Vampire!Nate Jacobs + Fem!reader. Warnings : Dark. SFW but toes the line a bit, so heavy discretion.
My other Nate fics. If you have the time.
based on my poll, and for this ask
slight context : vervain is an herb that's toxic to vampires, and prevents them from being able to compel (mind control) people
Desc. : Bloodlust and regular lust?
Vervain.
It's the most beautiful thing that doesn't glisten, in your opinion.
It's rare — nowhere to be found — in East Highland (Not West Highland, though, you've heard. It's odd, you need to look into it), it's absolutely delightful to look at, like the prodigal lovechild of lilac and lavender plants, and the smell. Good god, it's exactly what you'd use to describe "youth", or "spring", or any other sort of fresh joviality you'd want to demonstrate.
You used to travel all the way into the city to procure some of it for your vase at home, and for your grandmother's teas. But now that your parents have suddenly decided to rejuvenate the lineup of bouquets that you sell, you've had to come up with dozens of new ones.
And because you were allowed the freedom of artistic and aesthetic liberty, they mostly included vervain. So sue you, you were slightly self-indulgent. Plus, you'd found a supplier willing to make that long trip for a reasonable amount. So. No harm, no foul, right?
You thought you were an idiot, honestly. It's almost like something drew you to this plant, something visceral, something almost otherworldly. And you'd thought you were the only one with these oddly niche interests. Wood, wolfsbane, vervain. Weird, right?
Right.
Until you'd found someone else very interested in vervain, especially your procurement of it. A kid called Nate Jacobs. Now, you'd heard of him, of course you have. He's everything — an all-rounder, something your parents would want you to aspire to. He's a senior, of course, so you'd never actually spoken with him, not really.
So it's hard to explain the sudden onslaught of events — that included more than talking — that led you here, to the parking lot outside the local 7/11, with the two of you leaning against the trunk of his car.
"Who's gotten into your head, sweetheart?"
There's a moment of pause from the universe, as if to celebrate the first time Nate's ever called you that, and then the horns in the street and birds in the trees begin again.
"No one. You can't get into someone's head."
Nate seems to snort a bit at that, as if that statement's just lack of information on your part, but he lets you continue.
"I just think she had a point."
"Come on. Rue Bennett? She's not exactly...", he pauses, gesturing at his temple, "...right in the head. You think murder is something she's gonna be normal about?"
"Okay, fine. Let's ignore the fact that all the animal maulings are next to your Dad's new property and you're not mentioning it to him so that they can inform the authorities, for a minute.", you say, crossing your arms. "Let's talk about the bouquets, because when I agreed to teach you how to make them, I—"
"What? Assumed they were for Maddy? And now that Rue's telling you we've been broken up for months, you're wondering who it's for?"
You shrug, shaking your head. "Maybe? I— I don't know, alright? Just... a thought."
Nate sighs magnanimously, hands planting themselves on your shoulders. "Remember how we met? Hm?"
Vividly.
One night, after a particularly shitty outing, you were on your way out of the local bar, purse in hand, and you were stopped.
And that's where you'd first met Nate.
You don't remember much else from that night, not really. All you remember is that he was slightly awkward with how he spoke to you. Like he was sure you'd comply. He'd smiled when he first saw you, like "oh, yeah, her". As if he'd been looking for someone like you. He'd gently grabbed the back of your hair, and looked into your eyes.
"Don't be scared, come with me."
The last thing you'd expected was for Nate Jacobs, East Highland QB and the sparkling gem of the town to be into you.
"I think you've got me confused with someone else."
After a moment of confused head-tilting, he'd nodded, as if understanding something hidden in your eyes. And he'd muttered under his breath. "Vervain."
"Yeah.", you'd said, smile growing slowly but surely. "Yeah, you can smell it? No one else even knows that's a thing."
Yeah, Nate knew about vervain. It was a fanger's Kryptonite, and he realized it as soon as he got a whiff of your hair after his attempted compulsion. Was it your perfume? Was it your shampoo? Soap? It was somewhere in or around you, and that set his teeth on edge, because it meant it was in your bloodstream as well.
"Yeah, it doesn't... grow in this part of town, I heard. How'd you have it?"
You'd shrugged. "I own a bouquet store. We've got absolutely anything you can think of. Vervain included."
"Mm.", he'd hummed, offering you a tight-lipped smile after this revelation.
Only one of you knew that he had attempted to compel you that night, and from then on, he was hooked.
He really, really didn't know whether you were a believer, protecting yourself from vampires and secretly growing vervain, or if you were just a pretty, dumb girl who was stupid enough to walk around at night in the wrong parts of town with shitty friends waiting for you in the car, and talk sweetly to people who'd grabbed you in the dark.
"You should stop by, sometime. Get your girl some flowers. Friends and family discount."
He'd replied with an offhanded 'will-do', and then watched as you got into the car, with about three other, extremely drunk girls in the back.
He had been hoping for a quick fuck and suck (not necessarily in that order), but he'd got something infinitely better (or worse, depended on who you asked) : a fascination.
This intrigue didn't come slowly, like most obsessions do. No, it had kicked him in the stomach and shoved him to your door.
It can't have been the tantalizing threat of being killed by your lifestyle choice alone, or he'd have sucked you dry and died a satisfied, vervain-induced death that very night.
Maybe it was the surprise. Surprise that you offered both a friends-and-family-discount as well as a ride home. Surprise that you didn't know each other, but once he'd said vervain, you'd lit up like the fourth of July.
Surprise that his veins were bubbling now, for a go at you. Even though it could fucking kill him, immolate his veins from the inside.
Forbidden fruit. That's what you were. Like drinking a margarita with a touch of arsenic in it. He just... loved toying with the idea of it.
Plus, you were hot. It's like you were checking off his list.
Bringing him to now. It's a flimsy excuse, honestly, and he's borderline surprised it's even gone on for this long, but maybe you're just gullible enough to think straight men with a niche interest in herbs and bouquet-making existed, in real life.
And Rue Bennett, aka, kooky-witch-bitch who has a penchant for hating Nate even without knowing about his vampirism (though, he's sure she might. Witches have a talent for that sort of thing) has gotten into your head so much that you're now doubting Nate.
Which, you should. It just wouldn't help him out.
"Vervain.", you reply. "We met talking about vervain."
"And bouquets. You said friends-and-family discount. So I'm at least one of those things, right?"
"Yeah, the first."
"Ouch. But okay.", he grins, flicking at your temple. "So what if I'm not making the bouquets for Maddy? You think a guy can't go all-out for Mother's Day?"
"That's in May, Nate."
"To me, every day is Mother's Day.", he retorts, jutting his chin toward the door. "C'mon, let's go get some contraband."
The last thing he'd expected was for your 'supplier' of vervain being some middle-aged lady with an unnerving monotone and severely dead eyes. In fact, he remembers her coming into his school to apply for a teaching position once, he's sure. But that was years ago.
"Sorry for coming on such short notice, Laurie, we've got a sudden surge of orders because our school's Winter Formal's been preponed."
The woman in the freakishly musty armchair nods, and one of her cronies lifts a black suitcase up onto the table in front of you. It opens, and Nate nearly gags. So. Much. Vervain.
You hand over an envelope full of money, the crony examines it, then gives you a nod. Nate tries not to think too hard on the fact that Laurie's sharpening a wooden stake in the armchair like she's filing her nails.
The walk back to the car's silent, but it's only because Nate's speechless and you're beaming.
"Did I see white packets in the back?"
"Yeah, she's a drug dealer, but recently she's expanded to exotic herbs."
"Uh-huh. And... how'd you get to make her acquaintance?"
"Oh, Rue told me about her."
Of course she did. "Right. And, that didn't... throw you off at all? That this is her dealer? You're a trusting one, aren't you, baby?"
"I've known her since we were five. Rue, not Laurie. And plus. Vervain's not technically even illegal, just... rare, and extremely invasive. It's good I'm not planning to fucking grow any."
Yeah, he knows. He knows everything about vervain. The wooden stake thing did give him a little bit of a warning about Laurie's tolerance for his kind, though.
He starts his car after you settle in and place the suitcase in the back, pulling out of the parking lot. "You got your work cut out for you, huh? With all the Winter Formal bouquets?", he muses, adjusting his rearview.
You nod, clicking your seatbelt on. Adorable. "Yeah. All these couples that'll break up before they graduate. Can't complain, though. Easy money. Hey, wanna help me?"
Uh... no. He'd pretended to care about bouquet-making because you had been in a vervain-drought and he wanted to discern whether your love for it was protective or passionate. But that was when you didn't have any vervain in your bouquets. He can't be near that much vervain without it scorching his fucking hand off.
"I wish I could, but uh, this next week's packed, I mean, we've got scrimmage on scrimmage and... it's just a mess."
You look at him for a moment — just one — and then nod, quickly. "Right."
Fuck. You thought he was making excuses because he didn't like you, not because your date idea, cute as it may be, involved constant contact with a noxious herb that would kill him, but because you thought he wasn't attracted to you.
"But listen, okay? We'll— let me take you out tonight, okay?"
"I can't tonight. I gotta start on the bouquets."
Nate shakes his head. You're gonna have to stop being so reasonable. He knows he can't compel you, but it's worth a try. "Listen, are you— did you drink any of your Grandma's tea, or is it a total vervain-drought at home?"
"No, we have none. Hence, the meet-up with Laurie.", you reply, like he's a child who's gotten the ABC's wrong ten times already.
"Wait, like, at all? For how long?"
"Like a week."
A week?! It takes vervain a maximum of two days — 48 hours — to get out of your system, meaning he's been able to compel you for five fucking days?!
"Huh."
"What do you mean 'huh'?"
He leans over, unclicking your seatbelt for you, to which you respond by attempting to click it back in. "Come on, Nate, it's not funny. We're almost at the highway."
He looks into your eyes. He's done this a lot before. It's like all your ex boyfriends had, initially. He's looked at you like he wants you all to himself, before, and you've kinda got used to it. But this look? It's intense, it's like he's trying to seep into your mind and grab hold of your thoughts, and then manipulate them. "I need you to trust me."
So, you do. You slowly trail your fingers off the seatbelt and onto your lap, to which he gives a little quirk of his brow. You almost say 'don't make me regret it', but you feel like that'll ruin the mood.
"Do you?"
"Trust you? Yeah."
It's definitely come as a surprise, for someone like you who doesn't give it out so freely, you're definitely serving it to him on a silver platter, but it's pretty adorable how he seems... giddy, about it.
"Yeah? Then lift up your arms."
You do. He grins. "Knock on the roof of the car."
You do. Slightly amused by how fucking childish this is, but you do.
"Look out the window."
You do.
"What do you see?"
"Cars. Road. Lights."
"Look back here. At me. What do you see?"
"You."
"No, no, no, you see your boyfriend. I'm your boyfriend and you're in love with me. I haven't always been, and you haven't always been, but that's how it's going to be. Okay?"
Nate almost feels guilty. Key word : almost. Listen, okay? He's been... fucking on one, recently. He's not that good with where to direct his urges and obsessions now that he doesn't have Maddy anymore to give him her blood voluntarily when he needs it, and he's had to resort to feeding on pathetic girls with booze-filled blood. That's who he'd thought you were, initially. But then you'd been chock-full of vervain, with a mad-botanist's glint in your eye, and he'd thought you were a little more interesting.
And then began the thing Nate's not so proud of. The stalking.
He's not one to call what he does hunting, because it makes it sound natural. Like he's a predatory species and you're prey. He knows there's nothing natural about what he does, and what he is. It's more than natural. It's well-crafted, it's meticulous. It's art. The blood — your blood — curtaining his teeth will be art. The drops leaking down his chin will be art. The murder bubbling through his veins? A fucking Picasso.
And now, you're here. Vervainless. Compellable. Fucking sexy. Perfect.
You, meanwhile, are slightly confused. He's looking a little crazed, you think, but maybe it's that he's still on the high of a love confession that you didn't reject. And it's a very... unique one, at that, the way he just declared that he's your boyfriend and that's it. It's cute, almost, in a okay-this-guy-is-sorta-suspicious-but-let's-live-for-the-moment kinda way. And yeah, you've never done anything this reckless, really. Maybe you're still on the high of buying from a fucking drug dealer. Maybe this is what it meant to "suck the marrow out of life".
