#drabble game 3

[etherealily]

art // f.odair

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

Part 1 : Guilt Part 3 : Bets

[2/3] Long.

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings : Cuss words, SFW but discretion advised, mature themes, hurt/comfort

Desc. : The trauma card.

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

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SIX WEEKS LATER

Finnick doesn't know when it happened.

His plan had been to basically only shift Snow's focus from his family to you. You, a random stranger he could have zero ties to and could afford to lose if times got tough.

But now? His focus had been shifted from survival to you.

He finds himself mulling about, wallowing in too much sorrow to have been unnoticeable.

He didn't need this. He was already dealing with his own problems.

Thankfully, you didn't seem to have taken the ordeal during the Games too seriously, and now he was back to having only an endless string of Capitol assholes in his bed every other week.

Thankfully, because he had no idea what the hell he'd do if you actually ended up getting attached, or looking to him as some sort of protection, or actually caring or loving him - his heart couldn't take that. His conscience couldn't take that.

Or maybe, he had it all wrong.

Maybe you weren't distancing yourself because you didn't give a shit about him.

Maybe his well-being had nothing to do with this.

Maybe you were distancing yourself because you hated that Faye had died.

Right. Made more sense. What a narcissist he is.

Worst part of all this, as mentioned, was that he was actually starting to give a shit. A thing, he'd been told, he did far too often.

In the week you'd spent at the Capitol with him, he'd grown to like far too much about you.

You cared about Faye? He liked that, a lot.

You got really worried every time he came back from 'filming promos' with bruises? He liked the way you tried helping the only way you could. Which was, apparently, trying to take his mind off of it by regaling him with the mundanities of a day in your life back in Four.

But what he especially liked was that you didn't absolutely lose your shit in laughter when he held your hand in his sleep. He figured you'd pull away. He figured you'd snort and call him a baby.

But you didn't.

You didn't just let him, you allowed him, which, in honesty, only Finnick knew best how different those two were.

And he loved you all the more for it.

Liked. He liked you all the more for it.

"Hey.", he says, looking up from his rope to you.

He loves when he gets to come back to Four, but what he loves most is when he gets to come back to you.

Because you understood. You didn't understand the full extent of what he went through at the Capitol, but you'd spent enough time there to know that it wasn't really a place you could miss.

"Hi, Finnick.", you reply, sitting by him. "You don't get rope burn?"

"I do. But check this out.", he boasts, baring his calloused, red palms to you. "Scars of a warrior. And...", he begins, tugging on the ends of the knot and tightening it, "...knot of a warrior. It's impossible to undo. Try, c'mon."

"I'll take your word for it."

He shrugs, gently tossing the rope down and listening to the soft shift of sand to make space for it. See, he'd always loved this about sand. Always, always made space for anything. No matter how pathetic. How broken. How sinful.

"I was thinking."

You look up from the rope on the sand beside your feet up to his eyes. "Mhm?"

"Maybe... y'know, only if you're interested... I mean, I'll teach you how to take photos.", he says, coolly, his dimpled grin coming in to save the day, his sea-green eyes running over your face desperately, and his sun-touched hair being moved by the wind and placed elegantly in front of those very eyes.

"With your camera?"

"What else?"

"I just... you're really protective over it."

"No, I'm not."

"You slept hugging it."

"Well, yeah, 'cause you were in the Viewing Room, and I-"

He decides it's best to shut up then.

"I'm not protective over my camera. Do you wanna learn or not?"

"Sure."

═════════════════════ ⋆🎯⋆ ══════════════════

That night sees him leaning back on the couch, welling up with tears of laughter as you struggled to hold the fucking thing properly. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!", he yells between laughs as he sees you pissed and threatening to smash the camera.

"How hard is it? C'mon, cradle the camera with your left, Y/N. Cradle, like a baby!"

"That's not how I would hold a baby!"

"How would you hold a baby?"

You demonstrate what you'd done when you'd had to babysit, and he bursts out into further hysterics, placing his glass of whiskey down as you pick up yours to take an irritated sip.

"That's very motherly, but it's not going to get you any photos."

"Well, fuck photos then!"

He raises a brow, watching as you come sit by him, placing his chin in your shoulder and looking down with you at the camera in your lap. "You sure? Don't you want to make art?", he asks, a wisp of wonder in his tone.

"Fuck art."

"Fucking can be art."

"Sex is not art, okay?!"

Who the hell were you trying to convince? Finnick 'Capitol Whore' Odair?

"What is it then?"

"I dunno, like, a way to have a baby?"

"Really? So that's the only reason you'd have sex? It's a means to reproduce?"

See in theory, yes, you knew that it wasn't, but you had never thought of any other purpose for it. Because when push came to shove, even if you were in District 4, the possibility of mortality hang over all your heads everyday. Not really top priority to think of fucking.

"Well, yeah! Why else would you? You need to keep population up or the Peacekeepers-"

He nods, closing his eyes as though he finally understood why you said what you said. "Ah. You're thinking of Panem."

"Don't we live here?"

"They don't do population checks."

"But I heard-"

"I know what you heard. Trust me, your service is not required. Other districts are doing a good enough job keeping the remains of humanity booming in number."

You sigh. You're not getting out of this until he's changed your take on sex, that's clear.

"You can't possibly think sex is only for giving birth."

"Finnick, stop."

"No, seriously. Imagine a canvas, right?"

"Okay."

"Paintbrushes. A curve of paint, a flick of your wrist, a deep stroke across the canvas."

"Mhm."

His voice drops to a barely audible whisper and it makes your toes curl. In a very good way. "Now", he breathes, "Imagine the canvas is skin."

That pretty much did it for you. He achieved it.

"Finnick."

He hums, almost laughing, but not quite. "Just listen. Eyes closed."

You obey, because when Finnick Odair asks you to listen to him verbally fuck you, you do.

═════════════════════ ⋆★⋆ ══════════════════

Yep. Sex is art.

And you were covered filthy with his words.

But to his credit, yes, they did help you take good pictures.

They also made you wonder why the hell someone who described sex so intimately and preciously would fuck everything with a pulse in the Capitol.

He frowns from the bed, where he sits shirtless with his arm on his knee, posing for you. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, so, me."

Fuck.

"That's what's blocking your art, so just get it out. Ask me whatever."

"Okay, how many times a week do you have sex?", you scoff. Should serve him right for asking you to ask him a-

"Five."

"Five? FIVE?"

"Well, I mean.... technically zero." He tenses up.

"What? Wait, that doesn't make sense."

"Look, sex and fucking are different! Sex is more intimate! Okay, look, I just think if you don't see the art and the beauty in everything we do, then it's just... life becomes mundane! Painful, even."

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay."

He's about to riot. Why weren't you pushing?

"Seriously. I just can't... I can't be without assuming everything happens to eventually become art. It hurts if I don't."

You nod and he breaks. Boundaries are only required when he wants them to be. And right now, he's in the mood to spill his brains to you. He's in the mood to bare his soul to you.

"Uh... you know, uh, we should go back to-"

"NO, Y/N. Listen!", he pleads. He doesn't want your usually welcome distractions - not now - and he doesn't want a palate cleanser. He wants you, he realizes, horrifyingly.

"What?"

"I don't... I've never had sex. But I've fucked. You know what I mean?"

You... kind of seem to, but he's not sure. You look like you're treading ice, walking on eggshells around him, which he doesn't blame you for. He hasn't forgotten his outburst the first night you'd met.

"So... you get it?"

You shake your head, and he's mildly relieved. Good. You didn't get it. He'd spoken without thinking, and he didn't want to make himself filthy in your eyes. Not that he was some angel now, either - he saw the way you still looked at him. Sellout, your gaze scolded him.

"It's okay. I didn't really expect you to."

"Why not?"

He inhales and shakes his head, shrugging. "Context? Or, rather, lack thereof."

"I mean, why would you fuck people you didn't want to be intimate with?"

He's aware that the laugh that follows is only exacerbating your confusion, but you'd genuinely, genuinely, amused him. Because you were basically him before the Capitol. Wide-eyed, not entirely innocent, but definitely not well-versed with the world.

You were him and yet also the polar opposite.

Patting the spot on the bed next to him after shifting a couple of roses away, Finnick watches as you tentatively place the camera down safely first before sitting next to it. Fuck.

"Are you confused?"

You look up at him totally normally, unsuspecting, and trusting, worst of all, and he swears he's about to kill himself.

"What?"

"Are you confused?"

"Yeah, like, I don't know what this button does-"

"No, no, I mean... about what I said."

You pause. Yes. "I mean, slightly, but you don't have to talk if you don't want to."

"Do you want to hear it?"

You frown, and he tsks in urgency, his hands on your shoulders. "Do you want to hear it?"

You nod vehemently and he lets go.

═════════════════════ ⋆★⋆ ══════════════════

You're pretty sure it's three am by the time he's asleep. And it's in your arms. Tell twelve year old you that. She'd riot. She'd scream.

Finnick Odair's just bared his soul to you and now, he was utterly vulnerable.

You can't really fall asleep, not after that. Not after knowing that the lanky fourteen year old you'd hero-worshipped on TV when you were eleven had been forced into a room with a Capitol pervert two days later.

You look down. He's twenty-one. He's been doing this shit for seven years. Three years short of a decade. You look back up, at the wall in front of you, and although you can't help it, you get visions. Your mind conjures up its own versions of what happened to him, and you pull him just that much closer.

And that was impossible. Because he's only a couple rules-of-physics away from genuinely melting into you. He no longer seems to feel the need to hold your fingers, and instead, has wrapped himself around your torso and plans to stay there.

Fine by you.

You rest your head back against the headboard. He'd seemed to have struggled, opening up. He'd seemed to not know what to say at all and simultaneously not know where to start first.

You look down again, searching for the ocean in his eyes. Not there. Good, he's still asleep. You don't even feel the regret that you're supposed to feel for judging him, for insinuating that he slept around simply because he could. You can't feel that regret, not when so much anger overtook you.

The gold of his hair spews out from between your fingers, and you find yourself moving your fingers lower, down to the curve of his forehead, the dip of his nose, the plush of his lips, the turn of his jawline.

Beauty is rewarding to everyone else but its owner.

Your thumb rubs over his cheek and you sigh.

It all seems to make sense now, honestly. Why he chose someone from his District to photograph instead of from the Capitol. Why he hasn't been a complete asshole to you.

The white roses in every photo. You'd seen Snow wearing them before.

═════════════════════ ⋆★⋆ ══════════════════

Finnick wakes up much earlier than he usually does when he's at the Capitol, but then again, he preferred to relish every moment he could spend back in the District.

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is your hand.

He'd ended up sleeping in your arms, and you, being utterly, stupidly considerate, hadn't moved an inch.

He gently pries himself away from your arms, attempting to move your head down to the pillow instead of the neck-sprain-inducing position you'd assumed on the headboard. You seem more comfortable on the pillow.

His pillow, his mind notes, though he has no idea why.

The morning air outside beckons him to move closer to the sea. No one, not even Snow himself could stop him from this call.

He quickly freshens up, brushes, washes his face and then he practically soars out to the sea.

The water engulfs him, but it feels more like an embrace. An embrace that, not an hour ago, you'd had him in. He momentarily, terrifyingly considers basking in it for eternity. Letting the water hug him into oblivion. But no. His family's out there. You're out there.

He smooths his hair out, and squints out into the horizon. I mean, he could just go. Only if he managed to get past Panem borders, but if he did manage that? God, would he be set!

He could live out the rest of his days never having to see a rose again.

He could live out the rest of his days painting, photographing, he could maybe even build a boat.

He doesn't know how to build a boat.

But that doesn't matter.

Because he could do anything he fucking wanted. For once, his life would be his.

He turns his head shorewards, expecting the sharp disappointment of being ripped away from his fantasies, but instead, he finds you there. You wave and he basically sprints underwater to reach you.

"The water's amazing, come in!"

"I can't, not this early in the morning!", you call back out.

He almost asks why, but he doesn't want to pressure you. Not everyone can comprehend the beauty of an open, vast, unforgiving and unbiased sea. One that, just like sand, doesn't discriminate in its cruelty.

He'd rather unbiased cruelty than biased adoration.

Such comprehension only stems from trauma. Trauma that he would never wish upon you. He'd never wish it upon his worst ene- no. No, no. He wishes trauma upon Snow. 100%.

"What are you doing today?!"

"I've got to buy things for my home and then I've got tutoring!"

He loves the mundanity of it all. The way you almost grumble as you say it. The way it seems like you also want to just spend the rest of the day lounging with him.

After a moment, he asks, "Can I come with?!"

You look so pleasantly surprised by that, like you think it's a joke that you haven't understood, but his expectant look finally tells you it's not.

"Why!?"

He smiles, lifting his hands up in a comically exaggerated shrug that sends water droplets flying to his sides. "'Cause I can!"

It's mildly unsettling to him how normal you're being. He's pretty sure the whiskey and the tension of last night brought to light things he'd much rather muffle into the dark, but you don't seem affected.

In fact, you seem sort of relieved. Like you've finally understood something that had been bothering you for a while.

You probably think you know exactly why he'd suddenly brought you into his life, and that's what brings him back to reality.

He's still using you. The whole thing about his trauma? Wasn't that basically to get suspicion off him? Maybe that's why he did it.

His mood now soured by his own doing, he essentially stomps out of the water and slumps next to you, trying to ignore the familiar discomfort of wet sand on his skin.

Wet sand that you pick off for him. Fuck.

You couldn't be a bitch, could you?

If you'd been a bitch, this would be so much easier.

But no. You apparently had be fucking extraordinary, didn't you?

"You're actually coming to the market?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"And then tutoring?"

"I'm older and wiser, Y/N. I could probably tutor better than you. Also, I can actually hold a camera."

"Wow, so that's how it is. Ad hominem remarks."

It's embarrassing, to say the least, that after talking such a big talk about wisdom, he doesn't know what 'ad hominem' means.

"Yeah. That's how it is." Cop-outs are always effective in such situations.

You snort, moving your foot back and forth in an arch. "Finnick?"

He hums. "Have you ever needed Tesserae? Like, before the Games."

He nods. "Yeah. Once. It was a very bad storm, so fishing wasn't really going well."

"It's funny, Faye never needed Tesserae. I mean, her family did, but obviously they didn't want it to go into her name. So she was clean. But she still... y'know."

