#this is the chapter about hunger and too much hunger and hungering too far and hunger is desire ofc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whoevenisjavier · 2 months ago

Text

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same, sometimes with a fresh coat of paint, and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive that you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit, looking big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,” he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right. You’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body, from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster or worse: Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. This sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you, because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent, but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down, from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Cumshot of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry is your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear, loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private, that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #mine

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callsign-swan · 26 days ago

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Into The Maw Of The Beast

Chapter Four

The beast comes to collect a girl from your village every year. When you are chosen, you don't realise that the beast is a man. A man under a curse that only you can break.

A beauty and the beast retelling

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Five Chapter Six

The dress the wardrobe presented you with that morning was white. There was nothing much more to it, finely made, with a bodice that fit you like a glove and a skirt that flared out. The straps were thin, showing skin.

Skin you would have been shamed for showing in your village.

It was beautiful. Beautiful in a way you didn't know women could be.

Breakfast had been prepared for you. But it wasn't on the kitchen table, this time. It was in the dining hall, on a grand table. It was surrounded by chairs, more than you would see ever being filled. The chair at the head of the table looked more like a throne.

Where the master of the house sat, you were sure.

Portraits were hung on every wall. But they were in a state of disrepair, torn through by some beast. Torn through but him, you knew.

He wasn't there when the castle allowed you into the dining hall. But the food had to be for you; there was nobody else in the castle that could eat.

The breakfast was simple but incredible. Eggs and bread and fruit. Eggs cooked by Yuki, bread made by Yuki. The fruit had been prepared by him, washed and arranged in a little bowl.

You ate alone in the dining hall. It was far too big, your every bite seeming to echo around you. The few eyes left intact on the portraits seemed to stare at you.

After your plates were empty, you piled them up. Before you could pick them up and take them to the kitchen, the table moved away from you. "Hey!" You cried, reaching for plates again.

Instead of the table moving away, the plates moved away. Everything in this castle was alive.

"Fine," you said, folding your arms over your chest and turning away. "Don't let me help."

Your chair moved out of your way, the door from the dining hall opening for you.

"Can you take me to the library?" You asked, voice polite.

The sconces on the wall erupted in flame, but they did nothing to brighten the corridor in the morning sun. The light flooding in through the windows was enough.

You didn't expect to see him. Man or beast, you didn't expect to see him. A gasp left your lips, not expecting the body he inhabited. But you tried to hide it.

"Good morning," you said, your gaze on the floor. After how he'd reacted to your staring at his horns, there was no telling how he'd react to you seeing the rest of him.

"Good morning."

You hadn't noticed it the day before, but his voice was different as a beast. Gravelly and quieter.

Your eyes found his paws. Thick, with claws that dug into the wood of the flooring. But you couldn't look at any other part of him, you weren't brave enough to risk his wrath in his beastly form.

"I was about to spend my morning in the library," you informed him, your hands brushing over the flared skirt of your dress.

Even as you said it, you couldn't tell what it was. Informing him, an invitation for him to join you. You weren't sure.

In all white, you could have looked like a spectre in these halls. But the sunlight, the skin of your arms and the top of your chest revealed to him. You looked lovely.

The beast, the master of the house, Max, nodded his head. "You should find some new books on the window, if my castle is feeling nice," he said and began walking again.

His every step seemed to shake the floor beneath his feet. Once he had walked past you, you risked looking at him.

Growing up, there had been so many rumours surrounding the beast in the castle. A great, hulking creature that stalked around, tearing apart anything it came across. It took girls from your village just to satisfy some sickening hunger.

But you knew that to be false. You knew the beast to be more than that. There was something beautiful about him. He could have torn you apart, easily. He didn't have to give you food, give you shelter. He didn't have to provide you with pretty dresses. He didn't have to allow you into his library.

When he stopped, you turned away and hurried down the corridor. The castle was beautiful, filled with this might sunlight. Sunlight that allowed you to see every detail in every painting the you passed. You imagined it in the years passed. The legends in your village told of grand parties, of these halls full of life.

You looked out of the windows. Immaculately clean, but what else did the staff have to do but take care of the castle? They couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't leave. They had nothing to do but their jobs.

You looked into the garden. The beautiful garden. It was full of plants: The white flowers at the castle entrance, the neatly trimmed hedges, the bed of wildflowers. You pressed your face against the glass as you spotted a little structure in the back of the garden. Tucked in the corner, surrounded by hedges.

A greenhouse. A little structure made of glass. You couldn't make out the plant life held inside of the greenhouse, but you could only imagine.

How could madness find you in a place like this?

You stepped into the library. Just as Max had said, new books awaited you on the window seat. Books picked out by him or the castle, you weren't sure.

Still you picked them up. Making yourself comfortable, you opened the first book and began reading.

***

You didn't look at him. You wouldn't lay your eyes on his beastly form. Disgusted, afraid, Max wouldn't tell which. He just wanted you to look at him.

Just as he had suspected when you stared at his horns. You were disgusted by him. You could never love a beast like him; You could never break the curse.

He had to let you go.

A morning in the library as he prepared for your departure. It was the smallest bit of kindness he could offer you. For the first time in a long time, Max commanded his men.

They readied a horse for you. His animals weren't subject to the curse like rest of his castle, but his staff had kept the bloodlines going.

The horse they readied for you was old. He could spend the rest of his days living outside of your village, free.

"Why are you doing this?" Charles asked, leaning against the stable wall. "Max, she could be the one to break the curse!"

"No," he immediately said, keeping the growl from his voice. He knew this horse, knew him well enough to know that he feared the beast. So, Max kept himself calm around him. "She is terrified of me, Charles, disgusted by me."

Charles rolled his eyes. "Have you spoken to her yet?" He asked, truly spoken to her, not just a few words?"

"Yes!" It came out harsher than he expected it to. A vicious growl that had the horse backing away from him as Isack placed his saddle on his back. "She will not look at me, Charles. She is disgusted by me."

"But not you by her," Charles reasons.

Max held back another growl. He hated it when Charles was right.

"No," Charles mused, a smile on his face. "You find her pleasant. With her pretty face, with a sweet nature you didn't expect."

"She doesn't belong here, Charles," he reasoned. He sounded so damn human, even with the beastly rasp to his voice.

Charles pushed away from the wall. He stepped towards the horse and flipped open his saddle pack. Stuffed with food, more than you would need for this journey. "You're making a mistake," Charles said, fastening the flap of the bag.

"What was that thing your father used to say when you got too attached to one of the village girls?" Max asked, striding out of the stable.

Charles followed him. "If you love something, let it go," he said through clenched teeth. "Are you saying you love her, Max?"

"I am saying no such thing."

The two men strode past the library window. Max only glanced to see you sitting there, one of his books open in your lap. The castle had left them for you, but it was at his command.

You didn't belong here.

"Get Yuki to make her some lunch and then send her away." he said and stepped back into the castle.

Charles released a breath. He was awarding you freedom, or signing your death warrant. There was no telling which.

As Max disappeared, Charles walked back towards the stable. The horse would take care of you, he knew. He would get you to your village, but Charles didn't know if that was good. What if they didn't accept you now you had been 'marked' by the beast?

"Fuck," he hissed as he walked to find Yuki.

***

Liam and Yuki kept looking at you. Not the curiosity that they had for you the night before. No, this was something different. This was a mix of emotions, none of them good.

It wasn't just them, it was Charles, too. Watching you as you ate, muttering to themselves.

"What?" You asked as you finished up. "What is it?"

Yuki grabbed your plate.

"Come, Chérie," he mumbled and you stood.

He walked quickly. Lifting your skirts, you kept pace with him. "Charles, where are we going?" You asked. "I was hoping to return to the library and read. The castle left me some books and I was really hoping to finish them."

You gave him the titles of the books and Charles faltered. Max's books. The ones he took back to his room when the nights of being endlessly awake became all too much.

And yet, he was letting you go.

"I'm sorry, Chérie," Charles mumbled as he took you out of the castle. "He can be as stubborn as a mule sometimes."

Your brows furrowed. "Whatever do you mean?"

Charles released a breath. "He's letting you go," he said in way of explanation. "We have a horse ready to take you back to your village."

As if on cue, a stable door opened. A gorgeous brown horse was lead from the stable, already tacked up in a saddle and bridle. The saddle bags were full, practically bursting with provisions.

Suddenly, Charles had both of your hands. "Promise me you'll come back if anything happens. If you get lost, if your village does not accept you, follow the path back to us."

You hadn't yet gone, still within the castle grounds, but already it seemed to return to the dull structure it had been before you arrived. Only two nights on her grounds, and you had already made things brighter.

You were the one to break the curse. He would never forgive Max for this.

"Promise me that you'll stay safe," he said as the reins were placed in your hands.

You looked at the horse, looked back at the castle. The castle who had been so kind to you. Both her and her inhabitants. Even the beastly master wasn't so bad.

"I will," you said and threw your arms around him. Charles held you, his arms around your waist. Part of him wanted to hold you there. Let Max see what was happening while you were still on the grounds. the way the light dimmed from within her walls, the way the sun stopped shining favourably on the land. The way the staff that had met you deflated.

Let him see.

Letting go of you, Charles helped you into the saddle. "Take care of her, Nino," he whispered to the horse. Taking the reins, Charles led you to the castle gate. "Follow the path to the East and you will find your village," he said and passed you back your reins.

"Thank you, Charles," you said as you picked up your reins. "For everything."

You squeezed your legs against Nino's side and he walked forwards. He walked through the gate and Charles could no longer follow you. Only Max could follow you, but he just watched from the tower.

Taglist: @flightmedictrace @hc-dutch @stressed-cherry @star73807-blog @efoxie @hott1es @easy4 @aykxz98 @nefsburneracc @edgyficuselastica @evermoreandroyalblue @rayaskoalaland @gsaintt @storminacloud @thecolorpearl05 @fastandcurious16 @hollie911 @b0nesandgh0sts @kath-666 @lorena-mv33 @maxswhore33 @felicityforyou

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splaede · 1 year ago

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AFTER DARK. Armin Arlert (CH. 6) (18+)

☰ pairings: Armin x Reader, Slight Eren x Reader

┌─ ✮⭒｡ story summary: Armin was tired of being seen as an innocent, goody-two-shoes, little flower boy. Instead, he wanted to be seen in a more romantic and…sexual light. You just couldn’t turn down a sweet boy like him, so you agreed to hone his charms and teach him special…skills.

And he turned out to be much more powerful (and hotter) than you'd ever expected.

└─ ✩⭒｡ story #tags: fluff, angst, smut, friends to lovers, friends w benefits, drama, jealousy, hurt/comfort, manipulative armin, virgin armin, loss of virginity, childhood friends, lots of tension, nerd armin, and then he glows up, love triangles, unrequited love, gaslighting, lots of buildup

☰ CHAPTER SIX. armin's first

┌─ ✮⭒｡ chapter summary: Things get heated. Things get so, so heated.

└─ ✩⭒｡ chapter warnings: smut (p in v sex, fingering), fem bodied reader, loss of virginity, petting, literally most of this is foreplay

wc: 9.7k

☰ table of contents | previous chapter | next chapter

In the dim of your living room, your eyes could only see him. And right here, on the plush of your couch, your body only knew his.

Armin held you, secured you, and grounded you, strong arms snaked around your waist as you became all too aware of your intermingling bodies. The squish of your thighs against his, the unashamed press of your tits against his chest, the weight of his breaths against your lips…

You could still feel the tingle on your lips where he’d last kissed you, a ghost of his touch.

Above you, the clock ticked louder and louder in your ears, louder than the blood that rushed to muffle your hearing and the pounding of your pulse, a looming reminder that it was late. That you had work in the morning. That you were running out of time.

That you shouldn’t be doing this.

Another sound intruded on you. A voice, his voice, running rampant in the back of your head.

Will your roommate be home soon?

The fact that he’d asked that question…just what did he want?

And on top of that, you had already confirmed that, no, your roommate wasn’t going to be home any time soon. In fact, she wasn’t going to be home at all, meaning you’d have the entire night with him alone, undisturbed.

Sitting here, Armin quietly eyed you, curious and content yet half-lidded and torn by lust. He suddenly silenced your thoughts with a kiss, swooping in hard, teeth clashing, causing you to instinctively grab his face to ease him down.

The kiss oozed of messiness, an exchange of saliva and wet, meshed-together lips that barely held any rhythm. The feeling consumed you fully—the warmth and fervent press of his lips—as you slowly guided him.

Lost in the intensity, you instinctively swiped your tongue against his bottom lip. He jolted, pulling away.

You thought that was so cute of him, seeing him like this. So ironically innocent.

“S—sorry,” he stuttered out, a bashful look on his face.

Your brows furrowed, worried that you had done something wrong. “Did I go too far?”

“No, it’s just….” He tightened his grip on your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “God, I’m so nervous.”

Squeezing your hands on his shoulders, you reassured him, “It’s okay. We can go slow.”

“Okay.”

Armin smiled up at you, so sweetly and boyishly—so contradictory to the thoughts you’d been having about him. But even so, he was still nothing like the little boy you’d known. Not when he was gazing at you with that blush, reddened and far-gone, and that glint of lust—that hunger—in his eyes.

You still couldn’t believe he was here with you. If you’d known you’d be kissing your childhood friend ten years down the line, you’d probably flip out in disbelief.

But he’d matured so much from then. That boy was nothing like the man under you, holding onto you. Nothing like how tempting and alluring and irresistible he looked right now.

His palms flexed around your waist, once, then twice, then dragged up the sides of your torso, slowly, almost mindlessly, then back down. Pressed up like this, chest-to-chest, you could feel the racing of his heart so hard that you felt yourself rattling. And even though his hands had stopped shaking, the fast, repetitive thump inside his chest told you more than anything else ever would.

Sitting in silence, hearts beating out of sync, you let him roam your body like that. Slowly and hesitantly, like he hadn’t quite fully grasped the situation.

"You're a good friend,” he mumbled quietly, no longer meeting your eyes, fixated on where he was touching you instead.

Cheeks heating up at the praise, you shuddered with a laugh that sounded a little too strained and nervous.

You were a good friend? No, he was a good friend. He was the whole reason you wanted to do this in the first place. A good, caring, considerate friend that you would never turn down even if it meant putting your friendship on the line.

“I trust you. I wouldn’t ask anyone else this,” he continued.

Breathing in deep, you cupped his face affectionately. “No, please, you’re so good to me. How can I say no to you?”

His hands stilled, and you could see how his eyes instantly softened. Armin’s right hand fiddled with the hem of your shirt, eyes meeting yours momentarily before darting away.

“Thank you. So…can we keep going?”

Your lips lifted into a small smile, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at his eagerness. “Yeah, um. Do you…want to try using tongue now?”

As soon as you’d finished that sentence, you fought down the nervous, embarrassed lump that rose to your throat. It couldn’t get any more straightforward than that.

“Yeah,” he replied breathlessly and nodded.

“Slowly, okay? We’re just gonna ease into it. When I lick your lips, open your mouth a little. And then after that, it’s like…” You swallowed, tensing. “Um, I don’t really know how to explain it. Just try to match me.”

He gazed at you with so much anticipation that you could almost taste it. Sliding your hands back onto his shoulders, you latched onto his lips again.

This time, there wasn’t a rush. Just slow, methodical, and relaxed movement as you relished the softness of his lips. You loved this feeling. Soft and sweet, like him.

His hands began roaming your body again, starting from the sides of your chest down to the tops of your thighs. His palms slightly brushed the outer parts of your breasts, but it was still nowhere close to where you really wanted him.

You took this as a cue to mimic him, hands gliding down to his biceps where you gave him a light squeeze. Even though you knew he worked out, you were still surprised to feel the dips and tautness of hard muscle. It wasn’t that you forgot, it was that you didn’t normally expect it from Armin, someone usually so nice and mellow.

As you trailed down his stomach, you could feel the defined ridges of his abs under your splayed palms, and you swore you almost moaned. For someone with such a cute face, he had such a strong body.

When your tongue finally soothed over his bottom lip, he parted his lips ever-so-slightly. And the moment you slipped your tongue in, he let out a small noise that was so, so quiet. Your tongues met, warm and wet.

You could tell he was hesitant, but you continued at the same pace, slowly licking into him and swiping your tongue over his. He’d completely stilled, hands etching themselves harder into your waist. As you were letting yourself taste him, something tugged on your heart, weighing heavy.

Because it dawned on you that you were making out with Armin.

Something so intimate and passionate like this could only be reserved for lovers, not for friends.

Armin reluctantly slipped his hands under your shirt. Just right there, right at the threshold of your torso and not any further, like he was testing the waters. He held you there, only tasting. Your breath hitched, startled by the warmth of his fingers, but the flow of the kiss remained the same.

The pressure of his tongue was soothing as it moved against yours, and he was getting the hang of it little by little. And the moment it seemed to click—where it felt like you’d reached the perfect rhythm and the perfect amount of energy—you moaned into his mouth to let him know he was doing good. Thank God he was a fast learner.

Cradling his neck into your arms and threading your fingers into his hair, you rolled your hips into him experimentally, pelvises meeting. You heard him inhale sharply, but he didn’t break the kiss. He only tightened his hold on you, pushing you down slightly as he rolled his hips, matching you.

The friction felt so undeniably good. You knew he felt good, too, because you could feel the area of his crotch stiffen under you.

It was like that for a while, the two of you grinding on each other, so focused on outdoing the other that the kiss wasn’t even a kiss anymore. Just a mix of messy lips and hitched moans and saliva. So much so that you had to wipe away the drool at the corner of his mouth.

You were the first to pull away for air.

“How was it?” he instantly asked, licking his lips. They were swollen, and that gave you the urge to kiss him again.

“Just a little messy. But good. You did good for your first time.” You laughed.

He laughed with you, bringing a thumb to swipe over the corner of your mouth. “Sorry about that.”

Just like that, the two of you shared a cute moment, and you began to think that nothing would change between you—that you two would still be friends and embrace these moments no matter what.

As the atmosphere from your makeout session died down, you were left with one final thought.

What now?

“Hey…” you started. You didn’t even know how to word this. Do you know where this is going? Do you even want to keep going?

You stood up, all too abruptly like you were running on autopilot as your brain tried to catch up with your body, hands detaching from his neck and thighs from his lap. You looked at him warily, wedged between the coffee table and his parted legs.

Armin frantically stood up, too, half hard in his pants as he reached for your forearm. “Something wrong?”

It was late, you remembered again.

But now, in this lapse of judgment, you guessed it didn't matter if you should or shouldn't continue. Not when he was staring at you, pleading with his eyes—with his body. You could almost hear his heart thumping out of his chest.

You wondered if he could hear yours, too.

“Um,” you trailed off, wondering how to save yourself.

Before you had the chance to recollect your thoughts, Armin cut you off. “Sorry, um. I mean, I know it’s late…if that’s what you were going to say. I should probably go. You did say I should only stay for a little bit—”

“No—wait, no.” You pressed a palm to his chest.

Armin subtly tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I thought you had work in the morning?”

“I know, but...” Your eyes trailed down to his crotch, suddenly guilty. “Do you want to stay?”

He regarded you with a look of uncertainty, hands hovering beside your arms like he was about to hold you. “Yeah…?”

“Then…what do you want to do?” It came out in a slight whisper, and you instantly wanted to slap yourself for that question because, one, it was definitely the wrong question. All you wanted was clarity as to whether he knew where this was going, and two, what did you mean by what he wanted to do?

You could feel his eyes burning into your head, but yours were averted to where the neckline of his tee dipped down to reveal his collarbone.

He gulped. “What do I want to do?” he parroted, breathing in a steady breath. “Um…what do you mean?”

You pursed your lips, knowing you were going to sound desperate. “Was kissing…all you wanted to do?”

He looked visibly taken aback now, lashes fluttering as his eyes flitted over your form in surprise.

“No…”

“Then what?”

Maybe you really were desperate as you stood here so close to him, pushing your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache.

“Well, I think—I think you know,” he mumbled shamefully. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say it. Please? I just want to be sure.”

He pursed his lips, too, while contemplating, flushed a deep pink on his cheeks. “I want us to…go the whole way. I want you.” He cleared his throat. “To teach me.”

For a long moment, you were convinced you stopped breathing.

It was so loud now. Your heartbeat was so unbearably loud, reverberating and bursting through your ears. A breathless silence filled the room.

He didn't waver. Not once. He only gazed straight into your eyes—straight through you, irises deep and blue and overwhelming and darkened by lust. He'd lost that innocent, bright shine long ago.

The beat of your heart only quickened, even quicker than what it already was.

Was this it? Was this the next step? Was this it after all of those needy kisses and flimsy touches and longing, vulnerable stares?

Nevertheless, a sense of relief washed over you. You wanted this, too, despite the fact that you were risking something precious to you. Something irreversible.

Not that'd you stop now.

And then you were onto him, capturing his lips in a sloppy kiss. He returned it just as quickly, rough and intimate. His hands slid to your waist and held you tight against his body while you clung onto him like it was the end of the world.

Licking his lips teasingly, you murmured in between the kiss, “My room.”

He broke away a little, muttering a little “okay” before you cut him off by pressing your mouth back onto his.

When you pulled away, he surprised you with his next words.

“Can I carry you?”

Without hesitation, you lightly jumped onto him, and he caught you, carrying you effortlessly in his strong arms. You loved the feeling of his hands on the back of your thighs, firm and warm. He was so surprisingly muscly that you wanted to squeal.

The walk wasn’t far in your small apartment space, and you quickly found yourself being placed gingerly onto your bed and your limbs untangling from his body. He stood there like he didn’t quite know what to do. You scooted back onto your pillows, beckoning him to come closer.

“Get on top of me.” You tugged on the front of his tee. “Like this.”

He stumbled onto your bed, settling in between your legs as his hands braced him up. You tugged him even closer still, and he fell to his forearms.

You looked up at him only to find him blushing, a dark, rosy color tinting the apples of his cheeks, watching you with eager eyes as his chest heaved with heavy breaths.

Heat bubbled in your stomach. “Are you sure you want to do this? Remember, this is…this is for you. This is about how you feel.”

“I’m sure,” he answered quickly.

Then, Armin kissed you for the millionth time tonight, but this time, it was short yet thorough, like he just missed your taste.

“Kiss me on my neck,” you urged, craning your head. “Just don’t leave any marks.”

Armin dipped down instantly, but he stilled for the next second, hesitantly staring at your neck. The conviction finally hit him and his lips met your skin, ticklish and titillating and warm. He peppered slow kisses along the juncture of your neck, leaving one long, suckling kiss—one hard enough to make you feel good but soft enough not to leave a mark. You could tell he was unsure about his movements, so you softly grabbed him by the hair to bring him to a specific spot.

“Right—ah—there. Yeah,” you assured him as he gave another suckling kiss.

“Is this good?” he asked timidly into your skin, and you could feel the tickle of where his lips moved.

You hummed in response. “It’s good. You’re doing good,” you replied, words tumbling out of your mouth in an awkward way.

He pulled away, and his eyes raked over your form, suddenly stopping at your chest. While you should’ve been excited, something else happened. Something like dismay filled his eyes as his brows twitched downwards.

“Is this Eren’s sweater?”

Oh.

“Yeah?” you weakly breathed out, voice pitched a higher octave than you’d like.

His eyes flitted back to your face again, still strewn with an emotion you couldn’t quite place but knew wasn’t good.

“Can I take it off?” he asked, pawing the hem of your sweater. He seemed confident almost, but you knew that the barely discernible, nervous strain in the thrum of his voice gave it all away.

You nodded wordlessly like the air had been punched out of your lungs.

Armin grabbed onto the hem of your sweater with both hands, peeling it off you so slowly that you couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or just simply nervous. Your stomach coiled in anticipation the farther he went, with each inch of skin he revealed. He was so agonizingly slow—or maybe you were so impatient that it felt like time had slowed down—yet the rush of cool air against your torso was instant.

The moment he reached your bra, your heart seemed to beat out of your chest, and you needed to steady your breathing.

He stopped and looked for only a minuscule second, as if he didn’t dare to stare any longer, and picked up the pace, pushing the last of your sweater above your raised arms.

“Pants, too,” you whispered softly.

With shaky hands, Armin obediently worked them off, past the fabric of your panties, all the way down your legs.

He’d seen you in a bikini before, but it was different this time. You were laid out all nicely in front of him, clad in a bra and thin panties. On your bed, for him.

The newfound cold nipped everywhere at your skin, goosebumps prodding up your arms and legs.

“Take my bra off for me.” You said shakily, turning to your side to give him access. “You know how?”

He laughed out what seemed to be a mix of a chuckle and a scoff. “I’m sure it isn’t hard.” His knuckles brushed the skin of your back as he took hold of the straps and unclasped your bra. You could feel his hands shaking against your back. “Easy.”

As he slid it off of you, that heavy feeling in your heart resurfaced, and you began to feel self-conscious.

But it was just Armin, you reminded yourself.

Your upper body was now completely bare to him. The cool of the air swept over your already-hardening nipples.

Armin only stared at you. Didn’t say a word. Just outright ogled you with raw, unfiltered desire in his eyes as his hands twitched where they were resting near his thighs.

You grabbed both of his hands, placing his palms directly on your chest. “C’mon. Touch me.”

Gulping hard, he leaned into you, broad, unpracticed hands cupping your tits, squeezing just once. Then his hands started moving, experimentally pushing and squeezing over the plush of your tits, palms grazing over the peaks of your pebbled nipples.

You clamped your eyes shut, letting yourself go for the moment. It felt so pleasant, just steady friction against your sensitive breasts.

Armin’s hands were soft—that much you already knew—just as everything else was about him. But while his hands were soft and gentle, his gaze was hard. He was so fixed and focused on you, blue eyes practically dripping with unbridled lust.

He cupped your tits again, a soft nudge, then his hands slid down the curve of your waist. You could feel the trail of warmth that his fingers left on your skin. It clung to you even as his hands moved away to rest on your abdomen. His thumbs pressed into your skin so briefly that his touch might’ve been a spasm of a finger as the bottoms of his palms grazed against the hem of your panties.

The warmth followed down the curve of your hips, down your thighs, and down to your knees. You shifted your legs closer to your body, and his hands quickly cupped the underside of your thighs, squeezing once.

You knew this was his first time, so you let him explore your body as your hand came to his cheek to pull him down for another kiss. His tongue prodded at your lips, and you happily welcomed it.

His hands were everywhere now—your thighs, your hips, your waist, your shoulders, your neck, your arms. You could tell he was losing rhythm between keeping up with the kiss and touching you, but you couldn’t care less.

He pulled away first, leaving a string of saliva hanging between your lips.

“Armin, play with my….” The embarrassment hit you again. You didn’t even want to finish your sentence, but luckily, he seemed to understand.

“Oh.” His fingers found your tits again, thumbs swiping over your nipples before he lightly pinched them, tugging them upwards. “Like this?”

You gasped and squirmed. “Yeah. Like that. Just very lightly. Try rolling them between your fingers.”

His thumb and index finger met with your nipples, and he did what you told him, twisting and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

That elicited a little whine from you. “Feels nice.”

Armin continued his ministrations on you as he alternated between tweaking your nipples and groping your tits whole. It was sensual and quiet, save for the sound of your soft moans.

He suddenly sighed, eyes clouded. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered softly and fondly.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you smiled at him and let your cheeks heat up from his compliment. It caught you off guard. Because somehow, in a suggestive moment like this, he managed to make it sweet. Judging from the tone of his voice, you knew it was genuine.

Because he was a genuine guy.

You cupped the back of his head and pushed him toward your chest. “Put your mouth here.”

He doubled back, eyes wide, but didn’t waste another second to envelop his lips onto your chest. He followed your orders so easily—like a dog to its owner—that you couldn’t help but chuckle at the charm of it.

For a second, you wondered if he needed guidance, but when his tongue laved over your breast, you only held his head tighter as your back arched off the bed in pleasure. His eyelids fluttered shut, feathery, blonde lashes resting against his cheekbones. He kissed your nipple just as he kissed you, licking and sucking meticulously and thoroughly.

One of the things that you liked about Armin was that he was such an adaptable learner. Took things he learned and applied them somewhere else. Not that any of this required any big skill, but he just did it so well and so quickly.

You grabbed his hand and brought it to your other nipple, and he quickly understood, playing with you like he did before.

Suddenly, his teeth took hold of your nipple—just a light graze, and you gasped again. You felt the ache between your thighs throb, shamelessly getting wetter. Where did he learn to do that?

“Okay, that’s—that’s good.” You tapped his cheek. “Over here now.”

His mouth unlatched with a pop and he switched to the other breast, repeating the same routine. You felt the remnants of his saliva on your skin mix with the cool air, tingling.

You were sure your panties were drenched now. Sure that the arousal made the fabric stick to you.

Armin pulled away, licking the spit from his lips, and looked right into your eyes. “Was that okay?” he asked innocently.

“Mhm,” you hummed, but you were convinced it came out more as a whine. You clutched a handful of the fabric of his tee. “Off.”

He sat up straighter, surprised but willing. “Off? Okay, okay.” Armin reached behind him to grab the collar of his T-shirt, and in one swift yank, it came off. He threw his shirt on the floor like the rest of your clothes, and you were left to ogle at his body.

Your eyes raked over the smooth planes of his chest, his slim waist, and the hard, toned stomach where your hands had previously felt.

Even at pools and beaches, he opted for T-shirts with his swim trunks. And the last time you’d seen him shirtless, he wasn’t this jacked.

“I never get to see you like this. You’re so—you’re so built.” The fluster was so evident in your voice as you trailed your fingers down his torso.

He shyly laughed, pink on his cheeks. “Thank you.”

“You’re so pretty, Armin.” Before the embarrassment and weight of your compliment caught up to you, you quickly grabbed the hem of his jeans. “Take—take this off, too.”

You eyed the bulge beneath his pants, hard and begging to be freed.

You gulped. Now you two were really getting into it—seeing and doing something so intimate. You had no problem undressing yourself, but when it came to him…

He nodded as his hands fumbled with the button and zipper, thumbs slotted in between his waistband as he shakily pulled them down. You helped him get them off, anticipation and nervousness coursing through your veins.

Once his jeans were off, he seemed even bigger now. You could see the clear outline of his dick straining against his boxers, and it was messing with your head. This was your best friend, for crying out loud. Both of your most intimate places were each just a layer away, just inches away.

“Fuck, I’m so—” His eyes scanned over you, from the eager expression on your face, to your bare tits, and to your legs that were spread to accommodate him. “You don’t know how hard I am right now.”

You gulped again. “Yeah?” you teased, palming him through his boxers.

He sharply inhaled and cursed low under his breath, but before you could go any further, he grabbed your wrist. There was a look of worry on his face—maybe it was desperation, you thought—and you wondered if you did something wrong.

“W—wait. I want to know how to make you feel good.”

Your face morphed into one of surprise. Armin wanted to please you first.

You felt the arousal creeping up on you. Felt it soaking your panties again.

You breathed out slowly, and for a second, the words died on your tongue. He was going to see you fully naked. Only a flimsy piece of fabric away from erasing the line between your friendship and this…whatever this was.

“Yeah, that’s good. Wanting to please your partner first, that is.” You regained your footing. “Help me take them off?” You eyed him innocently and pulled his hands towards your body until his knuckles touched your panties.

He stared for a moment—definitely at the wet, darkened patch over your crotch. Armin finally took hold of the hem of your panties, fingers hot against the skin of your pelvis. Unblinking, he pulled them down gently, agonizingly slow. You could feel your slick sticking to your panties and the fabric grazing your almost quivering thighs. In an instant, cool air rushed to you.

His eyes never left you as he pulled your panties past your knees and ankles, so fixated and eager that he made you nervous. The coil in your stomach returned, tense, like it was moments away from bursting.

You felt like a virgin all over again. You were embarrassed—even though you knew you shouldn’t be because it was just Armin—and on the brink of clamping your legs together, but you couldn’t because his body was right in between you, even closer than you’d noticed before.

“God, you’re so…” Armin gulped. He was quiet, muttering to himself, struggling to find his words, and nervously pushing his hair back. It fell back messily onto his forehead. “What do I…what do I do now?”

Clutching his hand between both of your palms, you shaped his hand into a “thumbs up” sign and brought it to your slit, spreading yourself with one hand. “This is the clit. If you…if you didn’t already know.”

His thumb grazed over your clit, and a twinge of pleasure shot up your lower body.

“I know.”

Armin thumbed your clit some more, swiping circles and pressing down lightly. You could feel yourself get wetter by the second.

“Is this good?” he asked.

“Mhm. A little faster—oh! Yeah, that’s good.” Your hips bucked as he sped up. “You—you could also use your middle and ring finger.”

You demonstrated with your hand, and he quickly followed, pressing his fingers onto you again.

This time, he started off slow and worked his way to match the pace from before.

“A little lower.” And suddenly you were arching off the bed. “Oh! Wait—”

“Am I doing it right?” he interjected, voice shaky. He was watching for your reaction, blue eyes boring into your face.

You nodded as the pleasure spread through your lower body. He wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t bad in the slightest. He made you feel good, nonetheless. The pads of his fingers were warm and smooth, rubbing all the right ways against your clit.

“You wanna move down now?” you asked.

Wordlessly, his eyes flicked down to your entrance, and the urge to clamp your legs shut returned to you again. You were dripping—you had to be, slick with your wetness pooling around your center. He lingered for a second before his attention diverted back onto your face.

“Show me how.” He said, adamant.

“Just know that…” Your fingers ghosted over his knuckles. “You don’t have to necessarily make me cum. This is just to stretch me out. To prep for the real thing.”

He regarded you with a tiny frown and peered at you hungrily through his long lashes. “What if I want to?”

Your heart skipped a beat and your stomach simmered with warmth.

“Well, you can.” You nodded and swallowed the lump in your throat, unsure of what to say. Taking his hand in yours, you isolated his middle and ring fingers and held them close to your entrance. As you did so, something tingled and churned inside your stomach. Nervousness, you thought, apprehension, maybe. Not in a bad way, but in the way that every next step with him left you remembering just how private and raw this was.

“Just like that,” you whispered.

With a gulp, his fingers slid into your soaked cunt. You were so wet and tight, and you knew he could feel it. Feel it envelop his finger, warm and so, so slick. You instinctively clamped down on him as he pushed further.

“Oh, God…Y-Y/N,” he all but stuttered out. “Is—is this what it…”

The desperation showed clearly on his face: lips parted, brows knitted, and eyes drooping with lust.

You grabbed his wrist. “K—Keep going.”

His fingers reached their hilt inside of you, and you had to resist squeezing down on him. He felt like no other guy you’d been with. Because he really wasn’t any other guy.

He pulled them out swiftly, fingers and knuckles now tainted with the remnants of you. “What—what else?” he choked out.

The absence of his fingers left you wanting more. With your grip still on his wrist, you tugged his hand closer to your center. “Curl your fingers like this. When you’re inside.” You choked, too, and cleared your throat. “Just keep moving.”

“Like this?” He entered you again, gently, and pressed against a spot inside you that drove your hips to lurch off the bed.

You nodded weakly, whining. “More.” Your hand on his wrist urged him out, pulling backward. Confused, he slightly resisted. But when you pushed him back in, he seemed to understand the hint.

Armin pressed into you, thrusting his fingers in and curling them right at that sweet spot that had you gasping out. He slid in and out so easily, guided by the slickness of your insides, and worked slowly, almost teasingly, but you squeezed his arm, encouraging him.

“Right there,” you gasped out. “You’re doing so good.”

He groaned in response, a borderline moan. “H—Here?” And curled right into your G-spot.

You let out an abrupt gasp, akin to a stuttered breath, hips bucking upwards as pleasure seeped into your insides. His pace was reckless, but the calculated way the pads of his fingers pushed and grazed against your G-spot had your stomach twisting and your heart racing.

Beside you, you noticed his other hand fisting the bedsheets. Reaching out, you put a hand on top of his. “You okay?” you asked breathily.

Armin glanced up at you, eyes blown out, pupils dilated in such a starved, animalistic way that looked so out of character. He surprised you by lacing his fingers between yours.

“Can I kiss you? Please?”