So, you did what he told you to. Who knew this would make him think you were being compelled? Definitely not you.
Which is how you end up at a motel in the middle of nowhere with a fucking rainstorm rattling the already-rickety windows of the place.
You let Nate text your family the location of the motel through your phone so they don't get worried sick — considerate, okay, he's really leaning into the whole boyfriend thing there — and flop onto the motel bed. It's musty and creaky and you've never felt more thrilled.
"I've never done this before."
You're not sure who you're talking to.
"Yeah? Which part?"
"Motel. Drug-deals. Spontaneity when it's dangerous. Take your pick."
"What about cruisin' around with a vampire?"
You snort. "I'm sure that's on the bucket list, too."
"Yeah? Sit up."
You do, shuffling to lean against the headboard to see what this guy has to say about the hypothetical supernatural.
"Do you like me? Like, actually?"
He keeps doing this intense-eye-contact thing, and you're not sure whether it's rude to tell him it gives you the shivers (or at least, the ick).
"Yeah, for a while."
"How long?"
You don't wanna tell him, but you figure he's been really vocal about his feelings so far. "Since sophomore year."
"Oh, shit.", he exclaims, eyes wide as he chuckles. He moves closer to you, flicking at your nose. "Good to know."
"Shut up."
He grins. "So. Cruisin' around with a vampire. It's on your bucket list?"
"Sure, Robert Pattinson's hot."
"What, and I'm not?"
"You are, but... I mean... there's Robert Pattinson...", you tease, one hand shooting up, while the other stays down at abdomen-level. "...And there's you."
"Maybe I should've compelled some manners into you, Jesus, I book you a motel, act like a perfect gentleman, I haven't bled you dry yet, and you're calling me mid!", he says, enveloping any retort you could've had to that by kissing you so hard that all you feel is teeth, initially.
You can't help it. Your hands fly up to his hair, and you easily let him position you where he wants to (on his lap) and even move your hair and coat where he likes (off your shoulder and off your body, respectively). His hand's already working on the buttons of your jeans.
Feminine intuition. That's what you think it's called. There's... this dull little flickering cautionary bulb somewhere inside your head, that causes you to pull away from the kiss, although it doesn't do much, seeing as your face is still practically smushed in his hands. You're not sure how to go about this, so you laugh as a cop-out. For whom, you don't know, but you're not sure this may go down well, this next question. "Did you just say you wanna bleed me dry?"
"It's an expression, baby, c'mon, don't worry about it.", he snickers, like it's making him giggly, just knowing you're thinking about it.
"Who even says that?" You're still pretending to laugh, to soften the blow, for some reason.
He does the intense eye-thing again — it's really starting to freak you out — before he murmurs against your lips. "I said don't worry about it. Come on. Make sophomore-you proud."
And he's back to kissing you.
You try not to think about the fact that he's technically not answered the question, nor denied that he may have the intentions to "bleed you dry", but it's getting harder and harder as you open your eyes mid-makeout and look around the room, examining the facts. Nate Jacobs. All-rounder. QB. Senior. Known about him for three years, known him for three months. Motel. Storm. Declared he's your boyfriend. ...Alone. ...Trapped. You actually don't know anything else about him. Oh, my god, this went from slightly goofily romantic to gothic horror, because now he's talking about vampires and bleeding you dry?
It's almost like he can feel your pulse quicken, because it's gentle, like a breeze flitting through a tree, when he pushes all of your hair off your neck to press his lips there. His lips on your neck — it's hell. It sends sparks through you, not in the way where you think he's made for you and you'll live happily ever after with him, but the kind where you think you're made for him, and you're not going to live at all.
"You've taken psychology, right?", he murmurs, the words landing straight onto your carotid, where his upper lip is currently settled.
"Yeah?", you ask, staring at the wall and trying to figure out how the hell you're going to get out of this. The door's locked. The key's on the dresser, that's on the opposite side of the room from the bed the two of you are on. You glare at your reflection in the mirror, pressed up against what's possibly a psychopath.
"What do you think the psychology is behind cravings?"
"Like... for food?"
He nods, his breathing getting heavier as he inhales what you are hoping is your perfume and not the blood he claims to want to drain out of you. "Sm'n like that."
"Uh... reward centres, and— and... dopamine and—"
"Right, right. Listen, uh...", he begins, clearing his throat before pulling away from you, holding your face to his so he can look into your eyes. You finally see his, and it's all you can do to not scream. His eyes have gone entirely red, bloodshot (pun not intended), but the real kicker is under his eyes, because there's these... vine-like black veins bubbling that you're not sure are even from this world. "Hey, hey, shh-shh, you're good, it's fine, I'm fine, it doesn't hurt."
He's fine?! So fucking what, you're more worried about you!
"Listen, hey, look at me. Eyes on me, c'mon, I'm trying to do this with as little compulsion as possible, but you're freakin' out on me, and I don't wanna have to kill room service. Wait, do motels even have room service?"
You don't wanna look into this psycho's eyes! He's here categorizing what constitutes a hotel and a motel while his eyebags are, what, exploding? Erupting? But he makes sure you are looking into his eyes, and he does that godforsaken intense-eye-contact shit again.
"Hey. Calm down. It's only gonna hurt if you scream and freak out about it. Okay?" He says, placing a tiny kiss on your forehead before he moves to his backpack. "Snacks?"
Okay, you're getting the feeling this intense-eye-contact thing means something. Maybe he's not just a very serious guy, maybe he thinks that his eye contact has some kind of calming quality to it. Maybe— wait. No, it's stupid, this notion, you know that, but maybe he's... being deadass when he uses the word '"compulsion". He thinks his words are so soothing, you'll just be coerced into letting him live out whatever sick blood fantasies he has? Why else would he just walk away from you, like the problem's already solved itself?
"Soda?", is his next question.
You'll need a helluva lot more than soda.
"You calm?" That question's the nail in the coffin, actually, because you're two seconds away from decking him. But you're not sure what weapons he's got in that backpack, and he may just make good on his promise of bleeding you dry.
You nod, wordlessly. Okay. You'll just... fake it till you make it. Do the equivalent of lying down and playing dead during a grizzly attack.
"Okay, good. So... you're sorting out your thoughts? You know what I am?"
Insane?
You shake your head.
He smiles, tilting his head down at you. "I'm a vampire. Hotter than Edward Cullen, who's, by the way, not real. And I have been for a year or so, now. It's been pretty chill. Kinda cool. Don't worry, I don't use my vamp-powers to cheat at football. That's still all me."
He thought that's what you're worried about? Athletic integrity?
"A vampire."
"Yeah. But as you can see, we're not pale weirdos who wear cloaks and turn into bats. Or... shine in the sunlight. We're just... your average Joes with a more... demanding diet."
"Are you gonna kill me?"
You don't need to muster up any acting chops for you to do your scared-victim-bit. Just at the revelation that this guy's a delusional raging homicidal maniac who thinks he's a "vampire", you're giving Oscar winners a run for their money.
"What?", he asks, trying his best to look as deeply hurt by that question as possible. "No, baby, I'm just gonna take a little sip, c'mon."
Huh.
"This isn't going to hurt."
Then, you're facing your trembling self in the mirror again, because he's disappeared out of your direct line of sight, back to your neck.
Then comes the pain.
At first, you're more preoccupied with where his hands are. They move from your shoulders to your chest, squeezing momentarily before strolling down again to your waist, and you mentally track this movement, to see if he's just a perv with a weird kink or if he's got a knife in his pocket or something.
But your attention's ripped away from his hands as soon as you feel the breaking of skin into your carotid, an all-consuming agony, from impalement. He's pricked something into you, stuck you with a fork, maybe? But— but no, both his hands are at your hips, so—
Your reflection answers your question.
He's... he's got fangs. Sprouting from his fucking gums. They can't be prosthetics, or you'd have seen them before, so now, suddenly, the least logical explanation to your predicament is the only rational one.
Nate Jacobs is a vampire.
You've read about them in folklore, of course you have. It's not possible to get nerdily into verbena without ending up seeing a crossover into mythology, where vervain is apparently toxic to them, and can prevent them from being able to mind control or... no. Compel. That explains the eye-contact. He'd thought he was compelling you instead of giving you the creeps. Great. Now you had a quantitative number of times that Nate Jacobs had attempted to mind-control you.
Is that why he'd asked you about your grandma's teas? Whether you had any vervain in you, so he wouldn't choke and die if he fed on you? It's a good thing you'd had trace amounts of vervain in your T-shirt pocket for safekeeping in case Laurie had duped you, or god knows what he'd have made you do.
Fed on you. What a fucking horrifying thought.
But it's happening, and your fingers clutch and claw at the bedsheets as you feel this odd sense of slowly increasing lightness, like parts of you — important parts — are being vacuumed out. You wish you could scream, but somewhere between the fight or flight and the lightheadedness due to blood loss, you still manage to keep your head about you, and you remember that you're desperately pretending to be compelled. So, you don't scream, just grimace in pain and silence, clutching onto his shoulders.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glistening with what could be described as angelic luminance, but should be described as visceral bloodlust. His lips are smeared with blood — your blood — and his breathing's more ragged than it would've been if you'd actually fucked. And, to top it all off? He's smirking, like you're a particularly hard level he's beaten on his Switch, enough to show that his usually pearly white teeth are now painted with more red — your red.
"What the fuck?"
It's not you who asks this. It's him. It's in pleasant surprise, quiet mesmerised astonishment, like you're either the love of his life or about to push him into an early grave, but you're so invigoratingly sexy that he can't be mad about either.
"I mean, there's... there's blood and then there's that. There's blood and then there's, fuckin'... ambrosia. Uh-huh, that's right, baby. You're— fuck, you're gonna get me in trouble, make me a god, and then... fuck, what are we gonna tell the Church?", he laughs, breathily, and halfheartedly. He looks genuinely bewildered, and you're not sure if that's a good thing. "Jesus, what am I gonna do about you?", he asks, collapsing his forehead onto your chest. Then, suddenly, he shoots up. "I'll get you some tissues for that."
You're pretty sure this is your chance to run, but you're not sure how to go about it, I mean, there's a door and windows out here, but he's too close to them. There's... a window in the bathroom, and you figure that's your best shot. "I'll... go wash it off."
He nods, not looking up as he forages through the cupboards of the motel for tissue.
You lock the bathroom door shut.
The mirror in here's closer than the one outside. On the side of your neck, there lay two puncture wounds : angry, fleshy, burning and vermillion.
"Hey, on second thought, we don't know if the water here's alright, especially with the storm outside, don't risk an infection.", calls Nate. "Come out. Now!"
Oh, thanks, man. An infection's what you're most worried about right now.
You can't escape right now, anyway, you figure. There's no way. If you take even one more second in there, he'll figure out what's up.
So, begrudgingly, you unlock the door, moving back out to let him clean up the wound he's caused.
"You'll be fine.", he assures, oddly kind for someone who'd clearly been planning to mind control you and feast on your blood a lot longer than just tonight, or even yesterday. No, this is premeditated.
You let him gently lean you down onto the bed, onto white pillows that will now be stained a debilitating scarlet, you'd assume. But you can't focus on that. You're more focused on his awestruck gaze, the way his blood-stained lips part in quiet disbelief. He looks up and down your neck. "Fuck. I almost couldn't stop, y'know? That's dangerous."
You nod.
"And plus, I like you. Like, actually."
You're not sure why he keeps saying that and then doing the intense-eye-contact thing at the same time. Does he desperately need you to believe he liked you? Or does he need to convince you he's not an absolute psycho murder-vamp? Or... worst of all... is it not you who needs that convincing at all?
"I mean, there's hot, and then there's... gorgeous, y'know?", he asks, bracketing your hair before he frowns, tilting his head to the side as he reaches into your pocket to pull out some strands that'd elegantly creeped down there like vines. You hear a tiny sizzle. "The hell is— fuck!", he hisses, yanking his hand away like something had burned him.