"I want to say something about fate, but I'm not sure it applies here.", he says.

"No, it does."

"How so?"

"I've been looking at it kind of... harshly, but it helps.", you say, turning to the sea in front of you. He briefly wonders whether the orange horizon reflected in your eyes brings forth the same daydreams that he just had, in your mind.

"I just figure... it's probably written in stone that she has to participate in the Games. Maybe it was just a matter of when. Maybe this was a kindness done by God, or the universe or something. So that she had less memories, less to leave behind."

He bites the inside of his cheek. "So you're saying that she died so young because it would have been harder if she had died when she was older, with more memories with the people she loved?"

"It sounds terrible, but it was something my elementary teacher told us, when we were first taught about the Games."

He nods, trying to plead with the horizon to give him something to say.

"That was a shitty way to start the morning. Sorry.", you mutter, and he aggressively shakes his head.

"Shit's on your mind, but it doesn't have to stay there, okay?"

You nod. "How is it we're not hungover?"

He raises a brow. "Sea air. Does wonders."

"I live way too far inland, then. Should just stay in the Victor's Village forever."

"Yeah, you should. You got kids in your family?"

"Yeah, my niece and nephew, why?"

"Bring 'em all here, they can actually have a childhood with the sea thirty paces away. I'll teach them stuff. Rope tying, swimming, shit like that."

You smile softly, and it makes the sea air sweeter for him.

The words are left unsaid on both your tongues. They can have a childhood until eleven.

"I'm sure they'd love it if you could teach them."

He tries not to notice the cameras in the distance behind you, but it's really fucking hard.

"We should go."

"Why? It's nice, and I've got...", you reply, looking down at your watch, "...like, a half hour left before I need to go."

"No, let's go."

You figure that, since this wasn't a common occurrence, there was a reason for the roughness with which he led you back inside.

"You gonna tell me what that was about?", you ask as he picks out an apple from one of the adoring fruit bowls someone has sent him.

You've become bolder, grown more of a spine, but asking him this terrifies you, for some reason. Probably because you know he'll tell you the truth.

"There were cameras."

"Aren't you used to it?"

He tosses the apple up in the air and catches it before he washes it in the sink, turning to you as he takes a bite. "But are you?"

You shake your head, catching the one he washes and then throws to you the next moment.

"Exactly."

Nodding, you take a bite.

"What? What else do you have on your mind?" He reads your mind with an unsettling talent.

"What are they saying? Y'know, about us?"

"Just... you know, what you already know. That we're in love. And shit."

"You didn't want the cameras to capture the lack of love, then?"

Whoa, you were hitting hard. "Uh, no, I just thought you'd want some privacy."

"You already got me to come to the Capitol and take fake pictures to pacify Snow."

"Yeah, but-"

"So what is private about my life anymore? I didn't even know I cared so much about my privacy until it went away."

He's been there, done that.

"You're saying you want cameras on you?"

"I'm saying that from now on, they're going to be on me either way."

His chewing slows, and he nods. "Right. Sorry."

"You don't have to - you know that isn't why I said that. Don't apologise."

Alright, now he's more sure than ever that you have some skewed idea of what's going on, one that paints him as someone who accidentally got you into this mess.

Licking his lips, he moves over to place what he wants you to construe as a loving arm around the shoulder. But it's actually a guilty one. A terrified one. A fuck-if-this-goes-south-I-will-lose-her one.

He squeezes twice. "I've got you."

It's hard to say that without scoffing. He's barely got himself.

---

Finnick realizes lots of things by the end of the day.

One, if you want to go somewhere where no one cares who you are and be shoved around, it's the marketplace.

Two, you were wiser than him.

Three, your trust in him, no matter how hard you tried to hide it, was blind. Blind, and infuriatingly so.

Which is why when he finally dropped you home, you said something that, if you didn't have blind trust in him, would have immediately sent of warning bells in your head that he was an absolute asshole who was using you.

"Peacekeepers seem to have multiplied around here."

And his instinctual reply should have been enough to make you realize his entire plan and scorn him to hell.

"Yeah, they used to circle around mine more."

Yep. His plan had worked. Snow had begun to send him silent warnings that now, if he didn't do as he said, the "love of his life" would be killed.

And he didn't know if it was relief or sadism, but momentarily, he found a slight bit of joy that his family wasn't the one under more immediate threat than you.

God, he was such a bad fucking person.

"Maybe they're there to protect me.", you scoff, and he laughs, following you into your house and locking the fucking door.

"Yes, President Snow is known for his extraordinary empathy."

"Is he going to threaten to kill me if you don't... y'know?"

He nods. "Yeah, but I'm used to it. And you'll be safe, trust me."

"I don't want to if you aren't. I can't live with that knowledge.", you say, pursing your lips as you place the items on the kitchen counter.

He looks around and his environment aligns with what he expected a house with two kids to look like. "Where's everyone?"

"There's some school thing. Something to honor Faye and Kai, so my family's not here."

"You didn't go?"

"I don't know if I can.", you respond, shrugging.

He sighs, sitting on the chair while you perch up on the counter, his forearm grazing the side of your knee. "She was lovely."

You nod. "She'd have loved this."

"Loved what?"

"Busy days. She was a tiny bit weird like that. She liked having something to do, and had a whole itinerary planned."

He chuckles incredulously. "Yeah, right. She was thirteen."

"No, she came by every weekend, knocking on my door and telling me the time slots for tutoring. I'm not kidding."

"Oh my god.", he remarks, shaking his head.

"She was so neurotic, in the best way. Said she loved being able to crash into bed after being productive the whole day."

He grins. "She sounds amazing. I wish I got more time with her."

You shake your head. "Wouldn't ever be enough."

He stands, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry."

The only two words he has the right to say to you, and the two you keep rejecting, cluelessly.

"What?"

"I should've done better."

"You did the best you could. Sometimes, even District 1 Careers die."

It kills him that you think he's talking about the Games.

You look at each other for a while, and he frowns softly before his eyes move to your mouth. His lips follow soon after.

He kisses you, and then pulls away, making sure you're not absolutely repulsed, and you don't seem to be, and so he keeps going, his hands on the back of your neck, in your hair.

You're kissing back. "That's all that matters", he thinks, rubbing his thumb across your cheek.

No repulsion.

Not yet, anyway. Because right before the kiss, he'd noticed something that you hadn't, right outside, pointing straight at you.

Cameras.

God, he was such a bad. fucking. person.

[broken-heart-raven-queen]

We all know by now Andrew and Neil are light sleepers because of trauma and being in unsafe places but I just read some of the extras and I picture this scenario:

Andrew wakes up night after night when the cats jump onto the bed the first few months because he is not used to their weight and they didn't learn yet to do get on from Neil's side.

Neil of course gets woken up by Andrew's panic and gets worried (he's also starttled at first) and tries to help and reassure him, but at the end neither of them goes back to sleep.

At the beggining is fine, they are both used to fucked up schedules but they are people and obvious they start to get cranky and fight a lot (more) during the day for silly reasons. Other people is noticing it too and then it affects their performance on the court.

So one night, Andrew decides to "sleep" on the couch (he thinks he could be awake all night binging some show to avoid beeing paranoid) and this is because he saw that Neil really needed to sleep well at least one night. He does not feel guilty, tho, he's just Andrew and cares for Neil way more than he cares about himself.

Ok.

So that night he innevitably falls asleep and is woken up by Sir who is now on his chest curled up as a fluffy ball.

He starts to get mad, but he can't. Not really when he picks the cat up and it is sooooo soft. And then Sir tries to lick his hands (he might be snacking when he passed out) and lets out a quiet "meow" because he can't reach him well.

And Andrew looses it. He starts laughing to the point he cries.

Because everything is fine. It's just a cat. His cat.

And no matter how broken he is, Sir would love him and do it again a million times more. Because he had chosen him.

Just like Neil who's staring at this situation in silence from the livingroom door.

[nikipuff]

Thinking about MC introducing Mychael to friendship bracelets.

Letting Mychael see the collection that you’ve grown over the years, watching him trace each one with wonder in his eyes. And when he tries one on? Oh, the little guy wants to make one so bad.

Why wouldn't he? A little trinket shared between only the two of you, and he was certain that his would be the best.

He's looking up at you, using puppy-dog eyes as he asks in the most soft voice you've ever heard: "Could I make some?"

So three hours and five cans of energy drinks later, he completed it.

His first friendship bracelet.

Various shades of green, mixed in with oak brown, laced around your wrist with a happy smile. A faint blush coated Mychael's cheeks as he looked up at your for your reaction.

A gentle kiss against his forehead.

It was safe to say that Mychael did not make anymore bracelets that night, mainly because he was busy hyperventilating and panicking about the fact that you kissed him.

[bruisedboys]

HI MAL <3 congrats on 6k

could i please request a gingerbread house with peeta and the prompt “ you feel like home to me” from the first list i believe? tysm congrats again and happy holidays!!!!!!

I feel the need to explain myself .. this request and blurb are from a year and a half ago oops. so sorry lovely requester, ily and enjoy this 15 month old blurb x

peeta mellark x fem!reader

Peeta bakes you something new every week. An old scone recipe from a family cookbook, a half remembered cherry pie from when he was a kid, cheese buns that he used to make batches and batches of to make a living when he was younger. You love everything he makes. You love tasting those little bits of his younger years, getting to know his parents through their recipes and the things they used to make. You know he doesn’t want to talk about them much, but you think it’s his way of remembering. And you’re so, so happy he wants to share that with you.

Today he’s made a sourdough loaf as big as your head. It’s really, really good. You sit on the porch with him and slather soft butter over huge slices of it. You make tea and he brings his sketchbook and you sit in your lovely, small, peaceful corner of the world, limbs heavy with the warmth of the day.

You don’t know what brings your question on. You suppose it makes you sad that Peeta doesn’t talk much about how he used to live. You don’t want to press. You just want to know, so you can know and love him anyway.

“Do you ever think about home?” You ask him, over the old, worn novel you’re reading. You’re borrowing it from Annie, who’s had it since she was a little girl. It’s wonderful.

Peeta looks up at you from his sketchbook. You wonder what he’s drawing. Most likely a portrait of you. Most of his books are full of them — you laughing in the kitchen, your hands holding a bunch of your favourite flowers, your smile, the freckles scattered on your back, your eyes and how they look in the sun.

“What do you mean?” He asks you.

“I mean, home. Like, District Twelve,” you explain. “How we used to live?”

Peeta gets a thoughtful look on his face. He turns back to his book and sketches for a few more moments before shrugging. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I guess.”

“When you make your mother’s recipes?”

“Yeah. And when I feed the pigs the way my father taught me. When I see the weeds in garden that used to grow on our farm.”

You hum. You’d guessed enough. Still, “Do you ever miss it?”

Peeta puts his pencil down and looks at you. He’s really quite handsome. You feel stunned by it suddenly, and not for the first time. Sandy golden hair, pretty eyes, broad shoulders. You feel like you were made to love him.

“No, not really,” he tells you. “I miss my family, but never really my home.” He reaches out across your shared table, picks up your hand in one of his. His fingers have been calloused by time and roughened by pain. Still, he’s never anything but achingly gentle with you. He pressed his thumb to your wrist and looks at you with those lovely, kind eyes. “You feel like home to me.”

What a striking thing to say. You sit and look at your joined hands, wondering if you might cry. You could. You feel so in love with him it makes your chest ache.

“Really?” You ask softly.

Peeta smiles at you, all things soft. It never fails to surprise you how someone so kind could emerge, scathed but kind all the same, from such a cruel place.

“Of course. Wherever you are is home, you know?”

You do know. You feel the same for him, though you could never put it so sweetly. You’re not good with words, you never have been. You don’t have to be either, not when you’ve got Peeta.

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

Peeta’s smile grows. His takes your hand and presses it to his smile. Heat prickles along your skin like burning stars, his kiss like a flame. “I’m glad, sweetheart. Do you like the bread? We should take some to Katniss, don’t you think?”

And there he goes again, with his heart of gold. You don’t think you could possibly love him more.

[chaosfae-writes]

𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥

premise: the lioness gnaws on her favored maiden.

pairing: yandere!cersei lannister x poc!reader

warnings: abuse of power, gender identity issues (slight, but this is cersei), wlw, dead dove smut.

ao3

a/n: although I love show cersei, she was watered down a bit. I wanted to see more of her delulu side, and exploration of her gender issues. Sansa Stark cameo! Sansa is just a baby that needs protecting! <3 anyways, enjoy! <3 do not repost my works!

Cersei Lannister doesn’t have companions.

An unruly child grew into a woman with a crude tongue. Where she lacks empathy with a blackened heart, she makes up for her beauty and charm—- that only extends so far.

Golden locks, and fair skin—- with a temper of a lion. Deludes herself that she has been deprived of her inheritance to Casterly Rock, and is the true queen majesty of all seven kingdoms.

Everything belongs to her.

Her kingdom, her brother, her children —- even you.

A possessive creature. Her love only extends to what she craves, and what she sees in herself. And whenever she senses a threat upon her possessions, that anyone could snatch away her toys —- the lioness becomes irate.

A small council, and a small flock of handmaidens. Only a handful of maids are entrusted in the queen’s space, but only one to bear witness the queen at her rawest.

You are punished by her unsought favor.

To clean her, to dress her, a vessel for her to unburden herself on you. Mistakenly you offered sympathies as a woman one day —- perhaps, too kindly.

Prior, you were just a handmaiden blending in within the palace.

The late king had struck Cersei, you catered to her. Cleaning her split lip, all you spoke was that a queen should be respected, no matter what she has uttered.

All you did was to perform your duty as the queen’s servant … no ill will. Perhaps it’s your shyness, or your taught obedience that caught Cersei’s meticulous eye.

Eventually, she demanded more of you. Requesting your presence for everything, and eventually more demanding—- more touchy.

Dressing you in her house’s colors—- gold and deep red. Adorning you with luxurious fabrics, and discreetly pinning a lion brotchee upon your shoulder. It brought a wave of embarrassment, for such clothing is above your station.

Showering you with such gifts as a king does so to his paramour. It became abhorrent at times to nearby eyes—- more than once, you caught her father’s cold glare.

Conversing with you—- or rather at you, rambling on about her fits of rage upon her father’s lack of respect, how she isn’t respected as queen, how the small folk should be kissing her feet—- or how her little brother should’ve died at the birthing bed.

