does anybody have an ellie x reader fic where ellie's personality its at least CLOSE to her canon one + she's not treated like she is a man? i feel like ive read all the remaining good ones
Please please please do a nsfw part with Wireface, the latest story of him was so cute ;_;
Wireface x fem reader
NSFW!!
Notes: Thank you so much anon! I love to write for him since heâs such an interesting character. Could be stand alone but itâs a pt. 2 to THIS! so obviously pre established relationship. Red text is translation! #neededthat
Summary: youâd been stressed because of that vigilante showing up to test you. But wireface thinks of a way to help you relax during all of this
Shaky hand held up your gun with your pointer finger on the tigger âYou son of a bitch! Fuckass Visitor, thought you could trick me? Time to die bastard!â all you could hear pulling the trigger was your ears ringing as two shots came from both of your guns. You felt the thud, him hitting the floor, then finally the gurgling of blood in his mouth. You breathed heavily falling back into the floor. Only about a few seconds prior youâd show him your eyes. They were the tiniest amount of pink due to a lots things, lack of sleep, crying, the caffeine you were drinking just to name a few.
Well what was done was done, but you recall two shots being heard? Your ears rang as you examined your chest but to no avail. Youâd look down to your arm to see blood seeping into your sweater, the way the blue would mix into a dark red honestly scared you. then the pain kicked in. Felt like someone took a red hot piece of metal and laid it against your arm and wouldnât take it off. You sucked in through your teeth cursing softly to yourself as you took off your sweater looking at your wound. It definitely could be worse, you could have been dead by now but it still by no means was the best. You laid the swester on the wound, thankfully the one you always wore was washing.
You turned hearing a door open seeing wireface poke his head out. He must of heard the commotion and you not coming back worried him. He saw you sitting in the hallway with your swester off. In any other situation he would of blushed and turned his head away apologizing but the way you fought back your tears and bit down on your lip,, he quickly walked over to you and kneeled diwn next to you âQvhfh! Dszg szkkvmvw!ââJesus! What happened!â He held his hand out but didnât know where to touch you, help you. âGod it hurts so fucking muchâ you clenched your jaw looking over at him it was only a flesh wound so it didnât hit any major organ or hit your bones but it was still one of the worst pains you felt in your whole life. He placed his hand out but over yours which held the sweater and lifted it up looking at your wound. He then clicked his tongue his fingers light grazing the area which caused you to jerk your arm away from him. âHliib .. blf hslfow tvg yzmwztv fkâ âSorry .. you should get bandage upâ he placed a hand on your back whike the other one held your hand to help you up.
You soon sat on your toilet with your arm out while he disinfected your wound with the same hydrogen peroxide you used for his. It hurt like hell but as you said it to him before, it only get worse if we didnât use it. He started to bandage your arm, looking down at you concerned âWlhv rg uvvo yvggvi?â âDose it feel better?â He pointed to your wound before making an âokayâ sign. You shook your head âitâs awful. The pain is throbbing and it wonât calm downâ you looked away from him so he could finish up his work while you clenched your fist. You looked down at your arm then brought your hand to your arm leaning back against the toilet you sat on. You looked up to him you met his gaze, him staring at you making you blush a bit remember that you sat with no shirt on in front of him. You stood up and covered his eyes with your good hand with him gasping in response âSfs..? Ml! R dzhm'g yvrmt dvriw! R kilnrhv. R dzh gsrmprmt lu dzbh gl svok blf R hdvziâ âHuh..? No! I wasn't being weird! I promise. I was thinking of ways to help you I swearâ he mumbled pausing before speaking again âSorryâ he said with a thick accent
You sighed taking your hand off of his face. âItâs okayâ deep down you knew you didnât actually mind it. He was handsome and lately your mind had begun to wander when you laid in bed late at night with him. Both of you left the bsthroon after that. You were exhausted from your long night and aching, just wanting to sleep away your pain. You entered your bedroom and threw on a shirt before hitting your bed with a small groan as you laid on your back. He climbed in next to you and just stared at you for a bit before taking his hand to run it up yours in a soothing way. Then he grabbed your hands and kissed your knuckles, squeezing your hand lightly. You blushed again squeezing him back. âIâm scared, I thinkâ you admitted even if he didnât understand. Maybe thatâs why you admitted it in the first place.