It caught you off guard, but you didn’t get to register your shock before you were crying loud with a particularly hard thrust. “Please. Please.” You didn’t know why he was even asking.

Armin’s lips crashed onto yours, capturing you in the most heated kiss of the night. Immediately, he dominated the kiss, all spit and tongue, lips hot and molding together with a firm press. His fingers kept fucking into you relentlessly, filling the room with lewd, wet sounds.

His other hand held yours still, squeezing once before letting go and landing on your waist.

“Just wanna feel you,” he mumbled.

Nodding, you strung your hands through his hair as he caressed your waist and tits. His palms grazed over your nipples, making you shudder and bite back a moan.

The coil inside your stomach winded tight and kept winding tighter and tighter when his fingers hit that spot again. The pleasure swirled through you, wave after wave, your hips lurching off the bed and your hands gripping his hair even tighter.

You moaned into his mouth. “So close.”

He groaned, drawn-out, lips wet with saliva, swallowing the noises that came out of your mouth.

“You’re doing so good,” you praised.

Armin whimpered at that—whimpered—and picked up the pace, faster, harder. It was sloppy, but it wasn’t imprecise. He flicked up into you so perfectly until you were stretched out and dripping, and until it finally snapped.

The coil snapped.

“Armin, I’m—I’m cumming! Don’t stop!”

“Hol—Holy shit, Y/N—”

The coil snapped, and sweet euphoria coursed through you, rushing through you like open floodgates. You gushed onto him in the same way, cunt fluttering against the thickness of his fingers. The feeling hit you like a truck and filled you whole.

“Can’t believe this is happening,” he mumbled under his breath in a desperate whine.

You pulled him into a desperate kiss—or was it that he pushed the kiss onto you?—and he dipped down to embrace you. The twitching weight of his clothed cock brushed against your thigh. It wasn’t intentional—at least you didn’t think, but it only reminded you of what was to come next.

As he slowed down, you felt your cum leaking down his knuckles and onto the bedsheets.

“Was that…good?” Armin timidly asked between heavy breaths. Above you, he panted like a dog, even more than you, pretty pink lips parted as if he was the one being fucked. So cute.

You stayed quiet for a moment, relishing in your subsiding orgasm, fatigued and cozy.

“Mhm. That was amazing. You did amazing for your first time.”

He visibly relaxed, slumped back onto his heels, and sighed. “Really? Th—Thank you.”

Even from above you, he looked submissive, face filled with a desperate need. You giggled at his shyness. The irony of it. “Yes, Armin, you…you just made me cum. That’s…”

Uncertainty weighed down on your tongue. Impressive? Was it really impressive, or should it have been expected from him? A part of you knew that he didn’t need any effort. Not because he was somehow a natural or that he was a fast learner, but that it was him, and that gives your body enough stimulation to push itself off the edge.

Hazy and blinded by your orgasm and the strong presence between your legs, you stopped yourself from dwelling on it any further.

“Y/N, what do I do with this…?” He lifted his hand, still slicked with your fluids. His middle and ring fingers parted further, and your shiny, milky cum stretched between his fingers. The sight almost made you gape, such a contrast to the curiosity and genuine concern brimming in his eyes.

“Taste it.”

He sent you a look so incredulous and so quick, those blue eyes widened to the depths as if your suggestion meant total absurdity. “Taste it?”

“Taste it. It’s hot when men do that. Or, you could also make the girl taste it,” you pushed, rising from your spot. You grabbed his wrist, leading it closer to his mouth.

He hesitated and tensed, but when his eyes met yours, you only leaned in, urging him with a look in your eyes. He complied quietly and stuck out his tongue.

The sight was lewd. His face reddened impossibly more, up to the tips of his ears, as his mouth engulfed his two fingers wholly. He crinkled his nose so subtly that you couldn’t tell what ran through his mind. He tasted your fluids on his tongue, sucked it for a second, then swallowed.

Armin’s fingers slid out with a little pop, and you didn’t waste another moment to cup his face and pull him in for a kiss, tasting yourself when you pressed your tongue against his. He moaned at the sudden intrusion but melted into you easily. You could already feel his improvement as he reciprocated your energy and licked your mouth so nicely that the naturalness of it baffled you.

A passing thought in your head told you that this might’ve been too much for his first time, but when he dragged his clothed dick against your clit, you knew he enjoyed this as much as you did. You both shivered a little from the contact, prompting him to pull away.

“So…” he started, voice tiny and breathless. “What’s next?” But the way his eyes darted to your bare, leaking pussy and then to the bulge in his boxers suggested he knew exactly what came next.

You looked, too. Looked at the tight fit of his boxers on his bulging cock. Something about it—the unexpected size of him—made you giddy. Swelled your stomach with an indescribable weirdness.

“Take your boxers off.” Though you asked him, you couldn’t stop yourself from sneaking your hands to his hips and taking hold of the waistband. “Can I?”

He nodded hurriedly and gulped, tension and desperation etched on his face.

You pulled his boxers down, and with a little lift from his hips, you got them down to his strong thighs. Immediately, his cock sprung up against his abdomen, leaking precum that beaded down his red, aching tip. You licked your lips and gulped involuntarily at the sight because he was just so…

“Big…” you whispered softly.

“What?” He sounded out of it, like his question hadn’t carried any weight, rubbing a palm over his eyelids and pushing it into his hair. Like he couldn’t believe his eyes. An unspoken awkwardness filled the air as Armin removed his boxers completely. “Is—Is something wrong?”

He sat in front of you, naked in his entirety. Broad, smooth chest, taut, defined abs, muscly arms, thick thighs, and the softest, sweetest face that did not match the rock-hard, needy cock between his legs.

“Armin, I…I didn’t know you were so…big.”

He sputtered out, “W—What? I’m—I’m really not.”

He looked so nervous, so unsure. So sweet and so submissive. Instead of answering him, you wrapped both hands around his dick, lightly squeezed, and swiped a thumb over the slit where his precum spilled. You spread it down his shaft, wetting him with his own fluids.

“Agh…fuck…” he groaned, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. When you started jerking your hands up and down the length of his dick, his head moved forward and his hands came to cup your face. His hips bucked up with every jerk. You sensed his stare, but you were too occupied playing with his pretty dick.

“You’re so beautiful,” he complimented quietly. He gulped so hard you heard the small breath that followed after. “I wish you could see how you look right now.”

“Yeah?” you teased, looking up at him between your long lashes. His eyes, lidded and drooping with lust, scanned your body, from your face to where your legs parted and revealed your slit.

“I don’t think you understand how pretty you are to me.” He inhaled sharply and brought a hand to squeeze the area where his shaft met his head, right over where your hand rested. “I could just cum looking at you.”

You didn’t expect that from him. He was just so obscenely honest, wasn’t he?

“Y/N.” He suddenly stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. “I think—I think that’s good…don’t wanna take the spotlight. I’m here to please you.”

Your chest warmed at his words, and you fought down the urge to continue pleasing him to release your hands.

“O—Okay,” you stuttered out, gulping and shivering all in one breath. Your body moved on its own and reached for your nightstand. Deep in the last drawer, stashed behind all of your cluttered knick-knacks, sat an unopened box of condoms. Three, actually.

Shakily, under his watchful gaze, you tore apart a box and unveiled a singular, foiled package.

"Oh, you have a lot." He stared in mild disbelief, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, eyes crinkling. If you knew any better, you'd think he was smirking under there.

“It's not what it looks like! Sasha gifted it to me as a gag gift. I haven't done anything in a while,” you quickly defended, trailing off quietly at the end.

He didn’t respond, eyes fixed on the package between your fingers. The air held still, deathly silent beside the sounds of the crinkling wrapper. He had a hand wrapped around the base of his cock, very lightly squeezing.

“You know how to put on a condom?” you finally spoke up.

“I think so.” He nodded.

“Want to do it?”

He hesitated, and you caught the exact moment an idea clicked in his head. “No. Want you to do it.”

Something about that riled you up. Something about him watching you. Something about your dainty hands near his aching, needy cock, too impure for the likes of him.

He whimpered when you started sliding the condom down the length of his cock. The sweet sound of it rang through your ears. Made your heart lurch and your stomach heavy. When you finished, your head lifted to look him in the eyes. His cheeks were flushed so pink you wanted to kiss the color off of them.

“Ready?” You ignored the way your voice shook, borderline a stutter, and circled your arms around his neck.

“Yes. Please,” he whined. He was speaking with his eyes—begging with his eyes.

In one fell swoop, you both clambered down onto the sheets. And in this moment, when your eyes met his in a sweet remembrance, it felt like time had stopped, and all the anticipation you’d ever felt plummeted back into the pit of your stomach and built back up all over again.

He loomed above you, flushed, domineering, and most importantly, nervous.

You only wanted one thing.

"Please. Need you inside me."

He inhaled a deep, unsteady breath, holding back a whine.

Then, you felt the tip of his dick brush against the slicked mess of your opening, and you clenched around the empty, ghostly graze. The hands on your thighs pressed into you with a little more pressure at the contact. He was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

“P—Put it in slowly, ‘kay? Don’t want to hurt the other person.”

Armin listened, and in that final moment of anticipation, he slid in slowly, just the tip. You both gasped at the feeling. You were so, so wet and your heart beat so, so fast and his skin against your skin felt so, so right and so, so warm. The stretch had yet to creep up on you but you were already squirming under his touch.

He pushed into you, the feeling of him inside warm and fulfilling. He let out a strained “shitttt” as his hands moved to dig into your waist even harder. Eyes squeezed shut, he seemed to lose himself in the pleasure. You could tell by his labored breaths and flushed cheeks that he already was so, so sensitive.

With a final push, he bottomed out, touching a spot deep in you, far deeper than your fingers or his fingers or any other man that had come before him. And God, were you wet. Instinctively, your pussy clenched around him.

He hissed, pinning you down with his pelvis. “Don’t. Don’t do anything. Please, or I’m going to cum.”

And then it hit you—that you’d finally done it. That you’d just taken Armin’s virginity.

You had.

Shit, you clamped down on him again, and this time, he groaned and abruptly pulled out.

“Y/N,” he warned, voice drawn with honey. “I am not going to last,” he said, exasperated.

“It’s okay. It’s your first time.” You placed a hand on his cheek. “Besides, you’re with me. You don’t have to worry about it.”

He leaned into your touch, nuzzling into your hands, then gave you a small frown.

“Then how am I supposed to make you feel good?”

“Trust me. You’ll always make me feel good.”

With a cute—yet sinful—smile and a hard swallow, he lined himself up again, hands on your thighs, and gave an experimental thrust.

You whined at the intrusion, reminded again of how he fit so perfectly. How the hardness of his cock dragged so pleasantly against the slickness of your pussy.

And he did it again and again. Thrusted into you, albeit slowly, again and again. You’d let him intoxicate you again and again until all your body knew was the shape of his cock.

He moved deliberately, relishing every inch sheathed inside of you. He’d pull out with all the time in the world, dick coated in your wetness and eyes locked on where your bodies intertwined, and thrust back in with the most fervor and impatience.

The slowness of it, the intimacy of it—you couldn’t help but buck your hips in hopes of more.

With soft moans, his thrusts sped up, and without a warning, you felt him fully, the whole weight of him spilling inside of you. His hands slid up to your waist as his head tipped forward. You arched your back into him in a silent plea, finding yourself yearning for his pretty lips, the knot inside of your stomach swelling with pleasure. As if he could read your mind, he drowned your lips in a feverish, hot, kiss, burning your mouth with his tongue.

Every thrust met with the slap of skin-on-skin and the squelch of your fluids. It echoed through your bedroom walls alongside your muffled, whiny moans. You let yourself sink into the pleasure, letting him know that you felt good—that he made you feel good.

Because truly, he did nothing wrong; it all felt so right with him.

As he broke away from the kiss, leaving yet another string of saliva between you two, you took the chance to grab his hand.

“Play with my body. Like here.” You placed his palm onto your breast, squeezing it with his hand underneath yours. “Or here.” You sensually dragged his hand down to your slicked-up, aching clit.

Wordlessly, he complied, gulping down a constricted moan that bobbed his Adam’s apple. Armin rubbed your clit like you’d taught him, watching your hips wriggle under his touch.

As a reward, you tightened around him. Oh, did you like seeing him lose composure. You liked picking him apart. You liked plucking the petals off of this innocent, little flower. And judging from his dazed, barely present expression and the hands gripping hard onto your hips, you knew he liked it too.

He whined again, and the sound rang in the air in a soft whisper. So vocal, wasn’t he?

“Don’t be afraid to make noise. I wanna know how good you feel,” you asserted through lidded eyes.

Armin hummed a noise of confirmation, but it came out more of a moan as he juggled responding to you and recklessly pounding into you. You could tell he felt good—too good—as did you.

The ebb and flow of pleasure swam inside you with each fill of his cock into your pussy, waiting to burst. You felt so close yet far away, but you let him experiment, toying with you, trying every angle in both erratic and deliberate ways.

“Fuck!” you both cursed simultaneously with a perfect thrust into that spot inside of you. Your back arched off the bed unwillingly, arms clasping around his back and nails digging into his skin.

Armin moaned oh-so-sweetly. “I’m so close!” he panted out, a borderline whine.

“Cum for me. Please, Armin. Do it.”

And his hips never stopped. Kept fucking hastily and sloppily into you in chase of his climax and in chase of the sweet yelps pouring out of your mouth. You spurred him on, almost able to taste his final moment.

But the moment never came. You could hear the relentless, wet smack of your colliding bodies and the mix of low groans and hearty moans tumbling from his lips. His hips still never stopped, still chasing, still tasting.

You couldn’t believe he lasted this long. He really did want to hold out for you, to make you feel good.

Mewling again, you tightened your arms around his neck, the warmth scalding but the softness soothing under your fingertips. “Touch me. Please.”

His fingers pinched your perk nipple before you could even finish your sentence. He rolled the bud around with his thumb and forefinger until he heard you moan, finally laying a palm down to squeeze your entire tit—and squeezed hard. You relished in the way his hand trailed down, slowly, to where he could swipe his fingers over your throbbing clit.

Right now, all you knew was the shape of his cock. Heat radiated from his body and wrapped around you in a warm embrace. His breath tickled your earlobe, face hovering just above the crook of your neck.

Oh, please, it felt so good, so intimate. Everything about this. Everything about him.

"I love you. I love you so much,” he rasped through squeezed-shut eyes.

You looked at him wide-eyed, confused, and spellbound within the haze of lust, so out of that you believed your ears played a trick on you. It slipped out of his lips so wantonly you believed he uttered the words accidentally.

Your room suddenly felt too stuffy and a hundred more degrees hotter. A lone, oddly watchful bead of sweat rolled down your brow.

It took him only a second of your silence before he started nervously blabbering in your ear. "Um, wait, sorry. Shit. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I got lost in the moment. I’m sorry.”

He slowly inched away from you, but you paid no mind and pulled him back onto your lips.

You didn’t care that, caught so deep in emotion and pleasure, he said “I love you” during sex—during his first time, no less. His first time with you. And now, after it happened, you didn’t care to warn him of that taboo. You wanted to selfishly indulge in the possibility that he’d always say it to you, regardless of who he shared his first time with.

In your pleasurable bliss, you let yourself give in. “I love you too, Armin.”

He pulled away abruptly, your lips pulling apart with a wet click, disrupting the strange magnetism between the two of you.

"I'm sorry,” he whispered, then kissed you full force.

His love seeped into every pore of your body when he started thrusting into you again, full and hard and deep and starved. He didn’t spare you a chance to breathe with the way his mouth and cock engulfed you whole.

A mixture of whines, moans, and smacks filled your bedroom once more. The pounding rhythm between your legs grew sloppier, though still unyielding and energetic. You wanted to cry out, louder than ever and let your neighbors know because everything felt so unexpectedly good. Armin. Your best friend.

You ran your hands through his already-messed-up, blonde hair. You loved this look on him, a side of him that people never saw. Disheveled, falling apart, and...crazy.

He leaned back on his knees, still moving his hips, lust-filled eyes a dark, stormy blue that raked over your body.

And he did something you didn't expect of him—like he let it slip, like he couldn't keep his composure anymore.

He smirked down at you.

But you were convinced it was a mere twitch in your delirium, disappearing when you blinked.

His tip brushed your G-spot again, and you finally did cry out. “Right there! D—Don’t stop!”

Armin groaned in response, choking on his words, and suddenly laved a tongue over the pulse point in your neck. “You feel—you feel so good! I can’t hold…!”

That coil in your stomach thrashed with the need to burst and taunted you with the promise of an orgasm. You felt tight all over, so constricted with pleasure and emotion and heat.

“Y/N, you’re driving me crazy, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m—”

“M—Me, too! I’m close. Cum for me, please.”

With one last thrust, he came, moaning loud, spilling hot cum into the condom. You felt him twitch inside you as a gradual warmth filled your insides.

Fuck, that did it for you. You came right behind him, wrapping your legs around him tight like a vice, white-hot pleasure consuming every vein in your body. In that moment, you kissed him and clamped your eyes shut, focusing hard, your cunt squeezing down on him to wring out the last of his orgasm, fluttering and pulsing so uncontrollably hard. It was like your pussy never wanted to let him go, wanted to relish the last of that feeling of home when his cock rooted deep into your pussy.

All the while, he spewed praises at you, some dirty, some sweet.

You couldn’t tell how long the two of you took to come down, to stop kissing, for your cunt to stop gushing, and for him to pull out—because it seemed like that moment lasted forever. Your cum coated your pelvis, his pelvis, your thighs, his thighs, and the already-soaked bedsheets.

With bated breaths and shaky hands, he pulled off the condom, tied the latex up, wrapped it in a tissue from your bedside, and threw it onto the floor where it landed among your sparsely scattered clothes.

Armin slumped down on you, wrapping strong arms around your waist in a suffocating, hot embrace. You gladly welcomed his weight.

It smelled of sex, sweat, and the dwindling remnants of his cologne.

You laid there, catching your breath.

You did it. He did it. You finished taking his virginity, and he successfully made you cum during the process.

And everything left you wondering…

Why was that…good? Sex with a virgin. Sex with your best friend. Did you even teach him enough? Because that was definitely a learning experience for you. The post-orgasm clarity hit you now like a slipper to the face, and you couldn’t wrap your head around what just happened.

Sleepily, you broke the silence, “Good job, Armin. You did amazing. You’re attentive, a fast learner, and just already so good to me. You made me cum twice. For a virgin.” A hearty laugh parted from your throat as you strung your fingers through his mussed hair. “I guess you aren’t one anymore.”

Armin remained silent. Was he already asleep?

In the quiet darkness, your heart started beating fast, even after the sex. Laying here felt domestic, like somebody made this bed for the two of you to snuggle in tonight, like a real couple.

Armin, face wedged between your sheets and your shoulder, hugged you impossibly tighter when he shifted to look at you.

“Thank you. I love you, Y/N.”

He breathed those three words with so much adoration in his eyes, gazing at you longingly beneath his thick, long lashes. The blue of his eyes shone brightly even in the dim lighting and through the hair obscuring his face.

“I really do love you,” he continued. “Not because of the sex. But because you’re a good friend. Thank you for letting me be vulnerable.”

Oh my gosh. You really didn’t deserve him. You’d exchanged your fair share of sentimental, platonic “I love you’s” to each other, but this one wrenched your heart like no other. Especially after sex.

He left you at a loss for words. But sleep tugged at your eyelids and your mind screamed at you to clean up and your post-nut clarity still remained unresolved; you couldn’t think of a reply even if you wanted to.

Even overwhelmed, your heart called out to him and you mustered up something.

“I’m grateful to have you as a best friend. I love you,” you gritted out.

Wrong. So, so wrong. Right now, this conversation was getting too emotional for a strictly physical agreement. But you didn’t lie nevertheless, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.

Feeling grimy, you wriggle under his hold. “We should clean up. It’s good for women to pee after sex.”

As the final rip of the bandaid, he pecked you on your jaw. “I can’t.”

Your face twisted in confusion, still clouded by tiredness and the daze of lingering thoughts. “You can’t?”

“I can’t help it,” he suddenly mumbled.

“Armin, what are you—”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence when you felt something poking your thigh, stiff and hard.

Armin groaned deep in his chest, the sound rumbling against the shell of your ear as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

The hands that were once wrapped around your body slowly released their hold and grabbed onto your hips, hard and impatient. Armin started rutting into your thighs, dragging you along with him.

Your heart stuttered for a moment, in disbelief that he could keep going and that you would have to keep going, but your pussy clenched around nothing at the promise of something more.

“Can’t help it. I’m—I’m hard again.”

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flowerandblood · 7 months ago

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The Last Drop (1/?)

[ modern • vampire • Aemond x female ]

[ warnings: description of blood drinking and bleeding in general, sexual tension, angst, memories of murders of both humans and animals, descriptions of violence + a lot of sadness ]

[ description: Encouraged by the information that the town he has landed in is not known for having the most vigilant police in the world, he decides to go on a little hunting trip to finally quench his burning thirst. However, not everything goes according to plan. (A lot of sexual tension, grumpy, gloomy Aemond). ]

Yes, Ewan's recent photoshoot inspired me to return to the vampire theme, this time in a modern version. I liked my idea for the character and their dynamic so much that it won't be a oneshot, but a mini-series! The general idea is that vampires in my world no longer produce their own blood, so they must drink the blood of others: however, once it enters their veins, the blood they drink takes on their own taste and smell, which attracts victims like a lure.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

The night was cool and crisp, the sharp air pleasantly filled his lungs. Even though he didn't actually need to, he breathed: it allowed him to remember that he was alive.

The centuries he had spent in perpetual, primitive thirst, starving himself, only to finally succumb again, wove together in his mind into chaos. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since his body had gone cold and no blood flowed through his veins.

Nor was it flowing through his heart, although he needed it.

That was why he had to eat.

He made frequent use of the blood that was stored in hospitals, as did others of his kind; nevertheless, to his disappointment and dismay, this was not enough for him.

No matter how many litres of blood he would drink from a plastic bag, he still felt a hunger that only passed when he sank his fangs into someone's neck.

He didn't understand why he couldn't stop himself – why, despite doing what he was supposed to do, he couldn't fool his nature.

At some point he just stopped trying.

He didn't kill, or at least he tried not to, however, his victims didn't show gratitude for his generosity – for fear that someone would recognise him, he kept changing his location, having several flats across the country.

Alys had told him about this town – she assured him that the police did not act too quickly here, and that it was easy and pleasant to eat in peace in the large, badly lit park. Indeed, when he arrived he found, walking the quiet streets at night, that the place had enough inhabitants to remain anonymous.

This was his chance.

Although he usually watched and followed his prey for long days, that night, as she passed him, he felt a hot, strange shiver and his heart, half-living, half-dead thumped harder in his chest. He turned behind her immediately and stopped, feeling a drop of cold sweat run down his back.

She was young.

Too young for his taste.

If he overreacted and lost control, she might not survive.

But she smelled so incredibly good.

He felt his fangs lengthen involuntarily, his jaw tense as he took a slow, heavy step behind her, into the depths of the park lit dimly by only a few night lanterns.

She was probably coming back from work from a night shift at some club or bar, because she had a rucksack slung over her shoulder – even though it was the beginning of winter, she was wearing only a jumper, scarf and trousers, her hair loose, their scent reaching his nostrils even though she was far ahead of him.

Fuck, I'm not going to make it, he thought, desperate, feeling his desire intensify for some reason – his senses sharpened and his hands clenched into fists as she turned into a dark side street, between the trees.

Now.

He found himself there within moments and froze, ready to attack, seeing the void in front of him – her scent was clear, but somehow she had vanished into thin air. He swallowed hard, biting his lower lip with some kind of feeling of regret and disappointment, looking around.

"Are you thirsty?" He heard a soft, calm voice behind himself and turned suddenly, feeling his heart leap to his throat with fear.

How could she be standing far behind him when she had just been in front of him?

What was that question supposed to mean?

He wanted to lunge at her, but hesitated as he saw her cock her head, pointing her hand back at her rucksack.

"I have a few bags full of blood in my backpack. I can give them to you if you need them. I have more at home." She continued, undaunted.

He felt his lips part involuntarily in disbelief when he noticed that, indeed, her face was pale, her hair unnaturally shiny and thick, her eyes sparkling with some disturbing gleam.

He was so thirsty that he did not notice that she resembled him.

She lowered her hand and blinked, seeing that he was still silent, looking at him with some kind of worry, as if he were a stray, hungry dog.

"What do you need?" She asked at last, and his gaze fled to her neck, to the blood of others that her heart had just pumped.

Blood that would have her own unique taste.

"Not here." She said, moving suddenly ahead, as if she had changed her mind. "Come with me."

He didn't know why, but he did as she said.

Usually it was the others who obeyed his orders, but now he didn't have the strength to stand up.

Perhaps he didn't even want to.

He was so terrified, intrigued and excited that he was breathing through his mouth.

It had been a long time since he had felt his own heartbeat so clearly.

He didn't know where she had got so much courage to let a stranger, much less a man like him, into her flat. To his surprise, it was cosy and colourful, full of flowers and plants, prints and posters, soft blankets and cushions in fancy patterns.

He stood in the middle of the corridor, not knowing what to do with himself, unable and unwilling now to just throw himself at her.

She pulled off her shoes and backpack, entering the living room without turning on the light, just as he seeing clearly in the dark – she sat down on the couch and held out her hand to him, a warm smile on her face that had a hint of comfort in it.

"Come here. It's okay. You've been brave." She said softly, as if praising a small child, her tone of voice filled with serenity and melacholy, as if she had known him for years.

He didn't know why he pulled off his shoes and coat, looking straight into her eyes, why, drawn by some unknown, mystical force, some strange warmth that filled his chest, he approached her.

He watched, breathing heavier and louder, as she lay on her back, still holding her hand outstretched towards him – he grasped her fingers uncertainly in his, thinking with some kind of tenderness that they were as cold as his own.

And yet, for some strange reason, though he was dead, it seemed as if life was still pulsing within her.

He was ashamed to admit to himself that he felt not only desire at the thought, but arousal as he lay down beside her, smelling her scent more and more clearly with every movement.

There was something intimate about the way she looked straight into his eyes without fear, the way her fingers combed slowly through his short hair, the way they were both silent for a moment, just breathing.

"– it's okay –" She repeated in a whisper, running her knuckles over his cheek, making him feel a squeeze in his throat for some reason.

He was moved.

When was the last time he'd been close to someone in this way?

He moved closer to her, feeling a wonderful shiver of excitement and anticipation run along his back as he leaned over her neck – his lips, swollen with desire, ran tentatively over her soft skin.

He heard her quiet sigh, her hands clenched on his body as he slid his slick tongue out, trailing the tip of it over the crook of her neck. He felt his erection pulsate, pushing against her thigh as he opened his mouth wider and his fangs slowly sank into the delicate structure of her flesh.

The fact that she was a stranger to him, unlike Alys, whom he had known for years, made him, for some reason, not dare to be aggressive – even though he could certainly hurt her if he wanted to, he decided to show his gratitude for her understanding and be polite.

There was something pleasurable about being able to focus only on the taste of her blood as it spilled over his palate – because of the way it circulated inside her body, it was warm, though not like that of a normal human being. He didn't mind, because it was a strangely refreshing taste, while at the same time providing him with a feeling of comfort – he thought the last time he felt like this was probably when he was an infant, drinking his mother's milk.

Safety.

He took one sip, then a second, and a third, one hand holding under her back, the other trailing slowly over the skin of her neck and jaw, for some reason wanting to feel her this way – her flesh grew warmer from the gentle rubbing of his fingers.

There was something in her blood that gave him the conviction of her kindness, and he was surprised by this discovery – he felt his heart begin to beat more slowly again, and his muscles, all sore a moment before, relaxed.

He wondered if she felt that he was completely hard.

When he pulled away from her, he closed his eyes and just nestled his face against her chest, tucking his head under her chin. He swallowed hard as she placed a soft, warm kiss on his hair, stroking reassuringly his cheek and back with her hand – he knew their closeness was just an imitation of what they both desired and needed, but he was too desperate to deny himself that.

He would never have asked for it out loud, but for some reason he craved what she offered him.

He wanted to hide.

He didn't need to sleep to survive, but he liked to rest that way, even more so when he was tired and relaxed. That girl, whoever she was, didn't try to escape his embrace, which gave him the feeling that she wouldn't do anything they both might regret.

When he woke up, he could see through the thick, bright curtains that the sun was already high in the sky – he murmured, snuggled with his face into her cheek, not having the strength or desire to move.

Now, in the light, he could look at her clearly.

She had been transformed when she was no more than twenty years old – of that he was certain. Her behaviour and appearance, in his mind, indicated that this sudden, frightening change in her life was recent: fifteen years ago at most, maybe less.

He swallowed quietly and stood up, deciding there was no point in prolonging it – the girl turned towards him and rubbed her eyelids, sleepily.

"Are you leaving already? Wait until sunset." She muttered.

He froze and cursed in his spirit, glancing at the window.

If it had been cloudy he would have survived somehow, but in full sun the burns was the least he could hope for.

She stood up, apparently seeing what he was thinking about, and moved lazily towards the kitchen, massaging the back of her neck.

There were no more marks from his bite, but her neck was all dirty with blood.

She reached for a plastic cup with a straw that looked like an old Coca-Cola packet and began to drink from it, slurping loudly. She raised an eyebrow when she saw that he was staring at her without saying a word.

"What? You made me thirsty." She explained, however, without a hint of resentment or regret, looking into her fridge, filled from top to bottom with plastic bags filled with blood.

"If you want, I can make blood tart or jelly. Or soup. So you won't be hungry again." She said, still continuing the activity of drinking through a straw from a plastic cup.

"What?" It popped out of his mouth, probably because he didn't understand what he had just heard.

"You know, food. I miss it sometimes. Mixing it with blood makes it nourishing, tasty and more interesting than blood itself. It's good with ice as a drink. I once put it in a soda maker to make bubbles inside, but the experiment failed." She said with a sincere sadness that made him just hide his face in his hands.

Was she serious?

"Sit down. I'll make us some jellies. Blood and raspberry. Yummy." She decided on her own, apparently completely not needing his opinion on the matter.

Indeed, he decided that he couldn't leave as long as the sun was shining so hard, so he sat down, watching in disbelief as she pulled out the gelatine, bowl, blood, raspberries and a few other things she apparently needed to create whatever she had in mind.

Looking at her with pity, he stated with a kind of melancholy that it had been a long time since he had watched a woman cook – the last time was when he had seen his mother as she was baking a cake, his favourite one: yeast with plums.

He felt a sting in his heart at the thought that he could still recreate the taste of it in his head.

"Do you live here? In this town, I mean." Her curious voice snapped him out of his reverie.

He looked at her, or rather at her back, watching as she stirred the steaming liquid in a small saucepan.

His thumb began to pick at the cuticles around his fingernails as his whole body screamed for him to do what was better for him, which was to lie.

"Yes. Since recently." He replied.

"Oh, I see – I've been living here for four years now. I'll probably have to move out soon. For now, they think my unchanging appearance is due to good genes." She said softly, pouring the contents of the saucepan into two ice cream goblets.

God, she really does make fucking blood jelly.

He blinked and looked at her, hearing the silence around them, recognising that he should answer something after all.

"Thank you. For yesterday. For your understanding." He said finally, his thumb digging into his skin too hard, creating a small, red wound along his fingernail.

Blood.

He saw her flinch and look over her shoulder – her eyes were big, as if she was surprised by something, her lips parted slightly, as if she felt arousal.

"– oh – do you want a plaster? –" She muttered, turning back – he noticed that her hands were shaking as she set the cups down in the fridge.

He lifted his finger to his lips and licked the bright red, sticky liquid from it.

"– no need –"

He saw her reach for her plastic cup, her eyes closed as she drew a few deep, greedy sips from the straw.

His manhood twitched in his trousers with delight at the thought that she craved his blood.

He swallowed hard when she came to him close enough that he could smell her clearly again – the psychological advantage he thought he had gained over her dissolved into thin air when he realised he wasn't driven by desperation then.

She smelled so good.

She tasted so good.

Maybe he could stay with her longer?

"Maybe we could be friends?" She asked.

He looked at her, feeling that his eyes were wide open in disbelief. Seeing that he had opened his mouth to answer something, she continued quickly, as if she feared she knew what he would answer.

"I have no one here. I don't trust myself enough to spend time alone with other people. I'm afraid of hurting them. But with you, I don't have to be afraid. You're new here too, so... I want you to know that you can count on me in times of need." She said quickly, stammering a few times, as if she was ashamed of her own words.

Was that why she had brought him to her home?

Because she was lonely?

"I don't know." He muttered, this time answering honestly.

"Okay. I just wanted you to know that the door to my house would be open for you."

After all, you don't know me completely, he thought.

You don't know if I didn't kill someone yesterday, if I won't hurt you, rob you, destroy your life out of boredom, for fun.

"How can you be so naive?"

He wasn't sure if he'd really said the question or if he'd only heard it in his head, but her expression told him that the words had left his mouth after all.

"You think so?" She muttered, heartbroken, as if his opinion meant something to her.

Why?

"I was thirsty and you allowed me to satisfy my hunger. You invited a strange man into your home. I could have raped you, I could have killed you. I still can." He snorted with a wide grin, looking at her in disbelief.

He saw her swallow hard, something moist shining in the corners of her big eyes.

"Maybe that's what I wanted. Maybe that's what I hoped for."

He felt a twinge in his stomach at her words, serious and filled with regret.

What were they really talking about now?

Was she hoping he would kill her?

"What do you mean?" He asked, running his fingers over the soft material that covered the armchair he was sitting on.

I can end your torment if you want me to and drink your blood to the last drop.

"I am alone. I can't talk to my parents or the friends I had before I…" She mumbled and drew in air loudly, apparently trying not to cry.

He was wrong.

It probably hadn't even been ten years since she'd been transformed.

How was it possible that she was doing so well?

Young vampires were usually feral and hungry, seeking pleasure in orgies full of blood. She, meanwhile, lived in her small flat like some kind of hermitage and worked as if nothing had happened.

That's why she cooked food, that's why she dressed the way she did, that's why she decorated her flat according to contemporary fashion.

She didn't want to let go of her old life.

"I'm sorry." He said and once again, he was honest. "In truth, I admire your self-control."

"I killed my dog. My best friend. A labrador with big, brown eyes." She mumbled out, fiddling with her fingers, whooping with the tears that began to run down her face one by one.

She had no one to tell about this, so she treated meeting him like a confession.

"I see. Then you ran away from home?" He asked calmly, for some reason feeling towards her words nothing but understanding.

His father's numb body lying on the floor beneath him, his loud panting when he finally regained his composure – he could see perfectly his lifeless eyes open in horror, his mouth spread wide, his throat ripped apart as if it had been torn by an animal.

He loved him, but he never noticed him.

He showed him no support when his eye was taken away, instead comforting his daughter from his first marriage.

Why was it always her and never him?

"Yes." She muttered wearily, her breathing deep and laboured, full of suffering.

"Do they know what happened to you? Where are you now?" He asked further, and she shook her head.

"Good. You did the right thing." He stated.

He raised his hands slightly in the air, surprised, as she sat on his lap and snuggled into him, embracing him around the waist.

She was sobbing like a little child, and in a way she probably was one – torn away from her family and what was familiar to her, she was wandering around the world alone and aimless, filled only with longing and grief.

He struggled to accept the thought that he understood her all too well.

He shuddered when he felt her warm, heavy breath on his neck – his hand ran over her back reassuringly, giving her wordless permission to take what she needed.

Comfort.

He'd only let Alys drink his blood so far, but for some reason he couldn't and didn't want to refuse her – he closed his eyes and sighed, tilting his head back as he felt her fangs slowly dig into his skin with surprising gentleness.

He heard something that sounded to him like a grunt of pleasure when she swallowed a loud gulp of his blood – his lips parted as her hips rolled forward, brushing it against his half-hard erection.

His fingers clenched on her flesh as he involuntarily reciprocated the movement, reaching out to meet her – they both began to breathe louder, as if surprised that they were taking pleasure in two forms of intimacy at the same time.

