your face, your mouth watering at the sight. anakin aligned himself with your dripping sex, reaching to grip your hips as he began to sink his length in. holy shit. you could die right here right now. whining almost pathetically as he sunk in, your mind went blank only brought back to reality when you remembered the brunette above you. padmé let out a shaky moan as your breath fanned on her pussy. without warning you began, licking a fat stripe from her clit to her entrance and back. 

“maker mae, you taste fucking divine.” you mumbled into her, flattening and curling your tongue as she began rocking her hips. 

anakin watched, his dick growing impossibly harder at the sight of you devouring his wife. he removed a hand from your hips to rub your clit, to prepare he brought his fingers to padmé’s lips to wet them. you involuntarily clenched when you heard her mouth release his fingers with a pop. the mental image of what you heard was enough to make your eyes roll. anakin had set a brutal pace after entering you, the squelching of how wet you were would be embarrassing if you didn’t feel so wanted.

“oh she liked that.” anakin chuckled, shooting padmé a cocky grin. “gripping me like a fucking vice.” 

padmé’s grip on your hair combined with anakin’s grip on your hips had you reeling, no wet dream or dirty fantasy could amount to the real thing. you’d gotten off to the fantasy more times than you could count. you were here, padmé’s wetness dripping down your chin and anakin’s dick so far in you, your brain hurt. 

you worked at padmé’s pussy, sucking on her puffed clit before tongue fucking her and repeating. she was on the brink of tears with how fucking close she was, all she wanted was to see you fall apart on anakin. 

“y/n.” she warned, “y/n im close,” her hips were slowing but she was trying. you moved your hands to her thighs, bringing her impossibly closer to your mouth. moans from how close anakin had you were spilling into her. 

“me too.” you mumbled, nose bumping her clit over and over. with a cry she came, releasing on your tongue. you let her ride it out, peppering kisses to her thighs. 

anakin was fully slamming in and out of you, the heaviness of his balls, slapping against your pussy. you had your nails dug into padmé’s thighs, still lapping at her when your orgasm hit you. white hot pleasure sent you collapsing into the bed, completely limp as anakin fucked you through it. 

as you recovered, padmé held your face in her hands, peppering kisses against your face. anakin sighed, breaking you out of your haze. he was still painfully hard, his tip angry and leaking.

“oh ani.” you sighed, rolling over onto your stomach, “should we help him?” you turned to padmé. she grinned, gripping his length in her hand, looking towards you.

“spit on it.” she said, “please y/n.” anakin answered , looking down at you with furrowed eyebrows and eyes watering. who were you to deny him?

with a grin, you spit into padme’s hand, before lowering yourself to play with his balls. with a smile graced upon your swollen lips you grinned up at him. he looked ethereal, his curly brunette hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and his lip pulled between his teeth. padme worked his cock.

"switch" he panted, "want to fuck your face." he grabbed your chin.

with your pupils blown and drool pooling in your mouth, you obliged. you relaxed your throat the best you could, gagging as you tried to take all of him. he make a makeshift ponytail with your hair, his balls slapping your face as he fucked your throat. his hips started to stutter as padmé kissed him, the lewd noises of their makeout make your thighs clench together. you pulled out all the stops, gagging, drooling and moaning all around him. you knew you had him when he pushed you to the base of his cock, the coarse hairs tickling your face. he came with a cry, spilling down your throat.

you eased off him, resting back on your heels to take a second to catch your breath. padmé pulled you up to her, "you gonna share?" holy fuck, of course you would. you tapped her cheek signaling for her to open up before making a show of spitting his cum into her mouth.

anakin growled. his eyes wide and his mouth agape. he really was the chosen one. as if it couldn’t get any better, padmè lowered her face back to yours spitting it into your mouth. “swallow.” she said, hand gripping your chin.

anakin pulled you into them until you were a pile of limbs, soft kisses being peppered along your skin. “you were great baby.” he said, nuzzling his face into your neck. “so good for us.” padmé agreed, kissing the tip of your nose.

it was nice to be theirs, if only for a night.