etherealils

[etherealils]

screaming

crying

throwing up

wtf. WTF. "Rest" absolutely wrecked me so THANKS SKY

I have no words and it's really unfortunate because I have so much to say. Never stop writing 🫂 (we need a happily ever after Tangerine fic to make up for this)

Tangerine x fiancé!fem!reader

Summary: On a mission, your worst nightmare happens.

Genre: angst, no happy ending I'm sorry :(

Warnings: character death, blood set in canon, established relationship

~ this is basically just a re-writing of what happens in the movie… I was listening to The Prophecy by T.S when writing this is... ~

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

You had been foolish to assume the worst pain you ever experienced was being shot in the stomach. Sure, you had been in pain for weeks after that, but you'd take that bullet wound over the pain that currently cuts into your chest. 

You've been trying to return to where you'd last seen them for what feels like hours now. The bullet train had been eerily silent on your end and you had this sudden gut-instinct that you had to find the boys because something had gone horribly wrong. 

Entering another train compartment, you gasp. The moment you see the man with the bucket hat, you spin around and hide behind the door as you unlock your gun. You hold it behind you as you peek through the glass of the door. You frown when you see someone familiar behind him. 

Lemon's shirt is drenched in blood but he looks unharmed. "Lemon?" You croak out, tucking your gun away as you walk out. Suddenly, everyone's attention turns to you and you feel uneasy.

Bucket hat mimics your frown and the other two men look concerned, "Shit, is this?" The blond man starts to ask Lemon.

"Yeah." Lemon interrupts and he sounds exhausted. You stand still, feeling the tension in the air. You look at Lemon for reassurance when he walks closer but your heart sinks when you see the pendant around his neck.

"Where's Tangerine?" You ask quickly. 

Lemon doesn't answer.

"Lemon," you warn, lifting your palm up at him. You squint. Lemon's eyes jump solemnly to the simple, yet pretty, diamond ring you have on your ring finger and you feel nauseous. "Lemon, where is he?" you ask in a hurried whisper, conscious of everyone's eyes on you. 

"Hey," Lemon starts. You realize his own cheeks are damp with tears and when he reaches you, he just hugs you, "It's okay."

You shake your head furiously, refusing to hug him, "No," you croak, feeling that familiar horrible pit form in your stomach. You knew the moment you saw Lemon something had happened, but this? No. "No, please," you whimper and you start to feel shaky.

"Come 'ere" Lemon holds you into him but you resist and start to punch his chest.

"I want to see him! Lemon! Let me see him!" you feel crazy now as you hit him. It's not enough to hurt him so you do the best thing you can think of and slap him across the cheek. The sound resonates around the train car and you fall silent. When you see Lemon hasn't even reacted to your hit, you just feel hopeless.

"Lemon, please," you hiccup. "I- I just want to see him."

"No, you don't," he insists. You stare him down.

"Man, maybe you should just let her—" Bucket hat starts but Lemon instantly snaps at him;

"You, shut the fuck up and mind your own fucking business," he snarls but when he looks at you again, a look in his eyes shifts and he takes your hand. You let him lead you down a few train cars in silence as you try and prepare yourself for what you might see. 

Nothing could have prepared you for what you do see.

From a distance, it looks like he's asleep. Your mind tricks you into thinking he is until you move a little closer and then your heart shatters. You pause, hand clenching around Lemon's as you look at him with teary eyes.

"T-tell me this isn't real," you whisper and the look in his eyes tells you the exact opposite.

Lemon holds your hand all the way to Tangerine and at first you can’t move as you look at him. His face is littered in cuts and bruises that hadn't been there when you saw him last and his usually clean, neat, suit looks disheveled and is stained in blood. His blood.

He looks peaceful. His eyes are shut and his head is leaning onto one side. A nasty wound is visible on his throat and you croak out a sob as you cover your mouth and fall to your knees in front of him.

You choke out cries behind your hand and shake your head. You don't dare reach out and touch him—you don't know if you can handle this to be the last memory you have of touching him. Not when you have so many good ones. You squeeze your eyes shut remembering your last interaction;

Tangerine had let his hand slide down your cheek. "You be careful as well, my love," he had said. He'd never been this affectionate in public so his kind touch is a surprise. You catch his hand and press it to your cheek as you kiss his calloused palm.

"I will," you promised.

Tangerine kissed your forehead and when he pulled away, he looked at you like you're his entire world. His lips had moved downwards to kiss yours and the memory breaks you. 

You bend forward, choking on your cries. Lemon stands behind you, watching helplessly as you scream in pain. He doesn't move. No matter how loud you are he doesn't move. When you look at Tangerine's body again, you move closer. Your hands are shaking.

You reach out and this time you cup his cheeks delicately in your hands. Fuck this. They feel cold against your skin and you bite your lip so hard it bleeds. The blood that trickles down your chin, sprinkles onto Tangerine's shirt. 

You tilt your head, grimacing as you cry. You push some of his damp curls away from his eyes, wishing his eyes would open. With shaky lips, you press a kiss to his forehead. "I love you," you mumble into his skin, wishing you'd said it to him one last time when he could hear it.

"He knew," Lemon interrupts. He kneels down next to you and touches your shoulder, his hands are also shaking. "I know I'm not him, but I'm here for you. I love my brother and I know he loved you more than himself, he'd want me to look after you."

Your hand, now covered in Tangerine's blood, falls from his cheek and the pain in your heart only worsens. You turn and hug your arms around Lemon's neck. "Thank you," you cry, finally accepting his comfort. Words seem impossible. 

Lemon holds you close and you start to feel less alone. Your cheek hits the coldness of Tangerine's pendant and you pull away.

"Where did you find this?" you ask, touching the pendant.

"It was on me." Lemon says solemnly and then he takes it off and tries to hand it over, "Here, he would want you to have it."

You shake your head. "No, he'd want you to have it. He must have given it to you before he —" you can't finish the sentence. "It's yours, please. I have this," you lift your hand and look at the ring Tangerine had given you. A simple, yet beautiful engagement ring for the wedding you'll never have. The wedding you'd convinced him it was safe to have. Tears spill again and you let your head drop onto Lemon's chest. You don't even know what to say anymore. 

Lemon holds your head, looking over your shoulder at his brother. He feels angry at Tangerine. Angry for leaving him alone so soon, for leaving you alone, angry at him for dying—Lemon shuts his eyes, focusing on anything but the pain because he feels like his heart will explode. 

Your breathing becomes heavier, the feeling of your loves blood on your hands feels wrong. Lemon knows you must be exhausted. He stands and tries to make you stand as well. You don't move. You shake your head, turning back to Tangerine.

It still looks like he's just sleeping.

You look up at Lemon again and whisper, your voice hoarse from crying. "I want to stay with him."

Lemon frowns, "Are you sure? It's not—

"I'm sure, Lemon," you just say and reach out, your fingers stroking Tangerine's hair. "I'm staying with him."

Lemon sees the determination in your eyes and he just nods. He turns, leaving you alone with Tangerine. Once he's gone, you turn your attention to Tangerine and you hold his cheek again. His wound has stopped bleeding. He's lost too much blood. You press your hand on the wound, knowing deep down it's not doing anything but you can't help yourself. You lean in and kiss his temple. 

"Rest, my love," you whisper, your forehead pressing against his and another tear falls. "You can rest now."  

[etherealils]

Tangerine x gn!reader

CW: smut, dry humping, allusions to oral, no plot

A/n: can you tell I’m about to start my period? Also so sorry for teasing, but I don’t think I can ever write a full smut with a man as much as I’m occasionally horny for atj characters (despite my lesbianism)

Tangerine’s ringed fingers rub up and down your bare thigh that rests across his lap. You’re playing with the ends of one of his curls absentmindedly as you watch a movie. You stopped paying attention a while ago ever since his hand found your thigh. He’s grown exceedingly more daring towards you and you’d think it was on purpose if it weren’t for the fact that his blue eyes haven’t left the screen once.

It’s your mistake for ignoring the faint smirk on his lips as your breath hitches when his fingertips brush the inner crease of your thigh. You pull a little harder on his hair than necessary and that finally draws his attention to you.

“Tan,” you sigh breathily, “stop teasing me.”

“M’not doing anything, doll, but watching the movie,” he says innocently enough, though the shit-eating grin on his face says otherwise.

A frustrated whine escapes your lips and Tangerine’s rough hand squeezes your leg tighter. One noise is quickly replaced with another, a strangled gasp, that makes your boyfriend’s eyes darken almost immediately.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” he asks wolfishly.

You bite your lip and shake your head, your eyes downcast on the way he grips your thigh.

His free hand grabs your chin, gently raising your eyes to meet his, “use your words, sweetheart.”

“You’re trying to work me up,” you pout, lower lip jutting out in a way you know Tangerine can’t resist.

He swipes his thumb over the soft, puckered flesh, “put it away, doll. Ain’t gonna work this time. If you want something you gotta ask.”

It’s quick, one second you’re half draped across him and the next you’re straddling his lap, a desperate, hungry look in your eyes, “I need you, Tan. Right now.”

This time the brunette is the one to gasp, and his hands find home on your hips, clutching just tightly enough that there may be a small bruise tomorrow. His blue eyes rake over your body lustfully and he smirks, “so fucking needy and demanding. I like it.”

His left hand slides up your back and grips the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging so your neck falls back slightly and grants him better access to the delicious patch of skin. His lips and teeth latch onto the enticing flesh, and your joint moans create a lovely harmony. The scratch of his mustache and scrape of his teeth sting perfectly, and it sends a shock of heat straight to your core.

“Tangerine,” you moan out desperately, “feels so good.”

Your boyfriend tugs your hair a little harder, “you taste so fucking good, sweetheart. You always do. I wanna taste every damn inch of you. But first, imma make you work for it.”

“Wh-what?”