Delusions of greed and arrogance woven with the silk of self-wallowing, and pity.

Always touching.

Grazing your skin by the fingertips, her breath upon the slope of your neck, gripping your mound tightly as if she possesses any ownership. Sending Bernadette —- against the maid’s growing irate —- to fetch for you almost every fortnight.

To the point where you don’t even sleep in your own chambers anymore.

-

The traitorous wolf is dead.

Long love the youthful stag.

A feast, a celebration held by the newly crowned king. As he cheers over the death of one of the noblest men to live. A cruel boy who immulates his mother’s strife. A feast of dancing, and platters of luxurious food, merry music and jesters.

Seated beside Cersei, as well as her other maidens Bernadette and Senelle. Carefully, your eyes float a peek at the little dove seated beside Joffrey. Sansa is now a shell of the young girl she once was. Pity dwells within you, a somber child, who’s eyes never leave her lap.

You were once that child, once hopeful, only for life to beat you as if you were nothing. Life doesn’t spare the young, age has no limits.

You’re picking at the fruits and meats on your plate, rather bored at the royal nonsense. Gossip among ladies, and redundant chatter of politics among the lords —- it doesn’t pertain to you.

Never has, never will.

As a young girl, it bothered you. How unfair it was that the town folks suffer, as the noble float above the clouds with fine clothing, unending platters of food, and spoiled beyond their dreams.

Now, it doesn’t matter. The bitterness doesn’t matter. Grief to spite, to then an achromatic sense of life. You learned that you are no different than these flocks —- we all are born, then we die all the same, buried in the same soil we go.

But fantasies of escaping to the East, to the land of your ancestors —- to start anew keeps you hopeful. Meet someone, have a babe or two. Live on a farm fruitful of crops.

Lost in your thoughts, you don’t sense a presence looming nearby, ever so watching, gawking at its prey.

“May I have this dance?” A voice soaked in sultry warmth, beckoning and confident. Startling you to jump just a bit, turning over your shoulder, standing above you, is Jaime Lannister. Gold yellow hair, smooth and silky, and a confident smirk to match.

“Lord Commander.” You speak in a gasp, bowing your head respectfully. Jaime’s smile twitches, growing wider—- Lord Commander —- not many address him as such. It’s always Kingslayer , never an ounce to respect.

“May I have the pleasure of a dance?” Jaime’s tone is more smoother, his canines flashing as if he’s ready to bite.

Cersei’s eyes narrow, “Jaime, let her be.” She tries to keep her voice low. Jaime scuffs playfully, “ And why? All these squawking hens must be such a bore.” He turns to you with a boyish grin, making you laugh softly.

All it does is make Cersei more annoyed. She has been upset all evening—- rather all day. Cersei found you earlier in the morning tending to Sansa. The little girl was bruised and broken by the mongrel of Cersei’s beastly son.

Tending to Sansa felt wholesome, it filled a void inside you. Reminded you of how it felt to be a mother again.

It irritated something in Cersei, to see you so kind to another.

“Thank you, Ser,” You cautiously say, you can feel Cersei’s tension. Doe eyes flutter back to Jaime, “But there are more gracious ladies who are more suited for your hand.”

Jaime tsks at your rejection. “ Nonsense. These birds are not to my taste.” He out-stretches his hand, not taking no for an answer.

Hesitantly, you take his hand, his fingers curl around, no space for escape. Jaime guides you by the feet, feeling the heat of anxiety flood your flesh, as if you felt the thousands of gazes in your direction.

But—- the daggers lodging themselves in your back were from a pair of greens.

A clunky sway between four feet, it’s quite difficult to catch up to Jaime’s step. Unaware at first to steady yourself; Jaime takes this to his advantage, slithering his palm to the nape of your tailbone, luring you into him.

Muttering low, “Follow my lead.” Jaime whispers. Slowing his footfalls, you follow his pace. Clenching your jaw, rather upsetting to be in this position, in the hands of a noble —— in such a vulnerable display.

“I am afraid I won’t be much of a dancer,” Your eyes glued to your feet, a little flumpily. “I haven’t had lessons.” Not daring to glance upward at his intense eyes.

“And weren’t taught lessons on manners.” Jaime jests, earning your head to snap up swiftly, now eye to eye, with a frightened stare of a doe. “Have I offended you, Ser?” Your eyes wearily gaze down.

Jaime chuckles, “There it is again,” his finger curls under your chin, making you look at him in the eye. “Most of the dance, you have not addressed me with so much as a glance.”

You hum, eyes downcasted to the flooring. “My apologies, I am accustomed to not stare too long at the noble.” Swapping harshly, your throat clenching a little.

“Mousey little creature, you are.”

You breathe a titter, bowing your head still, “The bored lion plays with the mouse.” Shyly staring at your feet, careful not to step on his toes.

“Bored isn’t the word.” Jaime whispers, tilts his head closer, attempting to catch your eyes. He leans in your space, you can feel his warmth beat against your face. His nose is just inches from yours.

“Merely curious.” Jaime teases. “My sister has had many maidens, but never any has been beautiful.” He has always snuck glances.

Your eyes slowly gaze up, fully taking in his golden hue.

A natural skin of rich brown —- not many folk in the West possess such color, he can tell you are not of Andal birth. Your flesh shines as sun brown, and curly tresses brushed back to a gold thin lined headdress.

You hum low, not intrigued in his antics, your mind is too preoccupied by another twin —- one who is more meaner.

“You hide yourself in plain cloth, dare to deprive a man?” He chuckles, but his eyes are heavy with need. A simple dress of royal blue—- not the colors of the house you serve, it doesn’t shape your bodice, nor do you seek for it to.

“There is nothing beneath to be desired.” You snip softly. A ripple of fear shivers your flesh, sneaking glances over Jaime’s shoulders. Barely a glimpse at the royal table, a flash of angry green eyes burns you.

“I beg to differ.” His voice pulls you back, eye to eye now. Jaime swirls your bodice around, his open palm tight on your tailbone. Sending a shiver upon the curve of your spine, never been touched by a man.

“My sister has kept you all to herself, I’m envious.” Jaime holds you to his chest, heavy breathing collides. “You tend to her hand and foot—- is there any way you can tend to my needs?” A smirk curls on Jaime’s mouth, ready to sink his teeth.

“When I am cold in my grave.”

“A knight and a handmaiden,” Jaime’s shrugs his head, “A sight all too common.” Gesturing to this as it could be a casual affair. He enjoys your bite, so used to the familiarity of women throwing themselves at him, such easy prey to play with, but he rejects them all.

This is new, a fun game.

You admittedly enjoy his touch, Jaime is breath-taking. Golden honey hair, a strong beautiful sculpted nose, and beautiful green hues.

“I must behold my reputation.” You said in a hush, “I am a lady in your sister’s circle, it would be improper to entertain her brother—- a Lord Commander no less.” You hum low, a small twitch of a smile.

Before Jaime could speak, you catch a glimpse of an ornery glare from a distance, burning with fury. The boldness fades on your lips, but confidence still lingers.

“Doesn’t your oath forbid you of any intimacy?” You jest with him, but your mind is still wondering for Cersei, as well as making sure your feet are coordinated.

You’re nearly breathless, and frightened.

Jaime feigns shock. “My oath won’t be burdened nor broken, if it is kept a secret.” He twirls you again among the sea of dancing lords and ladies. “Secrets can be delicious.” He whispers a wisp into the shell of your ear.

“Even poison can be enticing.” You tilted your chin at him, Jaime smiles, his hands circle your waist even closer to himself. His thumb stroking against your waist.

The environment blurs for a moment, it feels nice. To be treated with kindness, and gracious banter. To not be touched so harshly. But simultaneously, it’s all too much. As if a foreigner in unknown land, touch such as this is—- new.

“How could anyone deny themselves pleasure? Even if it’s —- dangerous?”

You gasp, mouth agape, for once, you didn’t have a snip to his flirtations. Jaime hums a chuckle, “Why, has the mouse lost her tongue?”

“I—”

“The Queen is ready to retire for the evening.” Bernadette’s voice floats behind you, and you thank the Gods above for her —- for just a moment. To be freed from this burning grasp.

“A thousand apologies, Ser. I must tend to—”

“My sister… yes. ” There is a mirth to his tone, mischievous. His eyes stare as if he knows something, toying with it his tongue.

“Yes…” You nod with a timid smile. You bow your head to him, grabbing the skirt of your dress, “I am grateful for the honor of a dance, Commander.” Jaime’s mouth is agape, and genuinely it spreads to a wanton smile.

“ Jaime.”

You gasp a breath, eyes taken back. Jaime grabs your hand into his, his thumb caressing your knuckles.

“Please call me Jaime.” His eyes are pleading, almost glassy. You blink, a simper of appreciation. A royal has never been so amiable with you. Always ‘my lord’ this, and ‘my lady’ that.

“Thank you, Jaime.” You say, a human sensation of appreciation is twinkling like feathers in your belly. It feels nice.

A cough emits behind you. You close your eyes —- it’s time. Lashes blink back, “I must go.” Feet backpedals, hands slowly slip from the warmth of his fingers.

“Yes, you must go.” Jaime says coyly.

Oval nails slip back to your stitching, you twirl around to walk behind Bernadette. Duckling footfalls in line, as Bernadette walks with a hast stride, slinking through the dancing bodies.

“Our majesty is very impatient.” Bernadette’s voice is snarky, as if she chastises a child.

When has she ever not been?

All you can do is strum in agreement.

As you both reach the king’s high table, you catch Cersei’s eyes. Envy as green as her hues, mouth wrinkled. Immediately she stands from her chair, bidding her son a good evening —- all he does is give her a wave and a cantankerous smile, too busy boasting with low lords.

You immediately follow behind Cersei’s trail, biting your tongue, the edge of your jaw clenching in unbridled anger.

Bernadette is not far behind, trying to level at Cersei’s shoulders, but Cersei snappily dismisses her with a flick of her wrist.

Bernadette is sent away to her own rooms, much to her dismay.

-

The lioness is prowling.

Foaming at the maw.

Cersei walked with a firm gait. Her hands clasped over each other, her lips twitching; her brocade fabric sways against the flooring. Her brother —- her lover, and her maiden in such a display.

The walk back to her chambers is eerily quiet. Anxiously your fingers fiddle with your rings, as your belly is churning as slippery eels.

Hastily, you grasp the large oak brown door handles, opening it wide for her—- hopefully pleasantries can ease the tension.

Without a look at you, Cersei immediately walks into her chambers. Harsh fingers tugs at her dress collar, Cersei’s back to you. Routine is often instructed to undress her, but she isn’t thrilled to be touched yet.

“Prepare my bath.” She demands, without even looking at you. “Yes, your Majesty.” You speak in a strain. Rolling your sleeves up to the joints of your elbows.

In the washroom, you fill the tub with warm water that has been on flame for awhile. Carefully, you begin to pour in scented oils, put her bar of soaps on the dish tray, and a rag over your forearm.

Cersei strides to the room, only in a crimson robe, with golden threads. Her face is cold, frozen in disgust.

Ungraciously Cersei drops her robe, it glides down her arms. She steps out of the bundle of fabric, and into the steamy bath. The routine commences—- you have it ingrained on what she likes.

As you kneel, Cersei untangles your headdress uncouthly, letting it fling to the floor, your hair flows down your shoulders. You resume your duty, as if nothing happened.

You unclasp her hair from the gold clips, softly caressing her skull. Untangling her swirls, and unclipping her jewelry. Tenderly, you knead the nape of her neck, to the slope of her throat, to her collarbones.

Cersei moans, closes her eyes in content, but she won’t be manipulated by your touch.

Her eyes flicker open.

“Bring me wine.” Curt and sharp. A dismissive wave of her hand. You stand up from your knees, grabbing the wine jug, pouring the dry sweet Arbor wine into her cuppee.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Cersei asks, if possible, the heat of her jealousy can boil the bath. Hesitant, you cautiously say, “Yes, the Lord Commander is a gracious dancer.” You offer her the goblet.

“Formalities,” Cersei chuckles, her head bobs tipsily, “ Ser… Lord… ” Her laugh dies, with a frown, “—with how you were fondling him, might as well refer to him by his name.” Her voice is sharp. She snatches the cuppee from your hand.

“I wouldn’t dare to speak to him so formally.” You say, sinking into yourself more and more. You resume cleaning her, trying to get through the night.

“Is it men you seek for?” Cersei asks, twisting the cuppee between her fingertips. You shake your head, “No, your grace.”

“No?” Cersei’s voice rises in pitch, almost mockingly.

“I do not seek companionship.” You peek through your lashes, trying to keep your composure. As a fawn caught by the hands of a hunter.

A thread snaps in Cersei’s mind at those words.

“If I bore a cock, perhaps you would be enticed.” Cersei hissed, her milky fingers clenching her gold cuppee. Her voice slithers into an incoherent mumble, ‘If I was born a son, we would be wedded.’

Her drunken vulnerability turns sour once more.

An empty malicious thought plagues Cersei.

“The Mountain has a taste for sweet gentle creatures—-” Cersei whispers, fiddling with your sleeve. “He would eat you alive.” An airy laugh escapes her, head reclines. She’s rambling poison, trying to hurt you, as if you have pained her in return.

“Perhaps then your whorish behavior would then be satisfied.” Cersei growls into her drink.

You remain mute, not daring to speak in your defense. It’s better fitted to let her ramble in her delusions. Cersei’s eyes spark again, feline eyes stare at you.

“Remember what he did to our late Princess Elia Martell? That was just sport for him.” Her face morphed to a devilish grin, hazy eyes sharply baring into your wet doe ones. The threat is clear, but you don’t catch the bait.

“All of the realm recalls the tragedy.”

Cersei’s face falls a bit, her smile morphs to a frown, her eyes narrow spitefully. She hoists her slender leg up, splashing her bath water everywhere, even drizzling your fabric, and face; earning a flinch. Your eyes scrunches shut, from the swash.

“Scrub.”

Gently you resume washing Cersei. The wash cloth soaps her skin, avoiding her lower regions, not daring to touch her —- it will only spark her. You save that task for last.

Cersei gulped down her wine, the warm twang floods her blood, and her mean strike.

Cersei calms for a moment, her eyes staring yards away. Finally, her body is cleaned, and you cautiously dove your hand into the soapy water, scrubbing her mound. You can feel her pubic hair through the rag. Out of instinct, Cersei bucks her hips against your palm.