He planted one more kiss on your hand before turning to lay on his side with you staying on your back. You got barely any sleep that night. Obviously since the wound was so fresh and you had no medication to soothe it you decided to call the same number you did for that blind guy to get some well needed medication. Maybe in the mean time heâd let you have some of his. You went around like normal even if you felt everything BUT normal. You didnât think anyone suspected anything which made you less nervous, you were the one people would look too for answers and help so you couldnât let them down. But that pain! It was persistent! Even though the pain was much better then yesterday it hindered you from your activities. Still, you had to make sure it wouldnât get infected especially during this time in life. And thankfully wireface was here for you.
Again, much like last night you sat on the toilet after a day of hiding your groans and complains while wireface tended to your wound. "Vevm rm lmv wzb R gsrmp rg ollph yvggvi!â "Even in one day I think it looks better!â He said in such a positive tone with you just looking down at it and shrugged yourself. It kinda looked to same, but you digressed. Your medicine came quickly after nightfall, thank God. some pain still lingered but that didnât even matter to you. You were lost in thought of a multitude of different things, your eyes wandered over him, his face, his body, his long fingers. He must of noticed cause he snapped his fingers and smiled âBlf ziv hfxs lmv gl hgzivâ âYou are such one to stareâ you smiled and sat up âsorry .. Iâm just distractedâ you mumbled up to him. He quickly bandaged you back up and you threw your shirt back on over yourself. You took a good look at his own wounds briefly, they been looking so much better these last few days! You smiled again âthey looked so good. There far from done healing but theyâll get better soonâ you nodded leaning away from his face âand um thank you for helping meâ you slowly grabbed onto his hand mid sentence with him looking down at it before back at you. He picked on a few words staying with you, âthank youâ being one of them and could only guess what you thanked him for.
He held your hand back squeezing it as well âBlf'ev svokvw nv, xlfow R mlg wl rg yzxp?â âYou've helped me, could I not do it back?â His other hand cupped your face before pressing a small kiss onto your head. Your pulse stumbled, tripping over itself at the warmth of his lips on you. Itâs all youâve been thinking of these couple of days and you loved it. You wanted more. You pressed your cheek to his hand while he softy rubbed your cheek. A warm, intense feeling tightened in your abdomen. Of course you werenât stupid, you know what it was. His deep voice, his long hands, the way you were shirtless in front of him only a few seconds ago made you ache and you knew what you wanted, who you wanted.
You made it back to your bedroom soon enough and tucked yourself into bed feeling a bit unfinished. you laid on your side and closed your eyes decided to just push down your sensation while you felt him shuffle into bed as well, but however this time you felt arms wrap around you. Your eyes shot open and your eyes looked down, his thumb ran over the same spot along your shirt, his chest pressed up to your back. He snuggled himself tightly into your shoulder, maybe he felt bad for you or maybe he was scared about you, you didnât know bit you knew you still felt that feeling inside of you. You loosened his grip slightly and rolled onto your back, he lifted his head and body to look down at you sligjtly confused âDszg? Wlvh blfi zin sfig ztzrm? Li wl blf mlg orpv nv zmbnlivâ. âWhat? Does your arm hurt again? Or do you not like me anymoreâ. Your hands wandered up into his purple curls, your hand to the back of his head. Now he blushed slightly wondering what kind of thoughts went through your mind. Though, based on how youâd been acting around him he could assume. He felt your hand slightly push to the back of his head that went down to your face. he leaned down and kissed your lips, his eyebrows furrowing as you carefully kissed him to make sure you didnât hurt him.
He then leaned back and touched his lips making sure everything felt alright then leaned back down and kissed you again. You licked on his lip as he invited your tongue into his mouth. Your hands continued to stroke his hair with your thighs now pressed up against eachother. He saw so and brought his hand down from your waist to inbetween your legs. He leaned his mouth back from yours and started to kiss along your neck while his hand gave you light pressure with your thighs squeezing around him again. He took his hand out from you and started to lead his hand under your shirt âXzm R .. fn gzpv rg luu?â âCan I .. um take it off?â He said to you tugging at your shirt. You blushed and sat up nodding whike he lifted your shirt up and over your head. He looked down at you, his hands landing on your waist just caressing the skin. He led them up towards your bra and looked at your face for a sign of not wanting this, however he couldnât find one and started to unclasp your bra with his mouth kissed along your shoulder, Moving his mouth down once he got your bra off.