He chuckles darkly and leans in, his breath hot on your ear as he whispers, “if you need me so badly, you can start by humping m’thigh.”

Your heart pounds so loud in your chest you’re pretty sure it’s gonna explode. You grip onto Tangerine’s shoulders tighter, a desperate, pleading look on your face that you know is even more pathetic than you can imagine.

“I know a pretty thing like you can do it. You’ve done it before, doll, you can do it again.”

A deprived whimper catches in your throat and Tangerine gives you an unimpressed look.

Your boyfriend pats your ass, “come on now, I know you can do it.”

He settles you on one of his thighs and you hesitantly grind down. It relieves some of the ache in your core, though not nearly as much as Tangerine’s touch would. Still, it’s better than nothing and you repeat the motion, a relieved sigh escaping your lips.

“That’s it,” the brunette mutters, his lips attaching to a new spot on your neck.

A needy moan escapes you and you grind down harder onto his thigh.

“Fuck Tan,” you whine, hips rutting desperately against him.

He smells so good and his hands are hot and rough as he slips them beneath your shirt, and his mouth- god his mouth- has your eyelids fluttering. But despite all the sensory stimulation, you know you’ll never climax without him. He’s absolutely ruined you for yourself and anyone else. Nothing feels as good as him- him in anyway he’ll provide- his mouth, his fingers, his-

“Awe look at you, humping my leg like a bitch in heat,” he coos mockingly, pushing sweaty strands off your forehead.

“Tangerine, please. I can’t! I need you so bad! I can’t- I can’t finish without you.”

You’re pretty sure there are tears in your eyes and you at least have the decency to look embarrassed.

Before you can process what’s happened, Tangerine has you on his back, his eyes wild with lust as his fingers find the waistband of your shorts, “shhh doll. Don’t worry, my mouth is gonna take care of you now.”

[etherealils]

ℙ𝔸ℝ𝕋𝕀ℂ𝕌𝕃𝔸ℝ 𝕊𝕆𝕄𝔼𝕋ℍ𝕀ℕ𝔾 // f.odair.

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

Part 1 : Birds Of A Feather

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Finally wrote a happy ending. Are you proud?

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc.: beautiful souls and blobcakes.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

Everyone knew where you lived. The entirety of Panem, surely.

It's a huge reason you'd been cooped up in your home since the Games, since Rue's death. You've been so terribly worried that the hatred for your failure during your first time as a mentor was a nationwide phenomenon.

In reality, no one cared much. As much as 11 were worthy contenders in the Games, some 12 year old girl who sang like a mockingjay but hid during the majority of the Games — not to mention, formed an alliance with District Twelve — wasn't exactly the national focus.

The only memory of Rue, unfortunately, was linked to the alliance, to the Twelve Victor.

Katniss had made a poster out of Rue, a form of defiance to the Capitol. And as much as you couldn't blame this sixteen-year-old-girl for grieving the way she did, you just wished she could have defied the Capitol and kept Rue alive.

Not like she couldn't, right?

She kept her District partner alive.

Fine. No use being bitter. Two Victors — yes, two! — was enough of a fuck-you to the Capitol. You were just glad you didn't have to see it all this while.

But now it's time. Victory Tour.

Rue's family couldn't follow you back into the Victor's Village, could they? So they couldn't come to shoot you in the night.

That's being harsh on them. Really fucking harsh. They were lovely people. They wouldn't do anything of the sort.

So, bravely, you stumbled out into the square to watch the speeches. It seemed that the boy recognized you, but didn't want to comment on it. The girl seemed like she was this close to commenting on it. It. Not you. No, it, the bottle you were clutching to your heart. She probably got deja vu, seeing as her mentor was married to the thing.

Another reason that the hiding away from everyone left you completely protected : Finnick Odair couldn't take your bottle away from you. Yeesh. It's been a while since you thought about him. Fucking weirdo, is what your muddled brain could recall. Holier-than-thou Capitol bootlicker. Right, that made more sense than the first impression you'd had of him — that he actually cared. Right. Like that thing could care.

And then the shot.

Bang.

Dead.

Oak!

You'd have gone and throttled that Peacekeeper onto the ground had Rue's dad not yanked you back and dragged your kicking and screaming form back home. His home, not your Capitol-sanctioned abode.

"Peacekeeper my fucking ass!", you shrieked, trying to have another go at the square again, see if you can't knock a couple teeth out of him at least, so he could never say 'Peacekeeper' without being mocked for his lisp.

"Hey, hey, hey, easy, easy."

It took a couple more 'easy's for you to actually ease up.

And then it came all at once. The tears, the apologies, the trembles, the screams. And, in an entirely cruel and ironic twist of fate, it was Rue's family comforting you.

The guilt that came after that would never leave you, for sure.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

Nearly a year later, and you're still clutching the bottle, but more in hopes that the glass would crack and you'd be declared injured. Or dead. Depends.

Seeder gently takes the bottle off your hands, and strokes your hair. "Hey. Hey, if you get reaped, I'm volunteering, baby, okay?"

She's gotta be fucking kidding. What is it with everyone and treating you like you were fragile? It'd be a much more dignified death if you died in the arena than if you died here, glass in your wrist and bleeding out in a fucking Capitol-crafted bathtub.

"No, I'm not letting you do that, Seeder, no."

"Hey. Listen, I'm not letting you go in there again, baby, okay? You've barely had any time to process losing your first set of tributes."

"Seeder, I can't let someone else die again when I could've stopped it!"

She sighs, smiling sadly as she lowers herself down next to you in the bathtub. "You couldn't have stopped Rue's death, or Thresh's, or Old Man Oak's death out in the square last year. You couldn't have, to put it simply. And as for me, it's my time, baby. Who knows, I could win. Fingers crossed that the other Victors are all senile, huh? All the Careers past their primes? Hm? I'll volunteer for you, baby."

No. You'd decided. You weren't fucking letting her do this shit.

"No, no. You're not—"

Both your heads whip around at the same time. The phone.

"How about you get that, alright? We'll talk about this later."

"Alright, but you're not volunteering!"

"Love you, baby, pick up, the ringing gets to me, you know that!", she grunts, standing up and dusting herself off.

"SEEDER! Listen to me, I— hey, I'm NOT letting you volun— fuck , shut up, alright, I'm coming!", you cut yourself off, ripping the phone from its stand.

You pick up the phone and he swears the universe paused.

"Hey." Discomfort. Not because of him, thank god, but discomfort was present in your voice nevertheless.

"How are you?" It's Reaping Day, you absolute fuckass, she's losing her mind.

"Okay. I mean, it's Reaping Day, so I guess as good as can be."

He smiles. He can work with that.

"You receive any more blobcakes?"

He's pretty sure he'd added them in, special request, to your monthly Victor-loot since he'd met you. He'd made it a priority.

"No. Why, you wanted some?" What the fuck? You hadn't? Oh, a couple ex-District 1 Avoxes were going to get a talking-to.

He shrugs. "Yeah."

Whoo, there he was, Finnick Odair, king of nonchalance. He's glad Finnick, normal old District 4 Finnick isn't showing up. He's the kind that would have an aneurysm if he'd known a pretty girl like you had picked up voluntarily.

Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling, his suaver persona, was active when the two of you were in the Capitol, and he's pretty sure that's the only reason you tolerated him.

"Well, y'know. Surviving Reaping Day was kinda higher on my bucket list."

"Right, right. Well, relax, you'll be fine. The odds are, like, astronomical."

"Weren't they astronomical for you, too?" Fuck.

"Yeah, but I'm me."

"Meaning? I can't win?" WHOA. Whoa, Finnick Odair, king of nonchalance needed to be a bit more 'chalant'.

"No, I mean, like, bad luck kinda follows me around. So."

"Oh. But, um, on the off chance that I..."

"Whoa, no. You won't get picked."

You can't. Finnick would genuinely pass out.

"Okay, but if I do, you— uh, honestly, as a mentor. Do I have a chance?"

Finnick was at a loss here and so was Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling. He genuinely had no clue. "I haven't seen you figh—"

"No, like, I mean, do I have the ability to be a favourite?"Oh.

"Yeah. You do. You have a good personality, you look good, so I don't think you'll have trouble with sponsors so long as your physical prowess is alright."

"I hate the Capitol.", he hears you say.

"Shh. These lines are tapped."

"Right, like Snow doesn't know that we hate the Capitol." Valid point.

"You're fine. Can I just... I just feel like you..."

"I'm overreacting? Is that what you're going to say, Finnick?"

He was about to say 'I feel like you're the only reason I'm not hanging from the fucking ceiling right about now', but that might have just been a tad too dramatic.

"No, I just... I just think that you're not—"

"Because you do realize the position you're in, right? I've said it before, I'll say it again! You get everything, Finnick Odair! The adoration, the glory, the pity, the money, the— fuck, y'know what? You probably didn't even care about your tributes, but I actually liked Rue!"

And just like that, he's dragged back into the spotlight of reality.

You'll never see him as more than a Capitol sellout.

"I'll see you at the Games."

The phone slams. Fine, whatever.

But something Seeder had said dragged your mind out of a stupor, albeit momentarily. Careers. Careers. Ugh. Finnick Odair. Finnick fucking Odair! No, no, no, as much as you hated him — did you hate him? — you didn't want him to go back, his pretty boy self would never fucking survive in the arena after thriving on cushy Capitol beds and mushy Capitol meals for the past ten years.

Okay, now you 100% had to go in and bail his ass out.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

FUCK SEEDER. DAMN her to wherever the hell people go to get damned! You couldn't even argue, because the Capitol audience loves when a volunteer gets to become tribute and honour the Capitol. So, she'd volunteered, you yelled 'no, no, I got reaped, I get to go!', but all that was cut out, naturally.

You got sent home, she got sent to die.