Cersei moans happily.

“My brother desires you.” Cersei slurs, just a little. Staring into her wine, her fingernail scraping against the gold engraving. She speaks in a manner as if she talks to herself. You ignore her, swallowing harshly. Cersei is bristling, you prepare yourself —- for the outburst.

Her wet hand reaches for your hair, waves of midnight brown. Her fingers fiddle with the tresses, coiling into a makeshift fist.

“Pretty little thing…” Cersei deadpans, her pink mouth purses. She tugs downward, causing you to wince. And without any hesitation, her back hand swacks your cheek, sending you to crash into the flooring.

That was Cersei at her gentlest.

Cersei stands from her tub, her tuft of hair in view, nose down at your pitiful state. Crumpled onto the floor, cheek swelling, wet moon eyes —- fragile and broken, just how Cersei likes it.

“My husband wasn’t so kind.” Cersei spits, “He didn’t grant me such mercy.” Cersei’s bare foot grazes against your belly, slightly pushing. Towering over you as if you were a mere worm.

The late king was a brute, harshly thrusting his drunken rage onto Cersei. His swollen belly crushed her, and to add salt to the wound, after violating her body, he would whisper Lyanna in her ear.

“Undress.” Cersei seethes.

Shakily, you untie your dress, one shoulder at a time. “If you dare lay with Jaime—- or with any man, I will cut that tongue out of your little head.” Cersei clicks her tongue, “But oh, that tongue of yours is too delicious. It would be a waste.”

You slip out of your dress, with only a simple white cotton undergarment. Cersei snags your cloth, tearing it to thin ripped shreds, ‘as so a man would’ , Cersei thinks.

Cersei kicks the cotton against the floor by her foot, as you stand shivering under her watchful gaze.

“Kneel.”

As you kneel onto the chilled flooring, Cersei waltz to the bedding, leaning onto her spine, her legs spreading as if she’s presenting a feast.

Crawling on all fours as a dog, head bowing, nose flaring to maintain a steady pace of breath. Closer and closer now, you can feel the heat from her thighs, a natural essence emits from her mound, damp and fresh with herbal water.

Cersei’s fingers sought through your hair, fondling your scalp; guiding you further into her.

Your nose goes against her pelvic bone, her blonde tuft of hair envelopes your entire mouth, tickling your skin. Cersei’s fingers interwoven with your curls, tugging against your scalp sharply now, tight at the roots.

You catch yourself voluntarily suckingly her clit into the cave of your mouth. Sloppily nibbling and licking her folds.

Suckling her mound, mouth latched onto her as if savoring a succulent fruit. Your nose pinned against her hair, all that can be heard is the echo of your tongue lapping. Cersei’s grip is woven tight, it feels like pricking needles against your skull.

Cersei hisses through her teeth, legs spreading wider, hips thrusting against your mouth. Completely at her mercy, her palms holding your head, struggling to breathe, as her cunt is spilt and soppy against your mouth.

Hair not as dark as Robert’s but thick as his once was in his youth, it stirs something in Cersei. As a pot boiling at the rim, she snaps.

“If I was born a son,” Cersei shouts, nearly at her peak, thrashing you off of her. Wiping your mouth by the back of your hand, it glistens with Cersei’s slick.

“Perhaps then, I would have my way with you, not in such a secret!” How dare Jaime try to sway you in his bed, although Cersei warms it herself.

“Fuck you on the hill of Casterly Rock!”

Cersei isn’t always this cruel. Sometimes, she can be kind, and gracious —- as much as she can. Find the humor and joys in her privileged life. When she isn’t drunk, when she can hold a conversation—- she is tolerable.

That Cersei is ‘sweet’ , and in those sparse moments, you can forget that you are merely a servant, and she is the Queen.

“On the bed.” Barking orders as if she is a commander on the battlefield. As you crawl onto the mattress on all fours, Cersei serves herself a handful of your ass, fingers digging.

A pregnant pause.

“Do you desire my brother?” Do you desire a man?

Your face wrinkles in a silent sob, shaking your head, “No, your grace.” Bowing your head down in-between your arms.

“Do you not find him attractive?” Cersei goads, her finger tracing between your cheeks. “No—” a whack against your backside, causing you to wince in pain.

“As children, many couldn’t tell Jaime and I apart.” Cersei says, as she relishes in the blooming heat of your ass. “We mirror each other in so many ways.”

Even both acquire the same appetites.

“You insult him, you insult me.”

“What do you most yearn for in this life?” Cersei asks, tracing your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I have no ambitions.” You tiredly say. Sucking in your lips into your mouth, tasting your tears. Blindly blinking with damp lashes. Cersei ignores it, humming low in her throat.

“Every little girl has dreams,” Cersei goades, hovering over your spine, her mouth edging near the shell of your ear. In a warm whisper, “to seek for a prince to whisk them away. Surely I did. ” Her pink tongue slithers, and kitten licks your ear, the warmth jolting a shiver to your mound.

Cersei’s mouth trails down from your cheek, to the slope of your neck, leaving behind open kisses. Scraping the skin of your shoulder with her teeth, nipping here and there —- as if an animalistic urge to tear you apart has overtaken her.

“To be Lady of Casterly Rock, is that what you want?” Cersei says, sitting up again, smacking your back, she hums at your whence.

“I do not yearn for a title,” You wail, speaking through choked tears. “I serve only you.” Wrinkling the satin sheets, bunched between your fingers. Strands of hair cling to your tear stained cheeks.

Cersei plunges her fingers into your cunt, making you cry out. “Does this cunt serve me as well?” Tight walls sucking her fingers in, velvety cave explored.

Intrusive thoughts plague her mind. Images of Jaime crawling and ravishing your body; kissing, biting, and licking. It drives her mad—- with lust. She yearns for it to be three of you.

He is hers, and you are hers.

But what if you two convalude with each other? To leave her behind? To have a life together? An intimacy she has no space to shoulder herself in.

“You plot against me—” Cersei yells, her chin wobbles. Any inkling of logical reason is dwindling now. “Where do you go at night?” She interrogates, nose flaring.

“You slip through the walls, parade yourself for the guards?” She spoke through the cage of her teeth.

“I do not conspire against you, Cersei.” You shrivel, trying to inch further into the bed. “I do not want a life as such with Jaime, I desire to stay here …” you swallow a sob, “in the Red Keep with you.”

That is not enough.

You are Robert, and she wants to hurt you—- sex is electric, or it can be painful. She will fuck you as Robert —- this is what men do. Powerful men take what they want, this is what her father would do —- take, take, take, take ! Power, fear! Take all that she desires, take what she loves—

Love?

Affection isn’t a foreign concept to Cersei, but it isn’t something she gives freely. Only threads of herself can feel her love.

Cersei exhales deeply, trying to organize her thoughts.

Her eyes open blankly, one closes lazily after the other.

“I can see it now,” Her voice is hushed. “A Lannister wedding. Lavish as it can be. Gold it shall be.” Cersei’s head glances down, with an unhinged smile.

“I take Jaime as my husband, and you as my paramour.” Her head is swimming, the wine has sunk her even deeper. “Or perhaps, you as my bride. Oh —- how my father would throw a fit.” Cersei slurs and chuckles as a child.

“If only I was a man,” Cersei leans her body down, engulfing your body into hers. “We would live here, as a man would not be questioned on how many mistresses he possesses.” Her slender fingers creepily slip near your ass.

Guiding the slope of your under thigh between her legs, resting her cunt on your kneecap. The soft tuft of blond hair tickles your bare skin, grinding herself.

Soft wet slick sounds fill your ears, as her fingers grip and tug on the meat of your ass. Her hips are thrashing a bit more harsher now.

Her milky hands slither up the hill of your navel, cupping the weight of your under breast; twirling your brown nipple between her fingertips, twisting.

You hiss at the sting, as she relishes in your distress. Cersei bows her head into your chest, swallowing your breast into her mouth. Her tongue lapping at your nipple, her ivories nibbling and tugging harshly against the skin.

Violently suckling your tit, as you twitch and gasp; worried she might bite it off by the teeth. Despite the astringent offense upon your body, the wave of pleasure cascades you.

Skin breaks into bruises, as you twitch. Sensations of pain and pleasure blur, confusion and ecstasy. Without thought, your fingers caress Cersei’s hair.

Cersei’s mouth releases your breast with a wet pop. A tint of burgundy against the brown of your skin, a reddish ring encircling your nipple. Her puss leaves your knee.

The tip of Cersei’s tongue glides down the path of your belly, down to your navel, to finally your pubic bone. Her warm breaths tickle you.

Raspy moans escape from Cersei, as she slowly licks your mound. Plump, and soft. Flickering with her pink tongue, teasing you.

Her green eyes watch you, as her tongue slips through your folds, tasting you. Delving deep, to your puckering hole. Fucking you with her tongue, no matter how much you fight yourself, the sensation of her mouth on you always sends sparks.

Wetness echoes, as her cheeks puff up against your mound. You move your hips down, fucking yourself on Cersei’s mouth. Slamming your hand against your bedding, gripping the sheets between your roving fingers, as undignified grunts leave your lips.

Cersei admires your heaving bare breasts.

The lioness is selfish—- her mouth leaves you. You whine, stiffly leaning back. Her mouth is damp with your essence. With a harsh slap on your cunt, and another. Cersei finds her enjoyment in your misery, as you mutter for more.

“Pathetic little mercies.” She taunts you.

Silently, Cersei kneels once more, twirling her legs. Lifting your knee upward, over her shoulder, along with your other leg underneath her.

Both of your puss connect, dripping with want. Panting, and sweating, only grunts are in conversation. Your hair is messy, damp baby hairs cling to your forehead.

Cersei’s milky fingers hold the flesh of your thigh, as she rides your cunt with hers. Spilt wet clits, dancing together. Electric sensation that pulls the silky moans from you, as Cersei rides you fast.

Your fingers daringly hold her jiggling ass, fondling her asshole. Toying with it. Cersei squeals at the intrusive touch. A primal surge takes hold of you, placing your fingers into the cave of your mouth, soaking in your saliva.

Your hand cups Cersei between her ass, fiddling the bridge between her asshole to her gaping pussy hole. Her head falls back, as you plunge your fingers inside of cunt.

Her golden hair is loose and disarrayed. Cascading down her face, a lion reduced to a whimpering kitten. Your leg twitches against her chest, Cersei bites at your calf dully.

Your toes curl and flex, as the pit of your belly is unfurling. A choppy high-pitched moan spews from you, your head digging back into the pillows.

Cersei shrills a yes , as her climax reaches itself to the heavens. Bruising your thigh under her fingers. Cumming together, Cersei grinds herself onto you, connecting together, with no space of separation.

Clits throbbing against each other, stinging pleasure. Riding your highs, gently thrashing her clit against yours, earning airy moans. The tuft of her pubic hair against yours fuels the sensation.

Cersei moans delightfully, satisfied with herself. Her body towers over yours, crawling into your heaving arms; not caring of the dewy sheen of sweat that covers your body.

Legs interlocking together, as she pulls you into her arms fully. Turning herself onto her side, her knuckles stroking your hip.

These are the sparse moments you enjoy with Cersei. When she is human, when she relishes in touch, rather than harshness.

“Jaime should not be burdened with duties of the King’s Guard.” Cersei whispers. “He needs a bride. Father is aging, and one day, Castlery Rock will be in need of a lord.” She is mumbling now, mostly to herself.

“That disease of my little brother will defile us with his whores.” Hate spills from her naturally, as it always does.

Her voice trails into silence, her fingers snagging onto your flesh, pulling you closer to her.

Sleep takes Cersei, sinking into the mattress. Paralyzed in her hold until slumber overtook you as well.

The morning sun shone through the windows, baring its light onto your eyes. Rubbing your eyes by the heels of your palms, sinking deeper into the blanket furs.

The hinges of the chamber doors creak, jolting you further into reality, eyes heavily leaning to shut closed. Clicks of heels follow, and a hum.

“It seems the morrow has escaped us.” Her voice is light, cheery even. Not an inch of maligne in her infliction. It’s eerie how the mask can slip on and off—- a performance.

Cersei leans, invading your space, seating upon the mattress. Her eyes lower, and darken. How easily eerie her charm and spite can transmute to one entity.

“If I were to find you in the arms of another,” Cersei says, her voice on edge, taking one step closer, her lips stretch into a gritted wolfish grin. “I will gladly brand your cunt with the sigil of my house.” Her green eyes unflinching, her lips smirking devilishly.

Silence prevails, your hair cascaded against your face. Barely hiding your shame, you subtly nod; submitting to her demanding presence.

Cersei smirks, “Good.” The lioness prowls around her chambers, licking your blood off her paws. A victorious slaughter, a fragile doe locked in her cave, with broken limbs—- and a broken spirit.

-

Peace and quiet.

You inhale a deep breath, as it floods your cavity. Solitude has finally granted itself upon you, away from the yaws of the lioness.

Flexed fingers stroke against the wall, basking in the brisk air. The balcony’s view is marvelous. Unclipping your cleavage, so the breeze can grace your breasts, and sweep against your scalp.

Cersei had taken her leave for a meeting with the king’s council. And surely, no mere maid is allowed in such a space.

Away from her suffocating touch, you can relax in your own skin. A thought comes to you, there are a handful of empty rooms to explore. Your feet carry you down the corridors.

Without thought, searching for an empty chamber, you find one. With the tug of the knobs, you walk freely inside—- only to be greeted with whisking reddish hair.

A gasp catches itself in your mouth, holding your stomach, kneeling legs curtsying in respect.

“Lady Sansa.” You bow your head dutifully. “A thousand apologies, I didn’t intend to intrude.” As your feet backpedal to the entrance, a soft whisper calls.

“Please stay.”

And just like that, her sweet child voice sweeps you.

“Oh, little wolf.” You pinch the fabric of your dress, lifting as you walk with haste. The instinct to hold Sansa over took you. Sitting on her mattress, engulfing her in your arms, quickly her red hair melts against the sapphire threading of your dress.

Sansa’s head is tucked in the crook of your shoulder. Quietly sobbing, her delicate fingers grip against the base of your back, as would a cub cling to its mother’s teat.

Caressing her hair, you shush her softly, rocking her back and forth. “I’m scared.” Sansa’s words are muffled, vibrating against you. “I want to go home.” She wails, mewling.