Shitshitshitshit. Your survival instincts finally get the hint, and before you know it, you've leaped off the bed, and locked yourself into the bathroom, trying desperately to unjam the window, screaming for the neighbours, the fire department, gods, anyone, who could help you.
There's an eerie silence coming from outside, and you know it's not because your tiny tuft of vervain has killed him. Maybe he's left in order to lock you in, so you can chill out (and refill on blood) until he's back. Maybe he's just going to skip town, now that his secret's out.
Fuck, you should've brought your phone in here. You bang on the window, trying to shimmy it out of its lock, but no, it stays, stubbornly.
Then, in one fell swoop, the bathroom door's chain lock snaps open like it's not super strong metal, but is a piece of dental floss.
Nate Jacobs steps in, mouth still slightly stained with your blood, and looking hella calm for someone you'd expect would be summoning all of his masculine and vampirical rage right about now.
He frowns, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. "So. I'm guessing none of my compulsion worked. "
You stare back at him like he's just spoken to you in Latin.
"Why don't you come with me? The storm's over. I'll drive you home, and we can talk about this on the way."
Oh, he's gonna murder you and bury you, isn't he?
You shake your head.
"Scout's honour, I'm not gonna hurt you. Here, I'll—", he offers, biting into his own wrist, like a fucking weirdo, and offering it to you. "Vampire blood will heal you."
What the fuck? "I'm not drinking that."
"Alright, fine. Traditional, human treatment, it is, then. I'll let you drive. Do you know how to drive stick? No, y'know, I don't let just anyone drive my car, I mean, last time Maddy tried driving, scratched it, and my Dad lost his shit, so, y'know.", he rambles, rubbing at the back of his neck like this was some kind of sitcom episode. "But I'll take you to the hospital, then home. And on the way, we'll... talk about this."
Talk about this? Talk about how he's a FUCKING VAMPIRE and he'd just fed on you, and planned to make you mindlessly let him?
You almost scoffed. But you're sure Uber's not gonna work after the storm.
And you need to get home.
"Ah-ah. Holdin' onto that. And you're not sitting in the back. Can't have you like, gesturing to others that I'm a kidnapper.", he warns, shoving your phone into his pocket.
You sit. You look out the window. You click your seatbelt on. A pathetic substitute for safety.
He doesn't comment, and instead, pulls out of the slippery, broken-branch-laden parking lot of the motel. Once you're on the highway, he clears his throat, with a little charming chuckle.
"Ask away. I know it's been eating at you. Uh, no pun intended."
What did he think this was, some vamp-Q&A? "What?"
"What I would've done if I didn't find the vervain."
"What would you have done?"
"I'd have taken care of you — same way as I'm doing now — but just... a little less impressed, and a little more amused." Impressed? Why, 'cause you got away with it for so long?
"Thanks, that makes me feel A-okay again.", you mumble, turning up the radio.
He snorts, turning it off. "You've known me since I was a human. Right?"
You nod.
"And when have I ever chased a bitch? Huh? But I'm chasin' you, alright? I could've killed you in there. I've done it before, I'll be honest. 'Wild animal attacks' and shit on the news? That's me. But I'm not, because I actually fuckin' like you."
Your friend Kat's little brother was mauled by one of these 'animal attacks' a little while back, so him joking about — or, admitting to — this feels like a sick joke designed to make you throw up instantaneously.
"Listen, c'mon, I tried compelling you to not feel pain, didn't I?"
Yeah, so?
"And I made sure you didn't kiss me under compulsion — and you didn't, did you? You were into it. The whole time, you were into it, even when I called myself your boyfriend, you were into it, so I don't know why this is such—"
You're gonna have to stop him right there. "You murder people, Nate."
"I have no choice. What am I, supposed to starve for the greater good? Who do you think I am? Mother Teresa? Gandhi? Hey, listen, I have no intention to hurt people. You gotta believe me. I like you, like a lot, hell, I'd say I love you, but you'll blow that outta proportion and say I'm fuckin' with you or sm'n, I don't know!", he cries, trying his hardest to emulate exasperation and, more importantly, desperation. He's good at it, and he knows this because you haven't pushed his hand off your headrest as of yet.
It feels like he is compelling you, because you're sitting in a car, driven by a (quite literally) cold-blooded murderer and you feel... safe, for the most part. Sure, he could probably just suck the rest of your blood dry and then dump you in a ditch for East Highland to add you to the animal attack statistics, but for some reason... you kinda get the gut feeling he won't do it.
And that's the kind of demented I-can-fix-him mindset that gets dumbass girls killed.
"You sucked my blood out of my body, what part of that do you think I'm supposed to be attracted to?"
"I love that that's where your head's at. Like, it doesn't matter if you're okay with the actual bleeding or not, but what matters is that you're not entirely attracted to it. Yet.", he teases, pinching your cheeks with too much force to be cute aggression.
You don't respond to it the way he wants you to, so he unbuckles your seatbelt and comes to a perilous speed. "A road accident could kill you.", he informs you, like you didn't fucking know that, already.
He reaches into his pocket, and for some reason, you kinda know it's not another cheap vending machine snack to win your favour and forgiveness. But you didn't expect a fucking revolver pressed up against your head. Cocked. "A gun could kill you.", he tells you, while fiddling around under his dashboard with one hand, while the other holds the gun to your head. Meaning no one is manning the fucking car.
"Nate—"
"And, like, I think if you trust me enough to book you a motel — and you know what happens in those things — then you can trust me not to drain you of your ambrosia-ass blood, huh?", he muses, still preoccupied with the glove compartment.
You stay as still as you possibly can with imminent death facing you and fever-dream visions of the Grim Reaper reflecting in the side-view mirror.
"Where's that girl? Hm? I kinda have a thing for her.", he murmurs, his gun slowly snaking down next to your temple, his thumb and forefinger absentmindedly playing with tufts of your hair.
There's a gun pointed at you. You're in a car going 120. There's a fang-wound in your neck, put there by a vampire. There's a giant fallen tr— fuck! "Nate! There's a fallen tree!"
His speed's unnatural as he veers away, possibly leaving skid marks. Well, if the blood sucking and lock-breaking weren't enough, here's even more proof he's a fucking folklore nightmare.
"I can see how that speed's a tactical advantage." Wow. Great. Imminent death makes you dumb and unfunny, apparently. However, he's not a tough crowd at all, because he starts chortling at your comment. Oh, no, wait, it's because he's got what looks to be one of those devil mini-bottle of tequila.
"Bottoms up.", he grins, and just when you think this fuckass is going to add drinking and driving to his list of ways to kill you, he forces the bottle to your mouth so hard you're sure he's cut your lip or something.
You gulp it because you can't do anything else.
"You could die of intoxication.", he tells you, before gently prodding at you with the gun to bring your notice to the essentially illegal amounts of those same bottles that he's got in there. "Or at least a really shitty hangover."
"Nate—"
"So, my point is. There's lotta things that could kill you, baby.", he declares, matter-of-factly. "But I'm not one of them."
And fuck you, but you actually do, in some weird way, know that that's truth. Okay — "know" is a strong word, maybe more... strongly feel.
"I suppose you'll destroy my vervain."
"What? No. The fuck? You need that shit for your bouquets. Winter Formal and all that."
You can't help it. You burst into laughter. Fear-stricken, pathetic laughter. He's concerned for your family's stupid fucking flower business. All-rounder, rich, QB with a blindingly bright future, jock, vampire Nate Jacobs is concerned that the loss of your Winter Formal bouquet orders will bankrupt you, or something. You're gonna lose it, you're gonna go insane, right in this very car, you're sure of it.
"You won't be able to feed on most people at the Formal, though. Or... compel, for that matter."
Great, vampire-social-service-worker-of-the-year award goes to you. That's your big takeaway.
"That's my lookout. I'm a good boyfriend, and I'll do what I can to take care of my needs elsewhere."
"Jesus Christ, Nate, you are not my boyfriend!"
"No? Then why are we going to the Winter Formal together?", he asks, a look of mock question on his face.
"We're not."
"No?" He rubs jaw, before the gun that you'd almost stopped feeling for a moment is taken off your skin. "I thought we were."
Then, the gun's under his jaw, and you're not sure how much more psychotic a person can get. "Nate—"
"No, it's okay, I'm immortal, see? I can't be killed. Of course, I've heard that the right angle could just get me somewhere I don't wanna go, but that's just conjecture, huh? I call bullshit, whaddayasay?"
"Are you threatening to kill yourself if I don't date you?"
"What? That's something a psycho would do. And I'm just a loving boyfriend." There's a miniscule adjustment of the round on the revolver before it travels lower, down to his heart — or where one should be — as he stares straight ahead and drives like he's some workaday bloke back from his ho-hum job. "I'm just thinking, we can test the whole immortality thing. I haven't really died yet. I wanna see if there really are gates or if it's some kind of more secure, ironclad system."
You nearly scoff and make him shoot himself out of spite, though thankfully you don't. HE thinks he's getting into heaven?
"Nate, stop being like this."
"So date me and I'll never try to kill myself."
"You can't die."
"So I'll kill myself. Or become brain dead for all eternity."
"That makes no sense."
"Neither does you having nectar-blood that's perfectly made for me, but here we are."
He says it like he's saying a leaf's a part of a tree. Undeniable. Universal. Factual. Then, the gun gently goes into the glove compartment, with a harsher clatter than necessary. You suppose that's a cue for : he's pissed because reality's coming crashing down on him as you re-enter familiar roads.
The roads are starting to fit together in your lightheaded, traumatized, slightly tipsy mind — god, how many criminal offences is that? At least three? — and you suppose that's just winding Nate up more, because not only are you reaching known territory, your brain's catching up, which isn't good for him.
"Hey. Look at me.", he orders, fingers gently slapping at one side of your face to get your head to turn to him. "You can keep a secret, can't you, baby? I know you can."
If you don't, you won't have to worry about a gun or a car or alcohol killing you. He'll finish the job himself. He pulls up in front of the hospital.
"Who'd believe me?", you mutter, dry and basically trying to keep from screaming or crying or both.
"Another great point, yes. And plus, uh, you're basically a hero to the community, right?"
He looks at you so earnestly you could punch him. Is this a vampire thing or a Nate Jacobs thing? "What?"
"Y'know, since you're gonna let me feed off you when I need to."
He smiles, charming, effortless, sinister, as he reaches his thumb to your bottom lip, where he'd caused a cut thanks to the aggressive handling of the tequila. He runs his thumb over your lip, before he brings it to his own tongue, letting you watch your own scarlet paint his tongue, before sucking on it.
But you have had it up to here with him.
"Oh, yeah? Did I sign somethin' to agree to that? Fuck off, Nate."
He lets you open the door — though he considers locking all of them and knocking you unconscious until the vervain's out of your system — and scramble out, grabbing your things, but he does lean over. "I'd hurt fewer other people, in the process.", he suggests. Fuck.
You pop your head back through the open door. "Fuck off."
He throws his hand up. "Just don't put vervain in my bouquet order for you for the Formal. Or the corsage. Could put a damper on the night."
Nate smiles as you slam the door.
Hey, he's got an ambrosia-blooded bitch who's all but agreed to keep his secret and be his beautiful girlfriend, not to mention blood-bag, and he'd done it all with no compulsion. No compulsion, just charm and good-old fashioned gaslighting, plus traumatic manipulation.
Hell of a rebound, and definitely something he can see lasting him a good while.
full disclosure: I have this request for Theodore Nott that just asks for Theodore Nott and it's been haunting my inbox for ages and I need you lot to send in prompts because I want to write it 🙏
(I'll delete this post once I get a prompt STOP LIKING IT AND GET TO WORK I'M STARVED FOR IDEAS)
Summary: The letter with the news of your cousin's death comes with something more sinister; a marriage proposal. (7k words)
Genre: SMUT (mdni)
Warnings: age gap (35/22), porn with heavy plot, reader is Anna's younger cousin (no physical descriptions), enemies to lovers, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, arranged marriage, dubious consent in the beginning, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink, manhandling, aftercare
As a child, you remember dreaming of your wedding day, your hand clutching linen sheets, hidden under woolen blankets, cheeks burning, hair a mess, as you laughed with your sisters in the darkness. You would talk of gourmet four-layered cakes, blooming lilies, and of whose lips yours would kiss at the altar.