You had to wait for a couple hours before you could see the rest of the reaped Victors, and when you got to Five, your breath hitched. Not because you particularly knew the Victors, but because next up was possibly Finnick Odair trying to be the same kind of hero you'd been denied the right to be in your own Reaping.

But for him, it was clean. Smooth. He'd been Reaped, his dimpled grin had emerged, and there. That's it. Everything was coming up Finnick, wasn't it?! You could scream. But that was redundant and stupid. You weren't seriously jealous that he got his way, were you?

No. He was, in fact, going to the Arena, again, and what fate's worse than that? But once again, he got to help his fellow Victors from facing that fate, and you hadn't been.

Restraining yourself from throwing the remote on the screen, you continued watching. Your own Reaping flashed before you on the reruns, and you scoffed, watching District 12's Reaping emerged. SEE?! Even Peeta Mellark got to save Haymitch! This was so unfair!

At least you'll get to be a mentor again, and possibly find an in to help out Seeder. Saving grace.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

Finnick doesn't let you breathe for even a second when he sees you. He doesn't wave, he doesn't smile, he doesn't handshake.

He just makes for you with the determination of lightning to a tree, and embraces you with the desperation of the sea repeatedly reaching for the shore.

And you hug back. For no apparent reason other than this is a dying man's wish, evidently.

"I didn't get to watch your Reaping, did you get Reaped?"

There's no way he didn't get to watch it. It's the second fucking one that's aired. What was he, taunting you with the fact you couldn't protect Rue and Thresh, and now you couldn't even protect Seeder?

You shake your head, and he sighs in relief, now seemingly deeming it okay to kiss your temple. "I was worried."

Bullshit. But you don't comment. What's the point? Either he or your mentor or both were going to die in a week or so.

He bites the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed as though trying to size up whether you knew something, a particular something, or not. "How you feeling?", he asks, pointedly choosing to ignore the fact that you were slurring, your eyes were droopy with sleep, and you seemed to be hurtfully bored of the conversation.

So typically Finnick. He's about to go back into the Arena, but no, of course he'll go ahead, keep up the 'charming' act. Buy yourself sponsors. Psych me out.

"Me? I wasn't Reaped.", you retort.

"Doesn't mean you're alright."

Finnick, for the life of him, can't understand why you're acting like this is a game. And not even a fun one. The kind where both players are trying to get something out of the other. And he's not sure what you're trying to get from him, because he sure as hell isn't trying to get anything from you.

Well, that's a lie. He is trying to get an explanation out of you, for how you talked to him.

Now, listen. He knows enough. The Mockingjay's husband, Peeta, told Haymitch — who told Finnick, of course — that you've been drinking. Guzzling. And he's seen this happen before —hell, he's gone through it.

But he doesn't like things like this happening to people he likes.

Watching a beautiful soul unravel isn't a pleasing affair. He should know. He's been the soul, and now he's being forced to be the audience.

"I don't look alright?"

He tilts his head, seemingly deciding that you didn't know the 'particular something' that he did. And you can't tell if he seems more relieved, or worried at that knowledge. But he covers it up pretty well.

"Yeah.", he nods, humming as he continues to hug you. "You've changed."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." He pulls away, an odd amusement to his eyes. "Your voice is different. Don't tell me you've been ruining your beautiful voice with trying to take those bullshit 'singing lessons' from Capitol TV."

It's like he knew you, better than you knew yourself. What to avoid, what to say to make you laugh, make you cry, make you hug him. This was the 'make-you-laugh' one, evidently. You snort softly, and he kisses your forehead before wrapping his arm loosely around your shoulder. "Ooh, guess what I brought for you?"

"Blobcakes?"

"Psychic, Victor, Mentor. Wow. I'm impressed. Triple threat."

"What are you gonna do, Finnick?", you sigh. As much as your brain's muddled about whether you trust him or not, you do have some form of human decency that has you worried.

He cocks his head, brows furrowed. "I was hoping... give you these blobcakes?"

"I mean in the Arena."

Squinting up at the sunlight and instinctively pulling your shoulder closer, he shrugs. "Deal with it, I guess."

"Have I told you you're not even remotely funny?"

"No, but I've got that vibe from you. Very cruel, the Capitol adores my comedic genius."

"I'm not the Capitol."

He gazes down at you a moment, pride, amusement and possibly fascination seeping through his gaze, before he snorts, softly. "I know. Exactly."

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

There's no way. There's no way you and Chaff just saw Finnick Odair talking to Haymitch Abernathy. An alliance between Four and Twelve? That's never happened before in the history of the Games, you don't think.

You're seconds away from storming up to him. Wasn't he technically supposed to continue pretending he cared for you? Shouldn't he be talking himself up to Seeder and Chaff?

Ugh. Teach you to trust a lapdog. This was probably the "particular something" he wanted to find out if you knew or not.

You're at the food stalls, subconsciously lingering at blobcake-laden-One and glancing subconsciously at Four. But overall, you were glaring at the monitor. There's no point looking at the scoring, because it's less likely they've gotten worse, actually. They're either the same score as their first Games, or better.

"Hey, there."

Ugh. "Hey."

"Noticed you've been avoiding me."

"Noticed you've been betraying me."

His dimpled grin flashes, and he makes a point to chew slowly on the blobcake he's just ripped from your hands. "Yeah? How'd I manage that?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Never mind."

"Hey. Don't do that. What? How'd I betray you? I'll fix it right away."

"Abernathy? Really?"

"Why? You two at odds over who can drain the liquor supply fastest?"

Low fucking blow, but you know you deserve it. "Katniss and Peeta are both at scores of 12. Do you not think there's a reason for that?"

He gasps in mock astonishment. "It can't be... skill?!"

You smack his shoulder and he chuckles, rubbing at it. "The Gamemakers are singling them out, making them targets."

"Is this you telling me you actually do care if I live or die?"

"Do you really think Katniss is a good choice, anyway?"

He's fully smirking now, amusement and mock curiosity and perhaps even, again, a hint of fascination on his lips. As well as a bit of frosting. "Oh, please elaborate."

"Pregnant sixteen-year-old in the Arena, who we know cares only about Peeta."

"And this is the part you're going to say I'm not a good choice for her.", he mumbles, not even turning as he reaches back for a blobcake and hands it to you.

You nod, pointing in between swallows. "Yeah, I'm sorry, but fan-favourite Career, who has to take care of an 80-year-old District partner, and is most likely the one everyone's wanting in the spotlight, anyway?"

"You telling me you wouldn't want me as an ally?", he pouts, his elbow on your shoulder as he leans in. "Hurts my feelings."

You try not to instinctually shove him away, because you've already been unintentionally rude to him once this entire Games, and if he's going to die, least you can do is humour him.

Instead, you count to ten, close your eyes, take deep breaths, then open them. "Alright. How are you even going to convince her to ally with you?"

He shrugs. "Give her a blobcake."

"She'll hate them."

He frowns. "Or, you just hate the idea because blobcakes are a 'you-and-I thing.", he teases, waggling one finger to gesture between the two of you.

You scoff once more.

"I'll give her a sugar cube or somethin', then, alright? Relax."

Relax. Three out of four (minus Haymitch) of your "inner circle" (barely) were going back into the Arena, and one of them was telling you to 'relax'.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

You're not sure what you expected. Logically, Seeder's past her prime, but... to not even make it past the bloodbath?

You're not sure how many tears you've supressed over the years — you didn't even cry after your games — but the fact that you're, for some reason, unable to shed any for Seeder, the woman who meant the world to you? It puts you in a special personal hell .

And your hell's confirmed when you realise Haymitch isn't even drinking this time. It's serious serious.

And one of your Victors is dead. It's all up to Chaff, now. Though, he does seem to be doing well, so you allow yourself one minute of checking-on-Finnick-time.

If you could fucking find him, that was.

"You lookin' for your fishy friend?"

It takes you a moment to register that Haymitch is talking about District Four. You're so used to people referring to Finnick as "Capitol Darling" or "Golden Boy", that you're thrown off, brows furrowing in confusion as Haymitch drags you to his screen. "There. He's with Katniss."

Death fucking sentence.

"She okay doing all that?"

"Yeah. District 12 ladies are crazy hormonal when pregnant, so expect hell for any attackers."

Well, at least Finnick's okay. Not that he can't hold his own, but you'd rather he use as little of his true skill as possible until it really matters. So if Katniss' pregnancy mood swings would help kill off other Victors without Finnick wasting his energy and his good arm, then great.

"You best stick by me.", declares Haymitch, spinning around in his chair as you attempt to go back to your seat.

"What?"

"I get the same controls on my screen as everyone else. C'mon, stay with me. Wherever you wanna see...", he punctuates, with two flicks of his fingernail on the screen. "I'll show you. Our priorities are together, anyway."

Our priorities. Oh, my god, this was why Rue had died, why Thresh had died, fuck. You lost sight of your priorities, so much so that even Haymitch thought you were on his side just because some District Four guy was with his tributes.

Fuck.

"No, I need to make sure Chaff's alright."

"Hey, hey, whoa, hey, sit down.", he mutters, offhandedly, as he navigates through the water-saturated expanse of the Arena. "There. See?"

Chaff's alright - perfect, actually.

"Now, let's get back to the pregnant one, the old one and the fan favourite."

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

The blackout, surprisingly, comes after the panic.

You see Brutus killing Chaff, and you're sure the scream you let out chills everyone's blood. It freezes yours, too.

But as it turns out, your grief isn't big enough, or loud enough, no, not compared to the Gamemakers' grief in losing the Arena.

All you know is that you're glad Haymitch forced you to sit by him the past three days, because he seems to be foresighted enough to shove you down to duck the second his tribute pulls out her arrow.

"We gotta go."

You'll listen to sober Haymitch, no questions asked.

"What happened? Are they okay? Is Finnick okay?"

"They will be, just lay low, c'mon, in there."