Their bodies rubbed against each other in calm, gentle harmony, his nose sunk into her soft hair, which he combed with his fingers, the sound of her swallowing arousing him more and more with each passing second.

She needed him.

He wanted to be needed.

He always had.

When she finally pulled away from his neck she pressed her cheek against his chest, exactly as he did then, and took a deep breath, as if she had accomplished some great achievement by not drinking his blood to the last drop.

"…shall we eat our jellies?"

399 notes · View notes

starkeymeow · 1 month ago

Text

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter nine, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, rafe and y/n spending a day together, violence, blood, hunting, them also figuring out the rose thorns in the arena are a paralytic, first sponsor gift bc lowkey i forgot those exist LOL, capitol loves them sm ik it

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

the fire crackles in front of you, but it’s the only sound that doesn’t make your skin crawl.

your fingers rub up and down your arm. you don’t even realize you’re doing it at first because your eyes are locked somewhere on the ground. your mind is far, far away.

the bruises are already there. you don’t feel them, not really. not yet. you just remember how tight rafe had gripped you. you know it wasn’t out of anger, never that, but out of desperation, or panic, or survival. he saved your life.

you try not to think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t come running, it that thing had chosen you instead of topper. your jaw tenses, throat burning as the memory flashes again behind your eyes—topper’s hand slipping from yours, the blood, the sound, the screaming.

your stomach twists.

you don’t even have your backpack. or your blanket. or your water. all of it is back wherever kie and jj are. or were.

earlier, you and rafe had searched, not too far, not too deep into the woods. every step further away from the cliff made your heart pound louder in your chest, your ears tuned to the smallest noise like the crunch of leaves, the snap of a twig, the awful clicking you now associate with death. but there was nothing. not even a whisper. not a sign of your allies. not a sign of the mutt either, which was somehow worse. so you gave up, just for the night.

rafe found the spot where the cliff bent in slightly, like a broken edge in the wall, where the fire wouldn’t be seen unless someone was really looking. he said it was as good a place as any. and you didn’t argue. you just nodded and sat down.

now, he’s sitting a few feet away, hunched over the small creature he must’ve caught sometime after sunset. it’s long and lean, probably some kind of hare the capitol thought would be a ‘humble’ meal source for tributes. you can hear the soft snk-snk of his knife as he skins it, his hands sure and quiet, knuckles scratched and drying with blood.

he hasn’t said much. neither have you.

your knees pull tighter toward your chest. like the thing is that you’re not mourning topper, not in the way you probably should. you feel sorry, you feel sick, you even feel guilty. but you’re not crying. you’re not lost in grief.

you’ve seen people die before. it’s the games. it’s expected. you’ve always told yourself you’d be fine. you knew death wasn’t going to shake you.

but you weren’t prepared for that.

you remember the way the mutt moved, its eyes, how fast it tore topper apart like he was made of paper and meat, and how real it was when it wanted to tear you apart next. you breathe slowly through your nose, but it doesn’t comfort you.

rafe shifts slightly. you glance toward him and watch as he pauses what he’s doing, adjusting the meat like he’s mentally figuring out how to suspend it over the fire. his brows are furrowed, jaw clenched.

you think maybe he’s trying not to break down or show any emotion. not unless it’s snark, maybe. you go back to rubbing your arm, slow, distracted. at least there’s no screaming now. at least there’s no clicking.

“you should eat,” rafe says finally after a while. you don’t even move. he leans forward, still hovering the piece of meat on the makeshift stick he’s cooking it on. it’s not much. rabbit’s a little paler, probably undercooked, uneven. but it’s warm. and it’s food.

you stare at it for a second too long before answering, “i’m not hungry. i’ll eat in the morning.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says, more quietly this time. “you gotta eat now.”

you swallow hard, eyes flicking away from the fire to the trees again. “you think it’s still out there?” you ask after a long pause, not looking at him.

“probably.”

you nod once, like you already knew the answer. he doesn’t say anything else for a while, and neither do you. then, after another minute of silence, “you did good,” rafe says suddenly.

you blink, turning your head toward him slowly. “what?”

“back there,” he nods, barely. “you didn’t freeze. you held onto him as long as you could.”

“yeah, whatever,” you murmur with a shake of your head, a faint smile on your face to call his bullshit. “i let him go, and he died.”

“you would’ve died if you didn’t.”

your lip twitches. you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, blinking fast. “yeah, but i mean that’s the game, right?” you mutter. “some of us die. the rest of us . . . eat half-cooked rabbit and pretend we’re not next.”

he doesn’t respond. you think he wants to, but the words don’t come. instead, he just watches you.

“you ever seen something like that before?” you ask after a moment.

rafe doesn’t answer right away. “no,” he admits. “not like that.”

you nod again, swallowing, “it’s different when you’re not watching from a screen.”

“yeah.”

he stares at the rabbit like he's not really seeing it for a second, just holding it near the fire. his mouth twitches, jaw flexing like he’s turning something over in his mind. then, without saying a word, he pulls one of the legs off and reaches it toward you.

“just you ‘n me for right now, huh?”

you look down at his hand first, then you look up at him, catching the way his eyes meet yours. you guess he’s right. it is just you and him. kie and jj are gone. maybe not forever, but for now, yeah. it’s just the two of you.

you don’t say anything, just take the piece from his hand. your fingers brush his knuckles for a second, and you feel how warm he still is.

your teeth sink into the meat anyway. it’s dry and tough and probably cooked more by accident than skill, but your stomach grumbles the second it hits your tongue.

you keep chewing, blankly staring at the fire.

rafe pulls the other leg off for himself and sits back with a grunt, picking at it with his fingers, ripping a strip off the bone with a smug kind of smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“greatest thing you’ve ever eaten?” he says, watching you.

you pause mid-chew, blink at him like you can’t even believe he’s trying to be funny right now. “you’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter, food still in your mouth.

“wow,” he says, pretending to look offended. “a simple ‘thank you, rafe, for saving my life and cooking me a gourmet meal’ would’ve been nice.”

you roll your eyes, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “you nearly dislocated my arm dragging me through the trees.”

“yeah, well. you weren’t exactly moving on your own.”

“i was in shock.”

“you were crawling like a drunk baby deer.”

you let out a breath through your nose, half-exasperated, half like you actually want to laugh but don’t have the energy. you shake your head. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you’re welcome, by the way,” he says again, softer this time, like he means it for real now. like he’s not just teasing.

you pause, still chewing. your gaze flicks toward the fire, then back to him. and when your eyes meet his, it kind of settles there in the space between you, so you murmur, quiet and almost too low to hear over the fire crackling, “thanks.”

and you hold his gaze, just for a beat. long enough that he knows you mean it. you’re not brushing it off, not pretending it didn’t matter. because it did. he did save your life.

rafe’s expression shifts. not all smug and cocky like before, just something softer, more real. he smiles, and for the first time since all of this, it actually reaches his eyes. the firelight flickers just enough that you see it. there’s faint dimples on either side of his mouth that clearly only show up when he’s not trying too hard.

your lips twitch before you can stop them. just a small, quick smile. there and gone.

then you both go quiet again. but it’s not tense.

you take another bite, slower this time. he eats too, not looking at you but still kind of aware you’re there. then you tuck your feet closer beneath you, exhale quietly through your nose.

the next morning, your hand brushes against the damp forest floor as you wake, fingers threading through the moss and scattered leaves that make up your bed. it’s still early. beside you, rafe’s already awake, sitting upright with his arms resting over his knees. he doesn’t say anything at first, just glances over once he feels you stir. it’s like he’s been waiting for you to wake up.

you press your palm into the dirt and push yourself up, back aching from the way you slept, but you move quietly.

“i think the coast is clear,” he mutters, eyes scanning the woods ahead. “that thing, whatever the hell it was, it's probably gone now.”

you nod once, just enough to show him you’re listening.

“we should try to find kie and jj. there weren’t any cannons last night, so . . . they’re probably still good.”

your response is silent, but he gets it. you both rise, weapons in hand, neither of you saying much more. the walk stretches into an hour, maybe longer. your legs eventually ache and your throat’s dry.

conversation stays light, if it even happens. just the occasional comment about direction, maybe a weak joke from rafe when a squirrel startles out of a tree and makes you jump. the forest somehow looks familiar now, even though every tree is just like the last.

you stop by the stream again, the same one from yesterday, kneeling to drink as your reflection ripples beneath you. the water’s cold, a little metallic on your tongue, but it works. you wipe your mouth with your sleeve and glance over at rafe just as something sharp pierces the silence.

a yelp.

you both freeze. your head snaps up like a deer hearing the first crack of a branch behind it. your instinct screams to move, to run and find out what it is, but your feet stay planted, waiting, searching.

rafe’s already scanning the trees, his body still but tense like he’s ready to lunge. you both start forward, slow at first, stepping through bushes and uneven terrain. it’s hard to see where the noise came from. your eyes dart around, expecting someone, or something, to burst out from behind the trees, but all you see is green. trees, roses, more trees. nothing.

until something catches your eye near the base of a tree trunk. it’s a rabbit. it’s small, lying still in the grass. not in a way that says it’s sleeping, but like something happened to it. its body is stiff, unmoving, but its eyes are wide open.

you glance up at rafe. he looks back at you with the same cautious confusion, then crouches beside the rabbit. his hand hovers over it like he’s expecting it to snap or vanish. nothing happens. he inspects it, quiet, then slowly lifts his gaze to sweep the woods around you both. his fingers twitch toward the mace strapped to his back.

you get the hint. your hand slowly reaches for one of your daggers, your gaze scanning the trees again.

but nothing moves. no sounds. no twigs snapping under footsteps. the rabbit’s just there. like an offering. a meal.

rafe doesn’t hesitate long. he snatches it up, holding it by the legs, and gives you a look that says he’s not about to question free food.

but there’s a noise.

you don’t notice any at first because you’re too focused on the rabbit, your stomach already reacting to the thought of food. but rafe freezes, and that’s enough. your gaze snaps to the side a beat after his. a branch. like someone stepped on a fucking branch.

your jaw tenses. of course it was a trap, you both think immediately.

your gaze flicks across the trees, and then you see them, two tributes.

they’re standing not far off. the second they spot you and rafe, they go stiff. one of them grabs for something at their side while the other tightens their jaw. they don’t speak. their eyes harden.

you stare at them, straight through them, your breathing slowing like your body’s gearing up for something it already knows how to do. you need to kill them. rafe’s standing beside you still, and for a second, neither of you move. it’s silent.

then one of them takes a step back.

you almost smile. it’s not a real smile, it’s the idea of one. just the hint of amusement pulling in your chest. because it’s been too long since it’s felt like this. the rush. the clarity.

rafe drops the rabbit to the forest floor without a word, the body landing with a thud in the dirt. his hand swings back, fingers curling around the handle of his mace.

you’re already moving.

you vanish into the bushes like a shadow. your body stays low but your eyes stay up, locked on the two tributes even as leaves brush against your cheek. they can’t see you anymore, only rafe, and that's the point. they’ll be so focused on the obvious threat that they’ll forget about the one hiding in the dark.

he doesn’t call after you, doesn’t check to make sure you’re in position. he just knows. that’s the difference between you and them. you’re not clumsy. you don’t break branches.

guess the show’s back on, rafe thinks as he steps forward, the weight of his mace dragging through the air. and just like that, he makes his way over. you don’t wait long to follow either.

rafe barrels toward them like a force let loose. he doesn’t hold his mace back, lets it swing wild in the open air, not to strike just yet, just to warn.

one of the tributes lunges first, the boy. he’s taller than he looked from a distance, quick-footed too. he ducks low, swiping at rafe’s legs with something dull and rusted, a sickle maybe, cut down from a farming blade. it makes a sharp whoosh in the air, and rafe barely steps back in time, the weapon missing his knee by an inch.

rafe exhales hard and pivots, twisting his body with the motion of his mace and slamming it toward the guy’s ribs. the boy blocks it with his shoulder. it’s a bad idea, because the sound it makes is disgusting, bone and muscle crunching under steel, but it works. it slows rafe down. enough for the other tribute to rush him from the side.

the girl, older than you, faster.

rafe’s not fast enough to avoid her punch. it hits his jaw hard enough to rock his head to the side. they’re good. they’re actually good.

he fights both of them like it’s a dance and a slaughter, parrying one while dodging the other. but they’re working together, pushing him back, closing in . . . until you strike.

you explode out of the brush with no warning, boots crashing over the forest floor as you launch yourself at the girl’s back. she hears the snap of leaves too late. she spins, but not enough. you slam into her with the weight of your full body, driving your shoulder into her stomach and taking her to the ground.

the two of you crash hard into the dirt, her elbow slamming against your ribs in the fall. you grit your teeth and roll first, pinning her under you. she twists her body, trying to buck you off, clawing at your arms. you grab for your dagger, but it slips in your grasp, sliding a few feet away in the scuffle. you hiss and reach again, but she elbows you in the jaw.

your head rings, but you don’t move. your knee presses harder into her stomach as your hands close around her wrists. she growls and kicks, wild like she’s dying already, and you feel your lip split as her head knocks yours. pain. blood fills your mouth. you’re holding steady, but you’re not giving her the chance.

meanwhile rafe’s still fighting the boy, both of them panting now, exchanging blows that don’t always land. the boy’s relentless, and even though his shoulder’s broken, or close to it, he still comes at rafe like he’s possessed. rafe gets shoved back, his boots skidding on the dirt, and the boy tackles him.

they hit the ground with a loud thud. his blade catches rafe in the side, and rafe’s face twists in pain. his free hand comes up hard, cracking into the boy’s jaw. it barely fazes him. he’s not just fighting to win. he’s fighting not to die.

you hear the hit, the bodies slamming together, and it drives you harder. you snarl through your teeth and drive your elbow into the girl’s throat, just enough to make her choke, just enough to get her hands to weaken, and you shove her off you, dragging yourself toward your fallen dagger.

you grab it and turn. she’s already on her feet. but so are you, and rafe’s still fighting to his last breath just a few feet away.

your vision blurs for a second when the girl throws a punch that clips your cheekbone, but your body reacts before your brain can catch up. you duck her next swing, grab her arm, and shove her backward with everything you’ve got. she stumbles, hits the tree behind her with a sharp, solid thud that makes the whole trunk vibrate. you don’t stop. you grab the front of her shirt, grip it hard like it’s a lifeline, and throw her to the ground again.

she hits the ground awkwardly, the back of her head catching something behind it. it’s not a loud crack, more like a sudden stop. a soft thump. and then nothing.

you stand over her, chest heaving, face raw and sticky with blood, your own or hers or both. her eyes are open, glassy almost, wide, staring up at you. your grip tightens around your dagger, ready to lunge, to finish it, but she doesn’t move. like not even a twitch.

you hesitate, blinking. what? your blade hangs heavy in your hand, not yet stained. she’s just . . . staring. not really struggling, and not grabbing for her weapon. she’s just lying there. your breath catches. for a second, you think—did it end that fast?

you crouch beside her, slow, and grip her collar again and pull her up by it, trying to see if she’s playing dead. her body’s slack, but not lifeless. her arms dangle, her chest barely rising.

but that’s when you see it.

beneath her neck, a thorn is lodged deep under the skin. a thick one, twisted red. she’s still shaking faintly from the force of her fall. your gaze drops to the ground behind her. there’s a rose. it’s flattened now, crushed by the weight of her body, petals scattered, one’s stuck in her hair.

you look back at her face. she’s still staring. it’s almost worse than death.

you don’t think she can blink or even move. her lips are parted just slightly, but there’s no breath pushing through. the thorn—it must’ve been poisoned. paralytic, you think immediately, like some sick trick of the arena. so the rabbit wasn’t a trap most likely, it must’ve just gotten caught with a thorn like this girl did.

there’s a cannon behind you that makes you blink out of it. rafe killed. so should you. you don’t wait for anything more.

your dagger moves before you even register the decision. you aim clean, right into her chest, right where the heart is. it sinks in deep and quick, and her whole body jolts with the force before it slumps completely. her eyes don’t close. but the light goes out, like someone hit a switch and turned her off. cannon.

you don’t look at her again, but you spit the blood pooling in your mouth onto the dirt beside her body and stand up slow, wiping your blade on your pants. your chest still rises and falls, and your cheek throbs from where she hit you.

when you look up, rafe is already watching you. he’s waiting by the other tribute’s body, one foot pressed against the boy’s back like a hunter posing over his kill. his knuckles are split, mace sticky with blood. but his expression is calm now, like he’s already processed it and moved on. he doesn’t say anything when he holds out his hand.

you take it without a word, and he pulls you to your feet. you wobble just for a second, boots skidding on the dirt, but you find your balance. his eyes lift to scan the trees again, quiet, thinking, his brow tightening just slightly. there’s no celebration. just calculation, like figuring out what your next steps should be.

you wipe your nose on your sleeve again, smearing blood across the fabric, then step over the bodies without hesitation. your eyes scan the ground for weapons, supplies, anything useful. there’s a smaller blade and a matchbook. you pocket both. the girl’s pack is torn but intact, so you unzip it, digging through with one hand as you sling it over your shoulder, then your fingers catch on something small and metal.

a locket.

you pull it free and it dangles in your palm, swinging slightly as you flip it open. inside, there’s a photo. a family, her family. the photo is blurry, probably printed just for this. her arms are around two little boys, maybe brothers. maybe cousins. you don’t know.

your gaze drifts back down to her body, still sprawled on the forest floor. her eyes are still open. the rose beneath her is crushed into the dirt, red petals stuck to her cheek.

you’re not upset. not really. maybe a little. but it had to be them. it was them or you, you and rafe.

“c’mon,” you hear him call for you.

you sigh, slow and sharp through your nose, and toss the locket back beside her body, then you walk away.

you make your way back to the little camp you claimed by the water. you glance over at rafe, at the red streaked across his hands and his knuckles, the corner of his jaw dark with it. there’s a cut on his cheekbone, dried blood where it dripped from his nose. some of it’s splattered up near his eye. it’s mixing now, sweat and dirt and blood, all dried together.

you grimace at the sight. “let me clean you up.”

he glances at you once, silent. no smirk, no smug response. he turns and drops the rabbit beside your things, its neck already twisted at an odd angle. he must’ve done it quietly on the way over, like he said he would. didn’t want to waste the paralytic, didn’t want it running off after all of that.

but he doesn’t argue or shrug you off. he just walks toward you and stands still.

you step toward the stream’s edge and lower yourself into a crouch. the water’s cold. you dip your arm in, just halfway up to the elbow. your sleeve soaks heavy almost immediately. when you pull it back out, water runs down to your fingers and drips off the edge, but it’s the best you’ve got.

you take the edge of your sleeve and hold it between your thumb and fingers, palm cupped beneath it, and step back over to him. he doesn’t move when you reach up.

you drag the wet fabric across his cheek, the water instantly mixing with the dried blood, turning it a little pink before it runs down across his jaw. some of it drips to the ground. that’s fine. better out than dried up and stiff on his skin. you sweep across his cheekbone, over his brow, then down the side of his nose. his eyes close once, just briefly, like it stings.

you make your way to his jawline and just as you reach the curve of it, he flinches.

your hand pulls back by an inch. your eyes scan his face. “sorry,” you murmur.

he doesn’t answer. he’s watching you now, eyes flicking from your hands to your face, unreadable. that must’ve been where the girl hit him.

you move a little slower after that, more careful. your fingers adjust and you press the soaked cloth to a spot just under his eye where there’s a faint trail of red. he hisses again, not loud, but enough to let you know he feels it.

you glance up at him. “you’ve got more cuts than i thought.”

he breathes through his nose, lips parting slightly. “they’ll close.”

you don’t argue. you keep wiping. your sleeve’s half drenched and streaked with red by the time you finish, but his face is mostly clean now.

you reach for his hands next, but rafe pulls them back before you can touch them, his mouth tight as he crouches down near the water, like as if to say that he’s got it. he leans forward and dips his hands in deep, blood loosening off his knuckles and swirling away into the pond.

you crouch down beside him. your legs burn from the motion but you ignore it, your hands reaching for the edge of your soaked sleeve, wringing the blood out into the pond with a twist of your wrist. it turns the water red all over again. you dip the fabric in to clean it. maybe you’ll use it on yourself next, wipe down the parts you can reach. your mouth still tastes like blood, your nose is stinging, and you know you’re probably just as much of a mess.

rafe brings both hands up to splash cold water over his face, rubbing it over the parts you already wiped, like he’s making sure there’s nothing left. you hear his breath hitch a little from the shock of it, but he just wipes the water away with his palm and shakes his head slightly.

and then you feel it. there’s a sudden shift beside you. rafe flinches forward like he’s just remembered something, like something sparked in his head and now he can’t sit still.

“lemme get you,” he says, voice low, already reaching for your arm.

you blink at him, caught off guard, and for a second, you almost ask why, but then you don’t. instead, you pull your sleeve back in, wring it out one more time, and turn toward him.

he dips his own sleeve into the pond and soaks the fabric until it drips between his fingers like you’d done. he reaches out slowly, using his free hand to brush your hair gently out of your face, tucking it behind your ear to see you better.

he doesn’t say anything. he just starts dabbing the wet cloth gently along your cheek, across your jaw, under your eye, just like you did. his movements are careful, maybe softer than you were. you stare at him the whole time, trying not to shift or tense, but your chest feels a little tight.

his eyes stay on your face, focused in a way that makes it feel like you’re the only thing in the world right now. and maybe to him, you are.

you’re his only ally at the end of the day. kie and jj are cool, and topper was useful for the time he was still here, but when it really comes down to it, he knows you’re the only one he can rely on in here. and you know it too.

his gaze flicks up and meets yours, and something about the way he’s looking at you makes your stomach flip. there’s something quiet behind his eyes, something vulnerable.

you stare right back, your lashes wet, your face damp from his sleeve. but he doesn’t break the eye contact. he just keeps cleaning you off, like he’s in no rush at all . . . until something comes.

the beeping starts off faint, almost ignorable, but there’s something about the pattern of it that makes your head snap up. you pause mid-motion, eyes lifting toward the sky. it’s not the kind of beep that belongs to something broken or distant. no, this one moves. it’s getting louder as it gets closer.

you scan the open air beyond the trees. at first, there's nothing. then, in a flicker of motion, you catch the metallic glint of something small descending, slow, swaying slightly as it comes down beneath a small, thin parachute. the beeping is coming from that.

your eyes drop briefly to rafe. he's already watching it too. it’s sponsor gift. has to be.

you stand, cautiously stepping forward to track its float path, watching the way it drifts in the light breeze. it’s soft, almost mocking, the way it takes its time like the capitol wants you to want it. you can’t even imagine how many times tributes in here have been angry just watching it come down while being dehydrated, hungry, or in pain.

the beeping fades with each sway, then spikes again as it shifts direction. it gets lower. lower. almost close enough that you jump. fingers snatch the container mid-air, and you drag it down into your hands. the beeping cuts off.

it’s small in your palm, steel-like and matte gray with a faint latch on the side. you glance down at rafe again as you walk back toward him, but he still hasn’t said anything. he’s watching you now, watching the box.

you try to lift the lid, but it doesn’t budge, locked tight. you frown and twist instead, the seal popping with a quiet hiss as the lid loosens and unscrews in your hands.

a piece of card is folded on top, right on cue. it’s nothing handwritten, just a clear, printed message in bold black type:

BLOOD IN THE WATER ISN’T THE WORST THING YOU’LL TASTE.

STAY SMART.

ENOBARIA

your brows furrow. you flip the card over. nothing on the back. vague. warning? encouragement? enobaria was a career victor. she was brutal and clever. maybe this means something you’re not necessarily getting right now. you tuck the card into your palm and check what was underneath.

nestled into a foam base are two slim vials. clean, unmarked at first glance except for the slightest tint of color. one is a deep navy blue, the other being a darker green.

you lean in, squinting to catch the fine print near the bottom of each vial. it’s almost microscopic but it’s there:

acetafrexan-hydrothrexate. a long name, but your mind sorts it quickly. painkiller. potent and fast. just two capsules inside.

chloralis-wrhydrin compound. it’s a water purifying agent. breaks down bacteria, neutralizes acidity. you’ve seen it used in training. it works.

your pulse kicks a little faster. it’s useful, necessary.

you run your fingers along the vials, thoughtful. two capsules for one dose, as far as the painkillers go. that's how these usually work.

but still, is it for you? or meant to be split between the two of you? there's no label saying ‘district two’ or ‘y/n’ or ‘rafe,’ no names, no confirmation. for all you know, someone up in the stands just liked the blood on your sleeve.

“come here?” you say quietly, reading over the card again. it’s still clutched between your fingers, a little smudged at the corner from your damp sleeve. you let your gaze lift to rafe, who straightens from where he’s crouched by the pond. he meets your eyes and moves.

you walk over to him to meet in the middle, tucking the card into your back pocket with one hand and then pulling out the painkiller vial. you hold it out toward him. he doesn’t take it right away. he hesitates, blinking once, then reaches for it slowly, brows knitting slightly.

“need to figure out the water purifier,” you mutter to yourself, stepping to turn away, already mentally sorting the capsules and what to do next. but his voice stops you before your foot even fully lifts from the ground.

“y/n,” rafe calls. you look back over your shoulder. “these are yours.”

you blink at him. “there wasn’t a name on the sponsor, rafe. it could’ve been either of ours.” he opens his mouth but you keep going, your voice a little too quick, like you’re trying to outrun the argument you know is coming. “you took more of the blows, so just . . . take them. two pills is for one person.”

you’re waving it off. but before you can get another step away, his hand is around your wrist, fingers wrapping gently but firmly, grounding you. you look down at where he holds you, then up at him.

he’s not being rough. not even stern, really. it’s just him.

“one for you, one for me,” he says, calm. “yours hurt too. i know it.”

you open your mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. your jaw shifts. your teeth grind just barely. of course they hurt. your ribs, your shoulder, the side of your face that caught the girl’s elbow. you feel every inch of it, but you’d rather he have the full dose, because that’s what logic says is smarter. because that’s how you survive: by giving someone else what they need more.

but rafe’s looking at you like he sees right through it. through you.

and then it hits you that the cameras are probably still watching all of it. the sponsor gift, your hesitation, his insistence.

it’s probably better for the viewers too, this stubborn little compromise. two halves of one dose. it might be dramatic, tender. they’d eat this up.

you swallow hard, then look down at his hand still holding yours. you don’t pull away. you just nod once.

rafe shifts, turning the vial and twisting the cap open with a faint pop. he tilts it and catches the two capsules in his palm. he holds one out to you, and you take it.

he’s quick with his, actually swallows his dry without a blink, then shakes his head a little.

you hesitate again as you look at the pill in your hand, then rafe, then back again. finally, you tip your head back and force it down. it sticks a little in your throat, dry and bitter. you cough once, then breathe through it.

there’s a weird aftertaste to it that almost pisses you off. you will never understand the capitol and what chemicals it must take to make something as fast-acting as these are supposed to be. the aftertaste is all you’ll need to worry about, if anything.

rafe watches you, just for a second longer, then you both shift back into yourselves. you head toward the edge of the pond again with the green vial in hand, fingers already twitching to open it and check the contents. your eyes flick briefly to the rabbit’s limp body where he left it.

“you should start on lunch,” you say, barely turning your head as you speak.

behind you, you hear rafe huff softly through his nose.

at least now you know the capitol’s watching.

let them.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

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utterlyazriel · 4 months ago

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Oh, that's good to know, darling! I was just worried someone was robbin' you! On the other hand... Would you give us your Arthur Morgan fics recs? Tumblr or ao3? <3 if its not too much trouble!

[rubs my hands together like a devious lil fly] why nonnie i would be delighted to share as i've been far too slack in sharing what i've been reading!! in no particular order <3

the leather and lace series by the oh so talented @photo1030 this one is a big currently twenty five (25!) chaptered fic with that dynamic u hunger for when you play the game... like oof, it hits the spot, it scratches the itch, etc etc big ol chefs kiss from sloane <3

as far as dreams go / part two by @serawritesthings mutual pining my goddamn BELOVED this is a big long juicy fic with that sweet, sweet miscommunication! incredible prose and someone who loves arthur the same way i do i reckon <3

of horses and men by @eaaaazygurl any fic that lets the reader be there for arthur is one i'm gobbling down fr. i actually couldn't believe this beauty doesn't have more notes

the caretaker by @immajustvibehere MY BIG SOFTIEEEE like this guy gets it, the prompt was tasty but the delivery? freakin scrumptious

graphite and gratitude by @bimrsadler oughhh something about this dynamic actually tickles me pink, getting wound up but arthur being the one who easily unwind you like that's the stuff man

salt and pepper by @hihomeghere cos i also eat up any fic that lets me live out the fantasy of grabbing gorgeous arthur morgan by the face and telling him that he's HAWT

same goes for sweet dreams by @cowboydisaster like ough toothrotting fluff actually, what fanfiction was created for, amazing, showstopping, unbeatable, etc etc

give me my sin again by @messrmoonyy we love a little devoted secret relationship.... and sin, we love sin 🙂‍↕️

conflicted spaces by @not-neverland06 WHEWWW a whole ass story to devour, i love love love having a plot to sink my teeth into and the hurt/comfort aspect of the whole thing just sweetens the deal <3

one warm day is all i really need by @threadbearsweater i'll be real with u i don't remember this one off the top of my head BUT i have high standards to have things shelved away in my likes, waiting to be properly rbed, so i trust in my heart its spectacular

ok that's all for now <3 i should really make an effort to do some occasional recs because this was hella fun! thank you for asking nonnie! hopefully you find something new!

mwah x

#sloane speaks #anon #asks #sloane's recs #<- we'll make a tag for that :D #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan recs #rdr2 recs #also anon i love ur lil southern accent in your ask 😭 its adorable and did not go unnoticed #unless u do normally say darling and robbin'.... in which case hoe is you arthur morgan #and hoe is you free friday night #HEHE

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my-castles-crumbling · 2 months ago

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Saturday Snippet

thanks @where-is-vivian and @courfee for the tags!

Fear.

That was the emotion causing Regulus’s pale body to tremble, his eyes to go so wide. He was scared.

Actually, judging from the way he was surreptitiously wiping at tears now, he was more than that. Terrified seemed like a more accurate word.

So, rather than yell more, James took a deep breath and asked softly, his own voice grinding like gravel under car wheels, “But…did you like it?”

Regulus’s shaking soldiers tensed, but he didn’t say or do anything.

“Regulus? Did you like it?” he repeated, stepping hesitantly forward and slowly, gingerly, resting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. His skin was warm there, radiating through his thin shirt.

For the longest ten seconds of James’s life, he thought Regulus wouldn’t answer. Or, perhaps, he would shrug him off and walk away with a huff. Or, even that he would scoff and mutter, ‘of course not,’ before striking him dead with a disgusted snarl.

Instead, though, Regulus turned, eyes locked on James’s. The air went thick as James saw the obvious trepidation and hunger there. They caused shivers to ricochet all down James’s spine, goosebumps raising in their wake as he drowned in the silvery pools. “I…haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” Regulus admitted, mouth twisting into a nervous frown. “I haven’t…” he breathed out, jaw flexing angrily, like he’d been wronged in some way, “haven’t been able to get you out of my bloody head in months, Potter. It’s awful. You’re stalking me in my own thoughts, I swear.”

Hope trickled into the farthest corners of James’s brain. “You…” he gave a small grin. “You did like it?”

Regulus grimaced. “Unfortunately. Far too much.”

from The Sun and The Skeptic - chapter 12 - rated E, minors DNI!

NPT: @howmanyfrecklesdoyousee @whoopsiesnodaisies @deepseagre3n @locomotiveodyssey @arviyya @shoopsthereitis @microdamage and anyone else who wants!

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uhohdad · 11 months ago

Text

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3,Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE AFTERMATH II

At the mention of District Eight, your mouth turns to cotton. Your wide eyes dart around the floor of the glittery stage, heels turning inward.

You don’t want to do this.

You give up and pinch your eyes shut, a slight shake of your head, trying to take yourself somewhere you’re not, even going so far as to redirect your focus to remembering the lyrics to an old tune you sing in your thoughts.

Konig senses something’s up and gently guides you into the crook of his arm and his chest, giving your shoulder a squeeze. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you respond by raising your hand to rest in the space between his firm stomach and chest.

You can’t block out their words, the commentary from the people of District Eight. Your heart doesn’t want to hear it but your ears can’t help but listen and your eyes have to peek open.

The recap of the interview clearly cut out a majority of their words, and starts with the conflict between the boy from eight and Willow. The interviewee tries to begin, but she abandons her first few attempts to recount the story.

“Uh-” The interviewee’s eyes dart to the side, “Yeah, they uh- there was-“

She clears her throat, “Willow, uh-“

She trails off, staring off into the distance with a pause before she continues.

“He had this girlfriend, right? And they were - I mean, they were the perfect pair. You could tell, uh, you could tell he really loved her, you know? And the same goes for her.”

The interviewee pauses, and she has to look away.

“I was actually- I remember being jealous of them, wishing I had what they had. Love like that.”

You can hear her scraping gravel under her shoe.

“And I guess, I guess his girl wasn’t crazy about the uhm, The Capitol, and she uh- well, I think she broke a few laws, or something. Real rebellious type.”

She looks to her shoes, nodding slowly.

“And uh,” She clears her throat again before meeting eyes with the person behind the camera, “Willow blabbed about it. And his girlfriend got taken away.”

The interviewee nods slow, her sad, squint eyes staring off at the cameraman.

“They cut out his girl’s tongue, and now she- she serves The Capitol.”

She shakes her head, “He snapped. Just, a different person entirely.”

There’s a pause, and your eyes pinch shut, squeezing Konig as hard as your arms will allow. His hand slides down your back, tracing soothing circles with his fingertips between your shoulder blades.

“Please, no! It was an accident!”

The desperation in her voice is unmistakable. You find the screen, and there she is.

Willow.

As pretty as her name - rich bronze skin and golden brown eyes. Full, curly hair that seems to have a mind of its own and reminds you of the elegant draped tresses of the tree for which she was named.

The boy from eight has her on the ground, towering over her with his blade raised. Her upper half is propped up by her elbows, her feet kicking away from him.

“You knew what you were doing!” He yells, in that same booming, terrifying voice he used on you.

His blade lowers as his fists tense at his sides, “She served us! You hear me? She served us in our suite!”

A hand comes up to his head, and he grabs a fistful of his own hair with white knuckles. There’s tears springing in his eyes, and that daunting shout cracks.

“I couldn’t even talk to her!”

Your brows are pinched as you watch, shallow breaths through parted lips.

The tears crest Eight’s eyeline, and his hands drop limply to his sides.

His voice lowers to a broken whisper, a whiny strain in his words. It makes your brows pinch - you’ve never heard him speak in a way that wasn’t harsh and booming, never seen his eyes swelled with any emotion other than anger.

“I couldn’t even talk to her.”

Willow shakes her head, her words choppy through her stuttered breaths and hiccups.

“I know- I know! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, I didn’t- I never wanted this to happen, I didn’t mean for it to happen! Please-“

His voice shoots back up when he interrupts her, his shouted words ripping his throat to shreds.

“She’s gone, Willow! I lost her!”

He pinches his eyes for a moment, sending more tears down his cheeks, his chin lowering with a tilt of his head.

A snarl creases his face, brows tight when he finds Willow again. He jams his blade at her, his voice just a growl in her direction.

“And there is nothing you can say to change that.”

Willow just stares up at him with wide eyes, her entire body trembling. Her mouth is gaped to speak, but she knows she doesn’t have a defense.

“I am nothing without her.”

He steps closer to her, his boots planted on either side of her ribs. Just as he did with you, he grabs her by the front of her jacket and pulls her from the dirt, inches from his face.

“I am suffering! She is suffering! Everyday!”

He gives her that look, the same gut-churning look he had on reaping day when he threw himself on stage to volunteer.

“Now it’s your turn to suffer.”

The shot lingers on their faces for a few more moments, Willow’s golden brown eyes darting around his gut-churning rage, her breath caught in her throat.

They don’t show it.

You are so thankful they don’t show it.