You can vividly remember how important Anna's wedding day was to your Aunt and Uncle, how much they fussed over their oldest daughter, your Aunt brushing out her blond curls as you and your three sisters watched from the doorway. Anna's marrying the son of a wealthy shipman, your mother had said, explaining all the happy commotion. You couldn't understand why that could possibly matter so much, especially because Anna had told you months earlier that she was madly in love with her future husband.
That is what seemed so important to you. Love.
Anna's wedding was beautiful. She looked like an angel in her white-lace gown, the color almost matching the white in the blond of her hair, and she looked up at her husband with so much adoration.
You were always Anna's favorite, perhaps because you only had six years difference in age, so she insisted you be her flower girl (even if you had just turned fourteen and many of your younger sisters sobbed for such an important role).
Anna had kissed your hairline in the halls of the cathedral, squeezing your hand in hers as she promised someone would love you as Friedrich did her. Her words, albeit reassuring, must have confused your young mind because all during the ceremony, your gaze was stuck on her future husband and on the way he cupped her cheek so delicately as he kissed her.
A new, unfamiliar, feeling blossomed up in your stomach.
However, as soon as the happy couple was wed, they'd sailed away, leaving you heartbroken and without hearing from Anna, apart from the occasional birthday letter, for eight years: eight long years, four of those you spent in America, working as a governess.
You hadn't married as your family wished. You had no interest in any man once you'd made up your mind you would only marry for love for there was no man you did love. So your father had sent you away to make money instead. As the oldest daughter in a family of only girls, that was your duty and you never once resented your role or that Anna's love set unfulfilled expectations for you.
Not until you received news of her death, along with a marriage proposal.
Friedrich Harding wanted to marry you?
You'd almost burned the letter in fear it was some sick trick, but the more you stared at the cursive and read his words, the more the memories from the one time you had seen him came to mind, and with them the burning in your stomach you still do not understand even in adulthood.
He gave no explanation, just that he needed another wife, that Anna loved you the most, and that he wanted you on the next ship to Germany as soon as possible.
You read the letter again and again. How could he ask you to make such an important decision so quickly? How could you marry Anna's husband? Your poor, innocently sweet, beautiful cousin, who was now dead. Grief washed over you.
How could you take her life? Replace her?
You had wept yourself to sleep that evening and still, you had quit your job, sent a letter to your parents, and taken the first ship out—not exactly understanding why you had.
~ * ~
"Aunt Y/n!" you hear the small shrill cry of a girl as you lift the hem of your dress and gently press your boot into the gravel. The sky is bleak and cloudy, convenient for a graveyard. You strain a smile, making a small huff as a small girl wraps her arms around your knees. "Oh, you did come! Papa promised you would."
Your hug envelops the small girl's back, your hand skimming her long blond curls, which remind you so much of Anna's. Your lip trembles. "I am here, darling," you murmur, holding her close. You lift your head and look up from behind your bonnet, the black lace ribbon digging into the skin of your neck. You see a person in the distance, a man who is reluctantly closing the doors to what you assume is the mausoleum.
Bile rises in your throat but you hold it in as you stroke Clara's head.
"Is that your Papa?" you ask her hesitantly.
Clara nods, turning her head and holding you even closer at the distant sound of thunder. "Mhm. He is just saying goodnight to Mama and Louise. He brings them flowers every day."
You nod solemnly, watching Friedrich approach and Clara moves to your side, her small hands still clutching the skirt of your dress. You press your palm over your stomach, suddenly wishing your corset was ten times looser than it is as you hold your breath.
Once Friedrich is closer, Clara runs to him and he doesn't hesitate to pick her up. Her small black dress bunches up around her ankles, her legs against his hip, as she hangs from his neck, nuzzling her head under his chin. Friedrich looks at you and you inhale, shame burning in your cheeks at the way his gaze lingers over you.
It is as if he looks past you.
"Herr Harding," you greet, moving closer, but pause when you realize the motion is clearly unwanted.
Friedrich clears his throat, no hint of a smile on his face. "Thank you for coming so quickly," he pauses and looks to the side, adjusting his hold on Clara. Your journey had taken around three months, which is hardly quick, but you simply nod, unable to find your words. "I see that Sylvester informed you where you could find us upon your arrival."
He looks at his coach, where the man who had driven you stands by the door and tilts his hat. You turn and meet his gaze, your eyebrows scrunching up in confusion and you turn to Friedrich and shake your head.
"Actually, Herr Harding, I did not know you nor Clara would be here. I- well, I wanted to visit my cousin." You leave a solemn pause before continuing. "Sylvester kindly recommended the ride upon my request. Please, do not be cross with him. I told him I would have walked anyway—"
"Walked? This late? And unaccompanied?" Friedrich sounds horrified. Clara, hearing his tone, hides herself further into his neck, her tiny hands clutching at the collar of his fur coat. He smoothes a hand up her back and sends you a disapproving look. "I am pleased Sylvester offered his services. I will not have my bride out alone at this time of night. It is simply inappropriate."
You tense, sensing his irritation with you already. As punishment for your foolishness, you assume, he has you take Slyvester's coach home, alone, while he and Clara are in the other just behind yours.
He had explained it was too painful for him to open the mausoleum again, but promised you could visit Anna another time. You try your hardest not to cry so soon as you sit in the coach, your body jostling around as the wheels travel across the cobblestone. You hold onto hope that the situation will improve. It had only been half a year since Anna and Louise's death.
You knew to give Friedrich time.
Your wedding day approached quicker than you had wished, your family sending their approval for a small ceremony with only you, Friedrich, and God. They couldn't make the journey so soon, and Friedrich didn't care to listen to your request to have, at least, your mother with you. So the ceremony happened in his local church, with only Clara (upon her insistance which Friedrich did not deny) and the priest as witnesses.
As a simple courtesy, and what you liked to think was an apology, Friedrich had left a gorgeous white satin dress in your bedroom as the morning of the wedding approached. Next to the dress lay a veil, the same one Anna had worn.
You felt like an imposter, staring at yourself in the mirror, the intricate lace of the accessory covering your face and shoulders. The dress was new. You assumed Friedrich didn't want you in Anna's dress. The veil was tradition, naturally it would be passed on. As Anna's cousin, it was only fair.
You adjust the puffed sleeves near your shoulders as your mind wanders. Friedrich clouds your mind involuntarily, images of his lips on yours and his hands squeezing your hips. You remember Anna's whispering, all those years ago, about what happened on a woman's wedding night, and you can't help but feel warm. Guilt gnaws at your stomach, realizing you're fantasizing about Anna's husband. You shut your eyes but you can still picture Friedrich's hands; those long, strong fingers threading themselves in your hair as he kisses you and tells you he loves you.
Your eyes snap open as you stare at your reflection. Because he must love you? Or want to love you? Why else would he have asked you to marry him?
Your corset feels tight once again, the wedding dress feels itchy, and your heels hurt as you stand at the altar listening to the priest's questions. Your future husband's face is concealed and blurred behind your veil but you can imagine his sharp blue eyes piercing through you.
"On behalf of God, you may kiss the bride."
Slowly, Friedrich's hand lifts your veil over your head, wisps of hair fall into your face and he pushes them away as his thumb presses against the apple of your cheek, for only a moment. You lift your arms, hesitant to touch him, and you barely have the chance because as soon as his lips press against yours, he's dropping the veil over you again and pulling himself away, his breath shaky.
Your vision goes blurry again and you aren't sure if it's from the veil or the tears that threaten to fall down your cheeks. Your stomach is in knots as you convince yourself that it is a mistake. That he hadn't meant to kiss you so coldly. That he still wants you here and that he'll hold you in his arms tonight like a husband is supposed to.
"Go upstairs," Friedrich demands calmly, hanging his hat near the front door. He reaches for a cigar in his pocket and mutters for Clara to go with her governess.
He doesn't look your way but you listen to his request anyway, creeping up the stairs like a ghost; all dressed in white. You enter the main bedchamber and sit on the end of the bed, simply waiting.
You aren't sure what to do as you wait for him to join you. For him to bed you like you had been taught to expect on your wedding night. But the sky soon grows darker and the door doesn't open. You hear no movement from out in the hall, no indication that Friedrich is near, and you don't even realize you have fallen asleep until you hear the birds chirp from outside and at the first indication of morning, you rip off your veil and throw it at the vanity in the corner.
You don't bother to remove your wedding dress as you hurry down the stairs, hands gliding down the mahogany railing, anger and hurt coursing through your veins. You search around the house, finally finding Friedrich in his study, sitting on his armchair while he has his breakfast.
You don't think as you storm inside. "You did not join me," you state, your voice strained as you stand in front of him.
Friedrich lifts his gaze, mustache twitching when he sees you still in your dress. He doesn't look pleased but he doesn't answer and that only hurts more.
"Ah, so you have nothing to say?!" you hiss angrily, walking closer to him. This time, he stands and you pause in your advancing.
"Why should I have joined you?" Friedrich asks calmly.
You look horrified. "Because I am your wife!?"
Friedrich chuckles darkly, shaking his head as he runs a hand over his jaw. "You are not my wife, Y/n. Anna is my wife. In every way that matters to me, she is my wife." He stares at you, his expression hard and unforgiven, and your heart shatters.
"I- I do not understand," you whisper, your eyes becoming glossy. You show him your wedding ring as if that proves something. "Then what is this? What does this mean, Friedrich?"
Your gaze drops to his hand as you finish the question and you see that he hadn't removed his previous ring. His ring from his marriage with Anna.
He had taken off yours as soon as he had gotten home.
You lift your eyes to lock onto his, your eyes stormy with hurt and fury—which only worsens once he continues, "On paper, you are Frau Harding now. Which means, you will take care of my estate, you will help care for Clara as a mother would, and you will keep up appearances for the sake of my business and our families, but we shall never consummate the marriage. We shall never share a bed, do you understand me?"
Every word he speaks hurts you and you suddenly feel so humiliated. How could you have been so foolish? You clench your hands into the skirt of your wedding dress, the tears finally slipping down your cheeks. Your head hurts. All your efforts to have love have just led you into a loveless marriage, with a man who was never yours to love.
You turn your head away, his words sinking in as you frantically wipe at your tears, desperately erasing them from existence. You look up at him and see he hasn't moved, his expression still unreadable and his stance tense.
"As you wish. Then I shall never be yours, and I shall hate you till my last breath," you spit, your voice unwavering.
~ * ~
Being Frau Harding proved much easier than you imagined. Clara is a sweet girl and she's an obedient child who learns quickly. The servants are friendly and the estate is grand. And your husband, although he does not spare you a second glance, isn't cruel. He doesn't lay a hand on you nor does he force you into his bed whenever he feels like it, which you learned from some of your high society friends is worse than a man who won't kiss you.
You are incredibly lonely, all alone in the huge house, but you've learned to live with the feeling. Friedrich is away on business most days, which mostly leaves you and Clara on your own.
Once more, on a sunny afternoon, you find yourself sitting on the carpet in her playroom, your dresses, the black color replaced by light pastel creams, splayed across your legs as she shows you the new porcelain dolls Friedrich had bought for her from his latest travels. He'd return in the early hours of the morning.
"This one looks like Mama," Clara says and brushes the blond hair of one of her dolls, framing the doll's pale skin, andhumming happily.
You smile. "Ah, yes, well, she looks like you." You pretend to move around the little china tea set Clara loves so much, pouring some invisible tea for her. Memories of Anna's face cloud your mind, causing a familiar gnawing in your chest.
"Tell me more about Mama," Clara whispers and crawls over to you. She climbs into your lap, not caring when the skirts of your dresses become cumbersome as you chuckle. Clara tucks herself into your arms, still holding her doll. Lately, she's been asking you to tell stories about you and Anna as children, and as much as the memories cause an undeniable hurt, you always indulge her.
Just as you finish the story, one of Clara's favorites, you hear the creak of the playroom door closing and you turn your head. You see the faint remnants of smoke from Friedrich's cigar where he had been standing and your stomach twists.
"May we climb up an apple tree, like you and Mama did?" Clara asks innocently.