A door that you'd never noticed before. Haymitch gestures at you to run down these extremely odd, borderline creepy stairs. It's a stairwell. How the fuck?

"When did you even find these?", you pant as you rush down the spirals, checking over your shoulder that he's behind you.

"Finnick told me about them. He said that's what he used to come up to your floor last year, during the Games."

Fucking Finnick.

"What's the Capitol protocol for a fucked-up-Arena?"

"Well, when I was in the Games, it was to direct mutts onto a twelve-year-old kid and just pretend that the glitches were part of the whole thing, but, uh, they might have gone lax this time, I don't know. Don't stop, though, keep going.", he replies, fast and all at once.

"Haymitch, what's gonna happen to Katniss? The baby? Peeta? Johanna?"

You try your best not to mention Finnick, because he already thinks your priority is Finnick over everyone else, and though that's true now, with the deaths of Chaff and Seeder, you don't want to act like you're suddenly okay about said deaths.

You're still on the fence about what Finnick even means to you. He was a mentor, yes, he was a good guy, sure, but he was also a Capitol lapdog that you didn't want anywhere near the Mockingjay.

Because he could either get the only true whisper of a rebellion killed, or she could get him killed, which would suck for you either way.

"They're all going to be fine, they know what to do. Who do you think told me to keep you right next to me so that you're safe?"

Finnick. Fuck, it's always Finnick.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

You're not sure how long you've been spinning the same coin on the table and counting the seconds until it fell, but it's probably a diabolically tragic amount of time.

So maybe this was the "particular something" he wanted to find out if you knew or not.

"Hey, he's done, we patched him up well."

"You fucking better have.", you grumble, shouldering past the District 13 medical staff. Alright, so you were being a bitch. But you have a right to be hostile. So many weapons, and not once, in seventy-five years did they try to rescue Panem? Shame.

The door gives way to a perfect view of his eyes. "Oh, thank god, they wouldn't let me ask around for you because it would strain my throat."

You sit opposite him, frowning. "You knew all that would happen? The blowing up?"

"Yeah, I mean... yeah. Well, not Katniss finding the glitch, but yeah, pretty much."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't want to worry you." Alright, so that wasn't the "particular something".

"Worry me? Why would I be worried? The two people I cared most about in the world are dead, and you didn't even think to include them in your insurance plan."

"Too many people would have fucked it up."

You scoff. So, you were counted as 'too many people', as well as the Victors of your District, the ones he didn't seem to care enough to rescue, whereas you seemed to be rescued as an afterthought. Brilliant.

"Get well soon, Finnick."

"Wait, where are you going? Hey! Hey, no. I...", he sighs, running his hand across his other one. "I'm alone here. I have no friends. Mags is gone, but... but I'm sure you already saw that."

You did see that. You sigh, sitting back down. "Listen, I just think you should have told me."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. Truly." He reaches for your hand, and what were you going to do? Deny him? He'd break at that. Each knuckle receives a kiss. "I really am."

"Yeah, I got that."

"I'm sorry about Rue. I never got to tell you."

God, you need a drink.

You nod. "Yeah, it's alright."

"And Seeder. Chaff, as well, though I didn't see his death."

He's practically pushing you to a bar right now.

You nod once more. "And I'm sorry about Mags."

He smiles. "You forgive me, right? For not telling you sooner?"

What other choice do you have? Hold a grudge against the only person you trust here?

"Yes."

"Will you stay? With me?"

"There's a schedule here, it's strict, so I don't know—"

"They need me. So, I wouldn't worry about it. You get privileges when you know Finnick Odair.", he grins, clenching his jaw in pain as he shifts to the side, patting the empty space on the bed.

You sit by him.

"What other privileges?"

"I can get you one-on-one-time with the Mockingjay. Ooh.", he mock-gasps, nudging your shoulder.

"If she wakes up and doesn't detonate the entire District because hers burned down."

"You're so optimistic, I love it."

That coaxes a laugh out of you.

"You scared?"

"For what?"

"The war."

War? Whoa, you'd never... that had never crossed your mind. "Say it like that, it seems so real."

"Yeah, I mean... 'send children to kill each other in a closed environment' sounds worse, though, doesn't it?", he asks, his eyes roaming your face as though searching - once again - for the 'particular something'.

"You think Katniss will be okay with it? Being the Mockingjay? Potentially starting a war?"

"She already has.", he tells you, shrugging. "Oh, this is what's different. Your hair."

"Yeah, uh, for some reason they brought in a stylist for me.", you reply, thumbing at the door. This earns a frown and a kiss on the temple. You're not sure why he's so fond of kissing your forehead, but hey, you're not complaining. It makes you feel safe. And that's rare, in Panem.

"Why?"

"They said I'd need it." A spark, on his face. Alright, perhaps this is the "particular something" that he knew and you didn't.

"During a war. That didn't register in your head as odd?"

You scoff, looking out the window behind his head.

"I'm not an idiot, Finnick, I know what it means, they're going to use me to promote the rebels' side. What else?"

He seems to be happy, at that. What, he thought you were dumb, this whole time? "Yeah. And you're okay with it?"

"They'll kick me out if I don't do it."

He shrugs. "Okay, fair. But you, um... you will do it, right?"

"I'm the least interesting person here, I don't have any stories to tell, I don't ha—"

"What about your Games? Rue? Seeder?"

Alright, was he sponsoring the drinks at this place? Because boy, was he tempting you.

"You might be alright exploiting your trauma for District 13, Finnick, not me. I'm not saying a word about Rue, or Heath, or Seeder, or Chaff."

He sighs, shaking his head once more. "I'm not exploiting anything, I'm finally controlling my own experiences, my own story, how it's portrayed! Why don't you get that? Isn't that what we want? Freedom from the Capitol's narrative?"

"Well, I'm not you, Finnick. For me, this would be exploiting the deaths of people I love."

Cussing under his breath, he grunts a bit to sit up further, picking at his knuckles for a moment. "You and I are so similar that it's borderline terrifying."

"No, we're not. Stop saying that. That whole birds-of-a-feather, cut from the same cloth bullshit."

"Admit it, you started drinking because I can't be in your district."

"What?"

"You, you absolute idiot, started - well, continued - drinking because you don't feel comfortable enough to open up to anyone else but me, and I wasn't there. Guess what? I feel the same way."

You scoff. "What is this, an intervention?"

He shakes his head. "Just one friend checking on the other."

"Well, seeing as you're the one in a hospital bed—"

"But am I the one who needs checking-in on?"

Yeah, what the fuck? "Do you see tubes in my arms?"

He bites the inside of his cheek, a small, sad sigh creeping out of his mouth. He calls your name. "Please. Give me something."

"What?"

He looks like he's fighting the urge to say 'anything'. "Whatever you can."

You huff, your cheeks inflating before you exhale, shifting to face the wall opposite the bed. You're stuck in a hospital bed, in a District that people thought burned the fuck down, ready for a rebellion, with a Capitol bootlicker — who is somehow the only person in this District (possibly the whole world) that you trust.

The universe seemed to think you were a flashy toy that it could put in comical, ironic situations and laugh at.

"Should I tell you about Rue?"

You're not sure why you say it. Probably because you know that you will have to recount it anyway, for the propo. Because Finnick asked you to. Because it's important to him. Because Finnick.

A toothy smile. "If you can."

And so you do. You tell him about how she was the one that would sing the end-of-day-song, and how the mockingjays would carry her tunes through the trees.

"Like how our Mockingjay will carry her message."

Okay, Finnick.

You tell him how terrified she'd been that night. How her mother had told you to call her Rue-bird, and when you did, how you could feel her tension ease out of her.

"Rue-bird's pretty adorable."

Yes, it is, Finnick.

You tell him about all the times she'd written you a little thank-you note for donating money to their family so that they didn't need Tesserae, no matter how many times you'd told her she didn't have to.

"Oh, that's so sweet of her."

You're right, Finnick.

You tell him about the triumphant little smirk on her face when she managed to sneak past all the Peacekeepers and into the Victor's Village to see you.

"That must've taken her some time to perfect."

Probably, Finnick.

"You should tell Katniss all these stories when she wakes up. She'll love them. Might push her into getting into the Mockingjay role much faster."

You're about to ask him if he has the ability to talk about anything else, anything at all, but you refrain from it. Believe it or not, trust him or not, your main goal is not to hurt him. Hurt Finnick? Unheard of.

Instead, you tell him you can't figure out the "particular something" he'd wanted you to know. He tells you it's that he loves you.

The two of you laugh it off. Love during war? Please.

And then, it hits you. All at once, a tidal wave, a sucker punch. You'd never hurt Finnick, but other things could.

A misplaced banana peel, fuck's sake.

An exposed live wire.

A war.

Anyone you'd sworn to protect so far had died.

Maybe you shouldn't try to protect him. He was older, wiser, and clearly he'd gone through some shit and needed to get it off his chest.

He could protect himself.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

You're not exactly sure what Katniss is saying. It's something about the Transfer, which you'd learned were the tunnels under the Capitol. She's screaming is what she's doing, actually, and it's freaking everyone out, even more than they normally were.

"MUTTS!"

You're ready to throw the walkie-talkie into a fire. The one word you'd heard and the one word you'd never wanted to hear. Mutts. While your Arena didn't have too many, everyone around you had them. Haymitch. Johanna. Hell, even Katniss, on the other end.

"How many are there?"

Haymitch's voice is too clear, too precise, too calm for this situation.

"Too many, we can't fight them off."

"Quarter Quell them."

It takes you a second to realise he means blow them up.

"Brace yourself, kid."

You're not sure if he's talking to Katniss before she detonates, or to you, who has the walkie-talkie too close to your ears.

It's like a rip through the air, even though it's through a speaker.

Everyone in the room freezes, but not you, no, your foot's shaking, your fingers are rapping on the table.

"They're dead."

You know she's not only talking about Mutts. "Casualties?"