“My sweet girl, how I long for you to be safe.” You whisper, “I’m so sorry for what has happened.” You kiss her head, muttering apologies into her hair, hoping your kindness weaves itself into her hair, and stays for a rest.

The morrow stretches into noon, as you watch over Sansa. Comforting her in placid silence, brushing her hair. Humming a melody, as your fingers thread intricate braids within her auburn flaming hair.

This feels like home again.

Outside of these walls, both are prisoners within a castle. But here, in this moment, is a woman, and a child. Reliving memories past, as a mother, and as a daughter—- through each other.

To heal these wounds, as mother and daughter.

Just for a moment.

[silvercap]

For the prompt game, what about Leon + concussion? Maybe Chris is there to play caretaker? 🥺

Sure!! :) 🏒🧠

Leon takes the blow hard, legs cut out from beneath him as the beast smashes its arm against his head in a final flail of dying impulses, Chris's stomach going cold the moment he sees him unconscious on the ground.

"Leon!" he shouts, already running. He barely spares a moment to scan the room for other threats before throwing himself to his knees at Leon's side and immediately pressing fingers to his pulse point. He holds his breath until the familiar flutter of a carotid can be felt against his skin, exhaling in relief. With the way Leon had dropped, he'd almost been worried that he was dead rather than knocked out.

There's a wound on Leon's forehead spilling blood down his temple, red and raw where he must have been hit by the thing. Chris presses worriedly around his eyes and nose to feel for breaks, but aside from the blood spilling out a nostril, he seems to be miraculously unharmed in that regard. Unless it's a deeper injury, Chris thinks grimly. A skull fracture or a brain bleed wouldn't be obvious until it was almost too late, meaning he needs to get Leon to a medic immediately. He purses his lips and reaches out to squeeze Leon's shoulder.

"Hey sleepyhead," he says loudly. "I need you to open your eyes for me."

Leon stays slack for a moment longer before his eyelashes begin to flutter, Chris's touch rousing him with a groan. His pupils are uneven, Chris realizes with a chill, one of them much larger and darker than the other. A second later, he's retching and spasming, Chris's instincts kicking in just in time to tilt Leon on his side while he vomits.

"I've got you," he says over Leon's pained whimpers, propping his body up securely. "Get it all up."

Leon coughs a few more times before he moans and lets his head fall back to the ground, glassy eyes opening halfway. "Chris?" he croaks, not even trying to sit up. "What's.... my head hurts."

"You were hit, do you remember that?"

Leon shakes his head quickly and immediately groans, clutching at it with a shaky, fumbling hand. "No. God, my fuckin' skull..."

"Here." Chris slides an arm around Leon and helps him sit up, crouching and prepared to support him. "Can you stand?"

Leon nods dazedly, and Chris should really know better than to trust it, but he lifts them both anyway---only to stumble as Leon's weight falls on him alone. "Woah!"

Leon rolls his head forward and throws up again, much to Chris's chagrin. "Sorry," he slurs. "Don't feel good."

Chris fights down the wave of worry and leans down to sweep Leon up into a bridal carry, tucking his lolling head onto Chris's shoulder. Up close, Leon looks even more disoriented and pained, the strange duality of his mismatched pupils giving him a wide-eyed look. He grits his jaw.

"I'm getting you out of here, I promise."

[cartwrong]

I did #13 here :) from this prompt game

this now has a sequel here

19. “Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you.”

Lamb almost didn’t pick up. 

When he saw River’s name on his mobile, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, exhaling loudly. Jackson Lamb had done a lot of horrible things in his life and he would answer for those one day, but until then, he was cursed with River Cartwright. It was almost half past four on Saturday morning, and there was no good reason for River to call him. 

“You better be dead, Cartwright.”

“Lamb?”

The voice was laced with pain and something Lamb couldn’t place, something he had never heard from River before, something close to terror. 

“Lamb. It hurts.”

Lamb pushed himself from the couch with a groan, his body making more noise than the old radiator clanging in the corner of his office. He stumbled to his desk, putting River on speakerphone as he dialled Ho’s number from his office phone. 

“River? Where are you? Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you.”

“I don’t know,” River slurred. “I can’t see anything.”

“Yeah?” Ho answered the office phone pressed between Lamb’s ear and shoulder.

“Track Cartwright’s service phone. Now,” Lamb barked. 

“What? Why? What hornet nest has Cartwright kicked now?” Ho asked. 

“Because I fucking told you to,” Lamb yelled. “River, are you alone?” 

“I think–I think so,” River said, his breath echoing from the phone in stuttered gasps. 

Lamb rifled through his drawer for his gun, loading it methodically, bullet by bullet. “River, I need you to try and remember what happened. I’m going to come and get you, but I need to know what I’m walking into. Is whoever did this to you still there?”

“I–I don’t–I don’t know,” River stuttered. “I think so.”

“How many men?”

“Three? Yeah, it was three,” River said, then was cut off by a groan. “Fuck.”

“Ho, you need to hurry the fuck up if you don’t want me to break this phone off in your fucking arsehole.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Ho said with an air of annoyance only he could muster. “Texting it to you now.”

Lamb dropped the office phone and was already half way down the stairs before Roddy’s text came through. 

“River? Stay quiet but don’t hang up. I’m on my fucking way.”

The Slough House door clanged shut behind him as Jackson Lamb rushed to his car to find his lost joe. He didn’t know how badly hurt River was, but he did know he was going to kill every last person responsible for it.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

For the trope mashup thing whatever: arranged marriage and neighbors 👀 - CX

again not one i would've picked but thank you for prompting it !! this also uh, got longer than i thought.

(from the prompts mash up - still taking submissions)

--------

“What do you mean your visa’s running out?” Lando asks.

“I’m Australian. Not a magician. Commonwealth only gets you so far.” 

“I thought you were here on a scholarship.”

“Well. Yeah. But scholarships stop. Once you graduate.” 

Lando toes the doorway rug. It feels weird to be talking about this in the middle of the hallway, though the only other person who would be listening might be Mrs. Kapoor, and half the time it’s only because she sticks her head out to ask if Lando or Oscar would take one of her mystery vegan curries. Lando is neither a huge fan of vegan food nor curry, and he trusts Oscar’s word for it that it’s good because they eat it while playing Gran Turismo at Lando’s place. But Lando always accepts the curries nonetheless, because his parents raised him to be polite, and he wasn’t raised in a barn. (Even if he technically grew up in converted farmhouse in the countryside, but that was besides the point.)  Either way, this is slipping away from him much quicker than he’d anticipated. Late night hangouts, dropping mail and post-it notes, text messages about the community garden. The most inane smalltalk about things big and small from the origins of moths to whether aliens were out there or just chose to ignore the +44 area code. Oscar always laughing in the right places when Lando regales him about tales of his terrible online dating stories, Oscar always picking the pickles out of the roast beef bagels before he passes one to Lando. The corner of Lando’s sofa that Lando has started to think of as Oscar’s because he’s there so often, reading one of his books or trying to speedread a JSTOR article about the lifecycle of urban pathogens while Lando worked on artwork for his upcoming store launch. 

Lando’s synapses are firing too fast. His brain did that most days, and that was what made him exceedingly good at his job, and today in particular - it doesn’t feel like there’s any logical way out. 

Lando remembers that movie they watched once though. As a joke. The one they both pretended not to enjoy, with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds in Alaska. The one they watched when Oscar sat next to Lando on the sofa, and they both pretended the entire night that their knees weren’t touching. 

His therapist said he had a tendency to get ahead of himself when under stress. But it’s a joke, it’s not serious, there’s no way—

“We could just like, get married.”

Lando shoves his hands in his pockets. That came out way more calm and cooler than he thought it actually would.  And to his credit, Oscar doesn’t drop his mug of tea. Lando knows that’s his favourite one, because Lando got it for him, and it says Science is my superpower. Oscar does, however, slightly shift his grip on the mug.

“I feel like it’d be complicated to explain to my mum why I randomly married my upstairs neighbour?” 

“But it’s not a no.”

Oscar tilts his head. There’s a glimmer of something focused, maybe even hungry in his eyes. Oscar gets like that when his mind turns, when he’s working on an especially difficult thesis, when the pieces are forming and he can lock into the crucial details.

Lando is a little alarmed at how much he already recognises it, and how much more often he’d like to draw that reaction out. 

“If the facts don’t fit the theory, then reexamine the facts. Right?” Oscar says.

And Lando is there, in the doorway. Conscious that Mrs Kapoor might’ve heard everything, but all the more conscious that there’s a hammering in his heart that he can’t tell is nervousness, or anticipation. 

What’s the stress limit for a joke you’re probably already pushing too far? Lando thinks.

He isn’t sure.

But maybe it’s a thesis worth testing out.  

-------------

(and ok maybe i cheated a little on arranged marriage but i think this is the closest i could get with the contemporary context. thank you @cx-boxbox for the prompt <3)

[etherealily]

guilt // f.odair

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

[1/3] Long.

Part 2 : Art Part 3 : Bets

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings : Cuss words, SFW but discretion advised, mature themes. Slight inconsistencies (tributes + mentors leave the next day instead of the same day)

Desc. : But is it in his nature?

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

═════════════════════ ⋆🔱⋆ ══════════════════

'Suck on his sellout cock, go ahead', your mind taunts you as you traipse behind him into the Victor's Village, a place where you simultaneously hoped you'd live and you'd never step into again.

See, Finnick had always dominated your childhood.

You grew up watching him charm the nation, be welcomed back to the District like he was God.

One of your biggest flexes was that you got to see him in person in a parade once, when he'd come back from one of his many Capitol visits.

However. That all changed once you became fifteen. Because you'd finally got some fucking sense and realized that the people at the Capitol, the Hunger Games, none of it was fair, it was all fucking shit.

And you hated Finnick all the more for it.

Prancing around, doing promotions, adverts, sending children to die, being the Capitol's bitch. You'd narrowly escaped your last chance to be reaped, but you still wished he'd choke on his ridiculously expensive Capitol meal.

You couldn't respect him.

But. But, it wasn't like you'd ever tell him that, though. Because when Finnick Odair talks to you, you fucking talk back.

And when he tells you he wants you to come back home with him after seeing you by the ocean one night, you go, no matter how much you'd rather fucking kill yourself.

"This is my house.", he smiles, and waits expectantly, as if you're supposed to applaud.

"It's nice."

He doesn't look disappointed or surprised at that. In fact, he seems mildly entertained. "Get in."

═════════════════════ ⋆🔱⋆ ══════════════════

"And then, maybe, just bring your hand up the side of your leg? Yeah, yeah, just like that. Okay, yeah, sweetheart, that's it."

Click.

"And this is for..."

"Modelling."

"For the Capitol?"

"Who else?"

You raise a brow, your mind immediately picturing some rhinestone encrusted Capitol asshole getting off to a picture of you. You shudder.

"I'm joking. It's for me."

"For you?"

"Feel free to look around.", he says, offhandedly, as he looks through the camera at all the pictures he'd just clicked of you. "Maybe something will catch your fancy."

"You brought me here to... take pictures of me and... let me take whatever I want from your house?"

"I'm a weirdo, sweetheart."

"What will you do with the pictures?"

"I dunno. Can't publish them anywhere. I guess I'll just use them.", he mutters, more to himself than you, but you catch it. He looks up and then clarifies, "To improve my photography skills."

Thank fuck.

"Why me?"

"You're a good subject."

Your fingers move almost fluidly past various things, bottles of expensive liquor, watches, jewellery that he probably stole from his long list of Capitol lovers, and a single, slightly pathetic looking conch.

"I'm a subject? Like... math?"

He snorts. It's condescending, he's aware - there's no way you'd know. You've never been out of the District.

"It's photography lingo. A subject is who you're taking photos of. You have the correct facial structure for my lighting to illuminate you how I want it to. Hence, you're a good subject."

"Oh."

He continues flicking through photos and adjusting the background, taking a few trial shots with the result of his tinkering, until he seems to notice that you haven't spoken in a while. "You like the conch?"

"It's pretty."

"So are you."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Ugh. There he goes again, back to Finnick Odair, Capitol man-whore instead of Finnick, photo geek.

You turn to him. "How much did it cost? Twice the wine?"

"I didn't buy it. I found it, back when I was eleven."

"You've had it for almost a decade?"

He licks his lips, his hands pausing their scrolling of the camera's gallery for a moment. "I guess it has been a decade."

"What was it like, though? When you won?"

"Won? Won what?"

"The Games."

"Oh. Uh... bittersweet."

"Bitter? Why would it be bitter?"

"You ask a lot of questions. Sit down."

You know the truth. He just didn't want to admit that there was nothing bitter going on. He won because he was hot, and now, he continued reaping the benefits of his genetic lottery win.

You sit, still looking up at him as he comes to kneel in front of you, turning his camera to you. "What do you think?"

The pictures he's taken of you have an unsettling ethereality to them. In one, you're looking out the window with your back to the camera, your outfit hidden by a rose he'd apparently been holding in front of the camera.

A white rose.

It featured in every fucking picture, so much so that you almost asked him about it. Key word : almost.

In one of the more lighthearted ones, the rose sat in your mouth.

"They're pretty nice."

"Is your vocabulary limited to those two words? Pretty. Nice."

"I don't know what else to say."

He regards your face for a moment - like, really fucking observes you - before fiddling with some knob on the camera. "Take off your clothes."

That shouldn't have surprised you as much as it did.

"What?"

He looks up, confused. "Take off your clothes and I'll take some pictures."

"What? No."

"You don't want to? But you were okay with all the previous pictures."

"Yeah, because I was clothed."

"Being unclothed is a problem for you? Being exposed? Hm? That bothers you?"

What?!

"I- look, man, I'm not trying to offend you."

"But you are. You said you'd let me take photos of you. You are not your clothes, are you? You are your self, your soul, your body."

"Yeah, but I'm just not comfortable."

'Y'know what, sweetheart, people do shit they're not comfortable with all the fucking time. Twenty-five/eight. If you can't deal with it, you're weak. Take. It. Off."

You had a feeling there was another reason he was so angry about your non-compliance, but you didn't push it.

"Please don't make me do this."

"Fine! FUCK! Am I asking you to suck my cock? Huh? I could, y'know that? I could've, but no, I asked you to help me make art, and you chickened out!", he yells, his finger scarily close to poking your eye.

Finnick Odair was no longer pissing you off.