They cut to you, walking through the forest. You have to close your eyes again, burying your face in Konig’s chest.

Your stomach boils and your heart constricts beyond comfort at each of her moaned wails. You’re clawing at Konig’s suit, a handful of the fabric shaking between your tensed fist.

Konig’s free hand comes up to swallow yours, a gentle reassurance from hardened hands.

Each of her maimed breaths violate you. The stage lights are searing your skin, sweat building up on your scalp and under your dress. The layer forming under your thick makeup is suffocating, aching for the touch of fresh air instead of the roasted stage air you breathe now.

Your eyes are screwed shut, but you can still see her, her exposed, bloody muscle rising and falling with her chest. The whitish yellow pockets of fat, the bones of her fingers, her blood-pooled eye sockets.

There’s a nauseating heat simmering just under your skin, and your breaths turn almost as guttural as hers.

Against every instinct, you have to rip away from Konig, not at all gracefully stumbling in your heels offstage.

“Oh, uh- technical difficulties, folks. Bear with us,” Caesar says cheekily, the audience’s collective chuckle laugh following.

You weren’t aiming for him, but Price catches you once offstage, sturdy arms pulling you into an embrace.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, kid,” He whispers softly, “It’s alright.”

Your palms find his chest with a firm shove, freeing yourself from his hold. You swivel on your feet simultaneously, doubling over to vomit all over the floor, your bile splattering over Price’s shoes.

He doesn’t seem to mind, standing at your side and pulling your hair back from the line of fire as you heave in rhythmic convulses, struggling to work up what little is in your stomach.

“It’s alright,” Price soothes, holding your hair with one hand and rubbing your trembling back with the other, “It’s alright. Get it all out.”

You feel a second hand on your back, and you already know it’s Konig, standing tall on your other side.

A stage hand rolls over an industrial size trash can, and you grip the rim with white knuckles as you gag into it.

When you’re done spitting out the bitter, offensive taste, Konig has a cloth waiting for you to wipe your face. Exhausted breaths leave you, droplets of sweat trailing down your back and tears streaming over your cheeks.

Your arm stretches over the rim of the trash can as you lean over it, pinching your eyes shut to try to quell the nausea. Konig offers you a bottle of water, and shaking hands reach to take it gratefully.

They wait for you to collect yourself, someone gets you a toothbrush to clean out your mouth - apparently this kind of thing happens enough to warrant keeping toothbrushes on hand, - your prep team touches up your makeup, and Konig holds you wordlessly in his strong arms while you breathe him in, his silken tie brushing against your cheek.

When you’re ready, your fingers wrap around Konig’s bicep, his arm bent at the elbow to keep you steady as he escorts you back on stage, putting himself between you and the crowd to block you from the audience.

The crowd explodes at your return, a standing ovation that echoes with whistles and claps.

“Welcome back, welcome back!” Caesar chimes, dipping each syllable with flare.

The crowd keeps the applause going long after you’re sat, and once settled, Caesar segues back into the show.

You don’t watch, hiding your face in Konig’s chest as he holds you tight, gently stroking your back.

The feed resumes, and you hear your squeak through the speakers, your stumble and trip into the dirt. Your dash through the woods, your dry heaves towards the dirt.

Your desperate plea.

Luring Eight into the fall forest, almost killing him but bailing at the last second. Weakly running for Willow as you cry out to her in the tune of a desperate sorry, spoken exactly like her pleas to the boy who knew no bounds to his spite. Piercing a dart through her exposed muscle, her final three breaths, your sobbing as her cannon fires.

Konig’s grip on you loosens as he watches your mercy kill, his soothing rubs ceasing. He starts back up again when the footage pauses, but you can’t bring yourself to leave Konig’s chest.

The crowd erupts in a truly enthusiastic applause, shouting adorations in your direction as Konig squeezes you tight.

“Wow,” Caesar shouts over the crowd, “That was something!”

The audience ignores his attempt to settle them, showering you with praise for what must be a full minute while Konig rubs your back.

“That was really something,” Caesar says, “Wow, I have to say, that was really admirable.”

You say nothing, trying to block out Caesar and his stupid commentary.

“I must ask, have your feelings about your actions changed after learning of their history?”

Your brows pinch as your head lifts from Konig’s chest to find Caesar, your arms snug around Konig’s core.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Knowing what you know now, would you have still lended her a hand?”

The end of Caesar’s question perks up so innocently, as if he didn’t just ask the most insane question in the world.

Your face twists, “Of course I would have - what kind of question is that?”

You glare at him, voice taught and sharp.

“You think that I think that there’s anything in the world that justifies that?”

You shake your head.

“No, you’re out of your mind. I wouldn’t even wish that fate on someone sick enough to ask a question like that in the first place.”

Konig gives you a squeeze and a little shake to show you he’s on your side, sitting tall with his chest puffed out. The audience is on your side too, apparently, clapping along in approval.

Caesar breaks character for a moment as he flits his gaze between you and Konig, the latter surely dawning a just as loathsome stare. You hold Caesar’s eyes in challenge until he looks away.

You understand the boy from eight’s anger. If someone got Konig taken away to serve the Capitol, surely you’d be just as furious and hellbent on vengeance.

But Eight’s anger was misdirected.

While Willow blabbed, his anger was provoked by the Capitol, not by Willow.

The Capitol is the one who took his girlfriend away, cut out her tongue, and forced her to dote on her boyfriend, unable to speak with him - surely a calculated move to instigate more tension between the District Eight tributes. Willow was just the one who let it slip, intentional or not.

As fucked up as it sounds, though, you get it.

You get where Eight is coming from. There was no way for him to seek vengeance against a government that has the entire country under its strict thumb, so he took out his anger on the next best thing.

Nowhere near to the same extreme - but you’ve been in a similar position countless times before.

That day in District Nine was one of those days. A bad day riling you up, looking for a victim to boil over on. You’re not even sure if you stood up for Konig because it was the right thing to do, or because you were just looking for an outlet for anger you couldn’t direct elsewhere without severe consequence.

Deep down you know the answer, but you’re too cowardly to share it with anyone, especially Konig. He has you on a pedestal. He thinks of you as a true, selfless angel that protected him for no other reason than to do the right thing.

You really don’t want to ruin his perception of you.

But you know who you are.

“Well, more exciting things to come,” Caesar weakly chimes, looking to the floor as he clears his throat.

An arm comes up to gesture to the large screen.

“You bravely risked your life to end this girl’s suffering, my dear, and we have the footage to prove it.”

The replay resumes - cutting to a shot of the three remaining careers gliding over the snow as they make way towards the cornucopia.

“In and out,” Sapphire says to the group, “I don’t want to leave the woods for too long.”

“Not like she can leave,” Titan mumbles.

“If she got her hands on some supplies, she could.”

“Where would Funny Girl find supplies? We got ‘em all.”

“Gotten them off someone else.”

Titan scoffs, “You think Funny Girl’s killing?”

“She’s made it this far. Who knows.”

Titan laughs, “Funny Girl can’t fight. She’s just playing shy.”

“Lover Boy’s got his backpack,” Sapphire says, “If he found her, those two could go anywhere.”

“Well if he found her, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Sapphire just sighs, rolling her eyes. She doesn’t look good. Her face is puffy, bags under her eyes. You know a girl who’s too exhausted to argue when you see it. Clearly Titan’s attempt to get her to rest was unsuccessful.

“I’m sorry!”

The careers immediately perk up at your distant cry.

Titan’s mouth curls into a sickening grin, flashing his razor sharp canines, a giddy laugh threatening to spill from his lips.

Even in Sapphire’s exhaustion, her lips stretch in a smile, those brilliant blue eyes flickering with a spark of gut-churning determination.

“I’m sorry!”

Even from the distance, the desperation in your voice is unmistakable.

The career pack is in a full sprint to the direction of your broken, cried apology, hollering in celebration that their arduous hunt is coming to a conclusion.

As they burst through the trees, the shot cuts to you, running on weak ankles to the spring quadrant.

“There she is!”

Konig shoots forward in his chair, taking your arms with him and forcing you to leave his chest. His brows tighten as he plants his elbow on his knee, the pads of his fingers reaching up to gnaw on his nails.

Eight breaks into the clearing, making a beeline for the careers.

“What did you do?!” Eight shouts at them, barreling right for them with his blade raised. It’s clear now he thinks the careers killed Willow, not you.

The three prime their weapons and when Eight catches up, he’s already swinging.

“Titan - get the brat!” Sapphire shouts, her tone leaving no room for argument as she blocks one of Eight’s swings.

It’s as if Titan was a dog growling on the end of Sapphire’s taut leash, itching to be released so he can maul his target - and Sapphire just unclasped his collar. There is no transition between his stand to a full sprint, both his pace and his strides at least three times as quick as yours.

Konig’s fingers are digging into his knees hard enough to turn his knuckles white, on the edge of his seat and glued to the screen, not so much as blinking.

Titan catches up, powerful hold wrapping around your waist and slamming you into the sand hard enough to steal your breath.

Konig flinches in his seat, his lips parting and pulling to the side to reveal grit teeth. As he watches Titan toy with you, pinning you to the ground and reveling in the power he holds, Konig’s fists are clenched so tight they’re shaking. Resting a gentle hand on his forearm does nothing to placate him - he’s locked on the screen.

“Why don’t you yell for him?”

“Fuck you!”

Really not your best comeback, but to be fair to you, you were running on steam and also thought you were about to die.

When Titan’s hand shoots out to choke you, Konig springs up from his seat and rips away from your hold on him.

He can’t watch anymore, turning to face the couch, his face pinched and a hand threading his hair with a tight grip.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” You whisper, reaching out to grab the rigid hand at his side.

“No,” He grits through strained breath.

He can’t look at you, the sounds of your desperate chokes for air blaring from the speakers and suffocating him second hand.

“It is, it’s okay,” You say with sloped brows, “I’m fine. I’m okay, it’s okay. He’s dead.”

It’s almost funny, Konig is so concerned with your fight with Titan - when it pales in comparison to the rest of your arena experiences.

Even the cold of the freezing nights in the forest were worse than this.

A gory bloodbath, the snap of a neck, a first hand lesson on the anatomy of the human muscular system, blinding and skewering Sapphire, Konig beating Titan to death with his own two hands - these are the moments that truly haunt you.

You give Konig’s trembling hand a squeeze. He doesn’t speak, he just shakes his head.

“Call for him!”

On screen you’re gasping for air, Titan forcing his demands through his clenched teeth.

The feed pauses, the crowd silent as Caesar starts.

“Konig, it’s clear this is upsetting for you to watch, mind sharing your thoughts?”

Konig’s eyes crease when he closes them, his free fist tight at his side. He doesn’t turn around, his shoulders raised.

“Hey, Caesar,” he grits.

Konig takes a breath.

“Shut the fuck up.”

You jump to your feet as the crowd erupts, both your arms shooting up in the air and taking one of Konig’s hands with you.

“Yes! Yes!”

You practically order the crowd to shower him in praise, waving your hands to beckon them to keep it up. You let go of Konig’s hand to grab his tensed arm and give him an excited, proud shake. He rolls his eyes, a half grin blooming on his face as he turns pliant to your jostling.

“Right,” Caesar says, clearing his throat and looking down.

They resume the feed, and you give Konig’s suit a tug, beckoning him to sit with you.

“Watch this part,” You whisper.

He finally looks to you, giving a swallow as he follows your wish.

“Call for him or I’ll make you!”

On screen - your spit-stained face pinches, and you send two fistfuls of sand directly into Titan’s face.

The audience explodes at your escape maneuver, and Konig hums at Titan’s cries of pain, giving that soft inaudible laugh that raises his shoulders. He looks to you, eyes crinkled with a pressed grin. He grabs a shoulder and rests his other hand on the crook of your neck, leaning down to press a long, messy kiss on your lips.

You hum into him, the crowd still cheering when he pulls you into him with an arm slung over your shoulder, squeezing your bicep.

“Wow, wow, wow!” Caesar says after the audience has settled, “Escaping the hands of such a powerful career - I think you managed to surprise every citizen of Panem!”

The audience gives a hearty applause in approval. Caesar leans in, voice suddenly serious.

“And I think we were all very, very touched to see you risk your life to keep Konig out of danger.”

Your brows crease as you turn to the audience, clapping in approval.

It takes you a moment to realize that Panem thinks you refrained from calling Konig’s name for his benefit, to keep him safe from Titan, which isn’t true at all.

You just didn’t want to submit to Titan’s demands, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of fulfilling his plan, didn’t want to give him whatever scrap of dignity you had left. It was a move of spite against Titan, not of care for Konig.

Guilt.

You have to look down at your lap as you try to swallow it - because saving Konig from Titan was not a thought that even crossed your mind.

You couldn’t even think of Konig when you knew Titan wanted to kill him. Konig, the boy who killed Titan with his two hands for even daring to lay a hand on you.

Konig squeezes you tight and plants a kiss on your forehead, the audience cooing at his adoration for you.

Guilt.

When your unearned praise dies down, Caesar continues.

“It’s truly beautiful what you two have.”

You don’t care, Caesar.

You don’t care what anyone in the Capitol thinks of you and Konig. You wish your relationship wasn’t able to be perceived at all, actually - not out of shame, but because you hate how everyone in Panem has their grubby little hands all over your romance, something so personal and intimate and fresh to you.

The people of Panem have had more time to process your new relationship than you have.

The feed shows you collapsing into the grass, cutting to the part where District Eight sent you the bread, eventually showing you picking up the ribbon, tying it around your wrist.

“I have to ask, my dear,” Caesar says, “You’ve mentioned that the ribbon means a lot to you, can you share with us the significance of this ribbon?”

To be honest, you really don’t have a reason for why you kept the ribbon, or why it means so much to you. You just know it does.

You know it’s symbolic, but for what?

Is it a reminder of Willow, the girl you feel an immense connection to, even though you just assigned her name to her less than an hour ago and never shared a word with?

Is it the unification of two districts forced to be pit against each other?

Is it because it is a token of the district who went against all the standards to thank a girl who treated their tribute with human decency - the opposite of what the games are about?

Why does this ribbon mean so much to you?

You really don’t know. But you do know you can’t be snarky here - this moment is important, and you need to get this right.

Your mouth has gone dry again, and you look to your lap.

“I- uh-“

You clear your throat, and Konig gives you a squeeze.

“It just does,” You say, not harshly, but genuinely.

You turn your head to find a camera and speak into it. You’re talking to District Eight now, not the audience, not to Caesar.

“I don’t know why it means so much to me, but I know that I am grateful for the gifts. I am grateful that you helped me put an end to her suffering.”

Your voice cracks.

“And I am sorry for your loss.”

The audience gives a soft applause, and you have to look down at your lap again.

“Wow,” Caesar says, his voice gentle, “Beautifully spoken.”

He’s so full of shit, it actually makes you scoff.

You know your words aren’t striking the proper emotion, because you haven’t even had the opportunity to digest them yourself. To assign words to the attachment you have to your ribbon, to your feelings about Willow, Eight, his girlfriend, about his unwavering dedication and her brutal end and a district who thanked you for making a life-threatening sacrifice.

“Enough about you, my dear, let’s take a look at what Konig was up to in the meantime.”

Eight’s cannon woke him up with a start, a cloud of sand wafting up with him as he shoots to a sit. A hand comes up to his hood, and he lets out a long sigh.

Just by looking at his eyes through his hood, you can tell it’s all catching up with him. The restless nights, his aching body, the instinctual fear.

The jump the sun makes when the feed cuts suggests he laid unmoving in the sand for hours. Price caves once again, sending him food and water.

When he finally gets to his feet, he makes slow, unsteady steps through the desert. To see him so weakened makes your heart throb in your chest, because it reminds you of the last time you saw him stumble, the last time you saw him drained of life.

You swallow, looking down to your fidgeting fingers, smoothing along the pleats of your dress.

It’s your turn to wish you could have been there for him. You get it now, how hard it is knowing the one you love struggled and you were useless to help.

Konig’s eyes are drowsy, his steps sluggish, even with One’s shoe attachments.

Next to you on the couch, all of Panem watching him in this state, Konig’s head is hung, looking to his shoes in shame, the pads of fingers swirling together.

You nuzzle your head into his shoulder and give him a squeeze.

I’m here now.

The effects of the spiky plants in the desert, cacti as Caesar calls them, were severely downplayed by Konig.

Konig trips over his own boot and falls forward, weak hands shooting out to brace himself, his palm catching a handful of needles. He winces, a strangled grunt leaving him as he rips his hand back to his chest.

He rolls over in the sand, propping himself up on his backpack to inspect his palm. Tiny beads of blood smear between his skin and the perforated temperature suit.

He lets out a grunt of defeat and throws his arm to the sand. His breaths are heaved, his chest struggling to work in breaths, eyes pinching shut behind his hood.

When he brings his hand to his face again, it’s swollen and as black as the ooze that dripped from the ginkgo petals and swallowed you whole during your hallucinations. The color soaks into his veins and up his forearm in inky streaks.

He lets out a strained whine, his other hand trembling as he goes in to touch the source of the wound. The gentlest touch has him wailing out in pain, his cries tighten your chest and wring your heart out.

He lies on the desert sand, his infection getting worse by the second. It spreads up his bicep, swallowing his entire arm until he can’t even move it. He’s crying, but the tears that spill from his eyes are not normal tears. Whatever is dripping from his eyes is bleaching his hood, streaks of color pulling up on the black fabric.

The infection creeps up his shoulders, his collarbones, sucking what little strength he has left from him.

He’s given up.

You can see it, in his eyes. He knows he’s about to die.

“Just tell her I love her,” He whispers to the arid desert air, his voice hoarse and barely loud enough to carry, “Just make sure she knows I love her.”

A shaky finger comes up to swipe away the tears threatening to spill from your eyeline, but you are powerless against the squeak that leaves the back of your throat.

You can practically hear Price’s eye roll from the mentor’s suite, and before the infection can spread to his other arm, a parachute comes down from the sky and lands inches from him.

He’s so weak he can hardly get the canister open. Grunting and hitting it against the sand in frustration. His shaking fingers pop it open to reveal a small syringe filled with a clear liquid, a tiny needle at the end.

Konig lets out another grunt as he jams the needle into his dead bicep, and shortly after succumbs to either exhaustion or the pain, maybe both, and passes out propped up on his backpack.

“That looked pretty painful,” Caesar says, “How do you feel after overcoming such adversity?”

Konig shrugs his shoulders at him, a slight shake in his head and lips bunched in annoyance.

Caesar directs the question to you, and you can’t bite your tongue.

“How do I feel after watching Konig nearly die from a cacti?”

“Cactus.”

You pause, narrowing your eyes at Caesar and offering an obnoxious suck of your teeth.

“Cact-you,” You say.

You and Caesar stay locked on each other for a moment before you shrug.

“Feels great, Caesar.”

The audience seems to find your annoyance and sarcasm amusing.

“Well, the fun doesn’t stop there,” Caesar says, “Looks like you woke up to some trouble too.”

Konig’s eyes roll, and the feed resumes.

You had not encountered any mutts in the arena, but Konig was not as lucky.

He wakes long after the sun has gone down to find himself surrounded.

Genetically modified scorpions, ten to twenty of them, the size of large dogs and equipped with bulbous tails that taper into razor sharp hooks. Exoskeletons designed to be nearly impenetrable, serrated claws itching to tear apart flesh.

Konig’s mumbling curses under his breath, springing to weak legs, stumbling through the sand. The scorpions hiss at him, curling their wicked tails, as if beckoning him to come closer.

Konig’s head is ducked, body low as he swivels on his feet, the handle of Eleven’s scythe in a tight grip at his side.

His mind has drawn a blank - he’s panicking.

They close in on him, their spider-like legs dancing over the sand as they hiss at him, snapping their claws and curling their tails.

His darting eyes stop on the cactus, and he’s got it.

There’s no hesitation, his arm winds back entirely, using all of his strength to cut clean through the base. Ten feet of poisonous spikes comes crashing down, a flood of pulpy water pouring at Konig’s feet. It lands on one of the scorpions, giving him a break in the circle of mutts to make his escape.

When one of the scorpions cries out, both you and Konig freeze, shoulders tensed on the couch.

It’s your voice.

Your haunting wails recorded during your nightmares, crying out Konig’s name.

On screen, Konig whips his head around, stumbling on the sand as he looks in the direction of your cry. He trips, his hands springing up to brace himself before he hits the ground.

The nearest scorpion closes in on him, and shortly after Konig’s back on his feet and working up to a sprint, the mutt’s serrated claws snap at and tear through the flesh of his calf. Your brows slope at Konig’s cry of pain, your hand coming up to your racing heart.

He’s limping through the desert now, blood gushing down the back of his leg and splattering on the grains of sand.

The scorpions are following him, not struggling to keep up now that he’s injured.

All of them, crying out in your voice, crying out his name, scared and pleading, desperate and helpless. Both on screen and now, Konig’s hands shoot up to his ears to block out the overlapping wails.

He’s curled up next to you on the couch as you rub your palm over his button down and tie.

“Hey, hey it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m fine, it was just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare.”

“No,” He objects through a grit, his eyes pinching shut.

“Don’t listen to it, just listen to me. I’m fine, it was just a nightmare. I’m okay, I’m right here.”

He throws himself into your arms, wrapping around you and squeezing hard enough to steal your breath, his stubble scraping against you as he buries his face into your neck.

You rub his back, looking over his head to watch the screen over his shoulder.

He straggles through the desert, his leg threatening to give out under the pain of each stride, but he doesn’t stop. He’s scrambling to get away from your cries.

This is when he finds the oasis. The scorpions stop at what appears to be an invisible circle of safety looping the ring of trees. Konig doesn’t look back until he’s in the middle of the pool of water, until the waterfall drowns out the scorpion’s cries. He’s heaving and struggling to stay afloat with his injury and the weight of his soaked backpack. He rips off his hood, pulling in deep breaths of air as he flails.

Once the scorpions lose interest, he swims to where his toes can touch, taking a moment to catch his breath.

He lets out a cry, loud and unrestrained - not from pain, no, this is a cry of pure frustration, the cry of a boy pushed to his limit. He shakes his head, his hair sending water droplets flinging in all directions, fists splashing in the water as he tries to work out the emotions suffocating him.

Konig is still in your arms and avoiding the screen, sunk in on himself, a hand coming up to cover his red face.

You’re not judging him. You get it. In fact, you just threw a nationwide temper tantrum in front of all of Panem. Basically challenged the whole country with a one-girl rebellion because you thought he was dead.

Oh, shit.

He thought you were dead.

Neither of you watched the faces of the fallen, you because you didn’t want to see Willow’s face and him because he’d passed out after the cactus. Surely he thought those screams were recorded not during a nightmare, but during your brutal end. A brutal end where you screamed and cried and pleaded for Konig’s help, and he failed to save you.

When enough time has passed and he deems it safe, Konig drags himself to shore and lies defeated in the wet sand, deep, brilliant red oozing generously from his calf. Tears stream down his puffy, pale face, his breaths choppy and his chest stuttering.

The sight is enough to bring tears in your eyes, your lower lip pulling between your teeth.

You squeeze Konig tight, the hand you rest on his back raising to scratch his scalp and simultaneously shield him from the world.

On screen, Konig digs into One’s soaked backpack, and retrieves the canister of medicine to tend to his wound.

The feed pauses, and you give Caesar a look that would have made a king’s knees buckle.

‘Try it, Caesar. If you even dare utter a word in his direction, I will grab you by your ponytail and beat your ass in front of all of Panem.’

He receives the message loud and clear, and speaks into the audience while you scratch Konig’s hair, cooing reassurance into his ear in between soft kisses on his head.

Caesar rambles on about Konig’s escape maneuver, praising the design of the scorpions, going on about how your screams were just such a heart wrenching thing for Konig to endure.

When the feed resumes, Konig’s wound is tended to, his face no longer pained, but hollow. He just lies face up in the sand, bags under his eyes and gaze fixed to the night sky. Numb, motionless.

Tired.

Tears stream down his temples, and he has no motivation to wipe them away. He gets no rest the night before the finale.

Just lies in the sand, unmoving.

Price caves and sends him more food, hoping that he’ll eat without the arduous task of fishing or scavenging, but he doesn’t eat.

The feed cuts, skipping to when he finally finds the will to move.

You know it well.

The rage, he’s using his anger to push through, to survive. It shows in every movement he makes, too forceful and aggressive. Yanking and slamming and grunting through grit teeth at everything he comes in contact with. It’s a stark contrast to his usually reserved demeanor.

Weirdly, it’s working for you.

Which does make you feel bad, since he’s clearly in distress, both on screen and now, but you can’t help it. Those seething hormones that don’t know their place.

The feed pauses, and Caesar makes his stupid little commentary.

“Now, this next part here, we really get to see some action from Konig.”

The feed resumes, having cut to morning. Konig has left the oasis, heading back to the heart of the arena with forceful steps.

“Please don’t watch,” Konig mutters into your neck, his words just a low vibration against your skin.

Your brows pinch and your lips part, pausing your soothing rubs.

“Okay,” You whisper. You rest your cheek on his head and close your eyes, starting up the back rubs again. He squeezes you a little tighter, nestling into you, his shaky breaths tickling the skin of your neck.

You have to watch.

Your eyes instinctually open at the sound of Konig in conflict, and once they’re on screen you can’t bring yourself to rip them away.

The boy from Four, one of the particularly bigger volunteer tributes, holds out his arms, inviting Konig to a confrontation. He eggs him on with some taunts, and Konig doesn’t so much break his pace.

You already know the ending, not just because Konig is sitting right next to you, a victor, but because the boy from four is decked head to toe in the gear Konig wore at the finale.

It does not deter Konig. He doesn’t evade. In fact, he seems almost eager to fight, picking up into a run.

Konig rams his shoulder square into his front, entirely ignoring the knife that slashes into his bicep. Four is knocked back into the sand, the impact stealing the breath from him.

With each hit Konig lands to Four’s face, Titan’s caved-in head pulses in front of your eyes.

Konig pulls away from your embrace to look up at you, his brows sloped, a glint of betrayal in those worried eyes. Your lips part to give him an apology for watching, but you can get the words out. Between flashes of Titan steadily turned to pulp, choking the breath from you beyond the grave, it takes you right back to the last time Konig looked at you in betrayal, pale and almost entirely drained of life.

The nausea is bubbling up again, and you have to pinch your eyes shut. You blindly nudge into him, burying your face in his shoulder while you try to block everything out.

You don’t watch, but you know Four didn’t die. His cannon doesn’t go off, only knocked unconscious and injured at Konig’s hand.

When you find the screen again, Konig’s wearing Four’s gear back at the oasis, his bicep fully healed. He’s propped up against a tree, his knees pulled to his chest, head in his hands, staring blankly at the sand.

The feed pauses, and Caesar starts up.

“I have to know, Konig, what were you feeling in this moment?”

Konig loosens the embrace and finds Caesar. He shrugs, and says nothing.

“Well then. Let’s take a break from the intense stuff, and let’s see what our lovely lady was doing in the meantime.”

You roll your eyes, and the audience gushes over your crown of petals, your tiny snow-family.

Konig seems to find it endearing, too. He relaxes a bit in your hold, a soft hum vibrating your skin as you scratch his hair.

“Now,” Caesar says, “Before we get into a truly spectacular finale, I’d like to bring someone on stage for a chat.”

As you and Konig sit straight, the crowd whispers to themselves as they try and guess who it is.

“The man who pulled off the impossible, the mastermind behind it all, Mentor - John - Price!”

The crowd explodes into applause, and you turn your head to watch Price walk out on stage, waving a hand loosely at the crowd.

You’re incredibly relieved to see him, actually. It’s clear that you and Konig are entirely lost on this couch, and Price’s experience and his ever-sturdy nature will surely be a crutch for you both. You’re hoping he’ll take the spotlight off of you and Konig for a while.

Before Price sits, he leans down and simultaneously ruffles both you and Konig’s hair with a chuckle.

“How’s my poker face?” He asks with a laugh.

You and Konig sputter, rolling your eyes at him, but you can’t help the half-grin that peeks through.

Price takes a seat on the sofa next to you, giving you a hearty pat on the back before he slings his arms over either side of the back of the couch.

“Wow, wow, wow!” Caesar exclaims, “What an honor it is to have you with us today. You truly pulled off the strategy of the century!”

Price gives a single nod, a raise of his brows that hardens the lines on his forehead.

“Tell us, how did you come up with such a plan?”

Price scratches his temple and gives a light grunt before he gestures to Konig.

“Boy liked the girl. Practically did the work for me.”

The audience laughs as Konig’s hand comes up to rub the back of his neck.

Caesar crosses his legs and leans in, “And at what point did you realize Konig was in love with her?”

Price snorts, a small sly smile on his face.

“Took me about an hour.”

The audience laughs as Konig turns pink at your side. Your cheeks flush with heat as well, once again embarrassed it took you so long to notice the obvious.

You were under a lot of pressure, okay?

“For those of us who don’t know, I’d like to take the opportunity to revisit your victory.”

Price just grunts, and you and Konig look to each other with furrowed brows.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind - what Price’s games looked like. How he pulled off a feat that no one from District Nine but you and Konig have been able to recreate since.

Judging by the look on Konig’s face, this is the first time he’s considered it too.

Instantly you’re aching to know.

They start with the reaping of the girl tribute from District Nine, a girl named Summer. She’s average in stature, a headful of wavy, miskept hair frames her face.

For a moment, she is stunned, jaw tight and a slight sway in her feet. Round, deep brown eyes are fully blown, staring straight ahead.

She blinks twice, and her face relaxes, a scoff from lips that pull into a devilish smile. Her eyes roll as she elbows her way through the crowd, striding up to stage before the peacekeepers can even get their hands on her.

Summer hauls herself up on stage and rips the microphone from the escort’s hands. Her arm extends, swatting away the escort’s attempts to take back the microphone by alternating planting her palm into her face and chest. Their mild altercation broadcasts over the speakers - grunts, hissed demands, and almost comical shrieks of mic feedback.

Eventually the escort gives up with a grunt of annoyance.

Summer’s laugh echoes throughout the speakers, and she takes a few slow, bouncing strides across the stage, her back sloped in an irreverent lean, strolling leisurely in front of the crowd. She throws her free arm into the air and lets out a sharp ‘Wooo!’

“I just want to say, I mean - what an honor it is to be the tribute of District Nine.”

Her sarcasm slips from her tongue like it’s her native language, her body slack and dipping a shoulder towards the crowd.

“Truly!” She laughs again, spinning on light feet, projecting faux verve, “It is such an honor to sacrifice the wonderful life the Capitol has graciously offered me so far.”

The escort approaches and tries to swipe for the microphone again, but Summer’s shin catches across the escort’s ankles mid-stride, causing her to trip and crash to the ground with a ridiculously dramatic cry.

The crowd actually laughs at this, which is jarring, because no one ever laughs at a reaping.

Summer ignores the escort's aggravated chirping as she continues with a wide smile.

“A life of harvesting grain on an empty stomach, I mean, I really am giving up something special, aren’t I folks?”

Summer laughs again, but it’s interrupted by a shout in the crowd.

“I volunteer!”

Summer’s face falls at once, her jaw tightening. Her lighthearted, sarcastic tone sheds the moment she hears the voice.

“No!” She objects, shaking her head and pointing into the crowd, “No he doesn’t!”

The camera finds the source of the disruption, shoving his way through the crowd with familiar sturdy arms.

Price volunteered.

Your brows furrow, your head turning to find Price on the couch next to you.

He doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes on the screen, but you know he can feel your stare. His jaw cocks, his lips fold in, and he gives a nearly indistinguishable nod.

“Johnny!” Summer grits, her tone that of a parent pushed to her limit as they scold a misbehaving child, “Get back in the crowd, you fucking moron!”

Price trips over himself as he makes his way to her. He tries to crawl up the middle of the stage, but Summer sticks her foot out, pressing the sole of her shoe to his chest to keep him from pulling himself up.

“Stop it! Get back!” She grunts, but his sturdy arms pull themselves up to stage regardless of her shoves and objections.

Summer drops the microphone, the entire audience jumping at the ear-piercing thud that echoes through the speakers. She puts her hands on his shoulders, and for a moment the two wrestle as she froths at him.

“Take it back! Take it back!”

The peacekeepers intervene and rip the two apart, dragging them back with tight grips on the crook of their elbows.

Price isn’t fighting the peacekeeper’s hold, but Summer’s kicking her feet, thrashing ruthlessly against the restraint. Her words are slathered with fury, loud enough for the back of the crowd to hear even without the microphone.

“You fucking idiot, Johnny! What did you do?! What did you do?! You killed yourself, Johnny! You killed yourself!”

Price is panting, chest heaving as his bright blue eyes soak in her rage.

When the escort finally restores order, she has the two shake hands. Summer doesn’t take her glare off Price the entire time. She practically smacks his hand, squeezing him with a deathly grip, a twist in her lips as she grumbles under her breath. Price just swallows, staring at her with sad eyes as he lets her assault his hand.

You hate to admit it, the thought itself making your stomach turn, but Price was kind of good-looking at your age.

While his blue eyes are still hooded, they’re not narrowed into his constant squint. Distressed in this moment, but overall his eyes are brighter, wider, full of life. His face isn’t harshened with fine lines, and instead of the intense facial hair he wears now, he only has faint stubble along his jaw. Price is strong as you know him, but his younger self seems to be entirely fit, a young man primed with youth and strengthened from a life of fieldwork.

The year Price competed in the games, the arena was truly foreign, you don’t recognize a single plant or tree that makes up the lush jungle. The trees fork in odd places, their leaves awkwardly fanned. A few are reminiscent of the trees you saw at the oasis, puffs of leaves only at the very top of their branches, but even that comparison is a stretch. Some of the flora carry leaves bigger than your entire body. Plants that you’d describe as large ferns swallow the jungle floor, camouflaging only a few feet into the tree line. Massive bones scatter the jungle, bones much larger than any animal you’ve ever seen. In many places the jungle drops off into truly stunning valleys teeming with huge, thick-stemmed flowers. Rivers carve out the land, sidewinding through the valleys.

A Jurassic landscape, they call it.

Price and Summer are locked onto each other the entirety of the countdown. When the gong sounds, they don’t hesitate to dart for each other, each of them working up to a full sprint the moment their boots leave the pedestals. They link hands at the center of the brutal bloodbath, blind to the gory altercations surrounding them. As soon as their hands are locked they make a run for the jungle, quickly disappearing into thick foliage.

They skip a lot of the games, and show the particularly exciting moments Price and Summer went through.

For the circumstances, the tone between them is light, smiling and joking as they dredge through the jungle. They’re playing a game to see who can catch the insides of a jungle nut in their mouth from the highest toss straight up in the air.

Price, leading the way, gets stuck mid-stride, as if his boot had been glued to the jungle floor. He looks down, and immediately his palms shoot out to shove Summer back in the dirt.

“What-”

Summer’s eyes widen when she sees the pit of thick sand swallowing Price’s boots.

Price panics, jerking his legs to free himself, but it’s only making it worse. The more he thrashes, the quicker the pool of sand climbs up his legs. Summer curses, kicking to her feet and stepping to the edge of the pit.

“Stop!” She yells, her fingers a blur as she shakes her palms at him, “Stop moving, Johnny! Grab my hand!”

He stills as he looks at her, heavy breaths leaving parted lips and wide eyes pooled with fear. His knuckles turn white the moment he latches to her wrists.

Summer grunts through clenched, bared teeth and leans back, every muscle shaking as her entire body weight pulls on his arms. The heels of her boots dig into the jungle floor, but Price doesn’t budge.

“Ow, ow!” He yells, “Gonna break my arms!”

“Oh, is that a worse alternative to dying?!” Summer spits.

“Save now, fight later!” He grunts.

“Just- stay still!” She says, eyes frantically darting around.

She locks onto one of the trees, a nearly matured sapling with a long, skinny, branchless trunk that stretches well above Summer’s head.

“Got it, I fucking got it, Johnny!” She shouts with excited revelation, giving herself a running start before she jumps up to grab the trunk as high as she can. Her legs fold around the tree, climbing hand over hand to shimmy herself up. When the sapling begins to curl, she jerks her body weight in the direction of Price, unwrapping her legs and dangling off the trunk until the tip of her toes touch the ground.