"I don't know."

"Katniss? Katniss? Tell me who you see around you, past the smoke."

"Peeta."

Yeah, no fucking shit.

She coughs a bit, probably due to ash. "Pollux is alive. Uh... okay, Gale."

"Give it to him.", instructs Haymitch. Katniss is too shocked to give an accurate report, and it's vital. "Who'd we lose, Hawthorne?"

"Castor, and I think Homes."

This is infuriating. You're only in this stupid fucking room for one person, and it's like they're purposely avoiding mentioning him. In the darkest, loudest depths of your head, the mutts had ripped off his.

"Gale, tell me Finnick's there. look through the smoke, look on the ground, anywhere."

The soft crackle of the radio, the faint, buzzing sound of shuffling, it all just adds fuel to your raging fire, strengthens the fears that grip those depths of your mind. Finnick's dead, the mutts have ripped him apart, he'll never kiss your temple again.

There's another crackle in the radio, and heavy breathing ensues. Haymitch furrows his brows.

"It's me."

You can't help it. You cry. You've never been able to, not in your Games, not for your mentors, but perhaps that was because it was death. This is life. Finnick's alive. He has his life.

Finnick doesn't let you breathe for even a second when he sees you. He doesn't wave, he doesn't smile, he doesn't handshake.

He just makes for you with the determination of lightning to a tree, and kisses you with the desperation of the sea repeatedly reaching for the shore.

And you kiss back. For no apparent reason other than this is a living man's wish, evidently.

[etherealils]

happy wife, happy life. (finnick's version)

wc: 849

Finnick believed in that saying long before he ever met you. “Happy wife, happy life.” His father used to say it every time little Finnick asked why he always went out of his way to make his mother laugh or smile. His father would just grin—boyish, despite the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the beard that covered half his face—and repeat those words like a sacred truth.

Back then, Finnick didn’t quite understand what it meant. Not fully. Not until you came along.

You, in that pale yellow sundress and white sandals, wearing a smile so radiant it could pierce through the darkest parts of him. It sounds clichéd, but you were color in a grayscale world. The light of his life. The love of it, too. You weren’t married, not yet—but he always referred to you as his wife when the cameras were off. When people asked him for relationship or marriage advice, he gave the same answer his father once did, the same boyish grin on his face: “Happy wife, happy life.”

You were sixteen. He was seventeen. You met at a small clothing shop in District Four’s town square. He noticed you before you even saw him—your hair swaying in the breeze, your fingers flipping through the racks, your face pinched in concentration: furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, lips slightly pouted. Right then, Finnick knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t at least try to talk to you.

His intentions were as clear as the blue sky overhead, but you were too focused on finding a dress for a birthday party to notice. You missed the terrible pick-up lines and the compliments disguised as casual remarks. He ended up helping you pick out the perfect one, and then watched you skip off down the gravel path, sunlight catching on the edges of your dress as you disappeared. He didn’t expect to see you again. But District Four wasn’t that big, and a small part of him hoped he would.

And he did.

A week later, he saw you again at the bakery, standing in line with flour dusted on your cheek and a small basket of lemons hanging from your wrist. You were humming—off-key, a little too loud—and he thought it was the prettiest sound he’d ever heard.

You recognized him this time. You smiled, that same sunshine smile, and nudged him gently with your elbow. “Thanks for the dress,” you said, like it had only been a day.

He grinned. “Still wearing it?”

“Every chance I get.”

He offered to buy you a lemon tart. You said only if he’d split it. He did, sitting beside you on the stone steps outside, legs bumping gently as you ate in easy silence. Crumbs stuck to your fingers. He didn’t tell you. He liked the way you licked them clean.

That was the first of many afternoons.

Sometimes it was strawberries in the market. Sometimes it was books, or seashells, or long walks by the water just for the sake of hearing you talk. He fell in love quietly—somewhere between your laughter and the way you always reached for his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And every time you smiled at him, Finnick thought to himself that he wanted you to be the wife that would make his life happy.

You weren’t just his wife in name anymore.

The ceremony had been small—just a quiet gathering by the sea, your hair braided with tiny white flowers, Finnick in a loose linen shirt with sand on his bare feet. You said your vows with salt on your skin and the wind tugging at your dress. He kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Now, every morning, you woke up tangled in sun-warmed sheets, his arm slung around your waist and his face buried against your shoulder. He always murmured something half-asleep—sometimes your name, sometimes just a hum—but he never let go.

Your home was soft and sunlit, filled with the scent of sea air and lemon tea. Finnick carved spoons when he couldn’t sleep. You hung seashells from the window sills. There were always fresh flowers on the table, even if they were just plucked wild from the garden path.

He called you wife like it was the sweetest word in the world. Whispered it into your neck while you made breakfast. Said it with a grin when you beat him at card games. Wrote it into the sand on slow beach walks when no one else was around to see.

He loved doing little things for you—tying the ribbon on your braid, bringing back the bread you liked from the market, draping his coat over your shoulders when the evening breeze picked up. You never asked. He just did them. Happy wife, happy life, after all.

And every time he caught you looking at him like that—all soft and golden and a little in love—he felt it settle in his chest all over again:

He’d never need anything more than this.

-

finnick odair masterlist.

[etherealils]

Regulus Black trying to explain why divinationstudent!reader sees nothing but water in his future (he can't tell her the plan and make her a liability) angst and a lot of trying to distract her with other things... 💗

Where the Water Takes You ♡ : A Regulus Black Fan Fiction.

pairing : Regulus Black x divination!student!reader

summary : Years after Regulus Black’s death, a Divination student who once saw nothing but water in his future uncovers a hidden letter explaining the truth behind his sacrifice. As memories resurface and grief crashes over her like a tide, she finally understands the boy who died with her name in his heart—and the ocean in his fate.

warnings : Canon character death, Grief and mourning, War themes and aftermath, Emotional manipulation (through secrecy), Mentions of drowning, Intense angst, Survivor’s guilt, Poetic but heavy emotional language. Please let me know if I missed any <3

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Okay so this? WOW, the request had me shook. I cried the entire time writing this because Regulus Arcturus Black has had a painful death and he did not deserve any of it. But thank you so so so much for requesting. I hope you enjoy <3

word count : 1.5k

main master list <3

banners : @omi-resources and @cafekitsune

The first time you saw it, it shimmered blue and endless—an ocean folding in on itself, soft and infinite.

Water.

Not fire. Not war. Not darkness.

Not death.

Just water.

You looked into the bottom of your teacup, the leaves swirling like whispers caught in a storm, and all you could think of was him.

“Regulus,” you murmured, blinking slowly, “I think something’s wrong with your future.”

He looked up from his Potions textbook with that maddening, aristocratic calm. One elegant brow arched like he’d been summoned by a question far too trivial to be worth his time.

“Is that so?” he asked, all silk and thorns.

You swallowed. “I keep seeing water. Only water. Nothing else.”

── .✦

He came to every divination session after that. You hadn’t invited him. He simply… began to appear. Draped in his Slytherin uniform like it was war armor, with his hair combed perfectly back, lips smirking in subtle disapproval of the incense curling around him.

“I find tea revolting,” he’d murmur, sipping anyway. “Like drinking perfume. But I suppose, for you, I’ll endure.”

You rolled your eyes, and he smiled.

But when you peered into his cup again—

Water. Water. Always water.

“Could mean you're going on a cruise,” he said dryly. “Perhaps a romantic elopement with someone tall, charming, and much less emotionally unavailable than I am.”

“Stop deflecting,” you said, your voice low. “This is serious.”

Regulus tilted his head. “You’re far too charming when you’re trying to worry about me.”

“Regulus—”

“You should be more worried about yourself,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with knuckles cold as marble. “Being near me is a liability.”

── .✦

He never told you.

Not when he kissed you by the Black Lake like he was afraid the moment would drown him. Not when he held you in the Astronomy Tower, whispering constellations against your collarbone like prayers. Not when he said, “If there’s ever a future where I’m not in it… I want you to keep looking for stars.” Not even when you begged to know why you saw nothing but water in the crystal ball.

He laughed it off with charm that cracked at the edges.

He told you to try reading his palm instead, “At least then you get to hold my hand.”

He told you, “Maybe I’ll become a mermaid. My hair would suit the aesthetic.”

He told you everything and nothing, like a boy trying to build a dam against a flood he’d already chosen to drown in.

── .✦

The night he left, the cup shattered.

The water spilled across your floor. Your fingertips trembled with the cold.

You knew.

Oh, you knew.

You tore through the common room in bare feet, screamed into the fire in the Slytherin dorms, begged Kreacher at the edge of the kitchens—but Regulus Black was gone.

── .✦

And under the cave, in the silence of the Inferi’s water, he died alone.

He drank poison until his hands shook too hard to hold the locket. He gasped for air that wasn’t there. He cast spell after spell, but the dead pulled him down, saltless and blind, arms like anchors. And as the darkness closed over him, he did not scream. He thought of your eyes. He thought of your tea leaves. He thought of how you always called him stubborn, how you never saw a future with him in it—only water.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

── .✦

You found his journal years later. Stuffed behind a charm textbook in Grimmauld Place.

“I couldn’t tell her. She’s the one good thing I’ve done without being told to.” “She deserves a future I can’t give her. But I hope she finds one where I’m not just another ripple.” “If she sees water, I hope it’s a lake where she swims, not one where I drowned.”

── .✦

You never drank tea again. You hated the taste of perfume.

But every year, on the day he vanished, you filled a cup and poured it into the sea.

And you whispered,

“I saw the ocean before you fell into it, Regulus. I just didn’t know I was already drowning.”

── .✦

The letter which Regulus wrote before his sacrifice:

To You, My Light.

If you are reading this, I’ve already walked into the water.

I wish I could say I walked away from you instead, but I didn’t. I carried you with me. Every breath I took, every lie I told, every moment I pretended I was still a boy who had a chance at something like forever.