You sucked in through your teeth lightly whimpering every time he kissed and lightly sucked along your nub and chest. He laid you down and kissed along your stomach before making it to your jeans. His hand pressed against you making you inhale sharply. Just before taking off your jeans he leaned uo again towards you and tilted his head âBlf ziv lpzb bvh?â âYou are okay yes?â You nodded quickly âGod yes I more then okayâ you undid your jeans and he slid them down along with your underwear. You sat there, suddenly your confidence from only a moment ago was gone and you laid there with your legs pressed together, him staring down at you. His hand went your your hip as his other one spread your legs open, placing one off to the side and one over his shoulder. The breath you held in quickly got knocked out watching him dive down into you. You were already wet from arousal but a different kind of wetness licked up your cunt making you moan. His hands grabbed onto your thighs with his tongue finding and latching itself against your clit. He sucked on it lightly seeing what pressure and make you squirm the hardest.
He started slow just testing the waters with how you were. Inside it was killing you, you needed that pressure to be released sooner or later and you preferred sooner. He got your memo hearing a more then whiny noise come from you and started to run his tongue up and down your bump a couple of times before pressing up on it and sucking against it, that especially made you tug at his hair hard. His eyes looked to your face watching every expression, seeing what made you furrow your eyebrows and twitch. He watched at your eyes widened as he slipped in his pointer and middle finger in. He immediately started to curl his fingers on you making you clench. This tight feeling popped up inside of you. Your fingers tugged at his hair again with the back of your hand pressed up to your mouth. His speed got quicker hearing you talk oh so breathlessly, he couldnât understand a thing but he knew he was doing something right if you were acting like that. Your walls started to hold his fingers tighter and he knew you were about to come undone. He mumbled into you, the vibrations making you see stars as one last muffle cry escape you as you came, your body stiffening.
His pressure softened but still lingered as you rode your high. Your body relaxed and you breathed heavily as he removed himself from you, his chin and fingers soaked from your release. He leaned over you again his hand at your waist with his face smiling âDszg z dlnzm blf zivâ âWhat a woman you areâ he kissed your lips and you did back tiredly. He then got up and moments later returned with a wet towel, his face and fingers were already wiped. You just laid back while he spread you open again and picked up some of the juices and spit you both left.
He go your jeans and underwear and slid them up you before laying next to you much like prior. You stared at him and he stared at you, you could his cheek sgain and leaned close to him âif anybody, Iâm glad itâs you I met during this.â You laid your head against him just feeling so thankful for him. His kindness and him making you forget about your issues even for a second âR ivzoob drhs dv xlfow fmwvihgzmw vzxslgsvi..â âI really wish we could understand eachother..â he sighed bringing his hand to your hair lightly petting it before closing his eyes âDszgvevi, gsrh rh urmv gll. R fmwvihgzmw blf vmlftsâ âWhatever, this is fine too. I understand you enoughâ
pairing: finnick odair x reader (afab, rare/no use of y/n, female pronouns are used)
word count: 14.5k (sorry)
warnings: the usual hunger games warnings (violence, child murder, prostitution, etc). also smut (fingering, p in v, oral (m receiving)) mdni -- pretty pls!
summary: you're both victors â him from four, you from eight â assigned to mentor tributes from district nine who lack a mentor. you hate him because he played the role so well, accepting the gifts and glory of the capitol with a wide smile and charming words. unbeknown to you, the feeling is not mutual.
a/n: crashing out because of sunrise on the reaping so i wrote this.
DAY TWO â THE OPENING CEREMONY
It had been too soon since you'd last seen him, six months ago at your victory celebration in the Capitol. The circumstances were vastly different now, but the routine remained the same.