“Grab it!” Summer hisses, a grunt caught in the back of her throat as she holds down the spring-loaded tree.

Price, now submerged to his diaphragm, scrambles for the sapling, his arms getting lost in the sprouts of leaves at the very top of the odd tree.

“Got it!”

“Hang on tight!” She hisses before releasing the tree, falling backwards into the dirt.

The tree springs up a few feet in the absence of her weight and yanks Price from the sand to his mid-thigh. Summer’s already on her feet, scrambling to the edge of the pit to wrap her arms around Price’s core, yanking to help work him free as he climbs up the sapling with shaking arms.

Once the sand spits out the tops of his boots, he pops free, the tree slingshotting back into place and almost taking him with it. He’s dragged into Summer, both of them crashing to the ground with a thud.

Summer’s eyes pinch shut and she lets out a drawn-out, low groan under his weight.

Price heaves a breathless, relieved laugh, planting his palms in the dirt to prop himself up, smiling down at Summer.

“So,” Price says in between heavy breaths, “Want to finish that fight?”

Summer gives an amused hum behind a grin, her eyelids fluttering. She snatches him by the collar of his shirt with two fingers and pulls him in until his face is inches from hers. A sly grin spreads thick on her face, voice low and as smooth as silk.

“Kiss first, fight later.”

“Deal.”

When Summer closes the gap and plants a long kiss on his lips, you have to look down at your lap, swallowing around the lump in your throat.

Because you already know how this one ends.

The feed cuts to a shot of Summer and Price at the border of the jungle, a rock ledge next to a fifty-foot cliff overlooking a truly gorgeous valley. They’re both inspecting bushes of fruit, none of which you recognize.

“I don’t know, if I had to place my bets, I’m going with this weird one,” Summer says as she pats a fruit the size of her head, its skin a deep purple and knotted with bumps.

“Really?” Price asks, tucking his walking stick into his armpit, “Betting your life on the weird one?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Summer digs with a teasing, but slightly pointed tongue.

Price huffs, lacking defense.

He inspects a curved, green fruit the size of his hand, running his thumb along its grains.

“I like this one,” He says, “Got a good feel to it.”

Summer narrows her eyes at him, that sly grin making a reappearance.

“I’ll test yours if you test mine,” She goads.

Price lets out a huff, “Alright, fine. Loser dies.”

“Deal.”

They switch fruits, and dig in.

“Oh, that’s it,” Summer says with a groan, “Good pick, Johnny.”

Price speaks through a mouthful, juice dripping down his chin and staining his chin maroon.

“Can’t say, I’m hungry enough to think dirt tastes good.”

He takes another bite, sucking out the fruit’s insides.

“Johnny,” Summer says carefully.

“No, no, it’s good,” He reassures her, one of his palms blindly gesturing in her direction.

“Johnny,” Summer repeats, her voice low with a slight waver stitched in.

“Yeah?”

Price licks his fingers, and turns to Summer when he doesn’t get an answer.

“Oh, f-!” Price springs to his feet, stumbling backwards with a flail.

“Sh, sh, sh!” Summer hushes with a soft wince, “Just be calm - Don’t freak out.”

A massive snake with a head the size of a loaf of bread, a body as thick as a tree trunk, has crept from a tree above the fruit bushes. Its scales slide around the back of Summer’s neck, slithering leisurely down her shoulder and her front.

“What do I do?!” Price whispers frantically.

“Relax,” The word rides one of Summer’s exhales as she closes her eyes.

You’re not sure if she’s talking to herself or Price.

“Just let me think,” She says quietly.

The python moves slow, snaking around her core like a sash, wrinkling the fabric of her shirt as it curiously explores her.

Summer’s face pinches - she’s trying to come up with a plan but her focus is split between steadying the rise and fall of her chest and keeping herself from panicking.

“So cold,” Summer whispers under her breath as she suppresses a shiver, “Feels so fucking weird.”

Price takes a few slow steps forward, arms puffed out at his sides and his back hunched over.

“Johnny,” Summer warns.

Price lowers himself to a squat, picking up the purple fruit with careful hands.

“Johnny,” Summer tries again with a draw, but with concern to angering the snake coiling around her, her voice isn’t as forceful as she would have liked it to be.

His brows furrow, and a hand comes up with a wave of annoyance.

“I got it, Trouble.”

Price gets his boots in front of her crossed legs, leaning down and carefully extending the fruit in the direction of the snake’s face.

“What are you doing?” Summer grits.

Price ignores her, cooing to the snake.

“Oh, what’s this?” He says softly, animated and affectionate, the way one would speak to a beloved pet.

The snake’s tongue flicks out, it’s head perking up from Summer’s thigh.

“Yeah, buddy, check this out,” Price coos, “You don’t want her, you want this thing.”

“Run, Johnny,” Summer hisses through clenched teeth.

“Smells good, don’t it?” Price says to the snake, ignoring Summer’s demands.

The snake’s tongue flicks from its mouth furiously, hunting down the fresh, pungent scent of the purple fruit, juice still dripping from the taken bite.

The snake double back on itself, peeling back from Summer’s stomach, and Price gives a drawn out, low, “Yeah-heh-heah.”

Price takes careful steps, shifting to Summer’s side, delicately guiding the snake to unwrap from her core.

Price chuckles, “That’s it.”

When the snake is only draped over her shoulders, Price grits to Summer.

“Run, Trouble, Run!”

With a grunt, Summer shoves the snake from her shoulders to get away from its slimy scales.

The snake did not like this maneuver one bit.

With a deafening hiss, another fifteen feet of tail whips from the jungle, the end coiling around Summer’s ankle in less than a second, pulling her foot out from under her. Summer slams face first into the ground, busting her chin open on the rock ledge.

At the same time, the snake’s jaw unhinges, its lips peeling open well below where the corner of its mouth should be, parting down the sides of its body to reveal an opening large enough to effortlessly swallow a full grown man whole with one bite. Its razor sharp fangs start at a size you’d expect at the front of its mouth, and increase in size down its unfurled body until they’re as big as Price’s forearm.

Price screams as he stares into the snake’s gaped innards displayed in clear threat while Summer desperately claws at plants on the jungle floor. Her shirt bunching up her torso as she’s dragged on her front by the snake’s tail. Price flings himself back when the snake’s uncanny mouth closes with a snap like a whip in his direction. Summer flips over on her front, folding her core to peel the tail from her ankle, but she’s no match for its deadly grip.

As Price moves away, Summer is effortlessly lifted from the ground, flailing her limbs once airborne. The snake fully unfurls its mouth towards the sky, its tail curling to hover Summer over its gaped throat. She screams and kicks suspended in the air, dangling helplessly as she stares into the snake’s mouth.

“Hey!” Price yells from off screen.

The purple fruit smacks the snake’s neck with an almost comedic wet slap.

The snake’s mouth snaps shut beneath Summer, its head whipping to the side, venomous eyes locking onto Price. Summer is slammed against the rock ledge, expelling all of the air from her lungs with a guttural wheeze as the snake slithers with unnatural speed towards Price. A choppy groan leaves Summer, dragged across the rock ledge in the snake’s wake as Price trembles, taking uneasy steps backward as he points his meager walking stick in the direction of the snake.

The snake’s already unfurled its terrifying mouth again, priming to swallow him with a gut-churning hiss, but it does not deter Price from launching himself into the snake’s mouth, jamming the thick branch vertically between the bottom and the roof of its mouth.

The snake lets out a cry as it tries to snap its jaw around Price, but instead pierces the walking stick through the roof of its mouth.

The snake wails, ripping away from Price and releasing Summer as it desperately shakes its head to rid the wedge propping its jaw open. Price boots fumble along the rock as he makes a run for Summer, moaning in pain on the ground.

Price skids to a stop before leaning over and pulling her up with sturdy arms and a grunt. Her wobbly legs come to a stand while Price slings her arms over his shoulders, half-dragging her as they stumble through the jungle.

When the two finally give out, Summer collapses to her knees and Price doubles over, his hands on his thighs and spitting his exhaustion into the dirt.

As they catch their heaving breaths, Price lets out a huff.

“Betting on the weird one worked for ya, did it?”

Summer puts two shaky palms to the jungle floor and lowers herself onto her side with a wince.

“You tell me,” She says after a long breath, resting her cheek on her bicep, smearing her arm with the blood of her split chin.

Price laughs again, lying down next to her.

A tightly pressed smile blooms on Summer’s face. Her eyes close, cheeks bunching with a glow that can be seen even under the blood and dirt. Her voice is soft when she speaks to the jungle floor.

“You’re the biggest idiot I know.”

Price hums.

“Well, I can’t help that.”

He touches the pad of his finger to the tip of her nose, a cheeky, goofy grin on his face.

“You’re the one who picked the biggest idiot you know.”

She scoffs, loosely swatting at him, but her hand lingers on his chest, her fingers toying with the slack fabric on the front of his shirt.

“Tell me about it,” She says with a wistful sigh.

You carefully turn your head to get a discreet glimpse of Price on the couch next to you. His elbows are propped up on his knees, leaning forward in his spot. His eyes are relaxed, lost in the rerun. Wearing the outline of a smile that matches Summer’s and the side of his index finger absentmindedly stroking his beard.

Your heart is heavy in your chest and your throat has gone sore and dry, you have to look away from him.

Because you know how this one ends.

When the footage cuts, they show Price and Summer setting up camp in a dilapidated skull the size of a modest room, a snug but cozy fit for two. Whatever animal it came from must have been massive, and had a powerful, flesh-eating jaw. The entrance to their hideout, the mouth of the once creature, is lined with rows of teeth, each tooth the length of Summer’s palm. The skull has been partially overtaken by time and foliage, dirt filthying the yellowish white bone, moss and vines climbing up the holes along the roof of the skull.

Inside the mouth, Summer’s resting on her back on a hand-gathered bed of moss, her elbows bent to cradle her head in her palms. Price is curled up at her side, a sturdy arm slung over her waist, nestled into her shoulder. He snores lightly into her neck as she keeps watch, staring through a hole in the roof of their skull, watching the stars through the leaves of the nearby trees.

Something shakes the jungle, every last tree and leaf on the foliage disturbed as the world rumbles for just a second.

“What’s’it?” Price slurs as he opens his eyes, a deep inhale of morning as he lifts his head to find Summer’s worried face.

It happens again, something shakes the ground beneath them, the both of them jostled for a brief stint.

“The fuck is that?” Summer whispers to him, her brows pinched.

“Don’ know, jus’ woke up,” He mumbles with a slur, voice low with annoyance and sleep.

They flinch and cling to each other when it happens again, their heads swiveling as they try to piece together what’s happening.

“Earthquake?” Summer asks.

Something gives a deafening, screeching roar, booming in the distant forest, ripping a gasp from both of them. Their fingernails are digging into each other, huddled in a ball of tense limbs as they wait for threat.

The thuds turn rhythmic, the entire jungle vibrating with tremendous force.

A shallow breath leaves Price when a tribute screams in the distance.

Both of their mouths are parted, locked onto each other before they peer out of the skull, unable to see beyond the foliage.

The speed increases, the spaced out jostles quickly becoming one continuous rumble. It’s getting closer, intensifying with each beat.

“What do we do?!” Price shouts.

Summer just shakes her head, face slack with fear. The rumbling stops, and the tribute screams pick up in its absence.

The truly harrowing, bone-chilling roar cuts through the jungle again, both Summer and Price jumping from their skin, arms tensing around each other.

A cannon fires.

For minutes the jungle settles, but the two don’t dare break away from each other, holding each other close.

They both flinch when the thuds start up again, one after another, the entire jungle quaking. It’s getting closer, the two have to lower themselves on their hands and knees to keep from being tossed around.

It is a truly terrifying beast, the ultimate predator.

The beast is well over the size of a building, with flesh like a lizard’s. Two powerful, bird-like legs support a body that must be four stories wide, its feet lined with killer claws. A thick neck supports a head the size of a car and two useless arms hang from its front. Half of its body is just a massive tail balancing out the weight of its huge head, thick near its body and thinning out to a point twenty feet away.

When the beast gives a powerful roar, its screeched breath rustles nearby leaves, displaying its powerful jaws far and wide.

Summer blinks, and her gaze flits to the row of teeth at the entrance of their hideout, and she’s coming to the haunting realization that her and Price would be a snug, but cozy fit inside the mouth of the beast. It cross the jungle what must be only fifty yards from Price and Summer, their entire world becoming a nauseating blur.

The two flinch when the extreme force causes the jaws of their hideout to snap shut, trapping them in the skull.

The two watch through the nostril openings until the beast is long lost to the jungle.

“Okay,” Summer draws out a long sigh, closing her eyes, “Hated that.”

“Not a holiday for me, either.”

“Let’s make a deal,” Summer’s fist jams a thumb in the direction of the beast, “We stay far away from that thing.”

“No?” Price asks with a tilt of his head and a raised brow, “I was thinking we put a collar on ‘em and keep ‘em as a pet.”

Summer snorts.

“Fine, but I’m not going to get stuck taking care of it. You have to clean up after it.”

Price’s eyes crinkle when he smiles at her.

“Deal.”

When the feed cuts again, it’s clear a good chunk of time has passed. The hideout is camouflaged, they’ve rigged the skull’s jaw open with a pulley, and the two managed to get their hands on some modest supplies - some rope and knives.

Price and Summer are digging into a nice bounty of fruit and the meat of a jungle creature, cooked over some now extinguished embers. They’re eating in a comfortable silence, resting their backs against the skull with their legs stretched out. It’s clear they’re both exhausted.

Heavy eyelids shoot open when voices in the jungle near.

“I can smell it, it was definitely over here.”

“Well, it’s not anymore. They’re long gone.”

Two careers, slicing their weapons through vines and overgrown plants, hunting for the smoke from Summer and Price’s campfire.

“Lower district rats prol’ly too stupid to clear out.”

Summer’s face twists, a snarl tugging on her lips. Price shakes his head at her, his eyes wide and lips folded in.

“We can look around for a little.”

“Or we can look until we get to spill some rat blood.”

With pointed brows and a growl threatening to leave her, Summer makes a ring with her index finger and her thumb. She goes to place it in her mouth, but Price snatches her wrist and slaps a hand over her mouth, prompting Summer to muffle objections into his palm.

Summer starts swinging at him as she tries to shake away her muzzle, but Price positions himself behind her, pressing her back to his chest and keeping her secure between his legs as she trashes in his hold until the careers move on.

When Price loosens his grip, she shoves him away.

“What is wrong with you?” He hisses, “Are you nuts?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?! How can you just sit by after hearing their bullshit all week?”

“Because I’m not trying to get myself killed!”

“Well then you shouldn’t have volunteered, should ya’ve, Johnny?!”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that one.

The pain wells in his eyes for just a moment before he huffs, pinching his brows and looking away.

Summer grumbles under her breath before crawling out of the skull, getting much needed space from him.

The feed cuts, and it appears as if the two have resolved the fight, or at least have repaired things enough to tolerate being next to each other. They walk silently through the jungle, both of their steps sluggish, but are stopped in their tracks as the world gets brighter. It takes only a few seconds for the entire arena to be engulfed in a blinding white light.

The sound of the impact blares over the speakers loud enough you feel the vibration in your ribcage. It makes you jump. A flinch and a sharp draw of breath that drives Konig to tighten his hold on you.

The ground shakes beneath Price and Summer, tenfold more intense than the beast’s footsteps. It knocks them both to the ground instantly, and they have to scramble to narrowly miss getting crushed by weakened trees, uprooted and crashing to the ground.

A cloud of white dust barrels like a wave in their direction, and even though Price wasted no time to grab Summer’s arm and make a run from it, they are swallowed by a thick cloud of smoke, coughing and hacking as they stumble blindly through the jungle.

Half of the arena has been entirely destroyed, now only a burning, fiery wasteland ringing an enormous crater, a meteor wedged deep into the earth at the center. What remains of the arena is so foggy with debris they can’t see a foot in front of their faces.

The impact killed a handful of tributes instantly, including half the career pack, and wiped out all of the beasts that roamed the land.

The feed cuts again, and your stomach twists when Price licks his lips and looks to the floor.

You know what that means.

You follow his gaze for a moment, trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

The meteor strike has driven what remains of the tributes together, the pool slimmed. The dust has mostly cleared the arena, now only a slight fog weaving through the foliage.

Where the jungle breaks into the cornucopia, Price and Summer lock eyes with what remains of the career pack.

Summer’s fists clench at her sides and Price’s hand immediately shoots to Summer’s shoulder.

The careers don’t even lunge for them.

They stand in front of the cornucopia, arms crossed over their chests and smug grins on their faces.

Price gives Summer a tug, guiding her to turn and run, but her feet stay planted firmly on the dirt.

“Trouble,” Price hisses, “Let’s go.”

“C’mon rat!” One of the careers calls from across the field, his arms uncrossing and held out at his sides, inviting them to a fight.

Summer’s knuckles have gone white around the handle of her blade, shallow breaths leave her parted lips. She’s caught in a trance as she stares down the careers.

“Summer! Let’s go!” He says sternly, giving a harsh tug on her arm and taking a step to backtrack into the forest.

“You all talk?!” One of the careers calls, “Put your bread where your mouth is, Rat!”

Summer jaw clenches before she rips from Price’s grip, breaking into a sprint towards the careers.

“Summer, no!”

Price runs after her, but stops in his tracks when Summer’s ankle snags against something.

It happens so fast.

A nearly invisible tripwire hidden within the fern-like plants sends an axe into the side of her stomach in an instant. For a moment she is paralyzed, only a slight sway on her feet before she turns to face Price.

It takes a moment for Price to understand what just happened, in stunned disbelief as his hands find his head.

“No!” Price cries when his thoughts catch up, “No, no!”

His boots take off, slamming against the dirt and tearing through the ferns as he runs for her.

“Summer! Summer!”

A heavy wall of tears rims his eyeline, a shake in his hands as he locks on to her wide eyes. Summer collapses face first into the foliage, and when Price catches up he forcefully flips her onto her front.

Summer groans as Price’s panicked eyes dart over the wound, muttering to himself while the blood oozes generously around the blade of the axe.

“You’re going to be okay!” He says, but he convinces absolutely no one, then and now.

“‘S make a deal, okay?” Summer grits, her words chopped with each twitch of her body, “You win this thing-”

Summer coughs, blood splattering on her lips and chin.

“And I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

He nods, tears slipping down his face.

Price’s voice is just a choked breath.

“Deal.”

She closes her eyes and hums.

“Love you, Johnny.”

“Love you, Summertime.”

“Go,” She says hoarsely, “Make sure you didn’t do it for nuthin’.”

Price nods, his brows pinching. He looks up to the careers, both of them making the dash across the clearing to finish Price off.

He looks back to Summer, his face falling and swelled with worry.

Her eyes roll ever so slightly, her words wet and gurgled through her blood.

“Go, idiot.”

Price nods with a swallow and rises to his feet, breaking into a run further into the jungle as soon as he musters up the courage to take his eyes off her. He doesn’t look back, his boots slamming against the jungle floor with each step, the leaves of the flora wavering in his wake.

Tears streak his face, his lips parted to push out sharp breaths, but otherwise his face is expressionless, stone-cold. He only breaks for a moment when the cannon fires, a wince that creases his eyes, but his boots don’t slow.

The careers are closing in on him, and you find your nails are digging into Konig’s thigh, threatening to tear a chunk of fabric from his dress pants.

Price must have run miles without slowing before he sidesteps the familiar pool of quicksand and returns to his previous trajectory. One of the careers gets sucked right into his trap, his body is thrown when his boot gets caught in the pit, planting his palms right into the quicksand.

By time the other career catches up, the sand has swallowed the boy to his wrists and ankles. He’s tugging futilely against its hold on him, only burying himself further into the sand’s clutches. The other career ignores him entirely, doesn’t even look in the direction of the desperate pleas for help.

When Price finds his and Summer’s hideout, he makes a beeline for it.

Both your teeth and fists are clenched, resisting the urge to scold Price for cornering himself by crawling into the skull.

Price turns on his feet, hunched over to fit as he steps to the back of the hideout, his knife primed above his head.

“Let’s go, Rat!” The career calls before lowering himself to follow Price into the hideout.

Price swings his knife, but not at the career, no.

As the career is halfway into the mouth of the skull, Price slices clean through the rope of the pulley. The skull’s powerful jaw clamps shut with tremendous force, massive teeth piercing through the career’s torso with a snap, pinning him in the mouth of the once beast.

The career sputters his breath, eyes blown and blood shooting from his mouth at once. His hands instinctively press the back of the beast’s teeth to pointlessly try to work himself free.

Price carefully nears as the boy struggles, keeping eye contact with him. Price’s face is eerily even as he squats down in the bed of moss soaking up the blood that drains down the massive, bone white teeth.

He raises his knife to his own forearm, and slices clean through his skin without so much as wincing.

Price inspects the wound with furrowed brows for a moment before he slowly extends his forearm to the boy, droplets of Price’s blood streaking from the cut and down his arm.

“You see that?” He says, his voice low and dangerous.

Price huffs.

“Looks like you bleed the same colors as the rats.”

The boy can’t respond, too busy choking on his blood, but what life remains in his eyes sparks with rage, his brows creasing ever so slightly as he glares at Price.

Price’s eyes narrow into a deep squint.

“You tell Summer who sent you.”

Price’s knife pierces through the career’s windpipe without warning.

You flinch in your seat, eyes pinching shut to rid the sight of Sapphire being skewered at your hand, your nails nearly drawing blood from the flesh of your knee as you try to shake the reverb of the staff in your grip and silence the sound of her choking on her own blood.

“Wow,” Caesar starts, “Let’s give John a hand, huh?”

The audience complies, but it’s muffled by the sound of your own shallow breaths in your ears. Behind the cover of your eyelids, your irises dart furiously.

So much new information you’re learning about your fellow victors today, and not at all the proper space to digest it.

Your nausea is making a reappearance and your heels scrape across the stage in a futile attempt to expel the heat bubbling from your pores.

“It must be really special to you, that after all this time, you managed to pull off getting these two star-crossed lovers out together.”

Price gives a curt nod.

“That’s right,” He says evenly.

Your hand crosses over your bicep, and your lower lips catches between your teeth. That sickening guilt is coiling in your intestines again, the heavy weight that’s impossible to ignore.

What makes you worthy of getting out of the arena, when Summer couldn’t?

Why do you and Konig get to have each other at your sides - when Price didn’t get the same?

You don’t feel deserving of it.

Not just in comparison to Price - but even in relation to your games.

Why do you get to sit here on this stage, alive and unharmed, while there are twenty-two other tributes - many of them much more deserving of the victor title - who’ve long since been packed up in wooden boxes and shipped back to their districts?

Because you are alive today, someone else is dead.

And it’s only worse that a selfish little brat like you got gifted something that an honorable man like Price couldn’t have.

Guilt.

“Tell us,” Caesar says to you and Konig, “Have you seen this footage before?”

You swallow hard enough you can feel it tug on your ears. You can’t bring yourself to speak, or even open your eyes, so you just shake your head.

“And how do you feel after seeing John’s win for the first time?”

You shake your head again, and when you speak, your words are choked and barely audible.

“Not good.”

Price gives you a squeeze on the shoulder before rubbing it out. You think he’s trying to tell you it’s okay, that you shouldn’t feel bad, but it does nothing to relieve the sickening guilt swelling in your gut and swallowing you whole.

Caesar receives little cooperation from Konig.

“Well, John, I have to say, your tributes weren’t the only ones stirring excitement in the arena.”

Price scoffs, a smile tugging on his lips.

”We have some never-before seen footage I can’t wait to share with you all! Let’s take a look, shall we?”

The mentor’s suite is just a sterile white, curved room, lined with screens and chairs. One large screen shows the audience’s perspective, and each mentor’s seat has multiple screens to keep an eye on their own tributes at all times.

You’d think Price bet the farm on you and Konig.

Price is consistently the loudest of all the mentors. It’s easy to see from one look that everyone else is annoyed with him.

Ruby isn’t nearly as loud, but she’s just as obnoxious, looking over Price’s shoulder and squealing every word.

Oh, how you have missed that shrill Capitol accent.

They only show the particularly interesting moments.

When you escaped the snare, Price threw his chair across the room, making everyone in the room flinch.

“That’s my fucking girl!”

“Well, she has always been stubborn!” Ruby chimes.

It actually makes you blow an amused huff of air out of your nose, a grin creeping on your lips.

And of course, they show Price pulling Ruby into an excited kiss when you escaped Titan. She turns bright red and grunts when he lets go of her, smoothing out her shirt.

”Well, I never!”

The audience loves it, a hearty applause for Price’s antics.

Caesar asks Price a few more questions, but you do your best to tune them out, taking your opportunity to shut off your brain for a minute as you bury yourself into Konig’s chest.

When Caesar prompts Price off the stage, he practically strongholds you into standing with him, Konig in turn following.

He pulls you in for a hug and digs his nails into your back hard enough you hiss into his ear. He doesn’t let you wriggle away, holding you for a few more sharp seconds before he finally lets you free, ignoring your face pinched in defense.

His jaw clenches, and the message his eyes are drilling into you is clear.

Be. Good.

The look, the first implementation of physical correction - it’s enough to dry out your mouth and clench your muscles. An ominous feeling pools from your center and infects your limbs, ultimately putting a shake in your fingers and a wobble in your knees.

There it is, that feeling again. The unpinnable, chest-wrenching, breath-stealing feeling.

Something is wrong.

How badly did you fuck up? What specifically was he correcting?

Konig doesn’t get the same treatment. Price plasters his crowd-worthy grin on his face and pulls Konig into a short side-hug, giving him two gentle but firm pats on the back before he struts off, waving at the crowd.

With stitched brows you follow him with your gaze as Price walks off stage, carefully taking your seat once he’s out of sight. Your fingers fidget at your side as you try to heed off the urge to throw up all over the glittery stage.

Caesar hypes up the crowd for the finale before digging into the highlights.

You’re not looking forward to this part.

The oasis does not grant Konig refuge from the dust storm, a light breeze turning to a gusting wind that turns to a full on twister of sand.

They cut to the boy from four, still lying on the sand exactly where Konig left him, skin fried from the desert sun.

Konig paralyzed him.

And judging by the way Konig’s eyes widen and his lips part, he had no idea. He looks to his hands, horrified.

The dust storm steadily suffocates Four, his weak cries more muffled with each passing second before his cannon fires.

Konig’s horrified expression lingers the entirety of the arena being destroyed.

You give him a squeeze that he doesn’t return, motionless when you rest your cheek on his shoulder.

They feature the boy from six and the boy from seven, the boys who ran into the snow quadrant at the bloodbath. They took refuge in the center of the snow quadrant, in the large, complex system of caves. They were out hunting for food before the avalanche chased them out of the woods and swallowed them whole.

Even though you only knew of them as ‘The boys who ran into the snow quadrant’ - there’s some level of unpinnable familiarity there that makes your heart sink. Maybe because you witnessed their death happen in person, or maybe because you got too close of a look at them at the bloodbath, or maybe it was that moment where the boy from seven was smiling in his chariot with his district companion. You don’t know. This interview is so exhausting, and has left you with more than enough emotional homework you care to handle, and you’re still not finished yet.

You still have to relive Sapphire’s death, you still have to watch Konig beat Titan into a bloody pulp, and you still have to see Konig die.

What you wouldn’t give for a breather.

For five minutes with Konig in private.

You just want to be done, done with this interview, done with The Capitol, done with the Hunger Games.

But you won’t ever be, will you? Every year they’ll drag you and Konig back with Price, forced to mentor a pair of kids destined to die, and you won’t be able to keep your distance. Every year they will break your heart, and every year they’ll broadcast your romance far and wide, both in recaps and in new footage.

They start with Sapphire.

As soon as her cry blares over the speakers, your eyes are screwed shut.

Konig’s nearly squeezing the life from you, surely watching Sapphire close in as you bleed generously from your hedge-inflicted wounds.

“He killed him! He killed him!”

Konig’s grip on you loosens as soon as he realizes it.

Realizes that you took the brunt of her vengeance against him for killing her district companion. A boy she surely trained with for years, preparing for this moment.

You give his arm a squeeze. Konig doesn’t know it, but that same vengeance is what saved you.

The exhaustion from mourning her companion made Sapphire’s spear toss sloppy, her hatred for Konig left her defenses wide open, and her spite drove her own spear square into her abdomen.

How many times does a boy have to save a girl’s life before she gets the fucking picture?

Konig is so skilled at protecting you - he managed to pull it off without even being by your side - all while you fought with everything you had to die.

It feels as if these games have revolved around you and Konig since the beginning. Tethered together by a rope that stretched across the arena, ensnaring any tributes that neared in its indestructible, suffocating web.

You can’t help but wonder - if you had never been, if you were never a soul on this earth, what would the outcome have been?

Who would have had a fair chance if you and Konig had not been unintentional allies, if it weren’t for you two being an unstoppable force that pulled tributes under without even trying?

How many deaths fall back on you, simply for breathing, for existing?

Konig’s grip has turned crushing since Sapphire whipped her spear in your direction, and it almost grounds you as you’re suffocated by the replay of her froths.

The squelch of Sapphire’s eye and her haunting wail makes you gag, bile sloshing up the back of your throat and bringing tears to your eyes.

Konig’s clutch on you is so tight he’s shaking. As you and Sapphire attack simultaneously, he sucks in a sharp breath, flinching in his seat. He almost takes your hand with him to find his head, but corrects himself and rests your intertwined hands where your thighs meld together.

Your eyes are closed, but you can see her - on her knees, ripping out her own eye, the tear of her shredded optic nerve. You can feel it - the spear jamming into your stomach, the weight of Sapphire’s body scraping the spear against your flayed hands, the ground jostling you about as her limp body bounces lifelessly on the ground.

“What a moment, what a moment!” Caesar chimes once the footage pauses, a chorus of claps echoing throughout the theatre.

“Wow, I have to say, it’s not every games we get to see a tribute drive another to end their own life,” Caesar’s lips pull to the side, and he speaks in a lowered, cheeky tone, “And I hate to spoil it for you folks, but that won’t be the last time it happens.”

As the audience laughs, your face pinches, crushing Konig’s hand in yours. Your lips part to run your mouth - but you stop yourself, forcing out a deep breath.

Be. Good.

So instead your lips press into a tightly pursed smile, your neck jerking to the side.

Konig finds you, those icy blue eyes just as annoyed as yours.

He lifts your locked hands with a gentle shake and a squeeze.

“And here I thought I was being original,” He mutters with a slight roll of his eyes.

For a moment your brows tighten, and then you scoff, finding yourself actually smiling during this grueling, painful interview.

“Eh,” You shrug, “She may have gotten there first, but you perfected it.”

His chest puffs out with an amused huff, his fingers raising to rub out his temple. He shakes his head and looks at you, and you share a weak, but genuine smile.

It doesn’t last long.

Konig’s next.

Really, you should have connected the dots considering you saw the two dead tributes at the other end of the maze, but it hadn’t crossed your mind to think of the fights that were taking place as you fought Sapphire.

His assigned opponent is the girl from two, Sage as Sapphire called her.

Sage wastes no time once the ground settles, in a run straight for him. Konig’s not fazed by her speed. He roughly tosses his pack to the side, and stands tall with Four’s blade primed.

There’s little to see of his expression under his hood, but his eyes are fearless, slightly narrowed as he waits for her approach.

Sage wields a sword of her own, and once Konig is in motion, it’s impossible to look away. The footage isn’t altered, but it feels as if time has slowed for them. You catch every movement, the way Konig’s leg dips and his arm straightens behind him, winding up to deflect her hit with the perfect clinks of metal on metal. They way her feet shuffle in perfect positioning, alternating between offensive and defensive maneuvers.

It’s violent, aggressive, - but also graceful.

Their fight is a mesmerizing dance. They meet in the middle like it has been rehearsed, perfect timing of the commanding clashes to form a grated song of their swords embracing.

Sage’s face is pinched in determination and focus, grunts behind her grit teeth with each swing.

They exchange no words.

It’s a transaction, professional. The two are there to complete their task and nothing more.

Their swords clash between their chests and hold there, hands trembling as they push against the other. Their eyes are locked and crinkled in focus.

Konig closes in and gives a forceful shove, sending her tumbling back onto the grass.

When she’s on her elbows, her legs bending in a scramble, the very end of Konig’s blade finds her neck, resting an inch under her chin. He looms over her in all his glory, blocking out the sun and casting his shadow over her.

Sage stills at once, her lips twitching as she looks up at him. It’s not quite anger in her eyes, more frustration at herself. Bested even with her training.

She doesn’t beg. She holds his taut stare, and waits. Accepting her defeat in good sportsmanship.

Konig’s sword lingers for a few moments before it slowly retreats, pulling away from her neck.

Sage breaks the stare to follow Konig’s sword until it’s back at his side.

“Up, Girl.”

Her chest heaves with her shallow breaths, irises shifting back and forth as she flits between both of his unreadable eyes.

There’s a pause, lingering their stares on each other before she comes to a slow stand.

Konig takes a few steps back, his sword relaxed at his side. For a moment she eyes him in unease, but he waits patiently. She fixes her shirt, tugging down the hem that bunched up when she fell, and tilts her head to the side to pop a joint in her neck. A long exhale leaves her, she rolls her shoulders, and repositions her feet.

Her face pinches in determination, and they begin round two.

They’re not holding back. Sage is back in the game, catching every swing. She almost gets him, twisting her wrist with a jerk of her arm to leave his core undefended, but he saves it with a quick deflect by putting the sword vertically just in front of his middle. She would have cut him when she forced her sword further into his, but the supplies in his vest spares him from being nicked with his own sword.

Sage retreats her blade and risks opening herself up while Konig’s busy winding regaining his grip on his swords. She returns with all her might, a grunt that borders on a shout leaving her. Konig blocks her from the inside and pushes outwards, and for a moment she loses balance, stumbling at Konig’s side. His upper half quickly leans back as he swivels to keep face to face with her, a few steps back to keep his distance.

He flinches when she cries out. Sage learns the hard way about the hedge’s blades, slicing deep gashes on the undersides of her forearms and through the meat of her palms.

Konig’s eyes widen as he tries to figure out what just happened, taking a few uneasy steps back as she collects herself.

Sage shakes out her arm, flicking blood in all directions. She winces, but it does little to stop her from wrapping her palms around the handle of her sword and finishing their fight.

They sidestep each other for a moment, swords at the ready.

Sage advances quickly and with little warning, frustration laced into her flurry of offensive strikes. Her blade is just a blur, each collision announced with the clash of steel and a splatter of her blood. Konig follows her lead, blocking each strike, both of them slipping right back into their perfected routine. She’s clearly got the upper hand when it comes to skill, her sword techniques much more advanced. But Konig’s holding his ground even with his base level understanding.

Sapphire’s cannon fires, and the girl from two loses her rhythm when she flinches and whips her head to the side.

That’s all Konig needs. He gives a forceful shove to the blades, knocking her off balance. He has no problem dismounting her sword. She’s back on the ground again, unarmed and dwarfed under Konig’s full stature.

She doesn’t scramble for her sword or to a stand, calmly propping up on her elbows and watching as Konig leisurely returns the sword to her neck.

They lock eyes again, her chest rising and falling with her heavy breaths as they stare at each other.

Sage licks her lips and nods.

“Do me a favor,” She says through shallow breath.

She looks to the blade, and then back to him.

“Make sure that loon doesn’t win.”

Konig pauses, his eyes relaxing.

“Okay,” He says.

She gives him a faint nod, and Konig takes a long, deep breath, closing his eyes on the exhale. With one motion he pierces the sword into her neck until it imbeds through the ground beneath her.

As the audience claps for Konig, your eyes are pinched shut, trying to free your hands of Sapphire’s spear.

When you do look to him, your brows pinched and gnawing on your lower lip, he doesn’t meet your stare. His eyes point low and to the side, a solemn look weighing down his pale features.

“Wow,” Caesar starts as the audience settles, “Konig, I have to say, that was a truly thrilling fight.”