Finnick Odair was genuinely scaring you.

"Just get out.", he mutters, setting his camera down in defeat on his couch. "Get out, seriously."

You don't even have two seconds of backing-away-time before he stops you again. "What if I killed your family?"

That scares you more. "What?"

"What if I killed your family? Or at least, threatened to? Would you do it? Would you?", he asks, and now, he's not angry at you, or frustrated, he's more desperate, frantic, as if your answer would shake his fucking world.

As if your answer would change his self perception.

"Please don't kill my family."

"Would you suck my cock if I threatened to kill your family, Y/N?!"

"YES!", you scream, flinching, almost. "Yes! I would, but please, PLEASE don't!"

Finnick Odair gazes back at you with relief, and you want to strangle him. "You would, wouldn't you? You'd do unspeakable things for your family, yes?"

Well, of course.

"Things that would make your skin crawl. Not just because you love them, but because you're responsible for them. Because you got yourself into this mess."

He's no longer talking to or about you, that much is clear.

"And it's up to you to keep them away from it."

Slowly backing away, you try your hardest not to show up in his peripheral, to make sure he stays in whatever zone he's in.

But he is Finnick Odair. So he doesn't even look up at you as he instructs you. "Don't take the conch." Like stealing from him was the first thing on your mind.

"Wasn't planning to."

"Don't tell anyone about today."

"Wasn't planning to."

"Stay."

Wasn't planning to.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. Please. Stay."

The apology only solidifies your urge to stab him in the gut. "I have to get home."

"I didn't mean stay the night. I don't want you staying the night."

Finnick Odair, as you had begun to gather, was debilitatingly honest.

"I just mean stay for a while. Have dinner and then go."

"Dinner?"

"Yes, dinner. I have turkey from the Capitol."

"What's that?"

"It's a kind of bird. It's just like chicken but better."

"What's chicken?"

"Another kind of bird."

"Oh."

He frowns at you for a moment. "You're not okay with eating birds, are you?"

"They're just... very rare, so I don't see why you have to kill them."

He sighs, looking around the room in deep thought. "I could make fish. You know fish. You like fish."

You do know fish. You do like fish. You nod.

~~~~

Finnick's fish is unlike any you've ever fucking eaten.

Living in District 4, you'd figured you'd had fish every way it could be cooked. But no.

You can't help but take more. And more. And more. You weren't hungry, and momentarily felt guilt, thinking about kids in the other districts who were, but it was divine and you couldn't bring yourself to care much.

"You like that?", he asks, from opposite you, raising a brow in amusement.

"It's really fucking good."

He whistles lowly. "Ooh, nice, vocabulary expansion. So you do cuss. I was afraid I'd corrupted you with my rough Capitol language.", he muses, looking at your plate. "You have room for dessert?"

"Doesn't everyone, always?"

He nods. "That's fair. Cake?"

CAKE? This Capitol whore managed to bring cake back to District 4?

"Sure."

That was divine, too.

"You like that, too?"

"Yeah. It's really good. The Capitol has it really good."

"The Capitol is filled with cunts who throw up food because they want to taste more."

Was that... disdain? Interesting.

"Well, seeing as you spend most of the year there, I just thought..."

He stands, clearing the plates. "What? That I was one of them?"

You watch him go into the kitchen, taking a sip of water as you do. "No, just that... no, yeah, I did."

"It's okay, I get that a lot. I just... I gotta go, do these promotions, adverts. I have to. I made a deal."

You sigh, standing and pushing the dining table chair back to its original position. "Contract?"

He clenches his jaw momentarily, before nodding, his shoulders tense. "Yeah. Sm'n like that.", he grins, his dimples emerging once more. Thirteen year old you would have swooned and fainted and died.

Eighteen year old you just lets him lead you to the door.

"I'm leaving for the Capitol tomorrow. Along with the tributes from this year."

Why he's telling you this, you have no clue.

"You should come and wave me off."

"Do we know each other well enough for that?"

"No, but I know you know the tributes well. One of them goes to school with you, doesn't she?"

Yes. Little Faye.

"Yes, she's in the eighth grade. I used to tutor her."

The reality hits. She will probably never be able to high-five you when she gets a question right again.

"You should give her courage.", he suggests. "Going in thinking you're going to die will get you killed. Let her know she can make it."

"Can she?", you ask, quietly. The answer will ruin you, you can tell.

"She's a Career."

"Yes, but can she?"

"Chances are slim." Finnick fucking Odair. Finnick "debilitatingly honest" fucking Odair. "I won't tell her that, though."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Finnick."

═════════════════════ ⋆🔱⋆ ══════════════════

His hands grip your chin and you swear you're about to kill him. You look up at him, hanging out the open door of the train carriage and holding onto you, and you're half tempted to pull him down with you because what the fuck was he doing?

You can feel it coming, the urge to slap him away, but then again, it's still Finnick FUCKING Odair, and you're not sure if there's a law against rejecting his advances.

So you just kind of let him kiss you. It's not bad, no, far from it, it's just... unexpected.

Considering it's in front of every camera in the district.

Considering you'd only known each other one night.

Considering his last words were 'you're the only thing I care about.'

Considering he said your full name an unsettling amount of times.

Considering little Faye was watching and wondering why you were calm enough to be making out with some hot guy instead of sending her off.

Considering now the entirety of Panem was either going gush at you or rush at you.

~~~~

You can't bring yourself to watch the news.

Everyone assumes it's because of Finnick.

But, ironically, Finnick's the only one who knows it's not.

It's because of Faye.

"Finnick's on TV.", you're informed at least twice an hour.

"'Kay.", is your usual response. "Faye?"

"I'm sure Finnick trained her well. And besides, the 11th is this weekend! You'll find out."

Right. You'd been invited by Snow him-fucking-self to the Capitol. Apparently, the cameras outside your house weren't enough. He needed you there, with Finnick, for promos. While children were dying.

You receive gifts from your family, your neighbours, your teachers - basically anyone you'd breathed around - for your journey to the Capitol, as if you're going to some dreamland.

As you ride the train, your head against the seat, you try to imagine this is the train that leads you out of Panem. Your family will be waiting at the destination - in your head, an actual dreamland - and you'll be fine and dandy.

As you're escorted out, you imagine you're hanging from the ceiling in full display on the TV instead of Faye having to go through the Games.

And as you're directed to Finnick's room, you imagine slitting his throat. It's funny. You almost laugh. Then, the door opens.

Dimples.

═════════════════════ ⋆🔱⋆ ══════════════════

"How is it you've never worn lip tint before?", he mutters, tutting as if you'd just misspelled a basic word. "C'mon, pucker up.", he instructs, his thumb smearing red on your lips.

You have no idea what you look like and you're not sure if you want to find out. "I thought you were a merchant."

You shake your head. "No, I said I live by the merchant sector of 4."

"Not in it?"

"Of course not. Why would I have been picking seashells to make necklaces out of if I were a merchant? I just sell shit in the marketplace. Doesn't make me a merchant."

"I mean, technically... yeah, it does.", he says, his thumb accidentally slipping and smudging your makeup over the left of your cheek.

"Right, well, I'm not merchant class.', you shrug, trying to wipe the results of idiocy that was Finnick Odair off the side of your cheek.

Finnick... seems to get it. He nods along as he continues trying to de-plague your face with makeup.

Guilt is etched on his face. Regret, a tiny bit. Sadness, festering throughout.

"What's that look?"

He doesn't seem like he's out of whatever thought he was in moments ago when he hums in response, before quickly leaping towards his bedside and taking his camera, holding his thumb next to your bottom lip, with your still messy lip tint just about seen. Click.

"What's that look?", you repeat.

"What look?"

"That one.", you say, pointing to his face as if he can see it.

"That's my sorry look. I shouldn't have sprung the kiss on you. It was a dick move.", he says, gently moving behind you and guiding your shoulders to manoeuver you to face the mirror.

He says it as if he already knows you'll forgive him.

Yes, you do. But it irks you that he seems to assume that.

"Yes, it was."

"I'm sorry. What do you think?"

"I look like the 12 escort."

"Trinket? No, no way. You look great.", he assures, and you try to believe him, but you haven't seen yourself in makeup before and it doesn't look as though it's you standing there.

"Beautiful.", he says, as an afterthought, almost, as if he were trying out the word to see if it sounded right or not. He seems to decide on the former. "Beautiful.", he repeats, nodding.

That gets your attention and you take a second glance, and suddenly, you see what he sees. The makeup isn't subtle and hidden, but it isn't what the Capitol wears. It's... pleasant.

He brushes some hair in front of your shoulders. "See? Beautiful.", he reiterates, like he can't get enough of that word now.

"You sure I'll fit in here like this? Like... dressed up?"

"Yeah.", he says, vehemently nodding before doing that thing when he looked in your eyes again. "Well, mostly. I mean, I'd prefer it if you had the easiest time possible, 'cause I kinda got you into this mess."

You nod. That checks out. "Thanks."

═════════════════════ ⋆🔱⋆ ══════════════════

The night sees you staring at the ceiling while Finnick breathes softly in sleep beside you. It's pleasant. Domestic, almost. Like what Finnick wants, you think. Like the Capitol believes, you know.

He shifts and your eyes snap shut. Why you're so afraid of him finding out that you are awake, you don't know, but you are. He reaches out, his knuckles grazing your cheek with enough purpose that you realize he wasn't asleep in the first place, either.

And then he does it.

His hand reaches out, gently feeling around for your hand, before he grips the middle three fingers on your left.

He squeezes them softly, then brings them to his chest, where his own hand lays. That's it.

You watch him actually sleep until he mumbles, shifting again. 'Y/N?"

"Yeah?", you respond immediately, kicking yourself internally. Cover blown.

"Can't sleep?"

"No."

"Scared?"

"Mhm."

"Of the photos we took today? I promise, the makeup isn't bad, and you won't have to take any more - they'll publish them and pass them off as taken over a few months, so it's not-"

"No, for Faye."

Silence. "Oh."

"I feel like I didn't get to even tell her how well she's going to do."

"You can see her."

You can what?

"When?"

"Well, not in person, but we can watch the live feed of the Gam-"

"Yes. Yes, please, thank you.'

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes. Yes, absolutely. When can we?"

"Well, technically, it's always streaming, so I, I guess we can go now."

You nod.

He raises a brow as if he never expected you to agree. "Okay, uh, just, uh... gimme a second to wake up, okay?"