But the truth, darling, is that I never belonged in the future you saw. I was always meant to disappear beneath it.

There’s a locket.

A cursed one, black as sin and bright as betrayal. It belonged to the Dark Lord. It's a piece of his soul—yes, his soul. He tore it apart and hid it in trinkets like trophies. He thinks it makes him immortal.

I found one. I planned to take it, to destroy it. And I knew that doing so would destroy me too.

I didn't tell you. Not because I didn't trust you—but because I did. Too much. You would have followed me. You would have burned your wings to drag me out of that cave.

And I couldn't let you die for a future I already ruined.

The water you saw, in every cup, every crystal—it wasn’t a symbol, it was a map. The lake. The Inferi. The place I chose to end it. Not for glory. Not even for redemption.

But for a chance. For a real one. For Harry. For the war. For you.

I hope the war ends with someone braver than I am standing in the light. I hope you laugh again. I hope you fall in love again, though I know I have no right to hope that. I hope, when you look at the water now, you see the sky reflected in it. Not me.

But if you do see me—

Just know I never regretted loving you.

Not for a second.

Not even while drowning.

Forever yours, Regulus Arcturus Black (Your fool, your ghost, your greatest liar)

── .✦

The house still smelled like dust and ghosts.

You hadn’t stepped inside Grimmauld Place since the war ended—since Harry had claimed it by blood and sorrow. Even then, you'd kept away from the drawing room, the library, the staircase with that one step he always skipped.

You couldn’t look at this house without seeing him. Without smelling the ink he used. Without hearing his voice curl around your name like a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say out loud.

But today—today you let yourself in.

Not to remember. To let go.

That was the idea, anyway.

You wandered through the study on accident, really. Your fingers brushed old spines, parchment, and corners of shelves that had memorized his silhouette better than you ever could. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for—until you found it.

Tucked behind a worn copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art and a shattered inkwell.

His journal.

You recognized the emerald thread binding it. The neat handwriting on the spine. The way the corner was slightly torn—he’d torn it himself, in a fit of frustration, the day he got blood on the page and couldn’t stand the imperfection.

It fell open on its own. Almost willingly.

And nestled between the pages, folded like a secret never meant to be found—

The letter.

The seal crumbled under your thumb. The wax broke like a curse releasing itself into the air. Your hands trembled. You tried to laugh, to curse, to breathe.

And then you read it.

Line after line. Word after word. Ink bleeding into the cracks of your soul.

“If you are reading this, I’ve already walked into the water…” “There’s a locket…” “You would have followed me.”

You sank to the floor. No ceremony, no grace—just knees hitting wood like you were praying to something long dead.

“Regulus,” you whispered. His name. That name. “You absolute, arrogant, beautiful fool.”

You pressed the letter to your chest. Held it like it could beat for you. Like it could speak the words he never did. The ones he took to the bottom of that cave.

And then the tears came.

Not the quiet kind. Not the dignified, war-hardened sobs you’d trained yourself to release behind bathroom doors.

This was grief raw and childlike. This was ten years of silence collapsing inside you.

He loved you. He always had.

He died for the world. But he left you behind in it.

You crawled toward the hearth and fed the fire with your sobs, staring into the flames like they might give you a vision again—some final glimpse of him.

But there was only water in your eyes. Only echoes in your chest.

You took his journal. Clutched it like a relic. And when you left Grimmauld Place, you didn’t look back.

But you whispered one thing into the wind, just in case the ghosts were listening.

“I forgive you. But I’ll never stop waiting by the shore.”

[etherealils]

Alexei Vronsky, gift me the world if I let you challenge !!

Count Alexei Vronksy x fem!reader

Summary: You have not seen your childhood best friend in years, and when you finally do so much has changed, and yet nothing has changed at all...

Genre: hurt and comfort <3

Warnings: friends to lovers, mentions of brothels and implication of physical violence towards women/domestic abuse

COUNT ALEXEI VRONSKY MASTERLIST

You haven't seen Alexei Vronsky in almost ten years—not since your family had shipped you off to have an education in England. Which meant that, on the train returning to Moscow one February evening, when your Mama brought him up, you were more than surprised. 

"Alexei? Yes, what about him? Papa says he became a cavalry officer," you say, clutching onto the intricate leather gloves on your lap as you turn your head, your hat weighing heavy on your neck as the snowy landscape passes you by.

You had convinced yourself that you didn't think of Alexei, so why was he suddenly the topic of conversation now? 

"He is in Moscow with the Countess. He came to say hello," your mother hums, a soft smile on her lips. 

"Say hello to whom?"

"To you, доченька (precious daughter)."

Your head snaps forward as the train comes to a harsh halt. "Pardon?" 

Your Mama just sends you a look and stands. She doesn't seem amused by your attitude, especially because she knows Alexei was your best friend. She knows there is no man, apart from perhaps your Papa, you loved more than Alexei. 

Which is why this all seemed especially cruel. You had returned to Russia to marry Igor Angeloff, the second son of Grand Duchess Natalya Angeloff, your mama's closest friend. You shouldn't even be thinking of another man.

You follow her outside the train, gasping as you feel the chilly wind, and your hat finally falls from your head and stumbles through the snow in front of you. You lean forward and outstretch your arm, reaching for your hat, but you come to a halt when you see a pair of shiny leather shoes in your vision. 

"Is this hat yours, солнышко (Sunshine)?" The childhood nickname startles you, but it's the voice that makes you pause. You look up. Alexei has grown much taller since you'd last seen him. His lanky frame is now replaced by broad shoulders and flexing muscles. His hair is shinner and curlier, and the blue of his eyes contrasts to the pink of his lips. 

He looks like an angel. 

"Alexei?" you whisper, your gaze dropping down to where he still holds your hat.

"It had been forever, hasn't it?" he grins, his lips curl into a smile. Something inside you shifts, and your lips curl into a smile even wider than his as instincts take over. 

You practically jump into his arms, holding your arms around his neck. Alexei grunts, surprised, but he catches you anyway, your hat falling from his hands as they hold your waist. "I missed you," you admit in a whisper, which is only for him to hear.

You'd spent years convincing yourself you hadn't missed him that the admission felt foreign falling from your lips. 

He tightens his arms around you. "I missed you as well, солнышко (Sunshine)," he says, and suddenly everything feels right again. 

* * *

That evening, the gardens aren't in bloom as snow ices over the branches and cover the flower beds. You're dressed warmly, your arm linked with Alexei's as you nuzzle into him for warmth. The sky is turning darker the further you walk, and there seems to be so much to mention, you don't even know where to begin. 

"A cavalry officer, hm?" you say, smiling up at him. You look at his uniform, admiring it.

Alexei nods. "I like it. They're good people. You'll have to meet my horse, Frou-Frou, sometime," he looks at you with a small smile. "He's a sweetheart." He pauses and continues, "How was England?"

"Rainy," you laugh and look at the path, "But I got a good education. I cannot complain. It feels different being here again. With you." Your confession hangs in the air for a moment, and Alexei looks pained. 

"I should have written to you," he admits. 

You squeeze his arm with your hand. "I didn't write to you either. We were children, Alexei. None of us are to blame. We're here now, that is what truly matters." You smile, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in your stomach as you look at him. His blue eyes lock with yours, and the air leaves your lungs. None of you speak for a moment, but you've stopped walking.

Alexei unlinks your arms but holds your hands in his. His voice is strained when he asks, "Maman tells me you're betrothed to Igor Angeloff," Alexei says his name with such disdain, and your chest tightens. You nod slowly, your eyes never leaving his. 

Something is wrong. 

Alexei clicks his tongue. "He is a brute," he says, almost hesitating. 

"Whatever does that mean?" you ask, eyes wide 

"Alexsander and I have heard him speak of the brothels he frequents," Alexei admits, looking away for a moment as snow falls, dusting your hair with white speckles. His thumb brushes some away from your hair as his jaw tightens. "He doesn't treat those girls as he should."

You take in his words, reality causing your skin to shiver as your mouth dries. You don't know what to say to him. If you didn't marry Igor, what did you have waiting for you here? You were already twenty-two and without a husband. You couldn't wait much longer.

Hurt, anger, and confusion cross your features. What does Alexei think this information will do apart from scare you? There have been talks of him marrying Princess Kitty. What could he possibly do to prevent you from marrying Igor?

"I have no choice," you tell him, your hands dropping from his.

"There is always a choice, солнышко (Sunshine)."

"Perhaps for you, not for me. I am a woman, I need a husband," you say, looking at him sadly.

Alexei shakes his head, the snow falling quicker. "I cannot accept that. I cannot bear you marrying him, not when he could hurt you. He is capable of hurting you. Your family doesn't know him like I do. I- I will not watch you slip away from me again—" 

His words confuse you. Ten years ago, Alexei hadn't even said a proper goodbye when your family put you on that ship for England, and now he's pretending you slipped away? "I don't understand," you admit, your gaze wide, and when Alexei slowly kneels on one knee, you back away, heels kicking snow.

You frown, your gaze hardening. "Alexei. Get up."

He doesn't listen. Instead, he fumbles with his uniform pocket and pulls out a small, golden box. He pops it open,and the prettiest ring you've ever seen shines in the dim light. You stare at him, speechless. 

"Is this Kitty's ring?" you ask, your voice small. The ring does looks worthy of a princess. 

Alexei shakes his head. "No. No. I didn't buy this for her. It's for you."

"Me?" you say, shaking your head in disbelief and confusion. "Why–how? When?"

Alexei stands and walks towards you. He shuts the box and puts it in your hand as his hands close around yours. He's so close now. His blue eyes are intoxicating, but you don't want to look away. "When Maman told me you were coming back and that you were supposed to marry Igor, I almost lost my mind. Y/n, you were almost always on my mind—like some distant memory or an unattainable fantasy. I didn't dare reach out. And, then you were coming home again, and it was all real and I couldn't let him have you. He wouldn't be the kind of husband you deserve."