You have to agree with Caesar on that one. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your ribcage, and you wouldn’t be surprised if your lips have turned blue from holding your breath.

“I have to ask, what were your motivations in granting Sage a second chance?”

You’d like to know the answer to that one, too.

Konig is silent and still, sunken eyes taking their time to find Caesar. He swallows hard enough you can see it, and he gives an unsteady, slow shrug. This one’s different, it’s not disrespectful. Defeated and sluggish, you can tell he genuinely cannot find the words.

They’re used to careers sitting on this couch, wearing proud with each replay of their kills, cheering along with the crowd.

If The Capitol wanted meaningful commentary from you both, they should have given you more time to think on everything, because right now it is so painful. You feel like you’ve been sliced from chest to core, your guts spilling all over the glittery stage, and Caesar might as well be squishing your intestines under his dress shoes with every question he asks.

Caesar sees he’s not going to get the answers the country is desperate for, and moves on.

Titan’s turn.

His fight is much less fair.

He’s up against a male tribute who’s clearly out of his depth, unarmed and no match for Titan.

If you had to guess, his strategy for the games was the same as yours. To evade until he had no choice, and he’s realizing that this is his reckoning.

A prey trapped with its predator, the instinctual fear of an animal taking control as he tries to put as much space between him and Titan as possible.

Titan’s maniacal cackle as he watches the boy tremble and flee sends a shiver down your spine. He stands so casually, laughing at him as if the boy wasn’t rightfully treating Titan like the killer he is.

It’s a jarring contrast, they’re not even playing the same game.

For Titan, it’s like a game of tag. Toying with the boy as he chases him around their pen, teasing calls in a sing-song tune, smiling and laughing all the while. He purposely slows up a few times to drag the fun out a little longer.

It’s so unnerving, an unsettling twist in your lower core that begs for attention.

Titan.

If you never see those teeth again, if you never hear that laugh again - it’ll be too soon.

It’s clear that both you and Konig have checked out. Shut down on yourselves, staring blankly at the stage and trying your hardest not to retain any of it. Your limp body leans into him, lulling your head on his bicep.

He gives you a weak squeeze on your locked, sweaty hands, but is otherwise motionless at your side.

The Capitol forcing you to falsely grieve his death has worn yourself down emotionally before you even stepped onto this stage, and every highlight chips away at what little of you remains.

You find your mind wandering to that night before the games. Longing for a soft bed and Konig’s chest as a pillow, leeching his cozy warmth, his heartbeat a lullaby to ease you into a much needed break from consciousness.

Your eyes are still closed when Titan finishes the excruciatingly drawn-out hunt, but you can hear it.

Titan chose to break his neck.

Every muscle in you and Konig’s bodies have clenched with such speed and intensity it’s painful. You lurch forward involuntarily, folding your core in preparation to keep from throwing up over yourself.

Titan’s cackle is the accompanying song to the vivid image of Eleven’s limp bounce off the platform, his lifeless eyes a searing, white hot flash behind your eyelids.

You shake your head to try and rid the visual, taking deep breaths in a futile effort to settle your boiling stomach.

You can’t take much more of this. The only thing keeping you on this couch is Price’s fingernails sinking into your back.

It was a warning.

A warning without explanation of consequence or instruction on how to proceed. A blaring alarm, not sure if you’re dealing with a tornado or a wildfire, unsure if you’re meant to hunker down or evacuate.

All you have to work with is - Be. Good.

You barely manage to stay on the couch, squirming and shaking into Konig’s side.

Once Caesar is done analyzing the footage of Titan and his victim, the rest of the hedge walls descend, and it’s on to the three-way standoff.

You have to open your eyes to watch, because other than Konig’s hand nearly crushing the bones in your hand to dust - the glittery stage, Caesar Flickerman, and this godforsaken audience is the only thing reminding you that you’re not in the arena.

The wide aerial shot they use makes the six of you look like insects as Titan and Konig close in.

They pause on you, coated and dripping in blood, brows pinched and eyes pointed, Sapphire’s colorful spear trained at Konig’s chest.

The image makes your face warp, knotting your insides with shame and guilt. You look like a heartless killer, aiming your spear at the boy who loves you so much he sacrificed himself for you.

“Konig, I have to say, it must have been tough watching a friend, your crush, displaying such apparent distrust.”

Caesar’s words are like a knife to the chest. Slicing deep and exposing your heart to the entire country.

And you would know.

Konig swallows, his eyes flitting to his fidgeting dress shoes. He gives a grave nod that twists the knife sticking out of your chest.

“My dear,” Caesar says, “What was going on in your head at this moment?”

It takes you a few moments to coax the words from your dry, raw throat.

“I-”

You take a deep breath, smoothing out your dress skirt. You sound like a child when you speak.

“Nothing. Nothing was going through my head. I was just scared.”

Caesar nods.

“Scared of a friend?”

He might as well have taken the knife from your heart and plunged it right back in.

You swallow, your words consisting of only breath.

“Yeah.”

“And why’s that?”

For fucks sake, Caesar.

Be. Good.

“Because it was the end,” You croak, the audience hanging onto every word.

“I think we understand dear,” Caesar says, “Afterall, you’re not a mind reader.”

You give a shaky nod, and Caesar finally gives it a rest.

Titan’s taunts blaring over the speakers are unable to be ignored.

Titan.

That sardonic laugh, that mocking voice, those killer teeth.

It’s somehow worse the second time.

Your skewered heart is racing, your entire body pulsing in rhythm and blurring your vision with each beat.

At your side, Konig’s jaw is clicking as he grinds his teeth, his hand shaking in your hold.

Sapphire’s ribs snapping under Titan’s boot fold your body in a cringe, Eleven’s lifeless eyes stealing your breath.

When Titan’s gotten his hands on you, Konig lets go of your hand and slings his arms around your waist instead, possessively tugging you flush against him, quick and just forceful enough to pull a gasp from you. As Konig gives your hand a break to squeeze your side instead, your stare follows your touch as you rub out the ache in your palm.

You can feel the vibration of Titan’s chest against your back, his breath in your ear, his massive arm snaked around your neck.

Next to you, Konig’s leg is bouncing furiously, a hand lost in his hair in a useless attempt to placate his rage.

You give his leg a gentle squeeze, trying to get him to look at you, to remind him that you’re right here, that it’s okay. He doesn’t meet your gaze, staring daggers at Titan through the screen as he coos and purrs and growls and yells and taunts.

Every insufferable moment of this standoff is a grating ringing in your ears. Listening to yourself yell at Konig in a demand to kill you is making you feel dumb, Titan’s voice rips a shudder from you with every sentence, and Konig’s rage is a burning heat on your skin.

The worst is yet to come, of course. The encore of Konig beating Titan to a bloody pulp.

Konig’s arm turns to lead over your shoulders, working against each flinch you make. He’s entirely still at your side as you shake in his hold, pinching your eyes shut but not at all able to rid the visual of Titan's smashed face and the waterfall of blood behind him, his lifeless body collapsing to the grass and razor sharp blades shredding his flesh.

As you beg and plead with Konig for your life, you’re both deathly still on the couch, only the rise and fall of your chest to heave breaths towards your lap.

You can’t bring yourself to sit up or to open your eyes. The sound of your own voice, pleading for your life with the boy who killed himself for you, it’s making you sink in on yourself.

To your relief, they skip your breakdown. You find it strange they also skip Konig tending to your wounds and his detail of that day in District Nine.

They do show a few bits of conversation from your picnic, but most of it is cut. They leave out the trip to the oasis entirely.

At first, it’s a relief. The more they skip the quicker this interview is over with, and to be honest, you weren’t crazy about the idea of all of Panem watching you and Konig having careless fun in your underwear. You’re especially thankful that Konig won’t be finding out about the lingering stares anytime soon.

There’s something about it that’s not sitting right with you, though. Yours and Konig’s romance was the star of this year’s games, and it seems odd they’re cutting out the particularly lighthearted, but intimate moments.

The audience does get a chance to gush over Konig carrying you through the desert, and laugh over you asking Konig about having a crush back home, but again, they skip most of yours and Konig’s conversations.

And there it is again. The dread that sloshes around your core, lapping up your insides, a dark cloud drifting into your thoughts but entirely unidentifiable.

Something is wrong.

Konig rests his cheek on the crowd of your head, his finger tracing gentle swirls into your sides instead of squeezing. You find yourself melting into him, your finger absentmindedly stroking his silken tie as you let your eyes flutter shut.

“You’ve really never had a boyfriend?”

You’ve seen this one already.

Might as well try and sneak in a break, here in his chest.

Konig’s hand finds your hair, running his fingers through your Capitol-Standard silken locks, sending electric tingles up your scalp. He manages to draw a soft, content hum from you.

It’s like the eye of the storm, a moment of calm before you’re thrown right back into the hurricane.

Caesar leaves you both alone. He doesn’t need to ask you how you feel, or what was going through your mind, because the versions of you and Konig on screen are doing the work for you.

Caesar does occasionally stop the footage to make commentary that would normally make your teeth drive straight through the flesh of your tongue, but you truly can't find it in you to care. The only thing you care about in this moment is the billow of Konig’s ribcage with each breath, the feeling of his chest from beneath his suit, the soothing fingers sliding through your hair.

“I have to say, it’s the first time we’ve ever seen two tributes fight to the death quite like this!”

And yeah, you’d prefer if all of Panem wasn’t watching you be so raw and vulnerable, but you can’t bring yourself to even be embarrassed about your fits and fight.

Aside from the obscenities and insults thrown at Konig, you stand by everything you said, everything you did, and you’d do it again if you have to.

The kissing doesn’t even faze you.

You’d do it again and again and again.

They obviously skip your intimacy.

You expected at the very least some teasing from Caesar, innocuous jokes and cheeky, knowing stares until you and Konig’s cheeks turn warm, but they don’t even mention it.

And unusually, they skip your preparations for death. You do remember making the faintest slight against the Capitol, but they skip all of it. Your plea to die, the exchange of the ribbon, the final hug.

Come on. That’s the height of television to these people. The drama and the tragedy.

You and Konig put on a show. In more ways than one, and it’s hard to stomach why The Capitol didn’t include any of it in the highlights.

And while you’re relieved you don’t have to relive such a painful, bittersweet moment - you know that there is a reason it was not included.

A reason The Capitol did not like.

And it’s starting to sink in that maybe you don’t have the upper hand anymore.

Because with Konig at your side - they finally have the leverage they need. It is no longer you as the sacrificial lamb. If The Capitol is upset with you, they will not use your tongue against you.

They will use his.

Konig’s chest does little to quell this thought.

The sound of a blade slicing flesh, screams and desperate pleas, weak reassurances also does little to help.

And of course, the audience cheers for your double suicide. It doesn’t even surprise you.

What does surprise you, though, is the footage of you in your hospital room.

Immediately your head rips from Konig’s chest, your face falling, scrambling to comb over everything you said in your fits to figure out what could possibly be exposed to all of Panem in moments you thought were private.

They show you attacking Price in the hospital room, which the crowd finds funny, but you scratch behind your ear, not sure how to feel about it. It is kind of funny, considering Konig was alive the entire time, but you find being forced to believe he was dead, the grief that otherwise was not necessary, not so funny.

And they show Konig. Restrained to his hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling, his temples red and raw from the never-ending stream of tears trailing down the side of his face to contribute to the growing stain on his pillow.

He refused to do anything.

Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t listen to the nurses, wouldn’t even speak to Price.

Just stares at the ceiling, unmoving.

When you try to meet his stare, he refuses, his eyes fixated on his lap, sitting low on the couch.

You rest your head back on his chest, your arms creeping around his waist and squeezing tight.

I’m here now.

After a pause, the arm around your waist gives a gentle squeeze back.

You tune out Caesar’s closing commentary, trying to focus on breathing Konig in, the feeling of his firm chest billowing against your ear. His hand creeps behind you, fingertips tracing over the back of your dress in soothing, abstract patterns.

The crowd gives another roaring round of applause before the anthem plays, and out steps The President.

The sight of him, stepping onto the stage with his stark black suit and precise smile, floods you with a wave of dread from head to toe. You don’t even have the sense to hide the intimidation pulling at your features as you and Konig rise from the couch, your sweaty hands interlocking once again.

Behind him stands a Capitol attendant, carrying your crowns onto stage.

Konig actually has to bend at the knee to keep The President from standing on his tiptoes.

The President gives a soft, calculated laugh.

“Thank you, boy.”

With delicate hands he places a thick and ornate golden crown onto Konig’s head before he steps to you.

Inches from you, he wears a perfect smile as he places your crown on your head. His eyes are cruel and piercing, he doesn’t so much as blink. His icy stare lingers long after he’s dawned you with the dainty golden crown.

You swallow once when he finally turns away, looking to your heels, crushing Konig’s hand with your own.

The standing ovation, bowing, and waving goes on for far too long. You’re starting to think Caesar is dragging it out on purpose just to torture you when you finally get the cue to leave the stage.

You don’t even get a moment to take a breath before the prep teams and stylists swallow you both whole, showering you with praise and squeals overlapping each other, you can’t make out a single thing any one of them are saying.

Their group moves in a pack, forcing you and Konig to shuffle forward, locked at the hands to keep the other from getting lost.

Mauve manages to push her way through, grabbing your free hand.

“Just wait until you see the dress for the party!”

“What do you mean?” You ask, looking down at your dress, “I can’t just wear this?”

“Of course not, babe! It’s a ball.”

No much-needed elaboration is received.

Mauve and the woman you saw whispering frantically with her before the interview try to seperate you both to get you ready.

“No!”

As you object, Konig tugs you closer to his side, the hardened hand engulfing yours doubling its grip.

The group goes silent, all of them looking to you.

Mauve and the woman share an uneasy stare and nod.

“Yeah, babe,” Mauve says with a waver in her unusually high-pitched voice, her hand raising to twirl the charm in her necklace between her fingers, “We can- yeah, we can get you both ready together.”

You give a shaky nod, your other arm reaching across your front to grab his tense bicep.

They take you to your fitting room, and you both are once again transformed.

So sparkly.

Tonight’s color is champagne. A weird mixture of a golden beige and rose. Shimmering rays of gold reflect from the glittery dress with the slightest movements. It almost hurts your eyes.

Another sweetheart bust that comes in at your waist, and you already know the way the hem of your dress drags against the ground is going to be annoying. Two straps only as thick as twine reach over each of your shoulder blades to criss-cross in the middle of your back.

And you find your inner biceps will once again be tortured by the rough texture of the glitter.

Konig’s suit is a matching color, but no glitter. The elegant paisley patterns and the lapels of his suit are the slightest bit reflective, the designs appearing to change color depending on how the light hits him.

“You look beautiful,” Konig says.

His voice is soft, his eyebrows the slightest bit pinched.

“You too,” You whisper.

Unsure eyes linger on each other, a sad smile on both of your faces as the prep team gushes over your compliments.

You don’t want to talk about what happened, but it feels wrong to talk about anything else. Every word feels like it is overheard by twenty-two dead tributes, like every sentence must justify a double suicide.

The air between you is more than heavy, awkward even.

Because how do you look at each other and not immediately think of the nightmare you both just woke up from?

The click of her heels announces her presence before that unmistakable voice does.

“Oh! There’s my tributes!”

Ruby pulls you both into a hug at the same time, smushing yours and Konig’s arms together.

“Oh, you did it! You did it!” She squeals, actually jumping up and down in your group hug, her brilliant white smile flashing far and wide, “I am just so proud of you!”

She doesn’t even let either of you get a word in, which usually is annoying, but at the moment a huge relief. Not just because you’re incredibly relieved to see her, but you’re really not up for talking right now. You feel like a lifeless husk, your insides shriveled up and flaked away to dust.

She reaches out to scoop up yours and Konig’s free hands, the three of you now linked in a triangle of hand holding.

“Not one, but two of my tributes! My stars! Oh, I’m sorry dears, I’m sorry I didn’t come see you before. I just wouldn’t have been able to keep the secret! They wouldn’t let us tell you, I’d have had my tongue cut out!”

Ruby rambles on, gushing and singing praises at you and Konig, both of you hardly having the energy to listen to the words being thrown at you.

“Oh,” You say quietly, interrupting her mid-sentence what must be twenty minutes into a monologue, “I forgot.”

You fish into the bust of your dress and retrieve her token, staring at the small trinket in your palm before extending it to her.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” You whisper.

Ruby’s lips fold in, a soft hand resting on her collarbones.

Tears brim in her eyeline as she gently closes your fingers over the token and clasps her hands around yours.

“It’s yours, dear. It’s yours.”

Her words prick the back of your throat, mouth suddenly dry as you try to choke back tears. You go to thank her, but you can’t find your voice. Instead you give her a deep nod, finishing out on an involuntary, choked sob.

“Oh, dear,” She pulls you into her arms, and while you don’t return the embrace, you do bury your cheek into her shoulder, squeezing Konig’s token at your side.

“Thank you,” You whisper, the tears escaping down your cheeks, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says, stroking your upper back, “Of course.”

She gives you a gentle swat on your forearm.

“And don’t you cry young lady! Your makeup hasn’t even had time to dry!’

You let out a nasally laugh, giving a sniff.

”You got it, Ruby,” You mumble.

You give a long sigh as your smile fades, closing your eyes on the exhale. You’re exhausted, mentally and physically. It’s weighing you down, eyelids heavy and each movement slowed.

How badly you want to take a break, to turn off your brain and fall asleep on Konig’s chest in the privacy of your own room, to have even a moment to process the nightmare you just went through.

But now is not the time for respite, privacy, or reflection

Now is the time for a party.

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

Dividers @saradika-graphics

Konig Photo Credit

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ssweeterthanfiction · 5 months ago

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Glimpse of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter II

Finnick woke up the next day with you wrapped in his arms. He wanted to believe that you were both back in four, wrapped up in your own sheets, the soothing sound of waves gently moving against the shoreline,but you weren’t.

You weren’t in Four.

You were in the Tribute Center, and today was the first day of training.

He gazes down at you and gently shakes you to wake you up.

"Wake up, angel...”

You stirred, your eyelids fluttering open as the haze of sleep gave way to reality. You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as Finnick pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Training starts soon.” Finnick said, getting up and stretching his arms.

You nodded and stood up as well.

Finnick took you into his arms and kissed your forehead. “Come on…let’s shower and get ready so we can leave”

Nodding, you take his hand and follow him to the bathroom. Once you guys finish, Finnick hands you your training outfit on, after a quick breakfast, you both head to the training center.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The doors to the Training Center slid open with a low hiss. Finnick heard your breath hitched for just a moment as you took it all in, again.

The air hummed with an unnatural chill, the scent of polished metal and sterile cleanliness permeating the space.

Tributes were already scattered across the room, sizing up their surroundings and, more importantly, each other.

Finnick stepped in beside you, his presence steady and calm, though you could feel the tension simmering beneath his carefully composed exterior. His fingers brushed yours briefly, a silent reassurance before his mask of charm slid firmly into place once he took note of the Capitol elite watching.

“All right,” he says, his voice low but laced with a playful edge. “Time to show them we’re more than just pretty faces.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

Walking through the room, Finnick felt it all coming back slowly. The high ceilings, the gleaming equipment, and the stations scattered around like an elaborate playground for survivalists, just like how it was ten years ago, only this time you were surrounded by “experienced killers.” And this time he has you.

He has something worth living for.

“Let’s start slow,” he murmured, his voice just for you. “No need to show off too much just yet.”

“I know the drill,” you replied, giving him a small smile, “Brush up on survival skills, and then see if I can…hold a spear again.”

Finnick’s notices your change in attitude, “Hey, let me worry about the weapons, you focus on survival skills, those are more important.”

He watches as you shake your head, “No…No I’ll be fine. I can do it”

“But angel you don’t have to-“

“I can do it Finnick.”

He looks into your eyes, searching for any uncertainty, but then nods when he can’t find any.

He then watches as you walk over to the small wilderness area, once he sees that you’re all settled in, he heads over to the combat area, picking up a trident as he begins his own training.

You were never much of a fighter. Finnick knew that from the begininng, even when he first met you.

The fighter was your District partner, Kael. Finnick felt bad, Kael was 18, this would've been his last year in the reaping bowl. When he had first met you and Kael in the Training Center, it was clear that Kael was the natural warrior. He was the one who stood taller, who took to the weapons as if they were extensions of himself. The fire in his eyes made him the kind of tribute who could go far in the Games.

But you, on the other hand, were different. Finnick had watched you, your movements cautious, thoughtful—almost like you were always assessing your surroundings before making your next move. He had seen it before in other tributes, the hesitation, the doubt. But there was something about you that made Finnick see more than just that. You weren’t a fighter, not in the traditional sense, but you had an unyielding resolve. And that was something that could keep you alive. And that was something Finnick loved about you.

Finnick could still picture him clearly. Tall, strong, but with a certain vulnerability that he didn’t show others. He had always been the protective one, always the first to step forward and take on the dangerous tasks. He knew Kael would do whatever it took to keep you safe.

Kael was already in position, his stance strong and confident, his eyes narrowing as he took in the weapon Finnick had handed him. He had the natural build of a fighter, quick with his hands and ready to engage in combat at any moment. Finnick could see the fire in Kael’s eyes, the willingness to take on anything that came his way. It was that kind of resolve that made him a contender.

You, on the other hand, stood a little off-center, still figuring out how to hold the spear, your fingers awkward as they gripped the shaft. Your movements were more tentative, cautious, as though you were unsure whether you could trust the weapon in your hands. Finnick’s gaze softened slightly. He didn’t blame you. You hadn’t been trained for this—survival had always been your strength, not fighting.

“Kael,” Finnick said, his voice calm but firm. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Show me your stance.”

Kael smirked, his eyes glinting as he raised his spear into position. He was quick, every movement sharp and purposeful, his weapon cutting through the air like an extension of himself. Finnick observed, nodding to himself. Kael had potential—he was a natural. But there was something about the way he moved that made Finnick uneasy. It wasn’t the fight he was concerned about. It was the recklessness.

“That’s good,” Finnick said, but his voice held an edge. “But don’t get too cocky. Always be aware of your surroundings. You get lost in the fight, and you’ll lose yourself in it.”

Kael’s grin faded slightly, but he nodded. “Got it.”

Finnick turned his attention to you, who was still adjusting the spear awkwardly, looking like it might slip from your hands at any moment. “Alright, let’s see you try,” he said, his tone gentle but insistent.

You looked at him for a long moment, your hesitation palpable, before you stepped forward. You raised the spear, trying to mimic the position Kael had held, but your grip was too tight, your stance too rigid. You looked like you were about to snap the weapon in half.

Finnick moved toward you quickly, stepping into your space before you even had a chance to notice. He gently adjusted your hands on the spear, loosening your grip just a bit. “Relax,” he said softly. “You don’t need to choke the weapon. It’s an extension of you, not a threat.”

You exhaled, a little more relaxed now, but still unsure. “I don’t know how to fight like this.”

“I know,” Finnick said, giving you a reassuring smile. “And you don’t need to. You just need to know how to survive. If you don’t get the spear, you’ll find something else. Use the environment to your advantage. It’s not always about being the best with weapons. It’s about being smart.”

The training felt like a blur. After brushing up on your wilderness skills, Finnick tried to help you relearn how to wield a spear...but you just couldn't bring yourself to. And he didn't blame you.

Now you were both in bed, the start of the games was approaching quickly.

He stroked your hair as you both watched a crappy Capitol sitcom, enjoying the feeling of you against his chest.

"I talked to Haymitch after training today.."

You perk your head up, "Yea?"

He nods, "Mhm"

"So...does Katniss want either of us to be her allies?"

"He said that she's considering you, that she found you...fascinating while you were working on making fish hooks, but the deal breaker is the fact that you're with me.."

He watches as you get a look of surprise on your face.

"What did you do?"

He laughs, "What makes you think I did something?" he says in a playfully offended tone. "I was just my perfectly charming self"

You roll your eyes, "Oh...I see what you did then"

"Now angel..." he says as he rolls you both over and holds you against the bed. "What do you mean by that? Hm?"

You smile and laugh, "Well...not everyone can handle your 'perfectly charming self' like I can"

He smiles and plants a soft kiss on your lips, which you happily return.

When he pulls away, he takes off his shirt and tosses it to the side. He then moves back to kiss you with all the love in the world...

The rest of the night is spent wrapped up in the silk sheets of the bed, with the sounds of soft moans, whispered "I love you"s and then the most gentlest aftercare.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The next morning, you both wake up a bit later since President Snow so graciously allowed the last day before the games to be one of "leisure and peace" before everyone went in to get their individual training scores.

"So...what should we do for the...5 hours that we have free?" Finnick says as he buttons up his shirt.

"Mm...do you wanna go to the gardens for a little while? They aren't far from here"

Finnick smiles and kisses your forehead, "That sounds perfect to me."

So, after packing a bit of food and after a short walk, you both arrive at the Capitol Gardens.

The air was fresh, almost too sweet, and the flowers seemed to dance with colors you’d never seen before. It felt like a dream, a place where time moved differently, where nothing mattered except the sound of birds singing and the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind.

You both wandered through the paths together, your fingers brushing occasionally, the peace of the garden like an intoxicating haze. Finnick found a quiet alcove with a small, tranquil pond surrounded by willow trees. He sank down onto the grass, pulling you down next to him. For a moment, you both just sat there, forgetting about everything and instead stared at the shimmering water, breathing in the calm.

"It's so...pretty out here" you say, running your hand against the blades of grass.

"Yea, it is...but not as pretty as you angel" he says, kissing your cheek.

You smile and lean your head against his shoulder, the quiet intimacy between you two almost feeling like a dream. The Capitol, the Games, the Capitol citizens—all of it felt so far away in that moment. There was only the gentle breeze, the soft murmur of the water, and Finnick, here with you. In this bubble, nothing else existed.

But that bubble was quickly burst once Finnick looked down at his watch. "We better start heading back.." he mumurs as he stands up.

As you both made your way back to thr Tribute Center, you both heard a sound neither of you were fond of.

"Well if it isn't the Pearl of the Capitol and the Capitol Darling..."

Finnick felt you hide behind him as you both turned around. Standing in front of you both were a group of Capitol citizens that Snow had sold you and Finnick to many times before. Their eyes locked onto you the moment you stepped into view, their smiles widening with that familiar hunger.

Finnick fakes his classic smirk. "Hello gentlemen...lovely to see you all."

One man steps up to the front and grins creepily, "And lovely to see you two as well.."

Finnick could just feel his skin crawl, but he knew the drill, charm them.

“Oh, what a tragedy. The lovely Pearl and the Capitol's darling… back in the arena. Again." He sighed theatrically, shaking his head as if the very thought broke his heart. "How will we ever survive without you two?" His voice was heavy with sarcasm. "It’s such a shame that you both are going back into the arena. You’ll be missed… by all of us.”

Bullshit. "We'll miss you all too" Finnick says, his smirk never faltering.

“You two were such a beautiful pair,” another one said, flashing a fake pout, his eyes glinting with mock sympathy.

You kept standing slightly behind Finnick, the tension in your body clear despite the mask you wore. Finnick could see your eyes flicking to the ground, but you didn’t step back. You couldn’t. Not here. Not with them.

Another man in the group chimed in, "What a shame. The Capitol’s brightest stars, and yet they have to go back in the arena... Seems like such a waste of good talent." He pauses dramatically. "What will we do without our favorite little toys?”

Finnick felt his patience stretching thin, but he didn’t let it show. This was a game, and he was very good at playing it. "Well, we’ll be sure to miss you too,” he said with an exaggerated pout.

Somehow, you both manage to get away.

"Are you okay?" he says quietly as you both walk back into the Tribute Center.

You nod and lean against him, "With you here, I'm always okay"

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

Individual training went by in a flash, Finnick showed off his trident skills and you ended up showing off your poor spear skills. Just from your demenor, Finnick knew you weren't expecting a high score. he gently put a hand on your knee, a comforting touch that grounded you.

Finally, once both your prep teams arrived to the 4th floor, the scores went live.

“Finnick Odair. Eleven”

A murmur swept through the room, though no one seemed surprised. He was Finnick after all.

Then came your turn.

“Ten.”

The room fell silent for a heartbeat. That was much higher than you expected.

Finnick’s hand tightened on your knee, his thumb brushing against your skin, he could tell you were afraid. “You did amazing,” he said quietly, his voice filled with pride. “They’re scared of you now.”

“Great,” you muttered, your chest tightening. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “Let them be scared. It’ll keep them guessing. We’re in this together, remember?”

You nod and intertwine your hand with his, hoping that no matter what you would both stay together.

Shortly after, your prep teams whisked both you and Finnick away. Thankfully, they had given Finnick more coverage this time, only leaving his chest slightly exposed. He hoped that they would've given you something with more coverage too.

It wasn't long til he saw you, and when he did, his breath was taken away.

You were in a breathtaking dress that was made from shimmering aquamarine and silver fabric that ripples like water with every movement. The fitted bodice is adorned with intricate beadwork resembling waves, scattered with pearls and silver sequins, while the flowing chiffon skirt cascades like seafoam, fading from aquamarine to silvery white at the hem. Your hair was styled in loose waves, accented with tiny pearls and seashell pins, and you had on a delicate pearl necklace with matching earrings, you looked like a mermaid.

He wraps his arms around your waist. "You look gorgeous, angel"

You smile, "And you look very handsome"

He smiles and kisses the side of your head. "Let's go knock 'em dead."

Finnick went on stage first. He knew exactly what to do.

"Now Finnick...I understand that you have a message for somebody out there- a special somebody." Caesar says, laughing. "Can we hear it?"

Finnick smiles and nods, he decided to recite a poem he had written for you, and as he read the last lines, he could hear all the women swooning in the crowd. "My love, you have my heart. For all eternity. And if- if I die in that arena my last thought will be of your lips."

He knew what he was doing. He knew that a ton of women were thinking it was about them. But no. The words were for you.

Only you.

When you went on stage, Finnick watched as you gracefully handled the interview.

"Now, our Pearl of the Capitol...we will miss you so dearly!"

"Oh...I'll just miss you all so much! You've been so good to me for- for all these years! It's so hard to say goodbye!" you said as you wiped away a few forced tears.

You then joined Finnick up on the podium, and after Johanna's breakdown and Katniss' dress reveal, Finnick thought nothing else could be as crazy as anything that just happened.

Until.

"If it weren't for the baby.."

You and Finnick both shared a look of suprise and shock. And it seemed like the audience shared that shock as well, because it didn't take long for them to start shouting "Cancel the games!"

Amist all the chaos, everyone standing joined hands. And Finnick hoped that Snow was watching. And he hoped he was pissed.

The lights suddenly shut off and everyone was ushered off the satge., You and Finnick walked off the stage hand in hand, the sound of the crowd fading into the distance as the door closed behind you.

You both made it back to the District four apartment suite.

After getting into comfortable clothes, you both stood in the middle of the living room. The realization that the games begin tomorrow hittting you both like a truck.

Finnick pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest.

You both felt a huge pit in your stomachs.

“Tomorrow,” you whispered against his chest, your voice trembling.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, his lips brushing the top of your head. "I'll protect you angel. You stay by me the whole time and I'll protect you."

Tomorrow would be the start of the arena. The Games. But tonight, for just a little longer, you had each other.

A/N: im going to sleep now im so tired omg. ANYWAYS NOW THE STORY GETS TO KINDA REALLY START HOORAY!! also PLEASE IGNORE THE HORRIBLE GRAMMAR MISTAKES. ITS 2:20 AM CURRENTLY AND I DOZED OFF WHIKE WRITJNG THIS😭😭

Taglist: @jacaeryslover @sundawn1990 **if you'd like to be included in this taglist lmk in the replies!

#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #thg finnick #finnick #hunger games finnick #finnick odair x fem!reader #finnick fanfic #finnick odair fluff #finnick imagine #finnick x reader #finnick x you #thg #the hunger games #finnick x y/n #finnick odair angst #catching fire #isa’s thoughts

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jackoshadows · 9 months ago

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Firstly, why is it that Sansa can only be praised by comparing her to Arya? Secondly, in what world is Arya physically strong and more than Sansa?!

The masculinization of Arya Stark by tradfems in fandom has become so commonplace that I suppose many of them imagine this is how Arya and Sansa are in the books:

In case folks don't know this: ARYA IS TWO YEARS YOUNGER THAN SANSA! She's the younger sibling!

Anyone who has read a Jon POV chapter should know that Arya is a skinny, little girl. Jon specifically makes a small, lightweight, thin sword for Arya to handle.

And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. - Jon, AGoT

Arya has been on the run for two years, hunted by Lannister men, a slave put to hard physical work and starved for food.

She spent the rest of that day scrubbing steps inside the Wailing Tower. By evenfall her hands were raw and bleeding and her arms so sore they trembled when she lugged the pail back to the cellar. Too tired even for food, Arya begged Weese's pardons and crawled into her straw to sleep. - Arya, ACoK

Often as not, she went to bed hungry rather than risk the stares. - Arya, AGoT

"Lommy's hungry," Hot Pie whined, "and I am too." "We're all hungry," said Arya. - Arya, ACoK

Arya watched them die and did nothing. What good did it do you to be brave? One of the women picked for questioning had tried to be brave, but she had died screaming like all the rest. There were no brave people on that march, only scared and hungry ones. - Ary, ACoK

I knew we should never have left the woods, she thought. They'd been so hungry, though, and the garden had been too much a temptation. - Arya, ASoS

"An inn?" The thought of hot food made Arya's belly rumble, but she didn't trust this Tom. - Arya, ASoS

Rabbits ran faster than cats, but they couldn't climb trees half so well. She whacked it with her stick and grabbed it by its ears, and Yoren stewed it with some mushrooms and wild onions. Arya was given a whole leg, since it was her rabbit. She shared it with Gendry. - Arya, ASoS

The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry. Like me, she told herself. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

We have the contrast of Arya having to trade some carrots and cabbages they picked from an overgrown garden to get some food and the innkeeper complaining about the lack of lemons to the sumptuous 64 dish feast in the Vale with a 12 feet tall lemon cake made especially for Sansa.

Anguy shuffled his feet. "We were thinking we might eat it, Sharna. With lemons. If you had some." "Lemons. And where would we get lemons? Does this look like Dorne to you, you freckled fool? Why don't you hop out back to the lemon trees and pick us a bushel, and some nice olives and pomegranates too." She shook a finger at him. "Now, I suppose I could cook it with Lem's cloak, if you like, but not till it's hung for a few days. You'll eat rabbit, or you won't eat. Roast rabbit on a spit would be quickest, if you've got a hunger. Or might be you'd like it stewed, with ale and onions." Arya could almost taste the rabbit. "We have no coin, but we brought some carrots and cabbages we could trade you." - Arya, ASoS

Sixty-four dishes were served, in honor of the sixty-four competitors who had come so far to contest for silver wings before their lord. From the rivers and the lakes came pike and trout and salmon, from the seas crabs and cod and herring. Ducks there were, and capons, peacocks in their plumage and swans in almond milk. Suckling pigs were served up crackling with apples in their mouths, and three huge aurochs were roasted whole above firepits in the castle yard, since they were too big to get through the kitchen doors. Loaves of hot bread filled the trestle tables in Lord Nestor’s hall, and massive wheels of cheese were brought up from the vaults. The butter was fresh-churned, and there were leeks and carrots, roasted onions, beets, turnips, parsnips. And best of all, Lord Nestor’s cooks prepared a splendid subtlety, a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar. For me, Alayne thought, as they wheeled it out. Sweetrobin loved lemon cakes too, but only after she told him that they were her favorites. The cake had required every lemon in the Vale, but Petyr had promised that he would send to Dorne for more. - Alayne, TWoW

Arya was already a little, skinny girl smaller than Sansa when they left Winterfell. She has been worked to the bone, sleeping rough and gone hungry. Again, by what logic is this Arya supposed to be physically strong and more than Sansa?!

There is this idea that's often pushed where Sansa is some dainty, fragile princess while Arya is this strong executioner henchwoman and it's just so tiresome and toxic.