Physically, you were feeling your very best: strong and healthy, plucked and scrubbed and painted to perfection. But your prettiness, and all the work your prep team had done to your face and body paled in comparison to the unattainable beauty of him.
He, of course, was Finnick Odair, the person next to you subtly coughing and dragging you from your own mind and into the real world. You chose to ignore the cough, knowing who it was from and that he was doing it on purpose.
âI know you can hear me,â the voice said in an almost sing-song voice. No response, you wouldn't give him that. âYouâre standing right next to me.â Again, silence. âI know youâre just ignoring me now, Iâm not stupid.â
âCouldâve fooled me,â it slips out before you realize youâre supposed to be ignoring him, which only infuriates you further. Defeated, you turn to face the person with a voice so irritating you were about to commit a crime.
âHa! Knew that would work,â Finnick smiled, showing off perfect rows of pearly white teeth. He was so perfect it was infuriating. You noticed, with an ounce of satisfaction, that his canines were razor sharp, sharper than most, and his front teeth stuck out from his lips ever so slightly when he smiled. It felt nice to know even the great Finnick Odair had flaws. Even if they only added to his charm, it made him imperfect, human.
âWhatever, Odair,â you rolled your eyes, trying to brush off the fact that he knew just how to get under your skin. It worked every time.
âWhatever, Odair,â he mimicked, raising his voice several octaves in a poor attempt to imitate you.
You were going to kill him, you were sure of it. Grab that stupid statue next to you of a soldier with a sword, and fashion it into a weapon of your own.
âEasy there, sweetheart. I can see you plotting already⊠so just remember, weâre supposed to be working together on this,â Finnick let out a chuckle as your eyes flashed in frustration, not because of what he said, but because he was right. You two were stuck with each other, whether you liked it or not.
âYou two!â A high pitched, accented voice snapped, which you instantly recognized as Phaedra Day, the District 9 escort. âPlease, come meet the tributes before the parade!â
Immediately you dislike her. Aside from her obvious disregard for her tributesâ wellbeing â thatâs obvious from the way she shoves the two children forward â sheâs the pinnacle of Capitol excess, and it shows everywhere. All the cosmetic surgery sheâs had over the years gives her face an overly full effect, like a stuffed turkey.
Sheâs got this awful orange hair, not like the lovely ginger color youâve seen, no, this is as bright as the flames of a house fire.
Her makeup, you think, is the worst of all. Itâs hard to pull off orange eyeshadow, orange blush, and orange lipstick, and Phaedra is definitely not the exception. You suppose itâs meant to compliment her hair, but it just looks clownish.
Finnick greets her with a kiss on each cheek, and comes away with two orange splotches on both his own. You decide then youâll hang back and let them do the talking.
âWell,â Phaedra nudged the two tributes forward. âThey're your mentors, they're not going to bite. Introduce yourselves!â
âHi.â The girl couldn't be older than twelve, with sandy brown hair, bright green eyes, and a smattering of freckles that made her look even younger.
âEulalia!â Phaedra clicks her tongue in disapproval. âYou canât have expected them to remember you from the reaping, and that is not a proper introduction! What did we practice?â
The girl â Eulalia â straightens her back immediately, the curious, childhood look in her eye fading into something somber. âIâm Eulalia Overfell, Iâm twelve years old, and Iâm from District 9.â
âNice to meet you,â you force a bright smile on your face, hoping this girl can't see the sadness in your eyes. You're rooting for her already, sheâs your tribute, but you know realistically her chances are so very slim. You introduce yourself and look expectantly at Finnick, who seems like he's busy cozying up to Phaedra instead of paying attention to who actually matters: your tributes.
âFinnick Odair,â he rolls his eyes in a dismissive gesture, as if waving away the pointed glare you'd been shooting in his direction. âBut Iâm sure you already knew that.â
You give him another look that you hope can only be described as shooting daggers.
Then he surprises you â sticks out his hand and greets Eulalia like a proper adult, giving her his undivided attention. âItâs nice to meet you, Eulalia.â
Itâs so unlike the eye roll and bored tone he used with you; heâs done a complete switch in a matter of seconds.
âMiller,â Phaedra gives him a pointed nudge, reminding you thereâs another tribute. âGo on.â
The boy wears a brooding expression, brown eyes dark with distrust and hate, refusing to open his mouth.