You look at her again, a faint crease in your eyebrows. You aren't sure if you have any apple trees to climb in the gardens, but you don't want to deny Clara something that may make her feel closer to her mother so you simply nod. You stand and hold out your hand.
"Well, go on, go find Edith and ask her for your coat. There is a slight chill outside." You squeeze Clara's hand and watch her hurry out to find one of the maids.
You sigh, holding a hand over your stomach to calm your nerves. Just as you walk out into the hall to find your shawl and shoes, you see Friedrich standing in the opposite doorway. His gaze is hard and you gasp, "Oh!"
"I pray Clara is mistaken when she tells me you plan to take her climbing," he says, holding his cigar between his index and middle finger, pressing it to his lips momentarily. He looks at you with what you can only describe is pure disdain. You feel nauseous.
"I was simply taking her outside, for some fresh air," you say, keeping your distance from him.
"Without my permission?"
Your jaw tightens and you narrow your gaze. "My apologies, I did not realize I had to ask your permission to take my child out into my gardens." Your tone is curt and harsh. Friedrich narrows his eyes in return.
"Do not take that tone with me," he states firmly. You almost wish he'd scream at you. Instead, he's always so controlled and restrained. It's almost more infuriating than if he would lose his temper. It is as if he is unfeeling. "Clara is not your child."
Hurt swarms your chest. You know she is not yours, but the reminder hurts after all the months you spent with her. "Oh? Is she not? Then what, pray, is my role here, dear husband? This is what you asked of me. To care for your daughter. It isn't like I will have any children of my own, now is it?" you retort, venom in your words and Friedrich's jaw clenches.
"No. Because that would require a husband willing to touch me."
"Stop," Friedrich growls, looking away and taking an inhale of his cigar. "Stop acting like a petulant child for once, Y/n."
Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Oh! I am the one being childish?"
"Neither you nor Clara are to go outside at this hour. It is cold and dangerous and ladies do not climb trees. It is unbecoming."
"It is September! And hardly—"
Clara runs up, pulling on her father's trousers. "Can Y/n and I play in the gardens?" You stare at her, then your gaze flickers to Friedrich. He twirls his hand in Clara's ringlets, careful not to mess them up too much, and smiles at her with a softness he's never awarded to you.
"No. It is dangerous. Plus, you need to finish your French studies, Schatzi (Treasure)," he explains plainly and you juststand there, unable to speak up even when a look of disappointment crosses her features. She just nods, listening to her father. Once Edith takes her upstairs to her room, you glare at Friedrich.
"You cannot keep her locked up in here! She's a little girl who craves adventure!"
Friedrich looks more and more agitated. "You are a horrible influence on her. She needs stability, routine, not vapid stories that will put foolish ideas into her little head!"
"Vapid? I was telling her of how Anna and I—"
"She does not need to hear stories that will make her sad—" Friedrich says sternly.
You walk closer, clenching your hand in your dress. You're much closer to him now. "Make her, or you, sad?" you challenge and that seems to be the last straw for him because he slams his palm into the doorframe, causing you to flinch as ashes from his cigar fall. Friedrich lets out a shaky exhale and glares at you.
His eyes flicker from your face and then downwards for a moment and something burns inside them that you haven't seen from him in the months you've lived here. You open your mouth to make another comment but decide against it when shuts his eyes, his lip trembling with hurt. He doesn't speak either and instead, he leaves you standing alone in the hall.
~ * ~
Rain drums against the window as you lace up your boots. Clara stands by the door, looking outside as she watches the sky turn orange and pink. She turns to look at you and smiles, but there is also a hint of hesitation behind her icy-blueeyes. "Will Papa be angry with us?" She asks you, her voice small.
You smile at her, putting on your coat and bonnet. You kneel and adjust the buttons on her coat as you wink. "That is the fun of it, pumpkin," you pause and think, plus he's an arrogant prick so who cares.
Clara nods and she looks outside at the rain and mud. She grins. "Okay."
All her worries seemed to melt away as soon as the raindrops hit her bonnet with a soft splat. She's a giggling mess as you lead her further into the gardens, the damp grass wetting her shoes. You take her small hands in yours as you dance in the rain.
"Mama would not have allowed this," she says breathlessly, grinning as she dances with you happily and kicks more mud with her shoes. "But, I am glad we can do this. I am glad you are here," Clara adds in a whisper and happiness spreads inside your chest. You laugh and laugh and twirl so hard your expensive bonnet falls into the mud, rain drenching your hair as it continues to pour over you.
Thunder claps, the rain falling harder and harder, and eventually, the sky turns dark, chasing you both back inside the house as you slam the grand front door, leaning against it and laughing.
You drop your wet fur coat onto the carpet as Clara does the same. The little girl keeps giggling. You kneel next to her to undo her shoes and run your hands over her arms to warm her up. Clara wipes at the soaked fabric of her dress, holding it up as it drips, and she keeps giggling.
However, the sound of someone clearing their throat startles you both.
Clara tenses. She drops her dress, turning around to stare at her father. "Papa," she whispers. Your heart is pounding as you stay on your knees, dropping your hand from Clara's arms. Your wet dress is clinging to your corset, the cream color of your dress turning half-translucent from the water. You don't dare look up at your husband as you bite down on your lip, tasting blood in your mouth.
He wasn't supposed to be home until tomorrow.
"Edith," Friedrich's voice cuts the tension as he calls over the maid. He doesn't sound more angry than he usually does and Clara's hand finds yours, squeezing. You hear the faint sound of Edith entering the hall and then Friedrich continues, his voice unemotional. "Bring Clara upstairs. Run her a warm bath, clean her up, and then put her to bed, thank you. It is past her bedtime."
"Y/n," Clara whispers your name as her shoes, coat, and then herself, are hurried upstairs without a word. You keep your head low as goosebumps explode across your exposed skin. Your wet hair sticks to your cheeks and you realize you've left your bonnet outside and the curls in your hair have flattened. Your dress, the one you assume must have been Anna's dress is ruined—the expensive satin completely covered in sticky mud.
"Stand up," Friedrich demands, his voice strained. You do as he says, holding your breath. You hesitate to look up at him, but when you do you feel heat rush up to flame your cheeks. Your husband doesn't look upset, not in the same way you have seen him look before. Instead of contempt, his eyes are dark and intense with a feeling you can't quite discern. His gaze drops to the collar of your dress, where the sleeves hang and expose more of the skin of your collarbone.
"I can explain," you whisper, knowing that whilst he truly hadn't been cruel to you up to now, your behavior tonight was unacceptable and warranted any punishment he deemed suitable.
Friedrich stalks closer, his jaw clenched. You back away a little, gasping as your back presses against the wood of the door again. "Please. I am sorry," you mutter, hands and body shaking. You aren't sure if it's out of fear or from how cold you are. "Please do not be angry," your voice trembles. Friedrich is still walking closer and what's worse is he hasn't said a word.
You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for a blow of any kind. He would be in the right to scream at you—strike you even. You had deliberately disobeyed him. None come. Instead, you feel his hand on your cheek, gently caressing your cold skin and you tense. This is the first time he's touched you since your wedding.
"You're shaking," Friedrich points out, looking over your frame. His eyes meet yours. "Do I scare you?"
Your stomach twists at his words and your eyes snap open. You're breathing heavily now and his touch feels so foreign on your skin. You don't quite know what to do. "N-no–" you whisper. It's the truth, he's never scared you. What you're feeling now feels completely different than fear. It's a feeling you don't quite understand. You feel the dampness between your thighs, something that only happens when you are around him.
Friedrich quirks a small smile, the first one you've seen directed at you. His hand slides down from your cheek and trails down your arm until his fingers curl around your wrist quite tightly. "Come. You will catch a cold," he says, pulling you closer and down the hallway into an open door.
You don't move at first, eyes wide, but when he looks back at you and sends you a nod, you follow him into the parlor. "Friedrich, I- I must go upstairs. I need to clean up, please. What are you doing?"
He leads you into the room, gently guiding you into his armchair. Your dress soaks the fabric and you feel out of place and cold. You watch him as he kneels by the fire, beginning to make it for you. To warm you up. You've never seen him make his own fire, the servants have always done that but he doesn't call them in. Plus, it seems like he knows what he's doing. The flame sparks and warmth slowly spreads across your skin.
Once the fire is going, your husband turns to you. You're still shivering, but the warmth helps. Friedrich is still down on his knees, looking up at you with an unreadable expression.
"Is it working?" he asks, kneeling closer.
You feel dizzy and you whisper, straining a smile. "Ah, the fire? Yes, it is working. Thank you, Friedrich." You can barely focus on his question as his fingers start delicately unlacing your boots. He's being so intimate. You open your mouth to question him, but he speaks before you do.
"No. Not that. Your little outbursts," Your husband chuckles, smiling. His hand slides up your calf now and hooks into your stocking, peeling the drenched fabric from your skin. You gasp, shifting against the chair and sitting up.
You open your mouth to protest but he does the same with your other leg. The flames from the fire cast a glow on his features as he sends you a warning look not to question him and your stomach burns.
"My outbursts?"
"You think I have not realized how hard you try for my attention? How you do anything for even a sliver of my time. Have I been neglecting you, hm? Is that it? Do you crave me that much, Mein Liebling (my darling)?" His voice is sharp, almost mocking.
Your eyebrows crease and your lip trembles. "You know what you have done. You have kept me, chained to you forever, without so much as the solace of your liking. I am an accessory, not a wife—you have said as much—nothing more so please, Friedrich, do not mock me."
Friedrich looks up, his gaze dark, and he hums. Then, he lifts your skirt and disappears underneath the fabric. You sit up, your skin shivering as you feel his lips slowly inching up your thigh but you cannot see him. Fear strikes you. "Friedrich? What is—What are you—oh—"
He's still underneath your skirt and he hooks his hand under your undergarment, his palm splayed upon your hips as you slouch in the armchair.
Your face is burning warm and you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand, as he pulls down your undergarments and exposes you. You squeeze your thighs instinctively, attempting to hide yourself from his gaze. You wish to kick him away, but something inside you stops you. Almost like a desire you do not understand. Friedrich clicks his tongue, pushing them apart as he continues to kiss your inner thighs, near your most intimate place.
"S-stop—" you whine behind your hand. A burst of unfamiliar sensations explode in your stomach. It feels good, but you're also scared of what this means. Friedrich continues for a moment until he feels you shaking and then he emerges from underneath your skirt. He pushes the fabric down, his hair is a little messy and his face is flushed. He wets his lips.
"It is alright, let me," he tries convincing you, gliding his hand up your legs and bunching up your skirt near your waist. You whimper, knowing he can see you bare and needy for him. You can see him now, see what he wants to do, and your fear eases a little. Your mind is spinning as you begin to understand. He wants to take you.
What had changed?
You shake your head, scrambling to sit up, and frantically push your skirt down. "You shall not touch me. I am not your wife," you say, your voice shaking. He has no right to touch you after what he had said and done.
Friedrich chuckles, his hand still splayed on your thighs. "But, you are, aren't you? My wife. Now, I am only doing what you want so let me show you what a good wife does with her husband."
He grabs your ankle and lifts your leg onto the arm of the armchair, opening you up and you gasp. However, his lips find your slick hole, kissing and licking like a starved man.
He's rough and clearly a little angry. You tremble, tears in your eyes as you focus on the new sensations. You're whispering his name, your voice hoarse as you let out small whimpers. "I have been good to you," Friedrich grunts, tasting you some more and he moans into your folds. "I have kept my distance, I have let you stay pure, but you consistently disobey me. You put my daughter in danger and why? For my attention?"
Your legs shake and you push up your skirt, finding his hair to hold onto as his tongue explores inside you in ways you didn't even know were possible. Tear stains fall down your cheeks as you accidentally tug on his hair harder than you'd meant to, whimpering. Your leg falls from the arm of the armchair and Friedrich leans back on his heels.
"Stop being so damn difficult," he reprimands and lifts you up into his arms. You gasp. He's surprisingly strong and it doesn't take long for him to practically throw you onto the maroon, plush, loveseat near the window.