Arya is also not Brienne! They are two different characters. If you want physically strong warrior types to compare to Sansa, there is already Brienne. Arya is the smaller, younger sister. In canon and logically, it's the taller, bigger, elder sister with access to good, rich food who would be physically stronger.

The Stark looking Starks tend to be slender and quicker compared to the bigger, stronger Tully looking Starks.

He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast. - Bran, AGoT

The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry. Like me, she told herself. - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

"Can't you guess?" Jon teased. "Your very favorite thing." Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: "Needle!" - Jon, AGoT

Arya was always quick and clever, but in the end she's just a little girl, and Roose Bolton is not the sort who would be careless with a prize of such great worth. - Jon, ADwD

This is one of the reasons for why Jon Snow is so protective of Arya Stark - he certainly doesn't see her as some physically strong warrior type, despite gifting her with a sword. He's scared for her because he knows that despite how clever she is, Ramsay can kill, rape and torture her - she's 'just a little girl'.

Arya deserves to be protected, same as Sansa. She is not there to be anyone's henchwoman, she does not have super strength and she is certainly not physically stronger than Sansa.

#Arya Stark #asoiaf #fandom nonsense

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happysparklingshadows · 5 months ago

Text

A Certain Hunger (5/?)

Chapter 4 ✿ Chapter 6

Summary: Just a random few days in the first Summer in the wilderness. (Y/n) explore her surroundings and the people around her in the wilderness to find some sense of control and agency. She is blossoming. Adult (Y/n) gets an unexpected visitor late at night and has deep thoughts about the right move going forward. She also needs to get ready for a romance novel convention, but she just can't catch a break from her pine-scented memories.

Pairing: Surviving!Poly! Yellowjackets x fem!reader (slow burn)

Warnings: Gore, Mentions of Starving, Mentions of weight, Mentions of Chronic Pain and Injury, the 90s setting with the views of the time, homophobia and internal homophobia, Coming out of the closet, Mentions of sex and voyeurism, Mentions of Cheating, Mentions of menstrual cycle, Stalking.

Word count: 16.7k

Notes: HAPPY NEW YEARS! Back in action with my monthly uploads, and I am so happy to have my first headcanon chapter that doesn't follow an episode of the show, I hope I can add about three in the first and second season that shows things more about the reader and her experience out in the wilderness when there was still a lot of hope. I even did a poll for the readers of this story to have a voice in the direction of this arc for the reader. If you have any questions or thoughts about this story, please let me know in my inbox, and if you have any requests, I would love to hear what you all think and want from the story. The three days that I focus on in this chapter are July 7-10,1996, during their time in the wilderness, and I plan on making a timeline written for anyone really into the story!

Day 1

The hard ground under you was comfortable enough to sleep on, and maybe enough blankets and exhaustion made it the most comfortable place in the cabin. Your pillow's plush, fuzzy fabric snuggled against your cheek as you slept deeply. The pain in your neck rested just right as you folded your arm under your pillow. Your blanket was warm.

A hollow growl rumbles in your stomach again as you rest.

You have skipped another meal last night. Making it the third meal of the day you have skipped for the others.

The months have been getting to you.

You didn’t think you could avoid hunger, but you didn’t think your stomach would hurt this much. It felt hollow and sore, but you were mostly fine and had the same energy. You haven’t been getting as much fish as you did your first time fishing, but it was enough for almost everyone. You decided to go without for the past four days to help everyone ration out the food. Lately, you would catch about three fish daily, around 1 pound each for 16 people. It was spreading thin on the days when Natalie didn’t catch any animals, but you were content with it sometimes.

You had two advantages over everyone else in the woods: you had wilderness survival, and you were overweight. It will take longer for you to suffer from starvation, and if you skip your meal, that just means everyone gets a little more. You didn’t mind it, but everyone else seemed not to like it; not even the boys wanted you to go without unless you simply put your food on the table and walked outside if you thought the portions too small for everyone. You would just say you could handle it, and if you had a negative calorie intake, it wouldn’t be as harmful as it would be if Jackie or Larua Lee skipped. Sometimes Van, Shauna, Lottie, or even Travis, to your great surprise, skipped with you for everyone else to have more. It was those days when there was a whispering dread in your ear, making you think too far ahead for your liking. You didn’t like to think about the nights becoming colder and the food slowly disappearing, and only having food that you saved, which would be nothing as things were going.

You worked your anxiety away as much as possible with the fishing and projects around the cabin, so you didn't think about it too much. You still hoped to be saved and didn’t want to think about the colder months unless you had to.

A soft hand lands on your shoulder and gently pushes you back a few times until your eyes creep open, “Hey, get up.” Natalie’s soft voice comes to your ears as you slowly get up.

“Wha- what's wrong?” You yawn as you sit up, your hands pushing the wooden floor. You wore your blue and pink striped lattice hem set your mom got you for your trip to Seattle. As you were sitting up, your shoulder peeked out of the top. Your clothes were slowly becoming bigger on you, and you couldn’t find it inside yourself to complain; you had wanted to be a couple of sizes smaller, but this wasn’t how you thought you would lose the extra weight. A thin layer of salty sweat lines your face and neck, feeling every small move with a sticky sensation tickling your flesh. The morning of July was as unforgiving as the day. You pray there will be rain today so you can get a break from the beating sun.

“Nothing. I got some food,” Natalie said with a smile as she looked over your face. She was most worried about you not eating the last few days.

“Really!?” You say as you quickly start to get off your makeshift bed from the floor. You try to pull yourself off the floor like you usually do, but your left arm gives out from under you, causing you to light thump back onto the floor, and a sharp stab stocks you through your stiff neck.

“Are you okay?” Natalie asks, concerned, as she takes your hand, pulling you to stand with her. Her eyes are concerned and worried at your inability to lift yourself. Seeing the biggest girl in the group fall apart wasn't a pleasant feeling because she wasn’t getting enough calories.

You chuckle as you place your hand on her shoulder as she helps you stand up. Your cheeks become hotter as she holds you up. When you are on solid ground, you softly push her off you and say, “Sorry. I was pretty tired yesterday. I don’t know why; I was just in the heat, I think.”

“I could tell; you slept like a damn rock yesterday after I got back from hunting. You good?”

“Yeah,” you say with a little sigh of exhaustion, but you smile at her nonetheless. ”It must have been jet lag, " you joke as you run a hand through your hair. You find a greasy curl in your bangs that stood up the whole conversation with Natalie. You try to hide your cringe at the feeling of your own bad hygiene. After two weeks in the wilderness, most of the body smelled sensitivities left everyone after the deodorant ran out.

“Looks like your prayers have been answered ‘cause I got us some rabbits.” Natalie chuckled as she rubbed the back of her neck and looked at you.

You don’t notice how her eyes seem to study your movements, “The rabbit traps finally worked?”

“Yep, we caught four rabbits this morning, but one was lost. Something got to it before we got up.”’

“A wolf?”

“Maybe. But there was just a foot left behind.” Natalie shrugged her shoulders with an amused smile like she was going to laugh.

“Did you keep it? It’s good luck. Maybe Lottie would have liked it.” You say with a little chuckle at Natalie’s face, and you just turn your head away. You felt your cheeks getting warm talking to her. Before the crash, Natalie was flirty with you, but now she seems more serious. She only talks about food and how people feel, but you always feel like she has a special interest in how you feel. Your stomach growled last night, and she gave you strong looks from the corner of the room.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll be eatin’ good today.” Natalie jokes as she crosses her arms, leaning on the doorway to the kitchen, the second half of the first floor. She seems to be waiting for you to follow her to the hearth where Mari and Laura Lee are cooking the food, and the smells of meat cooking fill the whole cabin. It was making your stomach growl.

“Good. I will eat until I am sick if I can." you say as you finally move to look for clothes for the hot day. Natalie's steel-blue eyes lock as you move to your bags on the opposite side of the small room. You thoughtlessly take off your pajama shirt and expose your bare torso.

Now, after months in the wilderness, you have grown comfortable with your body being seen by others. It didn’t help that you all changed in the locker room together before the crash, but since there was nowhere you could go without peeking eyes, you have grown accustomed to just exposing yourself to change. Even if the boys were in the room, you didn’t even think about it even more because there are a lot of tits out here in these woods. Yours couldn’t be the only ones their eye see in the morning when everyone changes.

It was a little different this time, and you felt Natalie’s eyes on you, tracing your back as you looked down at your pile of clothes in your luggage bag. You could hear Misty and Krystal quiet in their conversation as you move quickly to find a shirt; your chest softly jiggles for everyone in the room to see. You find a thin pink shirt and a Harley-Davidson shirt your dad gave you that you made into a crop top. You tell Natalie to break the loud silence, “Did you find the rest of the pop tabs?”

“What?”

“Wha-” You say as you throw a sports bra on yourself, “Pop tabs, Nat.”

“Oh, yeah.” She says, quickly pushing her hand into her black jeans pocket and pulling out a couple of old pop tabs from the crash site. “These were the only ones I could find in good enough condition.”

You throw the pink long sleeve over your head as you take the pop tabs in your hands and push them into your bag. “Thank you, Nat! I needed a few more to improve my net,” you say as you pull the crop top over your head.

“What do you use pop tabs for again?” she asks with a chuckle. Her smile lingers on her lips, making you feel light in your stomach.

“Hooks, " you crock out to her as you start straightening your hair as best you can with your fingers. “Just bend them back and forth at an angle, and they're makeshift hooks.”

“Sick.” She says as she leans away from the doorway. She leans away for you to walk into the second living space.

“Good morning!” “Morning!” “Hey, (y/n)!” was sent your way as you walked into the room. You smiled and waved back to everyone as you sat down at the table. Everyone had a pile of rabbit meat on their plates, but yours was slightly larger, with berries and the last of the fish jerky on your plate.

“Guys!” you say as you look at your plate, worried everyone didn’t get enough food. But you are shut down by looks.

“Stop it; it's yours,” Jackie says, smiling. She then leans her shoulder towards you playfully.

“Yeah, please. We all thought it would be nice for you to have a big breakfast after skipping the last few nights,” Shauna says as she chews on some dark meat.

“But, guys-” you try, but your stomach growls as you look at the freshly cooked meat.

“Just shut up and take your present,” Van says with a playful glare and shakes her head. Everyone laughs as you try again to make them take some of your portion.

You eventually succumb to your urge to eat the meat. You sink your fork into the meat and shovel the dark meat into your mouth.

You feel the strands of muscle on the rabbit leg you bit. You feel the juices of the fat in its body flush out of the strands as you chew on it more. You savor the gamey and wild flavor of the rabbit’s meat. You just moan as you keep eating everything on your plate. There was a click in the back of your throat as you ate. Your jaw healed weirdly after the crash, making you hear the tiny clicks as you swallow.

You rub the back of your sweaty neck, and every step you take holds a tiny stab of discomfort at the base of your neck. It’s been two months and three weeks in the wilderness, and most of your wounds from the crash have healed beautifully. Your black eyes, busted lip, and burns healed within the first week, and the more significant wounds on your legs and neck seemed to take longer than expected. Misty said your leg took a little longer to heal than the other wounds, but it was because it was on the lower part of your body, and you believed her. But your neck has yet to feel the same. You know you should have had a brace on it, but you couldn’t find anything to make one without leaving someone without. You hoped that you would be saved before it became a problem. Luckily, it doesn’t hurt so bad anymore, but it felt like you constantly slept wrong on your head, having a stiff neck for the rest of the day. You have been messaging your neck as much as you could as you felt it becomes sharply painful, but you have made it a habit in the week of walking in these woods for hours.

In another circumstance, these walks in the woods to the lake would have been therapeutic. The sun's rays peek through the branches and kiss the ground with light. The greenery completely consumes the environment, and with such natural beauty, sometimes you stand still, looking up at the tall trees. As you walk down the trail, you look up at the tall branches of the trees. At this point, it becomes almost muscle memory for you as you slowly approach the beach.

You decided after breakfast to take a bath and clean the grease out of your hair and the thin film of sweat on your skin. You felt uncomfortable in your skin on a hot day out in the Canadian sun, and knowing your day would be spent sitting under the sun fishing, you felt like it was just time to wash and use some of your soap rations and lotion. You hold your toiletries bag, a new pair of underwear, and a towel in your hands as you stand on the end of the grass to the beginnings of the sand, but you stand in place as you look down the lake.

There standing alone was Lottie in her nightgown, looking absentmindedly out to the sky, almost like she was trying to piece something together being written in the blue.

You notice her absence at breakfast, and the last few breakfasts, she has been gone, and you always find her at the water, just staring out into space. It worried you, but you knew there was nothing you could do for the time being. The only thing you could do is be there for your friend. You didn’t need her to tell you to notice that there was a mental health issue underlining Lottie’s behaviors lately, even though she is mostly normal throughout the day. Sometimes, you would have a conversation with her so that she could only forget what she was talking about or completely state vague and ominous things without being able to explain herself.

You softly place your towel on the big rock and untie your shoes. Then, you sit down as the soft waves brush against the hot sand, watching the brunette standing in the water. You stand up from the rock, taking your belt off, then your shorts, until you are in just your underwear. You unclasp your bra from under your shirt, slip the straps through your sleeves, and place your bra onto your towel next to your new pair of underwear.

You walk toward the water, softly stepping into the cold, blue water. Water splashes caress your leg, hugging your body with fresh frost. As you walked deeper into the water, it was a painful pleasure to reach the unresponsive Lottie.

When the water was at your thighs, you called out to Lottie, who was only a few more feet away from you, “Hey! Good morning, Lottie!”

You decided the best thing you could do was be there for Lottie and ensure she was on the right track. You also had to comfort her and help everyone stay in the best conditions possible until you were found.

She was deeply lost in her daze, but she seemed to slowly come back to reality with slow blinks when she heard your voice. She blurted out, “Huh?” and paused to rub her eyes with her fingers. “Um, right. Good morning, (y/n).”

You chuckle, playing down what you were watching, letting her get herself in order, “Hey, I saw you weren’t at breakfast when I woke up.”

“Have you eaten?” Lottie says in a deep, raspy tone as if she is sleeping but looking at you seriously. Hearing her talk to you like that was a little eerie, but it shows her concern about skipping meals.

“Yeah, Nat found a lot of rabbits, and they basically gave me one whole one with berries. It was surprisingly delicious.”

Lottie nodded, but her eyes looked miles away from her. She looked down at your body as you came beside her in the lake. She says as she doesn’t look connected to her body yet from wherever her mind is, “What’s the bag?” she asks as she stands still.

“Soap and stuff, I wanted to take a bath, but I saw you out here and came to you. Can I ask you a favor?”

Lottie's attention was now drawn to the bag in your hand and your thick thighs. "Yeah, Of course."

She didn’t move for a moment but blinked a few times, a clearer and more present look returning to her face. Lottie turned her body to face you fully. "What do you need?"

“Can you hold my things? I'll take my bath real quick, and you can take one, too, if you want.”

Lottie blinks at you and nods, her hands out to hold the bag. You smile as you slowly place the bag in her hands. You say, “Is it okay if you hold my shirt too? I know you have seen my tits enough times, but I want to ask before I take it out,” you chuckle as you look at her shocked face.

Lottie laughed quietly, her cheeks darkening with a grin spreading on her cheeks, and nodded. "I'm sure I can survive the traumatic experience of having to see your naked tits for another few minutes."

You rolled your eyes as you scoffed, “Whatever.” You quickly take off your shirt and put it on Lottie’s shoulder to keep it from becoming wet. Lottie then glanced around to make sure no one else was there. 'We're alone here, right?"

“I’m sure, and if we weren’t, they wouldn't be seeing anything new.”

Lottie chuckled as she turned her head back to you, her brown eyes scanning your face as she opened your bag. You move in with your naked body to grab the shampoo, start to dunk your head under the water, and stand back up to rinse the foaming soap.

You splash water on your head as you close your eyes and place the soap on the crown of your head. You move the bottle towards Lottie’s direction, then quickly wash your hair with both hands.

Almost instinctively, you peek your eyes open. You see Lottie looking at your chest and down your torso. She doesn’t even notice your eyes, watching you gaze at her. You close them again and say to her, with a little laugh on your lips, “Wanna take a picture?”

“Maybe, so I have it for later,” Lottie muttered. She took another longing look as you rinsed the grease from your hair. She said louder before you asked her to repeat herself, “I don’t have a camera.”

“Guess you just have to use your memory, Matthews.” You laugh as you lean over again. After you rinsed your hair off the shampoo, you also decided to use some conditioner.

“Don’t make me out as some kind of pervert or something, (y/n)!” Lottie says back with a laugh, and she is now looking at your face as you scrub the smooth soap through your ends.

“I’m not, but I don’t know, you might be liking my tits.”

“What can I say? You’re my girl crush.” Lottie says, looking harder at your form as your eyes closed. She quoted Cosmopolitan about movie stars and singers, but Lottie has been thinking she is forming some kind of crush on you since you both shared that kiss late at night. Lottie doesn’t know what to think, but she knows she feels safe with you, and Lottie knows that she is pleasantly surprised with how beautiful you truly are. “I also have a girl crush on Sandra Bullock.”

You giggled as you rinse out the conditioner from the ends of your hair, “What the fuck?” You laugh as your cheeks grow in heat as she talks at you like this. You are happy she is out of her episode, but you didn’t realize that your tits were so distracting for her.

Lottie laughs and says, “I don’t know, I am just talking.”

From across the lake, in the thick brush, she watches with rasped and raggedy breath as she sees (y/n) in the water with Lottie. Jealousy runs through their veins like a heroine, making them hot off this intense hatred for Lottie and even (y/n). “Why is she always with other people? Why does she just show her body off like that? Doesn’t she know how beautiful she is? Doesn’t she know I would kill someone to touch her soft skin just once?” thoughts race through the teen girl's head. She wanted to touch herself at the image of (y/n) so beautiful and vulnerable in the water. If (y/n) was alone, they could have stood in the water bathing with her and watching the soap run down her body up close. It’s all they have ever wanted; it’s what they have thought about for years. They felt themselves retreating to the woods after the sounds of the girls' shared laughter got to their ears. It felt like knives were stabbing into their skin or like bugs digging into their flesh. Their hands formed into hard fists as they stormed away from the shoreline. They couldn’t take much more of this.

After your bath, you and Lottie separated for the rest of the day. You went to your new fishing spot with your makeshift fishing net, and Lottie returned to the cabin to do laundry. She stopped by with a basket on her hip alongside Laura Lee and Van. They asked if you needed help bringing the two medium-sized grey fish, but you declined. You work hard to weave fishing lines and waterlogged weeds into a sturdy fishing net with two thick branches to anchor the netting. You would bend pop tabs at an angle until they broke, making a hook to braid into the net. You were almost halfway done with this project, but you needed to constantly work on the net to finish it before midseason when fish became less active.

When you leaned into your braiding, the small remaining hole on the tab got stuck on the fishing line in a specific braid. You let your fishing pole sit lazily next to you. You put a small frog as your bait this time, but there wasn’t even the smallest bite for the last hour.

Suddenly, as you are weaving the netting, your fishing pole lunges forward, almost getting thrust into the lake water. You quickly drop the net and rush over to your old, rusty fishing pole, and before there is another thrust forward, you grab hold of it.

A mighty thrust forward caused you to step into the water, and you panicked with the pole. You quickly tried to reel in the line, but it didn’t move; instead, it moved you.

You looked down at the water with wide eyes. As you saw the clear fishing line thrash about quickly, you stepped back and decided that the best course of action was to pull it to the surface.

You slip on the mud, and your back leans on a tree as you struggle to pull in the heavy creature at the other end. You panic as you start to feel yourself being pulled forward again into the water by a strong force. You pull the pole with you, both hands on the reel and rod, and rush back to where you sat for hours. Surprisingly, the creature at the other end seemed spooked by you; pulling it forward, the turtle stilled, and as you rushed back to your spot from before, the green ball came to the mud with a low hiss coming into the air.

You look behind you to see an ugly, large, snapping turtle staring you down. The fishing line is in the turtle's beak, most likely in its stomach, as it ate the frog.

You were amazed, but you were also scared. You didn’t know what to do, so you stared at him. A few feet away, he stood, afraid, hissing at you. He was at least 25 lbs without his rocky shell.

SNAP! SNAP!

Before you could pull him in more, he lunged at you with two great snaps of his jaw, missing you each time but getting closer to you with each bite. He stands a foot away from you with his mouth open to whine a hiss.

You couldn’t think but quickly backed up again and looked for your knife. You grab it quickly before the turtle can react. You pull him in with all the strength in your arm. He hissed as his body lifted from the ground, and he hung from the line in pain from the hook in his throat. You try to stab the turtle’s neck to kill him, but he reacts quickly.

SNAP!

You moved quickly out of the way and luckily didn’t lose your finger. You rejected not letting the others help you because now you were dealing with more than before. You didn’t want to let the turtle go, but you didn’t have the strength to keep him in the air like that. You tried again, and he snapped at you. You then decided to put the fishing line on a lower branch of the tree next to you.

You take a trig growing from the broken branch to distract the panicking snapping turtle. You annoy the turtle with a twig to the face, and the turtle snaps onto the twig like it’s nothing, but as he is distracted with the twig, you stab the turtle in the back of its head. The blade pops through its head through the turtle's left eye, popping the small ball out of the socket and making you cringe. You pull the blade from the turtle's head and pull the massive beast from the tree.

You gave up on the rest of the day after killing the turtle. It was a very taxing experience fighting with an adult snapping turtle, and you pack up for the day. You put your little tabs in the fishing box, and your net inside the box handle to walk home. You put the two gray fishes on the stomach of the snapping turtle as you held onto its shell. Walking home with the big guy was laborious, but it was worth it. You knew how much food he would be if you brought him back, so you kept walking with the turtle, weighing you down.

When you got to the cabin, everyone circled Natalie, who held a small beaver in her hands. They cheered when you came to view and seemed beyond excited that both of you caught huge catches you had for them all. There was enough food for everyone for the next couple of days, and it could be spread out for 5 days.

Everyone decided to jerk the beaver and fish to keep them longer and to eat the turtle because Mari could make so much soup from it.

Jackie looked at the slimy moss-green turtle with a curled lip and narrow eyes, “I’m not eating that.”

“What?” Mari says and steps into your space to look at the turtle. Mari picks up the turtle from its shell with both hands and huffs at the weight as if she knew how to handle the beast. “My mom makes killer turtle soup. We can cook it with its shell. We just have to scrub him up, and we have a whole soup!” Mari smiles as she struggles with now Misty to bring the dead turtle to the porch.

You held the two small grey fish by their tailfins and added to Mari, “Don’t we have some carrots and spring onions?”

Jackie gave you a sideways glance at the mention of the bendy forest purple carrots you all found by the plane. The carrots naturally grew on the vine marshy ground the plane lay on. They were a fantastic find. The problem was preserving them long enough to eat throughout the days because they were root vegetables. They were bendable and weak but still were edible. “This sounds so gross.”

“You’re such a stick in the mud, Jackie. Just think it’s rabbit.” Mari says as she starts to wipe the turtle from its blood with a rag.

“Dude, look at it! It looks like a slug!”

“Dude!” Shauna says to Jackie, nudging her shoulder to make her stop talking badly about their dinner.

“I would rather have the beaver!” Jackie yelled with defensiveness, her eyes big and wide and serious.

A snicker from Van started it, making you laugh out loud and making everyone giggle at the joke Jackie unintentionally made.

“Beaver.” Van says, and it makes everyone laugh harder. Jackie rolls her eyes with a loud ugh. She stomps off to the back of the cabin to get away from the laughing and her unintentional pussy joke.

Late that night, after everyone had eaten the turtle soup, you sat outside on the porch, writing about your day with your journal in your lap. You had picked up the habit from Shauna, and you both decided to write about your experience out in the woods so that if you were found, people would know what happened in your time stranded. You have been becoming lazy with your journal lately because there has been nothing new to write about. You have been fishing, talking with your friends, and worrying about your mom.

A strong breeze sent a chill down your legs, making you cringe at the cold night. You closed your journal, placed your ballpoint pen in the center, and decided to pack it up for the night. You stood up off the porch steps, but as you stood, you felt a deep pressure in your pelvis, making you want to pee.

You turned yourself around to go to the woods, the pooping corner, as Mellissa coined it. You felt the tall grass brush against your calves, crickets and salamanders sing in the twilight of the Canadian mountainside; you felt the crisp, clean air reach your nostrils and travel down your throat. You traveled down the small trail you and all the others made from traffic, but you felt a drop in your chest as you approached the bushes.

Snap!

You turn your head to your right, through the thick brush of trees toward the abandoned plane, to the sound of something snapping a branch. You see the small figure in the brush coming towards you, her hands holding the tree for whatever reason. Her eyes glued on you, her mouth slightly open, she looks shocked at the snapping branch.

“Misty! Holy moly!” You yelp as you jump back on instinct. Misty always had a way to catch you off guard. “What the hell are you doing over there?”

“Uh, Peeing?”

You laugh out loud as you pant. For whatever reason, you feel your heartbeat in your chest. Misty’s unsettling personality isn’t one to be around at night. It is uncomfortable, but it is bearable if you speak right. You put your hand on your chest as you laugh again to distract from her creepiness and act like you are not uncomfortable in her presence.

“Oh, of course! Sorry, Misty! Doing the same!”

She steps forward out of the brush and keeps her eyes on you. “I could come with you to keep watch, you know, um, just to make sure you're safe,” she says.

A stiff breeze hit the back of your legs, but it wasn’t as chilling as the feeling of Misty’s eyes staring into yours. Something simmered under the surface—it was always there, but in this moment, it felt dangerous. You felt a desperate need to let her near you, to be friendly with her, but she didn’t know how to mask the sinister undertone in her words.

You hated the fact you felt pity. You felt bad. You didn’t want to make Misty feel like a freak like everyone else. You remember how crushed she was when Randy called her a dyke at homecoming years back, and you remember the rumors of her having anal and giving boys footjobs even though everyone knew she didn’t. You know how everyone treats her like an outcast in the wilderness. It wasn’t fair to be permanently outcasted because you were offputting but overly kind, you thought.

“Yeah, sure. Can you hold my journal?” You say to her as you stand in place, waiting for her to be beside you. “Hey, I have a question to ask you, actually?.” you add as you move to be behind a bush.

Misty looks into your eyes softly, her hands tightly holding the leather bond book. She smiles tightly and says, “Yeah?”

“What are those birds out on the water, do you know?” you ask as you unbutton your pants, move to a squat and pee. Your eyes lock onto Misty as you continue, “The one that makes those loud dove noises. I know those aren’t crows because they are like ducks sitting on the water and don’t sound like crows. They are so loud and scary early in the morning.”

Misty smiles, her eyes perking up with light, her face almost red with excitement as she proclaims, “Those are Common Loons. The black ones with red eyes.” She says with a smile growing on her lips, like she is smiling under the mask she wears, “Fun fact! They use Loon calls as Mourning Dove calls in movies because Loon’s are a lot more crisp sounding.”

You smile at her softly as you study her face. “That’s crazy... I thought it was some kind of duck or something.” You chuckle as you watch her face. You look to the forest floor for some leaves to wipe with, and Misty continues talking about different birds. You feel a shiver down your spine at how normal Misty is.

After you were done, you walked with her, took your journal back from Misty, and kept talking about her special interest in birds. She told you she has a pet named Neapolitan, Yellow Canary, back home who always sings for her when she enters her room. As she was talking, you watched closely at her eyes and lips.

Her eyes are bright and wide, and her lips turn upward as she speaks. But it was as if something inside wasn’t connecting with her eyes.

There was no sadness or grief at being here and not with Neapolitan. There was just contentment in her face.

Misty is acting the same way she did before the crash. She seemed fine, happier talking about the loon out on the lake more than her pet in her room. It wasn’t right. It made no sense. It scared you.

The energy coming off misty just made you want to run away. You don’t understand why Misty is giving you the creeps in the back of the cabin, but you don’t feel well hearing her speak. Hearing her become so content with being here and talking about home like it didn’t tear her apart made you feel sick. You couldn’t understand how she wasn’t sobbing, talking about home or a pet, and just talking to you like this was her best conversation in years.

Misty was at the porch with you as you started to step up the stairs to the cabin’s front door; she listed, “There is also the brewer sparrow, burrowing owl, bald eagles, American dipper, the brown-headed cowbird-”

“Misty?”

“Yeah?” She asked with her head whipping back to you, her blonde curls bouncing around her head with the movement.

“I need to ask you a serious question, and it needs to stay between us, okay?”

Her eyes widened for a second as she approached you with a deadly serious expression, taking the face you needed her opinion on sincerely. “Anything, what is it?”

You sigh and look away from her at the beautiful starry sky above you. “Do you think we're going to be found? I just—” You sigh as you look at the north star off the side of the Waxing gibbous.

“I don’t know.” Misty immediately answers before thinking about it, but she says, “Maybe the plane had its last location sent to the power tower, and people are searching high and low for you guys.”

“What do you mean “you guys”? Your family are looking for you like all our families are.”

“I don’t think they are, " Misty said as if it were a fact. At this moment, her eyes were empty of emotion, and her face looked too relaxed to be natural.

“Don’t say that.”

“Well, don’t ask if we’re going to be found as if you've given up hope, (y/n),” Misty says with a serious voice as she steps closer to you, with her face almost in yours, “You are the one everyone is looking up to for what to do out here, you're the one holding all of this together, and you can’t start asking those things now. You’re our only hope of staying alive long enough for search teams to find us, and you're doing amazing. You can’t lose hope now.”

She spoke to you like she was pushing you on a pedestal, building your confidence with a fierce glare to push you back in place. It was so unsettling. It was just wrong; it felt wrong, like she was toying with you for losing hope, which was so odd. Why do that?

Just like the day you left the locker room after their last game before the whole plane ride, she hid in the hallway just to stare at you.

“Okay, " you say to her as you fight the urge to step back, trying not to hurt Misty’s feelings. I’ll try. Sorry. I haven’t given up hope; I have just been getting wary lately.”

“It’s okay, (y/n), just make sure you don’t tell anyone else what you just told me because that might scare them.” Misty says again with her smile creeping up slowly, predatorily, like a wolf lifting its lip to lick their chops.

You blink slowly, feeling unnerved by the words but seeing why she was saying them. “I mean, I am just being realistic. I’m not trying to be a stick in the mud.”

“I know that.” Misty quickly animates her face and body, her hands to her chest to prove her innocence, with her eyes looking big up at yours. “We’re friends that understand each other, but the others don’t understand that. They will judge you and never take you seriously again.”

You look at her momentarily to understand what she is saying and feel the sinister undertone in her words. You know you should play it dumb and safe, though, as you smile at her and say, “Yeah, okay, you're right. Sorry for talking crazy.”

“No problem, bestie!” Misty beamed with a tight grin. Her eyes looked cold as she tried to make her smile warmly.

‘21

You had a wonderful last few days. When Misty dropped you off at your house, you quickly wrote the ending for your smutty novel. It was a perfect ending where the two women stay together and have hot sex, the perfect ending for a complicated romance story. It made you so happy to turn in the novel finally to your publisher, which after review, they fucking loved as well. It was sent to the editors, and the book's production will start by the end of next month. You couldn’t help but feel so accomplished that you even took your father out on a nice dinner to celebrate, and you have been on a happy high since.

Tonight, you have been sent over the editor's notes to fix the holes in the story. You went to get yourself a coffee and dinner and came home to see your cat sitting on your laptop keyboard.

You then took the next couple hours devoting yourself to critically combing through your story, your handwritten notes beside you, and your reading glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose. The chapters have been read over four times with edits each time to be approved in your eyes to move to the next. You remember when your first published book came out. It was a lesbian Vampire book trilogy about a feminine Noblewoman meeting a street fighting masc, which just so happened to come out at the same time the movie Twilight came out. The success of the movie made your book blow up in popularity among queer groups, in conservative groups from outrage, and from everyday literature lovers. You remember how stressed you were when you were writing the series and how many demands were placed on you to push out the next book and the next, and then you didn’t hear from your publisher for a year until they demanded a new book. You then wrote a fantasy book romance that had a fairy falling in love with a goblin, another successful series. Now, on your third romance trilogy, you have grown bored of your fantasy creatures and celebrate concepts. Tension grows in your shoulders in your computer chair, and you lean back, taking your glasses off in exhaustion.

Rubbing your eyes and leaning back in your chair, you naturally pulled back. The wheel glided on the carpet under your resting foot, and your eyes landed on the open closet.

Your chest grew hot, and your breath became deep. Staring at your closet door, with your hands on your head, you slowly rose from the chair.

“You don’t need to read them again.“ The voice begs in the back of your head.

In a semi-self-inflected trance, you step into the closet and find a mess of clothes and long-forgotten items: skates from the 1980s, notebooks from NYU, and an old steel safe.

“Stop it. You don’t need to read them again.” It says again.

Your painted fingers type in the code, your mother's birthday, and quickly open the safe. When you open the safe, a wave of smell barrels towards your nose, smelling like old paper, dirt, dust, and small hints of Pine.

You start at the worn black leather of the bound journal, which has water and sun damage staining on the exterior. The once-white pages have yellowed over the years, and the quality feels like it will fall apart in your hands before too long.

You gradually breathe as you lean against your closet wall and slide down, looking at the 25-year-old journal.

“(Y/n), it’s not going to change.” The voice pleads as you turn the page to a random page of the first book you found.

7/7/96 Today was productive and amazing! I caught a snapping turtle about 30ish ibs, and we made a yummy soup of it. It's the best thing I've had out here so far because I feel myself salivating about it. I can't wait to have a bowl tomorrow for breakfast. When Travis took a bite of the soup, he got the eyeball of the turtle, and he gagged. Mari said it was good luck and should eat it, but he kept gagging. He is so pathetic!! Natalie caught a beaver today, and we decided to make it jerky. Jackie didn’t want to eat the turtle, so she said to everyone with a straight face, “I want the beaver!” Needless to say, it made us all laugh until we peed! I am feeling happy today and hopeful. I feel better about being here, but it doesn’t make me feel completely at ease at the thought of being okay. I hope they haven’t given up looking for us, and I know everyone’s family wouldn’t stop looking for us. 7/8/96 I caught two fish, one of which was a salmon (score!!) Natalie and I started making a map by walking around the area and building it together. I had a bowl of turtle broth for breakfast and some fish jerky. a lot of progress with my fishing net. I am about ¾ completed, but I need more stable vining. I feel somewhat like I am PMSing, and I am so not ready to be on my period just yet again out here. I wish I had a pad or tampon out here. All we have is homemade ones out of shirts and stuffing made from cattails fluff. I am about to start because I am much more sad than yesterday. I miss my mom so much I can’t even help but cry when I think of her face

You violently start to sob and cover your face with your hand after reading the tragic line from your old journal. The journal that you and Shauna started there. It’s been 25 years since you wrote that sentence in the journal, but the statement is never more accurate than it is right now. You felt like you were 18 again. You were a child missing their mother and just want to talk to them about it. About everything, but you couldn’t. There was no way for you to talk to your mother again. Nothing has changed from then to where you are now.

It was physical proof of your broken mind and heart. The words don’t even sound like you anymore. It was so young and naive, hopeful to no end. But when you see lines like that, you break down like a baby. Maybe it was for all the times you didn’t cry when you should have been out there.

You felt as you looked at the young woman’s words a feeling of grief that just harassed you in place when you so much as looked at a page. It didn’t matter if it was a sad or mundane page. It always made you break down. You don’t understand why you still have urges to read over your old dairy, but you did almost every week for your whole adult life. Maybe it was a reminder of the dead young girl you used to be or just clinging onto the moments in the wilderness that made you feel whole. It made you feel like you knew everything, your purpose, and the meaning of life, but as time marched forward, you didn’t feel any more in place than you did then.

It wasn’t fair.

You were just a girl.

You all were just children.

You may not have died, but a part of your soul did. Some of you just couldn’t escape those pine trees and butterfly weeds. It’s been a whole lifetime away, but you still haunt yourself.

It hurt because the words were just as true then as they are now.

You missed your mom.

You missed yourself.

Knock! Bang! Knock! Bang!