"But you would?" you ask and tense when one of his hands cup your cheeks. 

Alexei nods, his jaw clenched with determination. "I would do anything to make you happy. I would gift you the world if you let me."

You take in his words, but you are not quite sure how to process them. The confession of his feelings has caused the ones you had spent years hiding to bubble to the surface. The little girl inside you yearns for this. She wants to be his.

However, you have responsibilities—you have a duty. Igor is a Duke. Marrying Alexei wouldn't assure your family that stability. You'd be a Countess, nothing more, and you have worked so hard for a chance at a higher position. 

Did it matter that you'd be marrying a violent man when so much rests on your shoulders? 

"Let me show you what I mean," Alexei suddenly whispers, his voice snapping you back to the present and then his hand tightens around your cheek, and he leans in. His lips feel soft against yours, and he kisses you like you're something precious. Your hand falls from the box, and you grasp the fabric of his uniform near his waist. You find yourself kissing him back as his hand tangles into your hair. 

The pristine locks of your curled hair become messy under his touch, and still, you keep kissing him.

You don't want this moment to end, but you know it must. You pull away, hands lifting to rest on his chest as you catch your breath. "Alexei," you mutter. Your breathing is labored, and you lean into his touch when he cups your cheek with his hand. 

"мое солнышко (My Sunshine)," he whispers, a soft smile tugging his lips.

"My family—they wouldn't want—"

"Do you want this?" Alexei interrupts, his thumb caressing the skin of your cheek. 

You open your mouth but shut it just as quickly. "You know that doesn't matter."

"It does. It matters to me. Tell me."

Your eyes shut, and you bite your lip. "I do, Alexei, of course I do," you admit, a lightness in your chest being lifted. Alexei's eyes sparkle, and his smile widens. He leans in and kisses your lips again. 

"I will make you mine, I promise," he says as he rests his forehead on yours. "Let me take care of your family. Everything will be set right, my love."

You relax into him, feeling safe in his arms. You choose to believe him because for once in your life, you're choosingwhat you want and not what someone else wants from you.

You're choosing Alexei, and he's choosing you.

Nothing has ever felt more right. 

[etherealils]

[etherealils]

bring back men who yearn.

Little Women (1994) dir. Gillian Armstrong

[etherealils]

guys, guys, guys, GUYS.

Sweet lies

pair: Gryffindor!Reader x Toxic!Theodore Nott

summary: when Theodore takes another girl as his date to the Yule Ball you realise that you’re nothing more than a filthy secret of his, but is that enough to make you leave?

warnings: manipulation, love bombing, reader gets manipulated

A/N: I just wrote this very quickly, let me know if you like it! English is not my native language, if there are any grammatical errors please let me know! Enjoy lovelies!

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The night of the Yule Ball was supposed to be magical, but for you, it was hell dressed in glitter and silk.

You looked breathtaking — an ethereal dream spun from moonlight, your gown hugging your figure like a lover’s embrace, your makeup enchanting every delicate feature until you hardly recognized yourself. You were a goddess among mortals. And yet the only eyes you truly wanted on you — Theodore Nott’s — didn’t even flicker in your direction.

He didn’t notice. He was too busy with her; Daphne Greengrass.

You watched, heart hammering against your ribs, as he smiled at her, laughed with her, touched her like he wanted to be seen with her. And you — you were nothing more than a dirty little secret rotting away in the shadows.

You weren’t supposed to care, but you did. You cared so much it made you sick. You told yourself you shouldn’t be surprised. Theodore had always known exactly how to make you crumble — with whispered compliments in hidden alcoves, with wicked smirks across crowded hallways, with desperate hands pulling you into dark corners when the need became too much for him to bear.

He knew exactly what you wanted, what you needed — and he weaponized it.

Every time he ran to you, murmuring baby, sweetheart, my love against your fevered skin, you fell a little deeper, clawing for scraps of affection that he dangled just out of reach.

You said yes every time.

Like a fool.

And every time, once he had wrung every ounce of pleasure from your body, he discarded you like you were nothing — a plaything he no longer had use for. He would press a fleeting, almost perfunctory kiss to your damp forehead, so different from the way he had touched you moments before, and then, with barely concealed impatience, he’d untangle your limbs from his. His voice would lower to a rushed whisper, mumbling half-hearted excuses about his roommates, about how it wasn’t safe for you to stay, about how no one could ever know.

You’d gather your clothes in a daze, clutching them to your chest like a shield, blinking back the sting in your eyes as he ushered you toward the door — careful, always careful, never to be seen.

You would leave, hair tangled, skin still humming from his touch, heart bruised and bleeding.

You never understood why the tenderness evaporated so fast, why the boy who worshipped your body in the dark turned cold and distant the second it was over.

Every time you told yourself it would be different — that next time, he would pull you into his chest and fall asleep with you, that next time he wouldn’t look at you like you were a burden he needed to hide.

But it was always the same.

Still, you kept going back.

You clung to the way he touched you when no one was looking, to the pet names he whispered against your skin, to the rare moments when his hands trembled against your waist as if he needed you. You let those crumbs of affection fill the gaping hole he left in you, mistaking his manipulation for love, mistaking his selfishness for something sacred.

Because no matter how many times he pushed you away, no matter how many nights you cried yourself to sleep, the moment he called for you — with that soft, broken voice and those desperate, lying hands — you ran back to him.

Every. Single. Time.

As if he had strung invisible threads through your heart, pulling you back whenever he pleased.

And you, too fragile, too hopeful, too his, would let him.

When you heard about Daphne, everything snapped into brutal, ugly clarity: you had never been anything more than a game to him.

But knowing it didn’t stop you from wanting him. It didn’t stop you from sitting alone at a table, glass of champagne trembling in your fingers, heart in tatters, watching him dance with her.

You had turned down every other boy who asked — foolishly saving yourself for the boy who had already chosen someone else.

And when you saw Daphne’s arms wind around his neck, their bodies moving together like they belonged, you felt something inside you shatter beyond repair.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t stay.

You stumbled out into the cold night, desperate to escape the suffocating ache in your chest.

You barely made it past the castle doors before you heard him calling you, his voice slicing through the night like a blade wrapped in velvet.

You turned, rage and heartbreak a storm inside you.

“Fuck off, Nott,” you snarled, your voice raw, broken.

He approached with slow, deliberate steps, a master puppeteer reeling in his favorite marionette. His hands lifted in false surrender, a hurt, confused look plastered across his handsome face.

“Whoa, cara mia,” he soothed, his voice all honey and heat — the kind of tone that always made your knees weak, even when your heart was breaking. He looked at you like you were something fragile, a trembling creature he needed to calm, to tame.

“Talk to me,” he coaxed, stepping closer, “what’s wrong?”

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms as your body trembled with the effort it took not to crumble. You wanted to scream, to cry, to demand he stop doing this — stop acting like he didn’t know exactly what he’d done.

“You can’t do this to me!” you shouted, the words tearing from your chest like broken glass, raw and jagged. “You can’t keep treating me like I matter one minute, and then pretend I don’t exist the next!”

He tilted his head, expression carefully sculpted into one of harmless confusion — the same way he always did when you caught a glimpse of the truth he didn’t want you to see.

“Do what, amore?” he asked, voice smooth, eyes wide and unbothered — a masterful performance of innocence.

“Don’t play dumb,” you spat, your voice trembling now, turning away from him to hide the tears you could feel burning behind your eyes. You stared at the forest like it could give you answers, like it could distract you from the ache threatening to spill from your chest.

“Why didn’t you ask me to the Ball?”

For a moment, silence fell between you. Not peaceful — no, this was the kind of silence that thundered. Loaded. Heavy with everything you weren’t supposed to feel.

Then you felt him behind you, his presence slipping into your space like a shadow. His hands moved over your shoulders, slow, possessive, down the curve of your arms — a touch you had once mistaken for comfort, now branded like chains.

“Oh, bella…” he crooned, each syllable melting like velvet off his tongue — so soft, so sweet, it nearly made you forget how bitter it really was. His voice was poison wrapped in silk, and it sank into you, into your bones, until you couldn’t tell where your pain ended and his touch began.

He spun you to face him, his grip firm — too firm — like he couldn’t bear the idea of you pulling away. But his eyes… they weren’t soft. They weren’t full of remorse or longing. They gleamed with something colder. Amusement. Control. Triumph.

Because he knew. He knew you still loved him.

And that was all he needed.

You, meanwhile, were unraveling in his hands. Your heart twisted painfully in your chest, caught between wanting to hate him and needing to be loved by him. Even now, even after everything, your soul still reached for his. You clung to the idea of him — of the boy you thought he was, not the one standing in front of you.

You didn’t see that for Theo, this wasn’t love. It was power.

He didn’t need your heart — he needed your need. He fed on your longing, your devotion, the way your voice cracked when you said his name. He liked watching you fall apart for him. It made him feel like a god.

And you, lost in the illusion, kept letting him.

“You’re jealous of Daphne?” he asked, amusement flickering in his gaze despite the soft concern in his tone.

You nodded before you could stop yourself, hating how easily he drew the truth from you.

“Dolcezza, Daphne’s nothing. You’re my girl. My special, beautiful girl,” he whispered, his hands cradling your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks with mock tenderness.

You tried to look away, but he gripped your chin, forcing your eyes back to his.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and you obeyed, because you always obeyed.

“You know how it is, amore. You’re a Gryffindor, I’m a Slytherin. People wouldn’t understand. They’d ruin what we have,” he murmured, each word sinking its claws deeper into your heart.

You clung to his lies like they were oxygen.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, as if the intimacy could wash away all the cruelty. “We have something real. Don’t you feel it?”

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks, desperate for the fantasy he painted.