The rain still hits the window and you gasp again, choking on a sob as Friedrich reaches behind you and with a grunt, half-rips your dress and corset. The materials fall over your shoulder, exposing your breasts to the cool air. You look up through teary eyelashes at your husband and your stomach twists in anticipation. Friedrich's blue eyes are dark and he licks his lips once more.
He stands and begins to undress as your chest heaves. You sit uncomfortably on the loveseat, half hanging on the end, simply waiting for Friedrich to touch you again. Your mind screams at you that you should be scared, but you aren't. You're almost excited.
His hands are back on you, tearing more of the dress as his hands grip your hips and pull you flush against him. "I shall buy you a new one," he whispers in your ear as the dress, which was already covered in mud, falls from you—torn and ruined. Friedrich promises this as if he has noticed this dress was one of your favorite dresses. As if he's noticed you would wear it more than the others.
Which is impossible. Friedrich doesn't notice you.
You feel something hard press against your core and you gasp, hands grasping the cushions as you look down between your naked bodies. Friedrich looks different than you do between his legs and it looks hard and angry. You whimper, hand grasping for something more to hold than some cushions. You try moving away, but Friedrich's hands tighten on your hips as he keeps you close.
His lips attach to your nipple, causing a small cry from your mouth that he quickly muffles with his lips. Your eyes widen as he kisses you, one of his hands leaving your hip to rest against your cheek, his thumb pressing under your chin. You melt into his kiss, your mind going fuzzy as he finally gives you what you've been craving all these months. Friedrich grins against your lips, positioning your hips as he begins to press inside you.
You gasp, pulling your mouth away. "Shh, little dove," Friedrich's voice in your ear causes you to freeze and you realize his movement has paused as well. "It will not hurt you much. Your body is made for this. It will open up for me."
You're breathing heavily and anticipating some horrible pain. When you feel him fill you up, your body moving against the loveseat with the thrust, a tear escapes your eyes from the sting and the intrusion. Your skin bursts with goosebumps and Friedrich's hand caresses your cheek, his lips kissing your neck.
You feel him slide out and you can breathe again, until he thrusts back in a little harder and you squeeze your eyes shut as you let out a small whimper. Tears threaten to spill from the pain but when Friedrich's hand comes to the back of your head against the cushions, holding you as he leans in and lets you cry into his shoulder. "Only a little while longer," he coos, his hips not faltering his movements as he groans into your hair, pulling on the strands.
The pain slowly subsides, turning into pleasure, as his movements continue. You lose track of time and place as Friedrich makes love to you, kissing and biting your skin as he whispers mocking praises in your ear. As his thrusts become less rhythmic, you clench around him as his words become more pointed.
"You're nothing like her. You don't act like her, nor do you feel like her," he mutters in your ear and your stomach twists as he compares you to Anna. "But, I cannot resist you either. Look at you, taking me so well. You are so beautiful. I am going to make sure you carry my child. Isn't that what you wanted, mm? To be mine?" Friedrich groans and you feel something inside you snap as warmth explodes in your stomach and a strange liquid fills you up, the substance smeared across your thighs.
Your body feels heavy as you let your head rest on the plush cushions. You blink, your eyes are unfocused and tired, and you barely register Friedrich shifting around and pulling out of you until he's leaning over you, his hand gently tapping your cheek. Your eyes flitter open and he's smiling.
A real smile.
"Come. Up. You need rest," he says and drapes a woolen quilt over your naked, sweat-shimmering form and then lifts you into his arms once more. He's half-dressed again, just in case he runs into any servants, but you only fully come to when you feel a warm cloth pressed in between your legs, wiping away the white liquid and streaks of blood. Exhausted, you whimper and then some time must have passed because you feel the bed dip and strong arms pull you in against him.
You blink, eyes tired, but you no longer feel sticky on the inside of your thighs. "Friedrich?" you mutter into the darkness as the figure next to you turns out the oil lamp.
"I am here," he whispers, his hand playing with your hair. You can't see him in the darkness but his voice doesn't have the anger or firmness it always does. Instead, he sounds almost guilty.
You let out a shaky breath. "Please do not be upset with me," you whisper, lips dry as you lean your head against his shoulder. You're savoring his presence, almost afraid he'll disappear. "I am sorry. I shall try harder to be like Anna. Please, I promise I shall try. I do not like it when we argue. I do not like it when you are away. I am lonely—" Your confessions are interrupted by shifting and then you feel Friedrich's nose press against yours and his warm breath fans over your lips.
"You do not need to change anything. It is all my fault. I have been selfish and weak. I have been so consumed in my grief I have ignored what was right in front of me. Sleep now, all will be well. I am here with you, and I shall be here when you wake," Friedrich says it like a promise and he seals his words with a gentle kiss on your lips. And when the morning light shines into the room, you're both still tangled under the sheets; skin to skin.
~ * ~
"Papa!" Clara shrieks, jumping into his arms as he steps down from his Coach, removing his tall hat. He grins at his daughter and scoops her up in his arms, resting her a little more uncomfortably on his hip. She’s grown up quite a bit since the last time he did this.
You walk down the steps, your movements slow, as you cradle your son in your arms. When Friedrich looks up and sees you, his smile only widens and he drops Clara onto her feet again as he walks over and hesitates by his son, instead cupping your cheek.
"Good evening, my dove," he whispers.
It had taken weeks for you to trust Friedrich's change in behavior. After all he had gone from distant and cold, to loving and warm in the span of mere hours.
Friedrich had explained everything that morning: how he'd rushed into a marriage, forced by his business and family, when he wasn't ready to move on, and how your presence—so similar and yet so different from Anna—had only made things worse.
He had apologized profusely for neglecting you for months, but what truly earned his place in your bed was his patience. He did not force you to forgive him, instead, he waited until you eventually did.
Not long after your forgiveness everything had changed for the better when the doctors told you were expecting a child. Friedrich was over the moon. He was turned upside down, becoming nothing like the husband you had known for the last few months, instead, he was present and doting and it was as if he'd finally decided to court you.
To love you.
"I am sorry I was away when it happened," Friedrich whispers, gently moving the blanket that covers little Friedrich's face as the sleeping baby simply rests against your breast. Friedrich's hand moves up to push away some curls from your forehead. After all, it has only been two weeks since little Friedrich's birth and you were still exhausted. "Why you insist on nursing him when we have help for that, I do not understand."
You send your husband a pointed look. "He is mine. I will care for him."
Friedrich smile simply grows and he cups his hand around your nape, pulling you in gently and kissing your hairline. He feels Clara's hand pulling on his tailcoat and he lifts her up into his arms again. "Do you like your brother, Schatzi (Treasure)?"
Clara hums and hides her face in his neck again, causing a low chuckle from his chest. You smile at her and then look back down at your son. He's so beautiful. You lift your gaze and see a look in Friedrich's eyes. One that isn't happy nor sad. Your stomach twists and you catch his gaze. "Are you okay?" you whisper, your voice low.
Friedrich looks at you and for the first time since you'd fist met him all those months ago at the graveyard, he looks right through you. You inhale. You know where his mind is. Anna and Louise. You hold your breath, afraid you'll lose him again, but that cloudy look in his eyes soon disappears after a moment and a soft smile curls his lips. He leans in and kisses you, keeping your son hidden and safe between both your chests as Clara's feet sway against your dress and she rests her head against his shoulder.
"I am. I will be, Mein Liebling (my darling)," your husband promises and leans his forehead onto yours and after a breath he says,
"I love you."
~ 🤍 ~
^ this is how I imagined the dresses reader wears (left: during the graveyard but in all black. middle: wedding dress. right: her favorite dress)
I stumbled upon this again while updating my masterlists and remembered how much fun I had writing this! It is probably one of my favorite fics I have ever written! I am very proud of it 😋
stalking sky because why not and I WONDERED WHERE THIS WENT
guys I'm literally sabrina carpenter when bad bunny was on stage whenever sky does anything and PLUS SHE OWNS ATJ CHARACTERS BECAUSE WHY IS THIS SO CLOSE TO CANON I CAN TASTE IT???
A quick one before the eternal worm (writer's block) devours Connecticut (me)
My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.
Based on this (and exactly 7 other) asks !
Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings: Cuss words
Desc. : Stockholm Syndrome (?)
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
Finnick's always been in awe of you. You've slipped through the gaps he'd never been able to even peep through. Finnick's got about a billion words he would use to describe you — all of which slip his conscious right now — but he thinks that the tabloid titles are enough.
Unabashedly District.
This could've gone wrong for you, this whole strategy. You're beautiful, sure, you've got that going for you, but besides that, you're not as endearing as that Peeta Mellark kid is, not intriguing like Katniss Everdeen, you're not unfairly likeable like Finnick is, and you're definitely not as iconic as the Gloss-And-Cashmere-sibling-duo that's had the Capitol in a chokehold ever since the 63rd and 64th Games, that's for sure. You've got no star-crossed-lover-backstory, you don't appear in adverts and host parties, and you sure as hell aren't a counterpart in a dynamic duo. Hell, you've never even participated in the Games. That should have Snow reeling, that should have matches be lit after dousing your house in oil.
Yet... there's an invisible struggle between the two of you for the darling title. You'd first been spotted with Johanna Mason, as a little promo to show Panem what awaited a Victor of the Games, and what the Victor of the 71st was up to right after the Victory Tour. Well, with Johanna was a stretch. You'd been in a still of the town square, playing guitar with a couple other delinquent District 7 teens, and as Johanna passed by, you'd high-fived her. That was it. Thirty seconds of footage, thirty weeks of discussion, and thirty months of obsession. Although Snow seemed mildly opposed to putting a music group under the Panem spotlight, for whatever reasons he had, eventually you and your band were all the Capitol craved.
And boy, did you deliver.
So, yes, your paths had crossed at many a Capitol party, and Finnick had tried to figure you out. He likes to think he's the only one who's actually kept your interest long enough to have a proper conversation with you. No wonder Plutarch had deigned him with the impossible task of keeping you with him until he could come back from District 13 and properly speak to you about the Second Rebellion. How the fuck was he going to go about doing that, when he didn't even actually know you? The offhanded dating rumour aside, all you've shared was whiskey, a conversation, and a trauma bond.
He's been spiraling, Finnick has, and it's showing in his work. Every time he's in front of a camera, he's storming off, needing an entire hour of a break and a vodka, as well. He's grateful the directors do not get tired of him, that they all think he can do no wrong because he's Finnick Odair, because if they weren't like that, he'd have been fired ages ago. Or, at the very least, killed off. He hasn't been allowed to go home for nearly half a year, now, and it's probably the main cause of said spiral.
Thankfully, this spiral leads him to you, in this twisted bonding opportunity you two apparently shared — daydrinking.
"Long time, no see. You had a gig today, yeah?"
It's deafening in the silence of the desolate bar, and he nearly cringes, but he powers through, because you've just looked up at him.
"Yes."
"I thought you guys were awesome. Props.", he offers, his hand out in expectation. You shake it.
"Nice to see you again.", he tries.
You nod in return. "And you."
You seem distracted, so he follows your line of sight to the screen fastened precariously loosely to the back wall of the bar. Ah. The Victory Tour recap. You must've missed it, what with your performance here at the Capitol, so you're watching.
He leaves you be until District 7 comes, because he knows the nerve-wracking experience it is to watch the new Victor (in this case, Victors) rub it in your own District's face that their child is dead.
Finnick notices things, as always. He notices the layers of silences that permeate through the bar. He notices the disgusting taste of the beer he's just ordered. He notices the way you stiffen when one of the Victors mentions the male tribute from District 7. He notices how his instinct tells him not to speak, to allow you to feel this. He notices how his own lips part in direct disobedience to his gut. "Stele Mason. Is he related to Johanna Mason?"
You blink, seemingly snapping out of whatever horrific visions flashed past your eyes just then. "Wh— uh, no. There are lots of Masons back in 7."
"Oh. Did— do you... know him?"
You nod, turning to grab your drink, downing it. "Yeah." It's clipped.
Got it, he'll shut up now.
He stretches, inconspicuously leaning over and emptying the contents of his little pouch — courtesy of Plutarch — into your drink, before going back to normal and shrinking his attention back to his own.
He watches you drink it.