Phaedra sighs, like sheâs been dealing with this all day and expecting no less. âThis is Miller Keene, he's fourteen. He has yet to learn his manners, so don't mind him.â
She shoos him away like a fly buzzing around her head, and focuses all her attention on the two of you. Or maybe just Finnick, by the way she's batting her lashes and twirling a strand of her hair. âYou know, Iâm just so glad that I have you two for this year! Old Mazie was absolutely dreadful company! I mean, she could barely hold a conversation. Always muttering to herself in the cornerâŠâ Phaedra sniffed in displeasure, then turned back to Finnick. âI look forward to working with you.â
âThe pleasureâs all mine,â he flashes her a smile that's borderline seductive. You're about to object that this whole thing feels inappropriate when Phaedra is gone, rambling about finding the District 9 stylists and how they're never going to be on time at this rate.
You feel gross and uneasy in her presence for a number of reasons, however harmless she might appear. One, because of the way she was looking at Finnick, like sheâd devour him in an instant. Two, because Finnick didn't even look bothered by the attention, no, he seemed to relish it. Three, because you knew of Mazie, of her story: sheâd been driven mad during her games almost fifty years ago from a cumulation of starvation, dehydration, and witnessing multiple deaths right in front of her. Phaedra never had to worry about something every parentâs worst fear in the Districts. She had no idea how heartbreaking it must be, to lose your child once in the Reaping and then twice upon returning home.
Her comment also makes you wonder why Finnick was chosen for the task of mentoring tributes that were not his own. I mean, it made sense theyâd give the tributes to you; you had no experience and the Capitol likely didn't care. But Finnick? The Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling? Wouldn't he be of better use mentoring his own tributes?
You zone out a bit, curious to be on this side of the parade â it was only last year you were preening in a chariot just like your tributes were now.
Unfortunately, your tributes didn't stand out in any particular way. Youâd been chatting up a storm with as many people you could find, but none seemed interested in taking such a huge risk on two tributes who were not likely to make it past the bloodbath. Finnick had spent all his time with Mags, the aging District 4 mentor, and the Capitol citizens with her, instead of being by your side.
Right now youâre watching him as he talks with what you think is one of his many admirers, though you doubt heâs doing it in favor of Miller or Eulalia. No, her hand is squeezing his bicep and sheâs laughing a little too hard for the conversation to be about sponsorship.
You feel a tug on your arm and tear your gaze away from Finnick and down, to find Eulalia slipping her hand into yours. You murmur a quick hello, unsure as to why sheâs requesting your attention, when she whispers, âIs he your boyfriend?â
âWhatâ oh, definitely notââ You splutter, your cheeks burning. âNo, what would make you think that!â
She shrugs, âI dunno. You just keep staring at him. When my sister had a boyfriend, all she did was stare at him.â
âIââ How could you explain to a child that you were essentially slut shaming him in your head for not doing his actual job?
âEveryone stares at me, Eulalia. She just recognizes perfection when she sees it.â Finnickâs somehow snuck up behind the two of you and overheard everything, which is mortifying. Heâs grinning at you, placing his hands on Eulaliaâs shoulders while she giggles.
âFinnickâs a little self obsessed, don't mind him,â you say as you tug Eulalia back to your side, intent on leading her and Miller back to the tribute penthouse before he can bother you two any more.
When the two tributes are fast asleep, you whirl around to face Finnick, who has the sense to look a little bit worried at the anger etched into your features, though he still retains the easygoing air about him. His body leaned against the doorframe of his room â coincidentally across from yours â with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes surveyed you with an air of caution, waiting for whatever storm that's been brewing in your brain.
âThis is not something Iâm doing alone! They were eating me alive out there, and you were gone!â
âRelax,â he sighs, dropping his arms so they now rest at his sides. âIâve done this before, yâknow. I know what Iâm doing.â
âIt didn't look like you were doing anything, honestly!â
Your heart is racing now, palms sweaty as the weight of responsibility comes crashing down on you all at once. His nonchalance bothers you even more. You wish he'd show a sliver of actual human emotion, not this cocky, flirty personality that leaves no room for anything else.