“I love you,” he breathed against your lips.

Your heart stopped.

“You do?” you asked, your voice trembling with fragile hope.

“Of course I do, cara. Always.”

And just like that, you were his again. Completely. Pathetically. His.

“I love you too, Theo,” you whispered, the words a death sentence you delivered to yourself.

He smiled then — not a smile of love, but a predator’s smile. He had won. Again.

You were so easy. So hopelessly easy.

“You scared me, pulling away like that,” he scolded, voice hardening as his arms tightened possessively around you. “Don’t ever do it again. You’re mine. You don’t get to leave. Not when I love you.”

The guilt hit you like a slap. How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so childish?

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, shame curling in your gut.

He grinned, victorious, and captured your lips in a bruising kiss that tasted like ownership.

And even though some distant, dying part of you knew he didn’t love you — not really — you chose to believe him anyway. Because the lie felt better than the truth.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A/N: let me know if you liked this!

!Reblogs and Likes are always highly appreciated¡

masterlist

…until next time lovelies💋

[etherealils]

ALEXA DEMIE as MADDY PEREZ in EUPHORIA ( 2019- )

[etherealils]

🫶🏼💗🫶🏼💗

prettiest, most angelic writing i've seen in a while.

what "best friends" are for

pairing: bestfriend!luke x daughterofaphrodite!reader

cw: alch consumption, mentions of weed, kissing, slight sexual innuendo, luke calls reader "ace"

synopsis: you and luke sneak off from the others

note: kinda (?) established relationship - their basically together, but not officially

truth was, you loved all your friends and fellow counselors dearly. but a white claw and a joint into the night, your eyes solely remained focussed on luke.

you werent quite sure what exactly your fatal flaw was, but on nights like these, you were convinced it was the affect substances had on your...hormones.

it was classic, almost tradition for every friday night that the counselors snuck out of the cabins and met in the middle of the woods, making a bonfire with the memo of byob. it was a way to let off steam after busy weeks of chasing kids around, teaching lessons, and basically taking care of all of camp half blood. plus, it was something to look forward to every week.

luke was busy talking to his brother chris by a tree, and you were sat on a log with a couple of your girlfriends. they were talking, you knew that. about what - that was what you were unsure of. their voices faded into murmurs over minutes, your attention only on him. it was impossible not to admire him - and in your somewhat tipsy state, it allowed you to oggle more than you usually would.

you eyes wondered over his features, the way his eyes twinkled with mischief when he was going to tell a joke, and his face lit it up in satisfaction when he made someone laugh. you admired the way the fire light lit up one side of his face, making it easy to see the scar painting the left side of his temple down to his cheek. his usual camp half-blood shirt discarded, he wore a black shirt that hugged his muscles (in your eyes) perfectly, and if you were lucky, raised up his abdomen ever so slightly if he lift his arms, showing you his tone lower stomach and v-line. you had to close your mouth to keep from drooling.

your sister silena shook you out of your trance after a while, shooting you a knowing look. "you good?" she asked with a giggle.

you bit your lip, with a look of slight embarrassment. "um, yeah," you look back at look for a moment and see his friends beginning to part from him and take it as a sign. you whip your head back to the girls. "i'll be back." you say, barely giving them time to reply before running over to luke.

you grab his wrist before he walks away. "hi," you say, smiling breathlessly.

he smile softly. "hey ace."

he turns towards you and grabs you waist to steady you. "y'good?" he mumbles, looking down at you fondly.

you nod. "mhm," you reply, stepping forward to wrap your arms around his neck and embrace him.

luke lets out a small laugh before snaking his arms around your back to deepen the hug. he knew how you got when you drank. that mixed with when you smoke, you were a cuddly, horny, clingy mess.

he loved it, though. not only did he find it adorable, but quite amusing as well.

"wanna get out of here?" he murmurs the question in your ear.

you nod immediately and wordlessly, pulling away and letting you lead him.

the two of you walk away from the gathering, and you dont even have it in you heart to wonder where hes taking you. the only thing you can focus on is his hand in yours and the loud beating of your own heart in your ears.

once the two of you are far enough away from everyone, and the chatter of your peers in only a murmur, he slowly traps you against a tree, looking down at you with a familiar mix of mischief and fondness.

"y'been causing trouble, ace?" he asks in a low voice, the corner of his lips tilted upwards.

you shake your head, finding it hard to get out words when he's looking down at you like that. you wanted to tell him that you've been good, that you only wanted to talk to him all night. that whilst you adored your friends, the only thing you could think of was him. him and his stupid sneaky smile, his woodsy and masculine scent, how his voice sounded when he was breathless and satisfied, everything about him - because after all, you thought the world of him. he knew this.

but instead, you played with the hem of his shirt and looked up at him with eyes full of wonder, waiting for him to make the first move.

he lets out a laugh, one of his hands squeezing your waist. "huh? what was that?"

you let out a little giggle. "no, i haven't." you say quietly, your hands slipping under his shirt to snake around to his back, pulling him closer.

he chuckled. "good." he lets you pull him closer and he looks down at you knowingly. normally, you'd furrow your brows at his smug, know-it-all expression. you'd have a witty remark, and perfectly planned clap back. but in your current state, you truly didn't have it in you to be strong, when he made you feel so deliciously weak.

luke is now close enough that you share the same breath, and for a moment you wonder if he can hear how loud your heartbeat is - you also wonder if the noise banging in your ears could be his instead of yours. maybe it was both, beating simultaneously.

"missed you." he murmurs, practically against your lips and you resist the urge to melt right there and then. he missed you. the thought made you giddy. he missed you, like you had missed him. as pathetic as it was, only being apart for an hour at most, you had missed each other. you supposed it was natural - having spent pretty much every second of every day together for the last several years led to what one might call attachment issues, but what you preferred to think of as enjoying the other company.

you lean in to close the distance, you lips touching his ever so softly. these were your favorite of lukes kisses. there was always so much duality. sometimes, they could be rough and desperate. sometimes, they could be passionate and sensual. but kisses like these - soft, and loving - they held a very special place in your heart.

your lips moved softly against each others. you lost track of time once your parted your lips and luke slid his tongue in, deepening the kiss. you helplessly let out a soft moan, bringing your arms to wrap around his neck, craning your neck upwards to continue to meet his lips. moments like these made you feel invincible. it made you feel like the only two people in the world, like this was all that mattered. moments like these were your favorites, they were so raw and perfect that it almost made you sad. sad that one day, you might not be able to feel like this again and it'll all just be a memory.

eventually, with raw red lips and heavy breaths, you two pulled way, and you look up at him with a dazed look in your eyes. your paw at his chest, looking up at him, eyes begging for more. he looks down at you with a knowing smile, and a shake of his head. "nuh uh, bed time ace." you pout and groan. "what? why?" he chuckles and backs up. "you've already had a joint and a drink, ace. kissing is all y'gonna tonight." he explains, looking at you with an amused yet fond look upon his face, and he holds his hands out to you. "cmon, how 'bout we head back and say g'night to everyone and i'll get you to bed? we've got lessons in the morning and I know how grumpy you are the morning after."

you give in and take his hands as he leads you back, mumring a small "thank you" as you hug his arm to your chest. "s'what bestfriends are for," he reply smugly, lighting up with laugher in the way your face scrunches up at the title. "you kissed all your bestfriends like that?" you huff, looking up at him with the scrunch of you features he adores. he leans closer to you, your noses brushing. "just the ones who look like you."

[etherealils]

guys idk if you like know this but i may kinda probably perhaps have a tiny little crush on finnick odair or whatever STOP it's not a big deal shut up but like yeah this is not a well-known fact so hopefully you can keep my secret shh

[etherealils]

Avril Lavigne in 2002 ･ﾟﾟ･｡☆

[etherealils]

the tragedy of all Careers thinking their lives are only worth what the Capitol tells them they are is severely undermined by this argument.

literally every Career kid also wished to be the winners. every Career kid had been generationally brainwashed into thinking this was all they should want. not because they had to survive, but because they could honour the Capitol.

I’m sooo horrifically over the “D4 isn’t a real career district/Finnick wasn’t a real career tribute” takes bc , like, the whole reason that career tributes are even allowed to exist is because they take attention away from how horrible the government is. Careers are almost always considered the bad guys by every other district — tributes and citizens alike. By having them to take the blame as the enemies of the games the Capitol is able to 1) create a cognitive dissonance between themselves and 2) further drive a wedge between the districts. If the districts are too distracted hating each other, then they can’t over throw the capitol. This tactic of segregated suppression is essential in maintaining a fascist state, and to ignore it because it implies your favorite character was a cog in the system when they were 14 kind of just spits on the themes and message of the entire series.

[etherealils]

WELL, THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR THAT, WANDA.

THANKS A TON.

NOW SHH. GO TO BED, SWEETIE.

girlhood is crying in bed at 3am bc I remembered that annie cresta and finnick odair didn't get to spend the rest of their lives together, that annie lived to see the other side of the war, and raise a child in a world without the person in the world who cared for, loved her, and understood more than anyone else. that even their wedding was used for propaganda, that finnick's trauma was used to distract the captiol, that even on d13 they still didn't fully have a life without exploitation. that mags volunteered to save annie from the games and died, but by the end annie wouldn't have mags or finnick. that their child would only ever know his father through stories. that there wasn't even a body that could be brought back. that annie, who had grown to know a world where finnick would be there for her, suddenly had a child to raise while still dealing with the trauma and mental affects of her traumatic life.

I'm literally bawling, my shaylas, my pookies, my loves, suzanne why did you do this to me

[etherealils]

send this to ten other bloggers you think are wonderful. keep the game going!! 💗

🔮🔮🔮

🫶🏼🫶🏼💗💗

[etherealils]

MA'AM????

You’re dating early seasons Dean Winchester.

divider: @cafekitsune

reblogs are appreciated, asks open