But then you order another. And another. And, oh, look at that, another. And soon enough, a spectacle that Finnick's been expecting — through mindfully quiet, restricted sips of his own drink — occurs. You're drunk.
And he doesn't know if this is because he's from District 4, or simply because he's Finnick, but he's drawn to shipwrecks like this, where the outside is perfectly preserved, all the pieces look put in place, but he knows that the inside of the ship's damaged. Floorboards have been sprung out of their places, the helm is cracked in two, and the engines are crashing in on themselves.
There ain't nothing he's ever been gravitated to that didn't require him to donate his own barely-functional parts to in order to get it started again, but he'll still do it, if to ease his own conscience and qualms about being a good person. He is, he hopes. He's always only ever wanted to be.
"Do you have somewhere to stay?"
You don't — can't — respond, and so he asks the bartender where your band is right now. He tries to find any sort of clues on you as to where your friends might be, or if you've been given a lodging to perform more. None. Nada. He's got a gnawing feeling all of this is thanks to Plutarch.
"Okay, up you get.", he mutters, hauling you up onto your feet, gripping onto the bar stool to support both of you as you suddenly dip down. "There we go, c'mon. I've got you."
He's got to get this bartender fired, he notes, internally. He'd just watched some girl get scooped up by a guy she clearly didn't know, and did fuck-all about it.
The walk to his flat's not far, by any means, but it is difficult, with a drunk girl — and her guitar case — in tow.
He flops you down on the bed, keeping his eye on you as he shoots across the room to his drawer, fishing out the white band Plutarch had given him, before gently fastening it around your wrist. He doesn't know what it does, — he'd just assumed it would be some form of tracking device.
Okay.
Finnick can breathe now that he's got the wristband on you. He's done his part, and he'll actively — to the best of his abilities — try to stop you from leaving before Plutarch says all he needs to say. But if you manage to lock him in a door and gnaw or saw the wristband off and leave? Well, then he'll be helpless and impressed.
He pads around his kitchen, grabbing a glass, opening the fridge, grabbing his juice, pouring it out. He doesn't drink it yet, though. A thought. The least he could do is play the gracious host. He's sure when you wake up, he'll look like the bad guy. And that's not him. Not who he wants to be. He takes out another glass. Pours some juice out for you.
Some time passes. He's eaten half his leftover pizza — saved the rest for you like the kind soul he is — and is currently nursing a glass of wine as he stares idly at the TV. God, for such a huge apartment, he perpetually feels like the walls are closing in on him. Today's no different, especially since he's day-drinking again. It's about eight, and he'd brought you home at about six-thirty. He's getting worried. You haven't woken up. Did the sketchy bartender also put something in your drink? Who would he be if he didn't go check?
He sets the glass down, stretches, and walks to the guest bedroom door. Tilts his head. He doesn't remember leaving it open. He'd closed it specifically so that he'd hear you coming. He knocks. "You decent?"
He'd hoped you'd have changed into the clothes he'd left out on the armchair if you'd woken up. But you don't respond. Meaning you haven't. Which is even more alarming.
Finnick presses his hand down on the handle, swinging it inwards to open it— fuck! That object — whatever the everloving fuck it was — just hit his stomach like a mother! Fuck!
Okay. So you're up.
He looks down. He did not know an alarm clock could pack that much pain, for being so compact.
He looks up. Yeah, no, they could, if thrown from a distance, and you're still next to the bed. Odd strategy, but it's okay, because you lower the hand holding your next launch-object — a fucking nightlamp — down when you see his face.
"Finnick?"
"Yeah. Nice to see you again."
"You spiked me?!"
"No, no! You just... kept going, with the liquor, I—"
"You spiked me!"
"I did not!" Little white lies, Finnick's learned, are better than teary eyes.
"What did you do to me?! Where's my coat?!"
"Nothing! And it's probably back at the bar!"
Not really. He'd accidentally torn it. The long sleeves had been fucking with his ability to get the wristband on you, so in a fit of rage, he'd grabbed a pair of scissors and got it off.
"So how am I here?! What did you do to me?! DON'T— Don't come near me!"
"I didn't fucking take advantage of you or anything, okay? That's not me! You passed out. I asked around, but no one knew where your band was, where you guys were staying! What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?!", he tries to explain, still needing to pause every two seconds and soothe his fucking abdomen, because of the alarm clock injury. God, he'd never live this down, if anyone found out.
You seem to believe him, and fully set the lamp back down, eyes still on him. "I don't believe you."
"You don't have to. This is just a misunderstanding."
"A misunderst— you abducted me!"
"I helped you! I—", he cuts himself off, running his hands over his face. "You don't need to trust me. Here.", he declares, tossing you the keys to the guest bedroom, as a last fucking resort. "You've had a long night. I think you should freshen up, and I'll get you food so you can get rid of the hangover. You probably have lots of gigs lined up at all the Hunger Games rewatch-parties, huh?", he suggests, voice softer, duplicitously so, but you don't need to know that. "My sister left some clothes here. Uh, so.", he adds, gesturing at the clothes he'd laid out on the armchair. "If you wanna get out of those."
He doesn't have a sister. These were left over from a Capitol afterparty that just had to — had to — be kept here, because what Snow wants, Snow gets.
You catch the keys mid-air, still glaring at him like he's done the things you're accusing him of. He knows what you're thinking. There's no guarantee he doesn't have another set. But he doesn't, and the fact that he's even given you these is a big deal. "I'll be out there making lunch-slash-dinner. Fuckin'.... linner. If you wanna join me when you're done.", he mumbles, gently closing the door behind him.
Fuck's sake, that was surreal. Though, he needs to applaud your survival skills. Soon as he gave you the keys, you held them between your fingers like claws. If he'd have come closer, even to set the alarm clock back on the bedside, he'd have had very nasty lacerations painting his body.
He should probably get to work on this linner thing, huh? Offering you heated-up-leftover-pizza was absolutely a kidnapper thing to do.
Pasta. Safest bet. He hasn't met anyone who didn't like it, and it was easy to make. Great. He's got some sauce leftover from a week ago in the fridge, and he'd heard it was 5-7 days, that was the accepted time to do so. Brilliant. Okay. Off to a good start.
He hears you before he sees you. He focuses on the pasta, because he's suddenly afraid that if he makes eye contact, your fight-or-flight will kick in again and he'll get the glass jar of pasta sauce that he's left out to cool thrown at him.
"I, uh..."
That'd better be a fucking apology.
"I need to go."
Or a statement that he can't allow to come true.
"Please. I feel really bad, for scaring you. Just... eat and then do whatever."
He's careful not to say 'and then leave', because he can't let you do that.
You're about to protest, but then you probably see the sheer desperation, mixed with fatigue pooling in his eyes, and then you nod, gingerly sitting at his dining table.
"What's this?"
"What's what?", he asks, though he already knows what. He deflects. "Oh. Yeah, bit of an alcoholic, I've become. But help yourself. It's really good stuff. I don't know what year it's from, but it's delicious. Here's a wine gl—"
"Not the wine, Finnick. This thing."
Yeah, the wristband. He turns, his face demonstrating tame confusion. "I dunno, thought it was some weird chic style-thing you had."
"Wasn't on before."
"Really? I remember it being on when I brought you home from the bar.", he says, with faux thoughtfulness. "You don't remember it? You were pretty out of it."
"I've never seen this thing before in my life. It— huh.", you grit, and he can tell it's through a clenched jaw, because you say his name with some effort. You're trying to get it off. "It won't come off."
"What? Hold on.", he mutters, turning the stove off before stalking over to you, at his dining table. "I'll help you."
He trusts Plutarch, so he genuinely does use all his might, all of yours, and even a spoon, to help pry it off, but it doesn't budge. "Is it hurting you?"
"No, it's just... I don't like it. It's mysterious and tacky."
"Killer combo, yeah.", he muses, rubbing his hand across the nape of his neck. "You'll need to have that surgically removed, I guess."
You groan, resting your palms onto the dining table, before looking up at him, slightly weirded out by his guilty lingering. "I'll live. Pasta's burning."
"Oh, fuck—" Finnick rushes back, slowing down when he sees the stove. Wait, he just turned it off. He hears the hurried footsteps, and pieces together that you're trying to run.
Then comes the scream. It's terrifying. If he had neighbours, they'd think he was killing someone in here. He dashes over to where you are — the door, and is met with the horrifying sight of you laying there, spasming and twitching.
And then he sees it. Your wristband. It's lit up.
Great, Plutarch Heavensbee had convinced him to put the equivalent of a shock collar on a human.
The pasta's steaming and forgotten.
The wristband's beeping and Finnick wishes it'd be forgotten.
You're fuming, and will probably be trying to remember details you have forgotten.
"Eat—", he begins, cut off by you throwing yet another plate full of pasta at the wall in a fit of rage. He closes his eyes, attempting to conjure up some strength. "Starving isn't going to help your state, honey. You're hungover and triggered."
"And fucking kidnapped! I'm not fucking eating your food!"
He fights the urge to say 'fine, do whatever the fuck you want then' because technically, he can't let you fucking die. He stands, not bothering to clean up what is the third bowl of pasta you have hurled across his living room, before scooping more pasta up from the pot and transferring it into a new bowl.
"This will stay right here.", he declares, placing the bowl at a safe distance from you on the kitchen island. "You can eat it when you want."
"What do you want from me?!"
"I told you, it's only until Plutarch comes back."
"You realize I don't know who the FUCK that is?! I have no way of knowing if this 'Plutarch' — stupid fucking name, by the way — character is even real! For all I know, there is no 'Plutarch from the Capitol who only wants a word'!"
Oh. Oh, fuck. Yeah, he hadn't realised that. You probably couldn't know he was real, because it's not like Finnick had framed photos of him around the apartment or tapes of him on his TV or anything.
"He's a Gamemaker?", he offers, gently. "Heavensbee?"
"I don't follow the fucking Games!"
He wishes you'd stop screaming, but it's not like he has neighbours who'd complain, and technically, you're well-within your rights to go apeshit on him. Still, he's got to match your energy if he's going to tire you out enough that he can gently explain that the fate of Panem depends on you chilling the fuck out until Plutarch gets here. "You were watching at the bar!"
"I knew Stele, so I paid my respects! What am I, not supposed to honour kids of my District who died because of a rebellion they weren't even around for?!"
There's a silence that he allows to slowly settle onto the apartment like a feather steadily falling from miles high. The rage was good. It meant you might be open to what Plutarch had to say.
"No.", he replies, evenly. "No, you can. But... for what it's worth, I didn't know the wristband would do that."
"Great comfort, Finnick!", you yell, clapping sarcastically and loudly. It's clear this is just a response to whatever imminent danger you think you're in, and probably stupid, considering that if he were a kidnapper, he'd have shut you up much more painfully.
"Okay, no need to be fucking annoying about it, okay? If I wanted to hurt you, I would've, but I haven't because I don't, alright?", he tries, for the last time. Honestly, if you don't start complying, he'll just leave the house and let you rot in there, until Plutarch comes . He's definitely not above that, and you know him enough to know that, too. Anything but you making him feel guilty for something he didn't even do.
"How about you j—"
The phone rings, and he narrows his eyes at you for one moment, before you sprint across the living room to it, picking it up and pleading into it, so much so that Finnick kind of feels bad for being pissed off at you. You're just panicked and trying to keep your life. He might feel a sickeningly embarrassing parasocial, delusional closeness to you because he's probably — maybe ; jury's still out — got a crush on you, but to you, he's just this guy you've spoken to a couple of times, some Victor-sellout. This is like the Games to you, except in a mildly claustrophobic apartment with only one other person who you don't actually know is going to kill you.
He stays where he is, picking up the cordless he has on the kitchen island, pressing a button with a tiny beep before the line's on speaker. Plutarch's voice comes steady from the other end. "Ma'am, you can calm down, I know, it must be scary for you—yes, but he won't hurt you, neither of us will. Trust me. I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, gamemaker, at your serv— can I speak to Finnick, please?"
He almost feels guilty, with how your face falls once you realise you're not getting rescued.
Finnick shakes his head, eyes still on you as he clears his throat. "Yeah, go ahead."
"I'll be there at dawn."
"Alright."