But itâs his, âgrab a drink, honey, and calm downâ, is what really sets you off.
âLook, if you want to do⊠whatever it is you do with all your Capitol friendsâloversâwhatever, do it on your own time! Not when weâre supposed to be securing sponsors!â You whisper-shout, careful not to wake either Eulalia or Miller.
His mild expression melts into something unreadable. You think a hint of anger flashes across his face for a split second, but itâs gone before you can confirm if itâs real or just a figment of your imagination. Youâre leaning towards the latter, because youâve never seen Finnick angry before.
âYou have no idea how lucky you are, do you?â He scoffs without bothering to give you a second glance as he retreats into his room.
âYou better be here tomorrow at breakfast to help them before training!â You call after him, but he doesn't respond, just slams the door shut behind him.
It felt good to get a reaction from Finnick, but now, in the silence that followed, you couldn't help but feel a bit bad. Confused, but also guilty â your last comment had certainly struck a nerve. But what did he mean by lucky?
Lucky to be in charge of training two children who were bound for death? Lucky for your grandmother to die while you were in the arena, leaving nobody left in your life to care for you? Lucky for your friends to have all but abandoned you once you'd returned, off put by how much you'd changed?
If anything, he was the lucky one. He had Mags, who cared for and loved him like her own son. He was adored by everyone in the Capitol, and had a string of lovers that trailed behind him, ensuring he would never be lonely.
It was time to face it â maybe your anger towards him was misplaced and rooted in something else entirely. You were jealous of how he was surrounded by people admiring and loving him. It was something you yearned for so deep inside your chest it hurt.
DAY THREE â TRAINING
You were up before the first light, dedicated to making today better than the disaster known as yesterday. You were busying yourself before the rest of your ensemble awoke, pressing powders and creams into your skin, tickling your lips with a painted brush, and penciling in details that would make you seem up to date on Capitol trends without appearing too gaudy.
Soon you begin to hear the stirrings of everyone else in the apartment â Phaedraâs loud, obnoxious voice rang much louder than the quiet chatter of Miller and Eulalia as she directed them towards the dining room.
By the time you sat down for breakfast, almost everyone was there: both tributes, their prep teams and stylists, and Phaedra. The only one absent was Finnick, whose empty seat was directly across from you.
âI know you must be nervous,â you began, noticing how neither tribute had touched their food. âI want you guys to go to as many stations as you can, okay? Not just the weaponry â the survival stations really came in handy for me last year.â
Eulalia poked at her scrambled eggs with a fork, face pale and filled with concern, not disinterest. âEveryoneâs a lot bigger than me.â
You weren't sure what to say to that, because it had never been an issue for you. Youâd been eighteen upon your Reaping, and there were only two mouths to feed in your home: yours, and your grandmotherâs. Sheâd owned a tailor shop, and while the two of you were never wealthy, you never battled real starvation. Compared to the tributes you had faced, you were fully grown and only slightly malnourished, like all district children were.
A scrape of the chair legs against the floor alerted you to the fact that Finnick had arrived and was taking his seat, saying, âSize can only go so far. Youâre small, but you're quick. Use that to your advantage.â
Of course he would know something about that; he'd won his games at just 14, the youngest ever victor in the history of Panem.
âWhat about weapons?â You look towards Miller, surprised that heâs saying anything at all.
âWell⊠there will be stations that can teach you, find one that comes easier than the rest andââ
âYouâd probably be pretty good with a scythe or pitchfork,â Finnick interrupts you like you werenât even there. âIâm assuming, at least, since you're from District 9. Grain and all.â
Miller nods, sinking back in his chair as if to muse over what Finnick has said.
âWell,â you cleared your throat, shooting a pointed look at Finnick. âYou shouldn't count on unusual weapons being in the arena, and tributes are rarely gifted their weapons of choice, even if theyâre exceptionally talented.â That last part was a dig at Finnick, and you study him from the corner of your eye, hoping heâs just as annoyed as he makes you. You know it's petty and childish, but you're still upset about last night.