You pause in panic and hold the journal to your chest in fright. You don’t understand. Is it real? It’s dead of night outside, and you live in the middle of nowhere.

Knock! Bang! Knock! Bang!

“Hello! (Y/n)! Open up, please!” A familiar feminine voice yells from outside your house. It comes from your backdoor. The glass French doors rattled from the knock from the other, making a vibration ring out into the house and your shaking heart. Your anxiety spikes as you slam your journal shut, and you throw it into the safe, shutting the safe door with a sharp click. You race downstairs and go toward the doors with your heart beating violently against your chest. You don’t know why, but you knew you had to open the door for some reason without a fight.

You rush to your door in a panic, worried it is one of the team members in trouble and immediately needs you, and quickly unlock the back door. You felt foolish and like you were putting yourself in danger by opening the door when it was dark outside, but the knocking wouldn’t let up.

You rip open the door to come face to face with the big blue eyes of your goddaughter.

“Callie!?”

“Before you say anything, I need to-“

“Oh my god! Are you alright?” You gasp at her and grab her arms, looking over her small teenage body for any wounds or signs of her being harmed. How did she get here? She doesn’t have her license yet. She lives 3 miles away. She is in her bedclothes and has no coat or a bra.

“What? No, I’m fine.” She says to you in a snapping tone, tired from her journey to your home. She came from the wooded separation between the neighborhoods. You stand in shock, your mouth wide open as you stare at Callie.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE SO LATE!?” you raged as you grabbed ahold of her arm. You look outside to see if her boyfriend is there in his car. He wasn’t. You pull her into your warm home. “What the hell are you thinking!? It’s 1:20 in the morning!”

“Jesus Christ, Let me explain, chill!”

“Chill!? Are you serious? Does your mom know you're here?”

“Like she cares! She thinks I am at Cyanne's house, and I came home, but no one was home.”

“Callie, of course, she cares about you. She cares a whole shit ton about you.”

“Sure, she does.” She rolls her eyes softly, looking to the floor to examine her shoes. She is ashamed and defensive and feels foolish for coming here. You can read it all over her face. You take a deep breath. You need to calm down and make her understand.

“Callie, I am freaking out because I love you. Why did you walk to my house in the middle of the night with no coat? Do you know how dangerous that was?” You continued with a stern voice, your hand on her arm again to make her look at you.

She rolls her eyes again, annoyed, “I was okay, alright! I am fine! I was cold, and my feet hurt, that’s it!”

“You could have run into a dangerous person, you could have gotten lost in the woods-“

“I didn’t, OKAY!”

“Why are you here?” You ask again with her stern tone, your hand holding her tighter to make her look at you.

“My parents are cheating on each other.” She blurted out as she kicked off her shoes. She moves her arm out of your hold to sit on the couch beside your backdoor. You let her push off your hold of her at the words; you feel a sense of guilt come over you again as you lean against the wall.

Day 2

The humidity of the July morning breeze made your skin feel sticky as you carried some logs toward the chopping block for the firewood you all would need for the day. You woke up early today, restless as always, and stuff in the neck as you were the day before, and you look down at your tied shoes. Noticing the now caked-on dirt, mud, and leaves that have stained the fabric of your shoes it made you sad to see how dirty they got within only a few months out here.

You lift your head, and to your shock, you stand still in what is in front of you. As you approached the back of the cabin through the woods, you noticed two girls giggling against a tree. You see pale hands holding the tree as they lean into the other girl, their other hand on the other girl's stomach. You almost immediately know it was Taissa and Van making out against a tree. Soft moans from Taissa came out as she arched her back against the tree. You notice Van’s other pale hand down Taissa’s shorts.

You were in shock as you watched them. You felt dirty for walking in on their intimate moment and pervert for feeling your body tingle at them touching each other. Jealously ran hot in your veins, but embarrassment possessed you stronger. You realize you are watching like a peeping Tom and try to turn away from them.

Snap!

You cringe at the snapping of a branch under your foot. The two girls turn to your snapping branch to find you standing awkwardly behind them with wood logs in your hands.

“(Y/n)!” “Please, stop-”

“Guys, it’s, please don’t panic-” You try to calm the two down as they storm towards you. Van’s face was painted red, eyes dressed in worry as Taissa’s face was panicked.

“(y/n), You can’t tell anyone about this! I’m so sorry you walked in on this, but don’t think that we are lesbians or anything we- we just-” Taissa rambles as she grabs your arm to keep you there. They’re scrambling to find any explanation or excuse to explain the two of them making out against the tree even though there was no way to play down what they did. They still tried, and you just shook your head.

“Please, it’s okay, I promise-”

“You can’t tell anyone about this, (y/n)! They can’t find out about us; please don’t.” Taissa panicked again, tears in her eyes. The sight made you pause, and your heart hurt. Seeing how hard they tried to hide their love made you want to cry.

“Please, (y/n), don’t tell anyone,” Van added with deeply concerned eyes. She kept her hands to her waist, hugging herself, and tried to hide the proof of Taissa on her hands.

You look at the two with wide eyes as you realize you must calm them down. “I won’t tell anyone about this! I didn’t mean to walk in on you two-’

Taissa completely broke down as you spoke. Her face turned painfully in sadness as she started to cry. Her cheek was red with a lack of breath, and her eyebrows furrowed together tight. She was stressing out and about to have a panic attack.

You drop your wood logs on the forest floor, approach Taissa, and hug her. She tried to push you off at the first attempt, but at your second, she came into your arms with deep sobs coming from her stomach.

She wasn’t just crying about you finding out she was gay.

Your eyes scan towards Van, who bites the cuticle on her finger as she watches anxiously. It seemed to be a death sentence for the two to be found out. You say without hesitation, “I’m not saying a word. You have my word. I would rather die.”

Van blurts, “(Y/n), it’s okay, but you're not okay with this. We don’t know what to say-”

“Please, " you say again as you rub Taissa’s back. She is still sobbing quietly in your neck. With tears in your eyes, you say, “I understand. I get it more than you understand.”

There was a pause in the air after you spoke. Even Taissa calmed her breathing and her cries.

Van’s eyebrow quirked in confusion, and Taissa, hidden in your neck, seemed to be doing the same.

You felt brave in this moment with the two completely a mess in their shame and worry.

“I have known about you two for a while. I didn’t say anything because I was envious of you two. You found each other, and you had each other.” You pause as you try to find the right words. Taissa pulls away to look at you. I never found anyone to be with like you two.”

“What are you saying?” Van asks, her eyebrow higher on her forehead as she slowly figures out what you are saying. Taissa quietly connects the dots as she listens to you speak.

You tear up more as you would say it out loud for the first time. You felt emotional.

“I like girls, Van. I’m gay. I’ve never tried to be with a guy or anything, but I am sure I won’t be getting with anyone who isn’t a woman.”

They both pause as the moment comes over the three of you. A eureka moment was almost in the air as you looked down at your feet.

“I’ve known about you two since Randy’s party before leaving for Seattle.” You said as you looked at your feet. “I saw it in the way you two looked at each other. I just knew. I don’t know if anyone who isn’t gay would know, but I knew.”

You look back up to the two silenced girls and add, feeling yourself vomiting your emotions to the two only people who would understand, “I didn’t say anything because I was happy you two found each other. I was jealous because I didn’t have anyone, but I wouldn’t do that to you. I know how much it would kill me if someone told people before I was ready. I mean, I haven’t even dated a guy before or had sex with one to completely know if I am, but I just never had the urge to be with a guy, so I don’t think I am wrong…”

“(y/n), Why didn’t you tell us?” Taissa asks. She steps closer towards you with a hand holding yours kindly. It touches your heart.

You choke up as a tear comes to your eye. Van comes towards you, too, with a soft smile. “I don’t know. I didn’t even want to mention it. I don’t want you to think I wanted to do something wrong or that I wanted to break you two up-”

“Oh, no, no, (y/n), you big dummy.” Van chuckles as she comes to hug you and rubs your back. “We would never think you would do that!”

Taissa agrees instantly. She says, “We didn’t even think you would tell anyone; we were just panicked!”

‘I know, I get it! So, please believe me when I say the secret is safe with me! I am happy you two are together, and I don’t want to push you before you are ready to say anything. It's none of my business to tell.’

“Thank you,” Taissa says again, deeply touched by your words. As you finish speaking, she quickly pulls you into a hug. Van quickly follows suit. She holds a soft smile the whole time.

You softly cried and said in Taissa’s chest, “You two are the first I’ve ever told. Not even Shauna and Jackie know.”

It always felt so shameful that you never told your closest friends your true proclivities, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to look them in the eyes and say you liked girls and not guys. Not after years of lying and saying you wanted to fuck random guys you decided you had a crush on, you felt like if you let the truth out to Jackie and Shauna, it would hurt whatever dynamic you had left after your distance because of your mom’s health. You skipped out on so many hangouts, sleepovers, club meetings, and even birthdays with your sandbox best friends, and it has been slowly killing you. They still reached out and acted like nothing changed, but you all know things have shifted to Jackie and Shauna being the best friends, and you are now the tagalong old friend. But since being out in the wilderness, you have been closer to them than ever. Every day the three of you steal away time to talk shit and just be girls for a few hours by the river while you fish. It was slowly feeling like it did back in freshmen year of high school when you three were a true trio, but the growing weight of your mental health and shame for not telling them so many things, being gay being one of them.

Van rubs a hand on your back as she pushes a hair behind your ear. “I am very happy to be the first to hear it. Thank you for telling me that. I told my big sister, " she confesses. She smiles softly at you, a sadness in her eyes. “She wasn’t super happy about it, but after a while, she acted the same as she always had.”

Taissa nods her head and says with a chuckle, “You are the first I’ve had to tell I was gay without dating them.”

You chuckle softly back as you pull away from the hug. You say as you look at the two again, “Please, believe me when I say it’s all going to be okay. Just be more careful with people being around.”

After this morning, the day went smoothly. Van went to chop wood, Taissa started cleaning laundry in the lake shortly after your deep confessions, and you went out to fish like always.

Today was a lucky day in the spring season because you caught a small gray fish and a Salmon. You caught a stray salmon on its way to lay eggs for the season, and it was completely healthy. As you raised the fish from the water, it snapped its tail.

You returned to camp with your wins, only to find Natalie returning with two more brown rabbits, dragging the small animal back to camp.

“Hey, pretty lady, what are you doing over there?” she calls as she approaches you on the trail. She seems in good spirits today, walking with a skip in her step, the rifle comfortably hanging from her shoulder.

“Got a fish, what about you, baby?” You say back with a chuckle at the end, trying to flirt back with her playfully.

She chuckles with you, a big smile, as she lifts the rabbits in her hand. " I got some dinner.”

You chuckle again without realizing you feel like a stupid schoolgirl not even listening to Natalie’s words, and you beam to her, “You did well with those traps!”

Natalie blushes as she chuckles; her hand scratches the back of her neck, and her eyes shy down to the ground. “Yeah, well, you helped me set them up.”

“It was nothing because you were doing almost all of it.” You giggle offhandedly, and you walk together to the cabin. You then snap your fingers that you remembered a thought you had. “I have an idea to run by you!”

“What’s up?”

“I was thinking that maybe we could start making a map of some sort to find a way out because we both go into the woods often.”

Natalie nodded slowly as she processed what you said, “like how?”

“Like we can draw the cabin as the center and then draw everything around it until we are as far as we can go.” You say with a shrug as you reach the cabin. Girls circle the fire, talking, working on firewood, hanging and sewing clothes on the line.

Natalie looks at you as you both place the animals on the table in the cabin for Coach Scott to skin for cooking later. “I see. You're saying we piece together everything we know until we get enough coverage to find a way out?”

“Yeah! I don’t know, but can we figure it out while we go? Like when we are bored, we draw more to the map.”

“Yeah, okay, I like this plan.” She smiles as she slowly looks over your face. With a cute shrug, she says, “I’m happy I’m doing something. Gives me a reason to steal your time.”

You giggle a little at the comment, trying not to take it as a clear hint that she wants to be with you. You say, “You always steal some of my time away, baby.”

“I just want more.” Natalie smiled at you playfully as she slid away from you in the kitchen doorway to the other living space. You felt yourself smile to yourself in a flustered state, huffing out air. “Holy shit.” You mumble as you walk from the table to the back of the cabin.

‘21

You lean against the wall with your eyes wide. You study Callie’s distraught face and see her lip quivering.

“My mom is cheating on my dad, and my dad is never home because his stupid fucking database needs work on, but it’s all just bullshit!” Callie says with a quiver in her voice, and tears come to her eyes, and she continues to say, “I am so sick of this shit!”

You stay quiet because you feel like she just wants to yell out her frustrations at you, and you want her to calm down.

“My mom asks me how I am or my day at school, but she doesn’t care about me! She doesn’t know what music I am, she doesn’t like my clothes, she hates my boyfriend, I can’t do this.” She has fat tears rolling down her face as she rages on. She tries to keep up the front that she is nonchalant and doesn’t care even though it is failing. “She just looks at me with these cold fucking eyes. I can’t stand it anymore. She looks at me and doesn’t see me at all! I am just a roommate to her!”

“Callie, that is not true. Your mother loves you.”

“No, she doesn’t. She fucking hates me.”

You stop yourself from yelling at her by closing your eyes and covering your mouth. You had a painful flash of a memory as she says that, of a bloody pile of rags used in the wilderness that old winter night when Shauna was in labor for the first time. You remember her cries that rattled your soul and caused you to have a tear in your eye. You could never bring yourself to speak about the baby before her, and it wasn’t your place to tell Callie something so heartbreaking about her mother. It didn’t stop your heart from breaking.

“Callie, stop-“

“I know she is fucked up, and she is traumatized, but she doesn’t care how she traumatizes me.” She says with her eyes full of angry tears, and she points to herself with her hands, but her eyes grow wide as she looks at you across from her after that sentence.

You just stood there emotionless against the wall, with your eyes losing color as she paused to reflect on what she said. You sigh deeply. You slide down a wall for the second time tonight as you softly raise your eyebrow at her and look away for a second. You take out the pack of cigarettes in your sweatpants pocket, and you put one in your mouth.

“I’m going to let you in on a little something,” you pause to light your cigarette, “something about the woods.”

You see her eyes keep wide and watery as she hugs her arms around her belly. She is focused on what you are saying but says nothing, scared of what will happen.

“Your mom, Jackie, and I have been best friends since kindergarten. We met playing house at recess and were always at each other's hips.” You say as you take a puff of your stick, looking at Callie with soft eyes, “I knew how your mother was when we were young. She was stubborn and guarded with her emotions; sometimes, Jackie and I couldn’t figure out what she was thinking. She hid some things from us but always told us eventually.”

You stand up and sit next to Callie on your couch. You stare at the floor in front of you. Not her as you continue, you want to vomit, “But when we got out there, uh, the things that happened,” you pause yourself as you feel your lip quiver, “You have heard what people say about us, how they whisper what we did and what we did to each other to survive, is not as bad as it did go, honey.” You say with honesty dripping in your haunted tone, and you are in a faze staring at the burls in your hardwood floors. You know what you said was too dark and too vague not to continue as she sits beside you with bated breath. “People passed away out there because the winters were so cold that death felt like going to sleep. People passed away because they were trying to hunt, and wolves found them.” You stopped yourself again as you felt a tear fall from your eye. You weren’t even in your own body as you kept talking. It is somewhat the truth, mostly a lie, but still, the same reality you lived. You didn’t need to tell her the truth just yet.

You didn’t even look at the girl in the corner of your eye. Callie stared in awe as you spoke about the unspeakable—the crash and surviving the wilderness. Tears formed in Callie’s eyes as she looked at her godmother. She was emotionally and mentally affected by what had happened just from speaking vaguely about it, thinking about you as a teenager going through all that, and thinking about her mother as a teenager in that situation, too.

“I need you to know what happened out there changed your mother. It kept her alive. It’s why she is here today, baby.” You say as you slowly turn to look at Callie. You push your goddaughter's hair behind her ear as your face stays still, tears running down her young, flustered cheeks. “When we lost Jackie, me and your mom were never the same. Something died within us. And every time you come face to face with the death of a friend like that, it kills something inside of you. It’s hard having kids of your own when you have known so many dead children at one time…”

You put your cigarette out as it reached the filter of the stick, and you flicked the rest into the small ashtray on the corner table. “Callie, you are the age we were when all that happened. I know that in some small part when she looks at you, she sees what she could have been if it hadn’t been for the crash. And maybe it’s why she isn’t close to you right now or why she isn’t up your ass wondering what you're doing. Because she wants you to have a good time and do the stupid teenager stuff. She will never tell you that, though.” You say with a smile to Callie and a nudge to her side. You look at the calmed-down girl who looked deep in thought with her hands on her knees,

You add to her ear with a warm tone to your voice again, your hand on her shoulder. “She loves you. Period. She worries sick about you, and she couldn’t put you down when you were born because she worried you would go away if she let you go, Callie. But she couldn’t be a mother like she could have been if your mom had never been out there in those woods, even if that doesn’t make that easier for you or make it fair… it was some really dark times out there for your mother, and that’s why she is not as emotionally open like other mothers. I’m sorry, Callie, but please don’t think your mother loves you.”

“Okay.”

“And with that being said, what is happening with your mom and dad is between them. Stay out of it. I don’t know what is happening, but you have no part. They love you, no question, even if they are cheating. I understand it is affecting you and making you uncomfortable, but you can’t get involved with your parents. Okay.” You add that as you nudge her with your shoulder with a big smile. She softly smiles back with a shake of her head.

“Fine.” She sighs, defected.

You stand before your stove as you fry eggs in a pan. You yawn as you sip on your coffee. Your eyes still have a sleep crust in the corners of your eyes. You woke early to make breakfast for the sleeping Callie on your old sofa. Last night, after your long talk with Callie, you led her to your comfy sofa with the TV controller. You have her a pillow and a throw blanket to sleep on as you sit in your dad's old recliner. You let Callie put the TV on CartoonNetwork on some show she liked as a kid. You didn’t care much for its colorful characters or their loud laughing, but you leaned back as you heard Callie softly snore beside you in the living room. You leaned on your fist as you napped until the morning birds chirped outside your window.

You made a big breakfast for the two of you, including eggs, bacon, toast, and a fruit salad bowl. When you hear the teenager walking down the hallway connecting to the kitchen, she slumps into a counter chair. She looks comfortable and relaxed at your house, as you always do when you watch her.

“Good morning, Callie. How did you sleep?” You asked as you poured yourself another cup of coffee.

She yawns with her arms wide stretching, and she says in a deep yawn, “Good! I’m starving!”

You chuckle as you place the fruit bowl before her and fry her eggs, “Eat up. You came at the right time. I needed to get rid of some food.”

Callie chuckled as she threw a blackberry into her mouth. She says, “See, your favorite goddaughter coming over wasn’t such a bad thing.”

“No, but sneaking out of your house at midnight and crossing town to my house isn’t so cool.” As you look at the side of your face to her, you want her to know you’re not over the danger she put herself in to talk to. “You couldn’t have called me to pick you up.”

“You would have said no.”

“I might have, but you would have been safe.”

Callie sighed and took another berry in her mouth, slumping back in the chair almost defectively. You sigh in return as you plate the buttery egg for the child, “Listen, I love you. I care about your safety and feelings, okay? I would have come to your house and taken you out for ice cream or something. I wasn’t doing much then anyways, just picking out an outfit.”

Callie looks at you with big, soft eyes as you push the plate toward her. She just keeps her head down as you speak. Callie picks up a fork and eats the hot eggs and bacon. She mumbles as she eats, “Thank you for talking to me last night. About what happened.”

You move beside her, slumping into the chair. " Any time, I’ll always be there for you.”

“Why were you picking out an outfit at 1 in the morning?” Callie chuckled as she spoke, completely taken from your comment earlier.

You chuckle and say, “I’m promoting my book at a convention soon, so I was trying to find something cute.”

“Can I help you?” She asks you with big eyes, pleading for a yes, and shoves the hot egg into her mouth.

You chuckle and nod, “Finish your breakfast, and we can look around.”

Day 3

You and Natalie decided to start the map idea today. You went west towards the plane. There were enough animals that you both felt comfortable not fishing for the day, so you could devote more time to mapping the area. Today was the hottest day this week, and just walking to the front door from getting dressed made you sweat like a pig.

“Alright, I’m going to head north, and you go to the plane, try to find out what's beyond that big ass tree.” Natalie says to you casually as she readjusts the rifle strap on her shoulder. She looks over you softly.

You nod as you hold onto the strap of your purse, which you emptied to use as your forage bag—it just so happens to hold your remaining cigarettes. “Okay, I’ll try to get back at sundown, but I might take some rest.”

“Please do. Try to get under some shade and stay out of the sun.”

“I’ll try. You better try, too. You're so pale you’ll get sunburnt just standing right here.”

Natalie chuckled and shook her head, turning herself around to walk in her direction for her hunting, “Sundown!”

You smile and turn away towards the trail, “Sundown!”

You then march forward in the familiar trail down the forest. The way to the plane crash was like the back of your hand at this point. The once long and narrow path has become comfortable to travel through from Natalie and Travis.

The heat surrounded your skin, creating a sticky film that dripped down every curve of your plush body. You felt a sweat drop from your back and collect on your bra’s clasp. The heat was getting to you, but you kept yourself under the shade of the tall trees. You would have already been resting if you were directly under the sun.

A pale-barked tree with lime leaves had dark branch scars on its flesh, standing at a curve in the trail, looking like almond eyes staring down at you in random directions. It was natural for birch trees to have lower branches to break off so that the plant could focus on the top branches that face the sun, but the scars of the branches falling age into the almost furrowed fiber. It was unreal but completely natural. As it was unnerving, it was beautiful. You stop yourself in awe at the simple, complex, tall plant; it is skinny but tall enough to be at least 50 years old and 60 feet tall and stare up in wonder at the peaks of sunlight through the cotyledon. As you gently let your eyes glance down, the slight curve of its shape as it comes to its base.

The symbol stares at you. You softly raise your eyebrow as you stare down at the carving. It had to be new because it was at eye level with you, but it was faded enough not to be made by one of your teammates. Was it the mummy in the attic that made this? Or was it someone else? You were always so confused as you looked at the odd shape in the bark that your finger ran across the image out of a sudden urge. Your finger glides against the triangle, the short arms of the descending sides, the long diagonal line that crosses the entire shape, a crowned circle to the point on the top, and then a crooked hook at the base. You sighed to yourself as you moved away from the birch tree to continue on the trail. Your finger tingled with the friction.

You passed the old plane with a stiff, steady foot away from the eerie sight. Since the crash, you had wanted nothing to do with planes. The thought alone of being suspended in the air made your heart squeeze in your chest, and your stomach turn. You didn’t look at the white exterior as you rushed past the beast.

When you get past the wide thick dark brown oak tree, aka big ass tree, that had moss dominating the left side, at least 150 years old, you walk forward on the tall grass. You look down at the ground and try to find anything worth taking back as you walk forward, making the map a wonderful excuse to forage.

The summer has been a little dry in the last few weeks, with insufficient rain. The grass is turning brown in places as you move forward. The ground was barren of any nuts or mushrooms. You glace up, and you pause.

In front of you was the old, wide, thick tree again, and the plane was just behind you again. You looked behind yourself to be sure of it.

The plane was behind you again like you hadn’t walked at least five feet away from it.

A breeze brushed against your side, moving the baby hairs on your cheek as you studied the tree in front of you in confusion.

The timber has deep lines embedded in the tree's grain, and the moss grew on every pendant's surface. The swirls of the fiber were enchanting to look at and find where the line goes, but you pull yourself back from the beauty of the wood. You pull your crop top up to your face and wipe the multiple drops of sweat trailing down your nose and cheeks.

You march forward with some determination, trying to solve this problem. It made no sense.

You walk past the mossy oak tree again and go towards the crowd of trees in front of you that goes on and on. Your eyebrow quirks stay on your forehead as you continue on your journey.

And you walk forward towards the detritus as expected. The crunch of dead leaves and branched cry under your feet as you walk faster forward. Your eyes softened as you glanced around the environment, and you felt the uneasiness of whatever happened to melt from your shoulders. You reason that you must have turned yourself around when looking down at the mushrooms. You feel your mind wander as you march forward. You look up absentmindedly to look at the leaves above your head for some kind of entertainment.

Your eyes level back to their natural direction, and when you do, they widen in terror.

The cabin was before you, and Natalie was next to you. She looked at you nonchalantly and said, “Please do. Try to get under some shade and stay out of the sun.”

You freeze in place as you stare at the bleach blonde with a cold sweat coming over you. You felt the sweat collected from the hike you just had, and it felt like you spilled in time back to your conversation over 45 minutes ago.

“Hey, are you alright?” Natalie asked concernedly, her hand touching your upper arm to reassure you. She noticed how much you were sweating and was completely confused. How could you be so sweaty from walking from the cabin to the fire pit??

You just stare into her eyes, feeling scared, “Wha-what?”

“I said to stay out of the sun. Are you alright? Are you sure you're up for it today? It’s really hot.” Natalie says as she looks you over. She notices the pale complexion on your face and how your hands softly shake. “We haven’t looked past the tree, but you shouldn’t be scared.”

It was like you didn’t walk away. It felt wrong. This was wrong.

“I know, sorry! I’m getting a little lightheaded because my period is coming.” You lie, trying to find any excuse for acting so strange to her.

She raised an eyebrow and questioned what was happening to the girl beside her, and she said, “Okay… Just take some water with you. Take as many breaks as you need.”

“I will.” You say and nod. You must have imagined walking past the plane if you hadn’t left this conversation like nothing happened. You take the plastic red water bottle Natalie handed you with a soft smile and worried eyes.

“(Y/n), if you get tired, just head home. We can always come back to it; don’t overwork yourself.”

“I’ll try not to. I will come back as soon as possible, I promise.”

“Okay, try to get back at sunset, " she says as she softly steps back and starts to head in her direction to hunt. Her gun hits the back of her thigh as she stares you down. Please don’t overdo It.”

“Okay, be careful,” you mutter back to her as you watch her walk off in her direction as she did in the morning. You remember everything, and it’s happening again.

You shook your head to yourself as you turned yourself around, “I’m fucking crazy.” You thought as you walked the trail again, but you knew for certain you had traveled, and there was no question in the ache of your feet.

You get to the carved birch tree once again with its dark eyes. You don’t give it or the plane so much of a glance as you continue to the mossy oak.

You felt focused on your mission to understand how you got turned around so badly when you got back home, ignoring the fact you walked into a conversation you already had. You let your hand touch the moss on the left side of the oak as a marker in your memory if it was truly tricking you.

As the hour passes, you rush to see beyond the oak tree and familiar trees. You just needed a landmark to find it to draw, and you would head back. It didn’t need to be so confusing. You walk past the oak tree to the sea of timber to find a boring environment again, no trail to have your eyes look down to or rocks to stumble on, as you see the sparkles of light and birds resting in branches above. Your focus again relaxed even with your sharp mind, and your eyes glance down to your shoes again.

Your eyes look at your laces as you walk forward in routine. You took a deep breath as you tried to calm the nerves building in your body, and as you looked up, it felt like it shot whatever efforts you made to soothe yourself. You still your movements to the feeling of your heart dropping to your stomach.

Again, the pale-barked tree with lime leaves stares back at you on the curve of the trail. You didn’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.

You walked straight past the oak tree, glancing behind the birch tree to peek at the fat tree standing in the background of the plane. Then, you closed your eyes slowly.

Your lower lip quivers as your eyebrows furrow, and your teeth catch your salty lip. You swallow the spit collecting in your cheeks, holding a cry in your throat—a big drop of sweat rolls down your neck from the back of your head.

Why are you so emotional right now?

Why does it feel pointless? All of it. The trail, the map, the fucking point of trying to find a way out. It felt like everything was up against you, and you know rationally that it was mostly true.

You weren’t going to help anything. You are not fit enough to go more than a mile before you get tired, and you can’t help but get lost.

It’s a trail in the ground. How could you get turned around in circles?

Halting in your tracks, you covered your tear-covered eyes as watery tears ran down your cheeks, mixing with your sweat.

You don’t know what to do.

“Dad would know what to do. He knew what to do for everything out here.” You thought as your lip curls in a deep frown, pushing down a sob to the bottom of your stomach.

You wanted to hit yourself on the side of your head, and you wanted to scream into the bright green leaves that looked down at you with indifference.

You didn’t listen to your dad about everything. You wanted to hit yourself for every time you didn’t listen, and you didn’t care about what he was saying, didn’t absorb everything he gave you so lovingly. You wanted to crawl into his arms and be rocked like you were as a child. You wanted to feel the safety of his strong chest and arms around you. You are never going to feel it again.

The river ran down your cheeks as your feet started to march forward.

You felt stupid. Ashamed somehow. And overwhelmingly devastated.

It was fucking hotter than hell outside.

You slap your hand that covers your eyes to your side. You look down at your shoes, walking through the dry grass and dirt. You say to yourself, as you hiccup a cry, “This sucks.”

As you expected, you look to find the brown curvy tree again. You stop again as you wipe away the sweat from your brow and the wetness collecting at your upper lip. A breeze gracefully brushes against your back.

You sigh as you focus on yourself again. You wipe your face again with your black crop top and wipe your clammy hands on your thighs. You walked on. It felt like you were walking into a wall and expecting something different.

As you walk forward, you look at the oak tree, which is mossy and dominates the right side of the plant. This made you pause again this morning. As you stared at the tree, you wanted to pull your hair from the roots.

Wasn’t the moss on the left side?

You couldn’t be mistaken. You knew this tree. It’s the tree you slept under when the aftermath cuddled beside Jackie and Shauna. It was the tree you collected kindling for your first fire out here. The moss was on the left.

You fucking touched it, for god sake. You are not crazy.

Why is it now on the right?

You put your hand on the mossy side as you walked past it not even 15 minutes ago. You don’t know how you could have been turned around from looking down at your feet. It was in the direction you left from; it was on the left, not the right.

You threw your hands up in defeat, and a dry laugh came from your throat, tears streaming down again. You were too hot to think straight, but you felt an itch in your skin. You were so confused.

You walk towards the right side, lift your leg over a thorny bush, and start walking forward.

It wasn’t like it was before. It was a rocky and uneven terrain that made your aching feet uncomfortable. The crowd of trees was as it always was. You hiccuped at the end of your cries.

You stumble on a sharp rock, fall forward, and catch yourself with your knees and elbows on the grass.

You hiss a moan of pain, and you sit up on your knees. You wipe dirt and blades of grass from your elbows. You look back up to the dark branch scars of the single birch tree at the curve in the trail.

You didn’t cry this time as you stood up. You sniffled and looked on with fear. You are losing it. Maybe you're having heatstroke?

The birch tree with lime leaves and eyes staring down at you with almost a mocking laugh. You felt a scowl grow on your lip as you walked forward stubbornly. You just fucking can’t understand.

You think for a moment and can’t remember this strange birch tree. You don’t remember when you and Taissa found the lake, and you don’t even remember a curve in the trail. You thought birch trees grow in their groves and asexually sprout saplings around themselves. Sure, the seeds could have been eaten and taken to this specific spot, but not a single seedling for an adult healthy tree made no sense.

Nothing fucking made sense.

You find yourself in front of the oak tree again, almost dizzy from the turning around you have done today. The sun's heat beats on the crown of your head, and you feel a boiling sensation. You stare down at the bark of the oak, seeing the moss collect on the left side as it always has.

It was like the trees were messing with you and laughing. The leaves stare down at you with a snicker on their lips.

“Fuck it.” You spat out in frustration. You didn’t stop your leg kicking out to the tree, kicking the moss. The growth softly lands on the sole of your shoe and the tow box of your beaten shoes. You give up. “I don’t get it.” You say to yourself as a breeze comes over your burning face.

You turn around and see the curve of the birch tree move. You pause again as you look on, glaring at the change. You are paranoid.

The tree’s bark and scars moved in front of your eyes, and the curve on the side of the wood slinked into what seemed like a feminine hip.

You feel like you weren’t in your body as you wanted the tree morph in front of you. It completely moved two smaller scars to the center eye level to you, and it seemed to slowly open one of the scars like someone waking up from a deep sleep.

(Y/e/c) flashes in the new pocket as you feel your body launch back to the trail, running back to the cabin. You felt a scream rip out of your lip as you ran past the tree with a chill tickling your spine.

And you ran.

You look behind yourself to see a sapling next to the birch tree. It looked like a woman with her arms above her head, and what could have been hair stood up tall, her fingers connecting with her hair with leaves and seeds dancing. The body curves and leans to the side as if it looks at you running away with a studying eye.

You don’t look back after that. You stumble and panic your way through the sunsetting light. You felt unaware tears spilling as you tried to stay straight on the trail.

The sun was set when you reached the cabin, and the stars shone brightly above you. Time must have escaped you like your sanity. You puff out the pants of breath you had, and you can’t help yourself from feeling exhausted.

Natalie and Shauna sat at the porch steps waiting for you, the spring from their spot as they heard your footsteps.

“Oh my god, (y/n)!” “Dude! I said sunset! We were about to go out to look for you!”

You pant as you come to the two girls. They grab your sweaty form, and you look down to the ground as a sharp breath travels down your throat. You wanted to vomit how much you were exerting yourself. You knew you couldn’t tell the truth; they didn’t need to know how bad you were getting.

“I’m so sorry! I fell asleep and woke up, and I rushed back! Am alright, just fucking ran like hell.”

Shauna chuckles and punches your arm harshly, “You could have been hurt! Of course, you were just napping!”

Natalie shook her head softly at the confession and chuckled, but her eyes remained stern. " You can’t be trusted alone anymore. I have to babysit you because you need your baby naps.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You huffed in your still panting breath. You point your middle finger at Natalie as the two laugh, pulling you towards the cabin. Something bothers your foot inside your shoe, making you want to kick it off.

You follow them without a fight, and a growl in your stomach loudly grumbles as you enter the cabin. Most of the others were in their sleeping bags and makeshift beds on the ground of the living space, some in the kitchen.

Misty sits up from her spot and whispers, “Is (y/n) back?”

“Yeah, she's here. All's good.” Shauna says to Misty as she walks past you to the kitchen. “I’m getting your dinner.”

“Me too.” Natalie says as she follows behind Shauna with a concerned face.

Misty sits down with a big smile and says, “I’m happy you're back, (y/n).”

“Thank you.” You say to her without smiling, moving yourself to your bags.

You wanted to peel the sticky fabric off your body, completely change every piece of clothing you had, and take another bath.

“Is she back?” You heard Coach Scott ask the girls in the other room with sleep in his voice. There was a conversation you would hear, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to listen to. You wanted to lay down on your pillow.

It seemed well past 10 while everyone took a rest. You couldn’t wrap your head around how what felt like a 3-hour journey into an 11-hour one. You didn’t have the energy to care much, though. As you pulled your shoe from your foot, a pile of moss stumbled out from the inside, littering your sock with small moss fur.

You throw your shoe to the side, rip your sock off, and moss is even between your toes.

You stood up, disgusted and anxious. You pulled your crop top off, wanting to shred every piece of the day away. Then, you pulled a long pink shirt from your jean shorts, and lime-colored leaves fell inside your clothes.

The birch tree leaves.

You look down at the floor beside your feet at the pile of leaves and moss all around you as if you rolled around in the earth. You looked at your hands to find dirt under your nails as if you were digging for roots.

“(Y/n)?”

You turn your head sharply at Jackie. She lays beside your makeshift bed and looks up at you with big eyes. “Are you okay, (y/n)? You seem spazzed out.”

You shook your head and said, “I think I started my period, and I am covered in dirt.”

She chuckled and said, “That sucks, okay! I freak out every time I bleed out here.”

You nodded your head with a chuckle, lost in your own head, “Yeah, now I have to clean-“

When you look down at the ground, you see only a birch leaf and moss fur.

“I have to clean myself.” You finish your sentence, and you rub your eyes. “I think the heat is getting to me, too.”

“It’s okay! Lay under the window.” Jackie smiles as if she solved the problem and closes her eyes.

You were going fucking crazy.

❀ A03 ❀ wattpad ❀ spotify playlist ❀

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