"Why is she so—"
"Give her a break, alright? It's a lot. Put yourself in her shoes."
"Take care of her."
"I will."
Beep. Finnick sets the phone back into place before he sighs, fingers drumming on the counter. "And he means actually take care of you. Like feed you, not eliminate you.", he tells you, eyes slowly travelling from the floor up to yours.
You look like hell.
"Plutarch is real, and I— I'm really not supposed to say anything, but if you want to know why we need your cooperation, I'll tell you. Over a nice bowl of sort-of-hot-pasta."
"You okay?"
"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay.", you mumble, before stuffing your mouth with pasta. He sighs, continuing his aggressive brooming to get even the most minute shards of broken bowl from your hurling-escapade off his beautiful hardwood floors. "You won't tell me anything concrete."
"I told you as much as I can."
"Oh, yeah — 'We need your help in something of national importance' is very—", you scoff, setting the pasta down, but fixing your gaze onto the muted TV, now playing static Reaping reruns like your own personal looping torture chamber. "That could be anything from a new gig to overthrowing the President."
Hey, he'll give it to you, you're smart. If this had been a game show like Tribute Trivia, you'd have gone home with the gold for how on-point your guess was. He pathetically tries wetting another washcloth and scrubbing his nail at the sauce on his walls, which, unfortunately, hadn't even remotely come off once in the past hour. Fine. Can't say he didn't try.
"Yeah."
"What do you mean, 'yeah', which one is it?"
"Which one do you think it is?"
"Well, you brought my guitar, so it could be the first.", you spit, sitting up on his couch, setting the pasta down. "But you also somehow hacked the phone lines so it's only incoming calls — from Plutarch — so it could also be the second."
Finnick stands at that, tossing the cloth into the washing before stalking over to the sink. "Who do you think I am?"
"A kidnapper."
"Yeah, I got that. I mean me. Who do you see in your mind when someone says 'Finnick Odair'?", he asks, running his hand under the faucet for a second before drying it.
You watch him make his way to the living room, watch the couch indent where he settles down onto it, opposite you. "I don't know."
"There's no right or wrong answer to this, honey."
"I don't know. You, I guess."
"Me, the person or me the concept?"
"You the concept."
"Right. But you know who 'me the person' is? It's a boy from District 4 that desperately misses the sea, and can't go a single day without a drink because he knows his District thinks he's a sellout. I hate the Capitol. That's who me-the-person is."
You bite the inside of your cheek, watching his face carefully for anything new. "Who from the District doesn't hate the Capitol?"
"I hate Snow."
"Again, you're not special, sweetheart. Everyone and their mother hates him. They just can't do anything about it because he's the President and he'll burn your house down or something."
He's not sure why this is turning into a competition. Maybe he needs it to feel like one, just so he can prove to you that he's not a sellout. That his being here, in this borderline kitschy apartment, has nothing to do with him. But to do that, to prove that he was deserving of your time, your trust, he'd have to tell you everything. And, uh, that's a bit above his pay grade.
So, new approach. He licks his lips, frowning down at you as he formulates his next sentence. "You know what I see when I see you?"
A subtle shake of your head.
"I see a promising young girl who refuses to give up her District identity for the Capitol. I see defiance. I see—"
"Oh, my god, you're trying to start a second rebellion." It's a whisper of surprise, a gasp of realisation, a musing of horror. "No, no, no, I'm taking NO part in this!", you yell, and he's standing up suddenly, trying to chase you away from the window, which may not be burdened by the same electrical field the door was.
Okay, he knew you were smart, but come on !
"Listen— hey! Listen before you refuse!"
"No, are you fucking insane?! I'm not putting my family on the line because some Capitol-bred Gamemaker wants to play god!"
"Plutarch is good! He's g— he's a good man, Y/N, alright? And we have the entire plan figured out. Entirely— hey, hey!", he grits, holding your arms over your chest so you couldn't flail about.
"I won't let you get more people killed! I won't do it!"
"We're making sure no one else gets killed, okay? We're not—"
"No! No, Haymitch warned me, he said Heavensbee tried this before, and—!" You're hyperventilating and he can feel tears on his sleeve.
"No, shh-shh. No. He failed, last time, but this time, we have something else, we have a Mockingjay, a poster, alright?"
"Who?!"
"Katniss Everdeen!"
"NO! She's a KID! You can't do that to her, no! I'll tell Haymitch!"
"He's IN ON IT! He knows! Everyone knows, and it's happening, everyone even JOHANNA is in on it, it's happening whether you like it or not! Okay?! Will you calm the FUCK down?!"
He doesn't like that you break down in his arms when he can't see your face and kiss your tears off.
He doesn't like that he genuinely doesn't know what to do anymore now that the lid is now blown off and you're less than impressed.
You're opposed.
Fuck.
Finnick thinks the lights of his apartment make you look younger. He thinks the stage lights that the Capitol sets up for all of your gigs and performances wash you out, age you up. He thinks his apartment's perfect for highlighting someone's actual age. The gold beams off your eyes and frames your face, like illuminating your youth.
It's been two hours. The sun's closer to rising , which is annoying, considering it was just about setting when he'd brought you home. Your silence does a very good job at illustrating the devastatingly consistent passage of time. Who cares if your world's crumbling around you? The sun will set. It will rise.
But he also thinks your silence is heavy, like you're holding back your words — no matter how sharp, how brazen — for someone more worth it. And all Finnick's wanted since he first laid eyes on you was to be worthy of your words, because you seem to have only valuable things to say.
"Hey."
"You're going to get that kid and her entire family killed. For some deluded dream of a free Panem."
Okay, whoa. You're not even giving him a minute to breathe.
"Hey. No. It's not like that. There were two Victors in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, do you know how insane that is?", he asks, with a sort of fascinated hiss to his tone, as he wipes tears and probably fears off your cheek. "It's crazy, okay? You know that. But she managed it. She's a symbol of hope."
"She's a child!"
"So was I. So was Johanna. So was Stele."
"Hey!"
"I'm—", he states, moving back with his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying. It's children they're taking from us, so what if it's our children who take from them? Him?"
"Children.", you scoff, shaking your head as you pull away from the subtle proximate comfort you'd both created by being knee-to-knee on his couch. "So I suppose this Heavensbee character has hidden shit from you, too."
Huh?
"What? No."
"Next year's the Quarter Quell. What is it exactly that you think's 'special ' about the Seventy-Fifth Games, Finnick?", you ask, and he's suddenly mentally backpedalling because yeah, actually. Good question. Heavensbee hadn't even mentioned it. He had no clue.
"What do you know and how do you know it?"
"If you think Heavensbee is just talking about making Katniss continue this marriage facade in order to get the rebellion going, then you're an even bigger idiot than you are sellout.", you scoff. He clenches his jaw. Fine, you're hurt and scared and you can't really beat him up, can you? So, you're doing the next best thing, he supposes.
"I'm not a sellout."
"Yeah? Then why are you here blindly holding me captive for a man that's constructing a deathly Arena that he plans on throwing already-reaped Victors into?"
It's like the wind just stops, you know? A moment, that's all it takes, and all the air particles freeze. The pulse in Finnick's vessels dulls into a mild throb, the breaths he'd been sharply letting out now still and cease. Because he's... he's got to go back in. Into the Arena. Again. After a decade. He'll have to go in.
"Oh, this Heavensbee character didn't tell you that? How sad. Now you know how I feel. Hurts, doesn't it? When someone you trust fucks you over and traps you where you can't escape?"
"You trust me?"
It's silent, this question, and did nothing to demonstrate the internal turmoil he was undergoing at that very moment, what with the re-exposure to traumatic events and all, but it's potent, it's salient, to him.
"Well... yeah."
"Why?"
"You're real. I thought I told you this."
"No, actually, you told me I was a sellout, that you only saw me as a concept!", he snaps, shoving you to sit back down onto the couch. "So tell me, how do I know this isn't just manipulation to get me to turn on Plutarch?!"
"I don't give a fuck whether you turn on Plutarch, Finnick! But you better fucking know that it's that kid's blood on your hands if this deranged plan fails. It's hers, that kid Peeta's, Haymitch's, Johanna's, every other Victor in that arena, as well as every single person in Panem who'll be punished for your treason! That blood's on your hands!"
"You think you're the epitome of a clean conscience? Well, news-flash, honey, every time you pluck at that stupid fucking guitar for a Capitol asshole, or every time you take a countdown cue for the Capitol cameras, your hands are fucking painted with red! Alright?", he spits, kneeling before you to be eye-level to glare at you better as he holds your hands down onto his couch. "You think wearing your District 7 garb is some form of silent sticking-it-to-the-man? Ha. The man's loving this little show you're putting on, because it's making him fucking money, sweetheart. You're only helping the system!"
"FUCK off!"
"You're as culpable as we are, honey, but at least we are trying to do something. You're just drinking and performing. You're the worst parts of both Abernathy and Trinket. And I'm the sellout.", he scoffs, softly, his fingers playing delicately with some of your hair before he puts it over your ear.
Truth is, Finnick doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth, but it's better to yell and insult and tear into someone else's psyche than confront the fact that he's supposed to go right back into the Arena once again. Sure, he'll know the layout because Plutarch will tell him, but how many times can he lose himself? If it's not the Arena, it's the booze. If it's not the booze, it's darkened, sickening rooms with the Patrons, and if it's not that, it's... it's the Arena again, now. He no longer recognizes himself in the mirror, and chances are, he may never live to even see one again.
So he gently leans back against the coffee table a short distance away from you, and you're in the subtle proximate comfort of the knee-to-knee again, except he's on ground-level with his knees propped up to tether himself to yours. And the two of you just sit there. In the chaos of the promise of the whim of the possibility of an impending rebellion, an upcoming Games, and a potential mass murder that costs thousands of innocents their lives.
"I hate you."
"The feeling's mutual."
Another silence.
Then : "Do you actually think I'm real?"
"I don't talk to people I don't think are real."
"I'm not a sellout?"
"You're not a Capitol sellout. You're a Plutarch sellout."
Finnick's eyes snap up to yours, running between them like his salvation was stored in the salt of your tears. Then, a small crook of the corners of his lips. A snort. Then a laugh. "I can live with that."
It's funny because he won't. He won't live with that. He won't live at all.
"How did you know Stele?"
"I only became frontman after he died."
Whoa. Ouch.
"What was he? To you?"
"Everything. Who did you lose?"
"My District partner. She was everything to me, too."
This is rich. This is funny. This is ridiculous. This is devastating. Two minutes ago, you were at each other's throats, threatening each other's conscience, sanity, morality and integrity, and yet, here you are. Reminiscing over loss like you've lived through each other's worst phases.
"Are you still hungover?", he asks, after a moment, tired, spent, breathless, tame.
His spiral's come to an end. It's a cavernous pit of despair and he's got no rocks to throw to see how deep it is.
"Yeah."
"Oh, we can't have that, can we?", he asks, scrambling up and making his way to the liquor cabinet to fish out something to drink.
"At least we're not day drinking anymore. Cheers, us.", you mutter, running your hands across your face until it reaches into your hair.
He squints up at the clock. "Hey, look at that.", he remarks, sitting down next to you on the couch as he pours some out for you. "You okay?"
"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay. You just told me something far too concrete."
"Yeah, well, so did you. But I trust you.", he declares, holding his glass up to you. "Sellout or otherwise. You're District. And that's something. To selling out."
He waits. It'll kill him swiftly and painfully if you don't accept this olive branch. Your eyes — fatigued, sorrowful and oh-so-fragile — meet his as you clink your glass with his.
VEGA I missed you buddy! Hope you’re doing well! I saw you took a hiatus and I hope everything is going okay if not better, I can’t wait to read what you just put out 😝😝
AHH HIHI
I'm so glad you're still around please don't go bald
And yes I'm better thank you so much for asking and I hope you enjoy whatever I've written ; I missed you so much as welllll
BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD. Once you're given this award, you're supposed to paste it in the ask of eight people who deserve it. If you break the chain, nothing happens but it's sweet to know so. I think you're beautiful inside and out, never forget to love yourself💝🌟
OMG OMG TALLY I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M JUST SEEING THIS I'M SORRY
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