He comes out of the bathroom after washing his face to find you pacing, biting the inside of your cheek. "C'mon."

~~~~

The Viewing Room is desolate except for a few Gamemakers' Assistants (GAs), that have to watch footage 24/7.

"We have to record these things all the time, just in case something happens during the cover of nightfall", he explains, as he walks in front of you and gestures to the large screen in the opposite side of the room. "Usually, the stronger Careers, from 1 or 2-", he cuts himself off. That was not what you needed to be hearing right now.

He watches as you slowly walk up to the screen, as though the soft glow from it could lead you to Faye. Your eyes dart around the entirety of the enormous screen, looking for something - anything - to announce you of Faye's survival.

"She is still alive. You'd have heard a cannon and seen a picture of her if not."

It's not the most comforting thing he can say. He's usually better at this. God, if he didn't miss his old self, but the guilt of essentially using you to keep Snow's interest off his family and on you, the - to the extent of Snow's knowledge, anyway - love of his life, isn't exactly letting him be warm and inviting to you.

But he wants to. Let it be known, he wants nothing more than to do what he usually does. Brighten people up.

"Where is she?"

"WE'VE GOT A RUNNER!", calls one of the GAs and your head snaps to a blue triangle tracking one of the tributes on the screen, and you run over to that side of the massive screen.

The lights come on in the room, and people flood in. Sponsors, gamblers, Gamemakers. Because this is prime TV. He imagines every screen in the country lighting up, because you have to watch. Every child has just been woken up because the feed's back on.

"Who's the runner?", someone asks, and Finnick turns to you, diligently tracking the blue triangle with your eyes. Blue. Ocean. District 4. It's Faye.

"Girl from Four. The boy's already dead."

"How much did I have on her?"

"Oh, c'mon, you didn't have shit on her! No one thought she'd make it this far."

"Fine, fine, but now how much?"

The sounds of cruelty almost have him zoning out, going back into Capitol-Party-Finnick-Mode. That is, until, you call him.

"Finnick?"

He rushes to your side, a guilt induced speed to his gait. "Yeah, y'okay?" No the fuck she isn't. What the fuck is wrong with him?

"Who's the gold triangle chasing her?" Gold. Luxury. District 1. CAREER.

"Uh..." Deliver it softly. Sweetly.

"Unless she's a shapeshifter, the girl's DEAD!", laughs one of the sponsors. "It's my tribute, the Career boy from 1 chasin' her, with... wait, zoom in? Oh, yeah, a dagger!"

Your eyes widen and Finnick wants to kill himself. "She'll be fine. She can swim, he..."

Can also swim. Fuck.

"... he won't be able to keep up with her." , he says, finally.

Partially true. District 1 Careers didn't have access to the ocean, not like those from 4, so it was very much possible that he wasn't trained to know about tides and currents and shit.

There's a moment where no one in the room says anything. Because they both just jumped into the water, and Faye went under.

Finnick holds your head to his chest as you cling onto him in fear. It's not even remotely close to making up for what he's planning to put you through - well, already putting you through - but he at least feels a bit like the old him. The one who could actually comfort.

The tribute from 1 splashes around a bit, looking for Faye. You've turned a bit now, your head's still in his chest, but half your face is facing the screen. You're watching, anxious as ever.

"She's not drowned.", he mutters, stupidly. Duh.

"What if something pulled her under?"

Oh fuck. Yeah. Valid point.

"I'm sure it's just a strategy."

One that he remembers teaching her.

Maybe if she uses this and beats this District 1 Career, he could be one more step closer to gaining your forgiveness, and his redemption.

For a crime that the victim wasn't even aware was being committed.

The Career flounders around a bit more, screaming, clearly, but the audio is muted here. He looks around, not willing to look under, in case that might trigger the release of any muttations the Capitol cooked up for them.

And then, he's tugged a bit, his leg down, and he springs away from the motion. Please be Faye. Please be Faye.

He's jerked fully under, and a splash of Faye's hair can be seen before both disappear underneath the mildly murky waters, a struggle very evident in the way the water's splattering about.

Suddenly, it stops.

Faye leaps exhaustedly onto the bank, gasping for breath.

A cannon goes off. Florian Jentry. District 1 , Luxury. Score : 10.

Finnick holds onto you tighter as you sigh in relief. He softly kisses your hair because he doesn't know what else to do.

Relief is the only possible emotion to feel.

No one's happy. No one's sad. You're only either relieved that your loved one isn't gone, or relieved that they're not gone in a torturous way.

Wait, scratch that. The patron who just bet on Faye is happy.

[codenamearchangel]

How about some couple activities? :D You know, shopping, going for a walk on the Citadel, watching a movie together, playing board games or video games... stuff like that :)

“What did you say this thing was called again?” Garrus questioned, raising a brow plate as he watched Shepard untangle some cords. She had suggested they do something “different” tonight—something exciting. Naturally, Garrus had made some assumptions about what that could mean, but the last thing he expected was for her to drag out an over one hundred year old video game console. He had never played any video games, only the occasional poker or slot machine. He was terrible at bluffing—at least when he played with Shepard—and his luck wasn't so great with casino machines either.

“It's called an Xbox. It took me months to track down one that still worked.”

Garrus sighed and asked, “And how much did it cost you?” At his question, Shepard paused for a moment before gently setting the large black box-shaped device on the table. “Uh...Don't worry about it. Just take this and get ready to play.” She then handed him a black M-shaped thing that had the same green X on it that the console had. Garrus turned the controller around in his hands quizzically, trying to understand how it worked. It had numerous buttons, several of which that were different colors, and some that had letters on them. This was all new for Garrus. Video games like this became mostly obsolete over a hundred years ago. Nowadays, virtual reality was where it was at. There was also things that combined digital with analog, like combat sims. That was something he was good at.

“Is this because you're mad that you can't beat my score on the combat sim?” the turian asked with a soft chuckle. “You're never going to beat it,” he continued, raising both arms up to put his palms to the back of his head. “I'm a better shot and you know it.” At that, Shepard chortled lightly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye and said in a low voice, “We'll see about that.”

She then sat next to him on the sofa and reached forward to press the button on the console to turn it on. It beeped pleasantly as it came to life, graphics moving across the TV screen in front of them as it finished booting up. Once it got to the main menu, Shepard picked up her own controller and started going through the games library. From the names and box art, most of the games either looked like they had something to do with cars or guns. Then again, Garrus didn't quite know what he was looking at. He had never heard of an “Xbox” or any of the games in the games library. Shepard flipped past several titles before settling on one that had a humanoid character in what appeared to be green armor on the box art image. “Halo 3?” Garrus read aloud when Shepard paused on it. “Don't halos have something to do with angels? Are there angels in this game? Wait—does this have something to do with people calling me 'Archangel'?”

“No, Garrus. No angels.”

“Then why is it called that?”

“Lets not get into the lore right now, okay? It's a lot to explain. I'll send you some e-books written about it later if you remind me.”

“Then what kind of game is it?”

“It's a shooting game, more or less.”

When he heard the magic word, Garrus's brow plates lifted in intrigue. He thought it seemed silly for Shepard to want to play a shooting game with the best sniper in the galaxy, especially since she couldn't beat his score on the combat sims they had played together. She did have an advantage over him in one important way, though. Due to the fact that he only had two fingers and a thumb, holding the controller and being able to press the right buttons when needed would be complicated for him and require additional dexterity on his part. Still, he figured guns are guns, are guns, are guns, right? How hard can it be? “Well,” the former Archangel said, “it's your funeral.” His cockiness was humorous to Shepard who was already well aware of the fact that his lack of fingers would make it a little more challenging to play a game with this console. Since it was long before humans ever interacted with any alien races, nothing had been designed to accommodate someone with so few digits. Garrus liked a challenge, as did she, so she figured he would get the hang of it after a few minutes. While he was examining the controller in his hands, Shepard went through the multiplayer settings and selected a game mode that would pit them against each other: Slayer.

Garrus was focused so trying to understand how the controller worked the he didn't even notice the game had started until it suddenly vibrated in his hand and he heard a loud groan come from the TV. The vibration surprised him and he almost dropped the damn thing. “What just happened?”

“You died,” Shepard replied, laughing. “That's one to zero, Vakarian.”

Annoyed at Shepard getting the drop on him so easily, Garrus became laser-focused on figuring this thing out, one way or another, extra digits be damned. Nothing was going to stop him from beating his girlfriend at this game. Was he competitive? A little. Mostly he just wanted the bragging rights, as well as the teasing rights. If he beat her at this halo thing then he could forever remind her of it and use it to mess with her. But first, he would have to learn the controls. He began by running all over the map, pressing every button alone and in combination with the other buttons to see what did what. Almost immediately, he picked up on how to aim, shoot, reload, and crouch. Now we'll see who is the better shot, Shepard.

As the pair continued playing together, they took turns nudging each other playfully, trying to distract from the game at hand. “Where the hell did you go?” Garrus asked, frustrated that he was unable to locate her character on what seemed to be a rather large game map. With only two players and lots of places to go and cover to hide behind, finding her was difficult. Suddenly, and without warning, Garrus's character groaned loudly and dropped to the ground, dead. Shepard's character was standing over his, energy sword in hand. “That's two to zero, now,” Shepard remarked, smirking. The only response Garrus had to that was an soft growl. She's not going to beat me at this game.

Eventually, the turian located a somewhat high vantage point which allowed him to see a large area of the map all at once. This is where his sniper training and skills could finally come into play. He drew a sniper rifle, crouched, and waited for her to appear in any part of the area beneath his character. His breath was steady and his scope trained on the gaps around the walls that she might come running out of, ready to take the shot. After a moment, she came running through, seemingly unaware that he was waiting for her up high. He waited until she was just a little closer to him before firing off a single shot right at her character's head, hitting his target and dropping her character to the ground.

“Damn!” Shepard exclaimed. “Where were you? That was a cheap shot and you know it, Garrus.”

“Hey,” he began softly chuckling, “you gave a sniper a gun. You had to know I would use it.”

Then the battle really began. Garrus had figured out how to use the controller, mostly, well enough to be able to fire his weapon when he needed to. He still wasn't as fast as a human would have been with a controller like this that had been designed for their hands, but he was doing as well as an alien could in this situation. Shepard didn't give up, however. She didn't tell Garrus that she had played this game before at an arcade that only had vintage game consoles from one hundred plus years ago. Of course, that was years ago, but she hadn't forgotten how to play. They more or less went back and forth with kills for a while, Garrus getting one and then Shepard getting the next one, until they were tied with only one kill to go before the game would automatically end. The pair stared intently at the TV screen as the game continued, neither of them taking even half a second to look at the other one as they were too focused on beating each other now.

Finally, Garrus saw a window of opportunity to take one last shot at her character, who was currently running ahead of him, not realizing that he was right behind her. He swapped out his rifle for a pistol and took aim, the bullet striking her character right in the center of the back of their head. Another loud groan emitted from the TV as her character dropped, dead. The game announcer unexpectedly suddenly announced, “game over,” and a scoreboard popped up over the game. Once Garrus saw that he had beaten Shepard at this video game, he didn't even hesitate to jump up from the sofa, turn to Shepard and shout, “I'm Garrus Vakarian and I'm the best shot in the galaxy,” in exclamation. “I beat you at your own game!” he added, pointing a finger at her in a taunting way. This wasn't the outcome she expected, but it wasn't a complete surprise. After all, he had pointed out that she chose a game with guns to play with an expert sniper who had proven his skills many times over in the time they had known each other.

“Yeah, yeah, gloat all you want,” Shepard said, slouching back onto the couch. “I let you win anyways,” she admitted with a light shrug. “Please,” Garrus replied. “Just admit that you lost and I won again, Shepard. Come on.” At that, Shepard sighed, placing her controller down on the table as she looked up at him. Seeing him so happy over something so silly was nice, especially since things had been so stressful these last few months, and she was going to let him have it. Did she let him win?

Maybe.

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Pumpkin Eve

Hello! I am back again! @spotaus

Gonna be real. I wasn't sure where to write the next drabble before i remembered i wanted to do this one. (look i was in the mood for fluff and nice times and not for angst so here we are!)

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Lets go! Also i know it is obvious i take inspiration from stardew festivals over our world festivals and events sshhhh

*-----------------------*

Cross stops the truck and Killer grins at the babybones in his arms "Ready tiny bat?"

Nightmare shoots him a glare and Killer can't help but snort as there are now two tiny grumpy faces staring at him. One from Nightmare and one from Nightmare's hoody.

Dust huffs and pokes him in his neck and Killer shoots him a look. Really hoping the slight shiver wasn't obvious. Dust just looks ar him bored in his own cheap vampire costume "Don't annoy Nightmare." and he leaves their beat up truck.

Cross makes a curious noise as he quickly turns off the engine "Dust! Don't get out of the car when the engine is still running!"

Moments later Killer's door opens and Dusty easily picks Nightmare up. Dust shoots Cross a look as he tilts his skull "You were already parked." and he walks towards the side as Horror joins him.

Killer quickly undoes his seat belt and joins the two as Cross grumbles and locks their truck.

Their little group walks towards the main road of town and quickly see pumpkins and decorations everywhere. magical candles floating and all kinds of other spooky decorations.

Nightmare looks around to glance at everything at once.

Killer grins and leans close "Having fun tiny boss?"

Ngihtmare blinks and shoots him a look before answering "Never been to... something like this..." and he goes back to looking around.

Right. BEcause while the hide out had been save it wasn't exactly the hot spot for parties and events. And Nightmare had never been invited to any event of festival before. Well! Time to make this one rock!

Killer grins and pokes the chubby little cheek "Well! Ready to have afun time!?" Even if Killer has no idea what there is to do here. He is used to just trick or treating on halloween and those memories are spotty and from a very long time ago. One that he hardly remembers or honestly doesn't even care about.

Why would he care about half forgotten memories? When he has everythign he ever wanted and could want right here with him?

Killer however is happy it doesn't seem to be a traditional Halloween. Mostly for Dusty and H. Horror must have very bitter sweet memories about all the old parties and holidays from his own universe. How stuff just wasn't celebrated anymore as the food shortage got extreme. And well, Dust is still wrecked with guilt when something reminds him. It is good that this is a different type of party! They will just have to give Nightmare other childhood traditions to enjoy here!

A glance to the side and Cross is looking around in awe as well. Crossy had grown up in pretty much a military AU or base or whatever. It is no big surprise he hardly had fun festivals to enjoy. And even if those were there he probably only guarded and worked at those.

Killer grins as he glances around. Looking for a good spot to start. He sees a lot of games and little stalls to get sweet and nice treats.

They start with a few games. Some apple bopping is one of them, though instead of apples these people use oranges. Some spooky duck fishing game. They all got a kick out of the weird bowling game with a ball with a skull on it called Skull bowling.

After that came the treats. all spooky themed and with a lot of pumpkin flavours. Killer doesn't care too much for the flavour itself but Nightmare seems to really enjoy the more autumn flavours. Which together with his love for sweets makes these snacks perfect!

Killer does see the candy apples in the distance and makes sure they don't go near there. It is about having fun and enjoying their time together.

Killer grins as he leads them to the corn maze, they go in together and easily make it out again. Horror having lead them out of course, wiht Nightmare on his shoulders looking around.

They exit the maze just in time to see Ellie and Dani walk by. the two monsters see them and grin back "Hey guys! Having fun?" Ellie grins widely.

Killer studies the two. Dani and Ellie seem to have gone for some egypt kinda thing. Killer tilts his skull "Egypt?"

Dani sighs but nods as Ellie grins proudly "Yes! Dani is as Anubis! And I am as cleopatra" she grins more "Or better said. CleHOPatra." and she shoots them finger guns.

Killer snorts and hears both Dust and Horror chuckle as well. Cross lets out a loud sigh as Nightmare pouts unamused.

Ellie giggles as Dani looks around "How are you guys liking your first festival?"

Cross smiles brightly "It is amazing!" Nightmare nods his agreement and Killer feels like his soul is being squeezed. Nightmare looks happy and content as he is held by nay of them. Cross is actually enjoying himself instead of trying to force himself to be serious all the time. Dusty is relaxed as he is near and Horror is content and feels at ease.

This is exactly how it should be!

Killer knows he should care more about all they left behind but honestly? He is a pretty selfish person. Everything in the multiverse can crash and burn for all he cares. As long as those who are his are happy he is happy.

He will eventually talk about that... squeezing feeling in his soul whenever he sees them laugh and grin. or when they touch or hug him. Eventually. When he feels a bit braver. For now he just lets himself enjoy this.

The two girls wave their own goodbyes as they rush off to enjoy their date night.

Horror looks around curiously "Where to now?"

Nightmare, who has been tranfered over to Cross, points at a building "Maybe that?"

Killer looks over but knows all of them are already going in the direction of whatever it is. As they get closer they realise it is a haunted house and they share grins.

None of them are easy to scare after all that happened and they went through. They make their way over and talk with the human and monster manning the building.

THe human frowns as they see Ngihtmare "are you four sure you want to take the tiny kiddo in? I mean. It is scary."

Nightmare huffs and pushes close to Cross. Cross just hugs him close. Killer grins "Yeah it is fine! He loves scary stuff!" maybe a bit of an exaggeration but it will work.

the people manning the stall share a look but eventually agree to let them in. On the condition that they don't let go of him.

Which, ppppfffff. As if any of them would willingly let go of Nightmare! Killer is very aware all of them are very clingy when it comes to their babybones. It is alreayd a miracle they are all willing to share tiny boss wiht each other.

They go in and the haunted house has theme rooms. All centered around certain fears or scare situation.

THe first is about canibals which Horror just huffs at with a roll of his eye. They grin with him and Horror snorts a laugh as he mutters "They are using the wrong temperature for human meat." and they laugh as they move to the next room.

Something about a stalker and some lady sitting in the living room. spooky phone calls and shadows in the fake windows. sound track of footsteps. Nice enough alright.

Dust huffs "Way to stalk badly. Announcing your presence."

Killer laughs and hangs over his shoulders, his soul and magic purring at having one of the three this close and not being pushed away as he rubs his skull againt Dust's "Not everyone can be as skilled at stalking prey Dusty~"

Dust lets out a loud sigh but only gives him a small nudge to get Killer to let go. So no actual annoyance.

There is another room about medical experimentation which Nightmare just looks displeased as he mutters about the tools being dirty. Killer nods "I know! It is going to mess with the results." which causes Dsuty to snort as he walks past.

there is another room about spiders and that is just great! they laugh and relax as they walk through and go exit the house, and enter the next area.

Killer walks into the garden only to stop and start laughing. Cross frowns at him before looking and gasping, and then quickly covers Nightmare's sockets. Nightmare pouts "Hey!"

Killer snorts and leans heavily against Horror as Horror just pats his shoulders and back. Dust hums and mutters "naked skeletons. nice."

Becuase plastic skeletons are used for decoration. Which Killer knows is a halloween thing but it ALWAYS cracks him up.

Cross huffs and mutters "it is indecent. Come Nightmare. Lets quickly go."

Nightmare mutters about it being fake and silly but he doesn't protest as he is carried out of the naked skeleton area down the path to get back at the front of the house and the start. Killer does manage to glance around and realise it is set up as a graveyard of some kind with a witch hut and everything. but there are just so many naked skeletons that he starts laughing again.

They get to the start of the house again and Cross mutters about indecent while Nightmare eats one of the many snacks they bought him. Killer knows he is still grinning and giggles every once in a while while Dust and Horror just share amused looks.

They say their goodbyes but Killer makes sure to give the two manning the house a cheeky wink as he blows them a kiss "interesting yard. Didn't realise that were your types." the two share confused looks before looking around the side. Then they both look up shocked and stutter out protests.

Killer laughs as he walks with his friends. Cross shoots him a look "Don't do that!"

Killer grins and winks at Cross "It is harmless Crossy. You know I only mean it with any of you guys~" and he winks again.

Cross has this tiny adorable blush as he mutters about Killer having to be serious before rushing to catch up with Horror.

Killer sighs but smiles. It is fine. Eventually they will realise he is being serious. for now? They are happy and Nightmare hasn't stopped purring for almost two hours now. That is what matters.

*-----------------------*

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Also also! @mikimakiboo made a very cute drabble for my series! You guys should check it out! It is very cute <3 You guys are all so talented <3

[lady-of-ithilien]

Hiya, for the first sentence game: "No, 'tis not a custom in Rohan to dance in a storm," Eomer told Faramir, "my sister is just a fool for thunder."

Hello!!! thank you so much for this prompt, I was truly overjoyed about this one. Sorry for the slower reply-- I am certainly overthinking these, but I similarly wanted to take some time to decide what direction to take with this one.

"No, 'tis not a custom in Rohan to dance in a storm," Éomer told Faramir, "my sister is just a fool for thunder." Faramir looked out of the open doorway into the night beyond. Thick curtains of rain enshrouded the courtyard, and water had already begun to pool on the paving stones. Sudenly, a flash split the sodden sky, and Faramir briefly caught a glimpse of white: Éowyn stood there in the middle of the yard, arms outstretched, facing upward as storm poured over her. Faramir turned back to Éomer. "Is this her habit during every storm?" Éomer shrugged, "she does this as often as not; she has done since our childhood. I have ceased my attempts to understand." The two men fell into companionable silence. Faramir continued to stare out into the courtyard. No more flashes of lightning came, but now and again he thought he could discern a pale glimmer within the gloom: Éowyn's dress, surely, as she spun amongst the streaming rain. After a few moments, she emerged from the dark and stood in the doorway. She was entirely drenched; her dress had become almost translucent, and her golden hair was plastered to her face and shoulders. In one hand she held her sodden cloak, which she had evidently seen fit to remove. "Are you... well, Éowyn?" Faramir asked his wife. She grinned in response. "I am well indeed." The she leaned forward, and kissed him, and drifted out of the room without another word, as if still borne on the wind from the storm outside. Éomer now caught Faramir's eye. "She is an enigma. I wish you luck." Faramir nodded politely, but looked after the path his wife had taken, and smiled to himself. He didn't need any wishes of luck; he already had it in abundance.

This was so fun to write, thank you again <3 <3

[m00nymonster]

Balance

Prompt: Fine

Characters: Iris, Amena, Three, Murderbot

Warnings: none

Three reached out and, tongue unconsciously sticking slightly out of its mouth, carefully balanced a black bent bar over several intertwined others. The bars were all balanced on a nearly vertical straight bar with a small hook at the end. The carefully balanced bars tipped.

“Oooooh!” Amena said. “It’s gonna fall!”

Three’s hand didn’t waver. It shifted its approach, and leaned the bar against the others at a different angle. The gathered audience and players watched intently as it placed the bar down. The stack wobbled, but held.

“Oh, nice!” Iris said, clapping her hands. Three looked pleased. “I thought for sure it’d fall over.”

SecUnit grabbed the colored die. “My turn."

It rolled and the die landed on an orange square. It grabbed an orange bar from the pile in front of it.

“That’s the hardest shape,” Iris said. “Be careful, SecUnit.”

“I’ve got this,” it said, studying the game before it with the same intensity it usually reserved for media or mission security.

The game appeared simple—balance differently shaped and colored bars on each other until the contraption created fell—but it had both SecUnits fascinated. Amena and Iris also played, but had the disadvantage of shaky human hands. The SecUnits had simply turned off their act-like-a-human codes, which initially had annoyed the girls until they saw how focused both Units were. Amena had to hold back a giggle at SecUnit’s intense expression as it held the bar in various angles.

If you put it on the black and blue bars—

“Shut up, ART,” SecUnit said almost absentmindedly, still holding the bar in midair. It gently placed it across two other bars, notably not the blue and black bars, vertically. The crew oooo’ed as the structure somehow held.

“My turn,” Amena said. She rolled the die and picked up a red bar. She looked at the delicately balanced structure. “Ooof.”

“You can do it,” Iris encouraged. Amena’s hand shook slightly from adrenaline as she carefully placed her stick diagonally across three others. The balanced bars shifted, shook—

—and collapsed to the ground, eliciting a group groan. Three looked at the pile of bars in particular dismay.

“It’s fine, Three,” Amena said.

“Fine?”

“Yeah! Everyone loses sometimes.”

Three hesitated. “Then…the game is over?”

“Unless you want to play again,” Iris said. Both SecUnits’ eyes sparkled.

[dean-samw67]

Hey!! This is my first time requesting fics but can I please please have a Carlos x Fem! Reader which the reader has a big boobs and Carlos sorta have a thing for it, so whenever they fuck he would always suck or squish em? 💋💪

I'm so down bad for Carlos.

Carlos With a Fixation for Your Breasts

(A/N: Yesssss. Hope a drabble is okay because my writing motivation is just eh rn)

Words: 215

You could still remember the first time Carlos made his fixation with your boobs obvious. You had always been insecure of how big they were. But Carlos adored it. The way they would bounce when he would fuck you. Mesmerizing to him. You first took notice to his love for your chest when you would wake up the next morning and your chest and breasts would be covered in bruising.

You just blew it off as Carlos’s love for marking you. (Because we all know he’d love marking you) But it became more consistent and obvious in bed. The way his mouth would immediately latch to your boobs. Leaving hickies and sucking on your nipples, which always sends ripples of more pleasure through you.

If it wasn’t his mouth then his hands were on them. Squeezing, pinching, massaging. He loved watching as your skin spilled over his fingers. That man would practically drool at the sight.

And when you suggested him fucking your tits for the first time he nearly came in his pants just thinking about it. It was safe to say he didn’t exactly last too long when he did that. Not that you minded. It made you happy to know he loved a part of you that you felt very unsure about.

Masterlist

[silvercap]

If you're in the mood, maybe fever aches/cramps? At this point you know who 😆 (up to you if alone or with a friend)

Hehe of course 🥰

The bedsheets are damp around him from the sweat sheening his skin, constricting and uncomfortable---but the thought of pushing them away is enough to make Leon shiver with the chills that have been relentlessly wracking through him for hours, desperate to absorb any semblance of heat to drive away the cold. The itch of damp sheets against his bare skin is irritating, but he knows that clothes would only make it worse. Leon twists uncomfortably, a moan rising to his lips as the movement tenses his aching muscles, his shoulders and neck throbbing painfully as he tilts his head the slightest bit to the side.

His knees feel like they're being pried apart with rusty steel crowbars when he draws them up to the side, the stretch of stiff muscles at once relieving and agonizing. Even his hands ache, fingertips and wrists pulsing around the joints. His ankles and elbows fare the same, and his hips just can't seem to sit comfortably for longer than a minute or two.

In short, he's miserable, every inch of him feeling like it's been slammed into several walls by an angry army of BOWs despite the fact that he's been home for the past few weeks, working on an R&D project instead of rushing headlong into battle for once. Well, except for today. He'd woken up feeling much worse than he does now---which is saying something, because he's feeling pitiful enough to let himself whimper and curl up in the fetal position---and immediately called for a sick day.

Unable to bear the discomfort for a moment longer, Leon kicks the bedsheets away. It's pure bliss, at first, until his bare chest begins to pebble with goosebumps and he feels the frost return to his bones, and he regrets his hastiness. He coughs, the phlegm in his chest rattling and stinging deep down in his lungs. Shivers.

He tries to pull the blankets back to him with only his feet, but he can't seem to make it work---he's going to need to sit up. Okay, he can do that, right? He did it this morning when he went to the bathroom, he's pretty sure.

The first tensing of his abdominal muscles makes his entire back and sides throb, a groan escaping him as he weakly props himself up on an elbow and fumbles for the blankets at the end of the bed. It takes him a moment longer to draw them back over his trembling body than he'd like, pulled up to his ears just to keep himself from freezing to death in his own home. Everything hurts.

-~-

"Leon?"

The voice rouses him from a restless, uncomfortable sleep, and he groans. A cool hand finds his brow and he can't help but lean into it, eyelids fluttering open to reveal the blurry silhouette of what he thinks must be Piers. He looks worried.

"What," Leon grumbles.

"I got home a few days early," Piers explains, voice hushed. "I tried to phone, but you didn't answer, and I got worried. Figured I'd come check on you, and it seems like a good choice, with a fever like that. How are you feeling?"

Leon thinks. It takes longer than it should for him to pull the thoughts from his cottony, achy brain, but he eventually frowns. "Bad."

"What kind of bad?"

Leon tries to turn his head deeper into Piers' hand and succeeds only in reigniting the pain in his shoulders, taking shallow breaths to try and ride it out. "My body," he rasps. "It all hurts."

Piers tuts, hand sliding up to card through Leon's sweaty hair. It's probably disgusting, but he doesn't seem to mind, and Leon loses himself in the soothing touch. "You just wait here, then," Piers says, pressing a kiss to the side of Leon's forehead. That feels nice. "I'll go get you some water."

He strokes over Leon's hair one last time and stands to leave, pausing to tuck the blankets tighter around Leon's body and helping him adjust to a more comfortable position on the pillow. Leon sighs.

He's still cramping up, but that feels a lot better.

[cartwrong]

For the hurt/comfort dialogue prompts I would love to see 13 or 19 (or any of them honestly).

I absolutely adore your slow horses fics and always look forward to reading them!! 🫶

aw you're so sweet! thank you <333333 and for you, anonymous friend, you get both! #19 is here :) (from this prompt game)

Also, just a heads up, I'm often incapable of writing a drabble. So, yeah, this is 619 words. Oops.

13. "Can't--breathe--".

“River! River! Look at me!”

He did, and God help her that was worse for Louisa. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, bulged in an unspoken question. His chest looked odd, one side concave in an unnatural way as it heaved in an uneven agony and River struggled to breathe. 

“Oh Fuck.”

Louisa turned desperately to Shirley, who was pale and wide-eyed but was thankfully already calling 999. 

“Can’t–breathe–” River gasped, grabbing onto her wrist with a bruise-inducing grip. 

“It’s going to be okay, We're going to get you help,” Louisa said, her voice somehow absent of the terror rampaging through her as her free hand hovered over River’s chest, unsure what to do, where to touch without causing him further pain. 

She hadn’t seen him fall, only heard as he tumbled down the metal staircase outside Slough House. The thing was a death trap, abnormally slick whenever it rained and more than once Louisa had an oh shit moment when her boot momentarily caught on one of the grates. It was only a matter of time before someone fell to their death on it. 

But, of course, it had been River who had been the unlucky bastard to stumble down the stairs. River, who never met a mirror that he couldn’t break, a ladder he wouldn’t walk under, a black cat he wouldn’t pet. Now, as he lay crumpled and bleeding with his chest caved in on one side and his leg in angles legs weren’t supposed to bend, all she could do was hold his hand and wait. 

All she could do was hold his hand and pray. 

Louisa couldn’t lose him, not now, not after everything, not because he fell down the fucking stairs. 

She squeezed his hand harder. It was clammy under her touch, rubbery, not like River at all. River’s hands were warm, warm and comforting and safe. She touched his face with her other hand and he looked at her again, his pupils blown wide and begging her to help, begging her to take away his pain as his breaths came in uneven gasps and his chest shuddered and sputterd to an unholy rhythm. 

Louisa squeezed his hand harder and didn’t let go, not when the ambulance arrived, not when Shirley tried to pry her away, not when they loaded him into the ambulance and covered his face with an oxygen mask and shoved a needle into his chest to inflate his collapsed lung. Louisa didn’t let go until three orderlies at the hospital held her back as she screamed and wailed and tried to follow into the operating room. 

Her hand felt cold without his and Louisa felt all hope slip through her fingers like grains of sand as she collapsed crying onto the floor of the hospital and tried to catch her breath. She was in the same position when Shirley and Catherine found her, her chest heavy, her breathing laboured, her world shattering around her. 

“Can’t–breathe–” she shuddered. 

With surprising strength for her size, Shirley shoved Louisa into a chair and then pushed her head between her knees. 

“You’re having a panic attack,” she said, her hand firm between Louisa’s shoulder blades. “Follow me, alright? Inhale–hold–exhale–and hold again. Okay, again, inhale–hold–exhale–and hold. That’s it.”

By the time Louisa could breathe again, Lamb had arrived, Roddy and Coe trailing behind him like two sullen teenagers who just got told they couldn’t meet their friends at the mall. Catherine shoved a bottle of water into Louisa’s hand and Shirley left her hand firmly on Louisa’s back, but they were nowhere near closer to finding out anything about River’s condition. 

All Louisa could do was sit and wait and try to remember how to breathe.

Inhale–hold–exhale–and hold.

Inhale–hold–exhale–and hold.