Of course, he doesn't give you the satisfaction. âThe gamemakers want a good show more than anything. If you see something in the training center that you think youâd be good at, practice and use it later for your private session with them.â
âDonât show off your skills in front of everyone,â you interjected. âYou don't need to become a target.â
He finally turned to you, his voice laced with displeasure. âWell, they're already targets, sweetheart. They're going to be in an arena full of kids trying to kill them.â He turned back to Miller and Eulalia, who were both staring with wide eyes that shifted back and forth between the two of you. âListen, the more practice the better. Focus on the weapons, itâll give you the best chance.â
âWell, I was just telling them to go to all the stations, actually. Most tributes die from natural causes.â Youâre trying not to grit your teeth for the childrenâs sake, but heâs making it exceptionally difficult by going against everything youâre saying.
âOkay, thatâs fine and all, but I donât thinkââ
âWell, I think they should be heading down now to the training center! Don't want to miss a moment of such valuable time!â Phaedra interrupts Finnick before it can turn into a full scale argument between the two of you, shooing Miller and Eulalia out the door before either of you can protest.
âWhat's your problem?â You ask Finnick once the room is empty.
âMy problem?â His voice is brimming with disbelief. âYouâre the one who's had a problem with me since the beginning!â
âIâm so sorry,â you almost let out a laugh at how ridiculous he was being. How could he not realize it? That he was a traitor to the Districts, and you weren't obligated to like him. âIs this the first time someone's ever disliked you? I mean, I know you're probably used to being pampered by all your Capitol buddiesâŠâ
âThere you go again,â the muscles in his jaw suddenly have his mouth sealed shut with tension. âYou make all these assumptions about me, and you haven't even bothered to ask if any of them are true. Do you know what Iââ He cut himself off, glancing around the room like he's looking for someone. Or like he's being watched. âNevermind.â
His fork clatters against his plate as he pushes his chair back abruptly, before heading off to his room.
Well, he was right about that. You did have your assumptions, but they were all based on everything you'd seen the past couple of years on live television.
Dinner is perhaps more awkward than breakfast, mainly because Finnick and Phaedra don't bother showing up, so it's just you, your tributes, and their stylists.
Making conversation is painstakingly difficult, mainly because neither of them seem to have much to offer to the questions you ask them past a nod or a short âyesâ or ânoâ. Not that you blame them â no, that would be entirely unfair.
Youâd spent the day alone in the Capitol, chatting up various people who'd sponsored you or were known to be particularly generous in past games. But it seemed like no one was willing to take a risk on a small twelve year old who looked no older than ten, and a brooding boy who wouldn't offer so much as a grunt to anyone.
âYou'll have tomorrow and the following day in the training center,â you started. âBut the last day is when they start to do the private sessions, so tomorrowâs your best bet to lock down any skills you've been working on.â
Eulalia nods. âThe trainer at that foraging station said I was really nifty with plants,â she offers, but in a way that you suspect is meant to try to cheer you up more than anything.
âThat's great, Eulalia!â You beam at her, because you remember the worst part of the Games â keeling over as sharp stabs of hunger plagued your body, while your throat turned as dry as sandpaper.
She asks to be excused the same time Miller stomps off to his room, leaving you alone in the living area of the penthouse.
I need a drink, you sighed softly to yourself, finding a near empty bottle of wine from dinner and pouring some into the same glass youâd used.
You turn the television on, flicking through the channels of awful reality shows, Panem news updates, and of course, recaps of previous Hunger Games in preparation for the 70th.
Youâve seen this one beforeâ it's the one where the arena was a snowy forest, the freezing temperatures killing off nearly all the tributes in the first few days. Youâre so engrossed in the recap you almost don't hear the door opening.
You do hear Phaedraâs loud laughs echoing down the hall from the entryway, and turn back to see her stumbling through the door. Finnick is right beside her, offering you a tight smile as he guides Phaedra, who has to be drunk, with one hand, and holds her heels in the other.
Not my problem, not my problem, not my problem, you repeat the mantra in your head, hoping your attention will go back to the TV in front of you.
You weren't drunk (you decided youâd want to be shot the day two glasses of wine inebriated you), but you were a little tipsy. Just a little. Enough for your filter, but not your inhibitions, to be gone.
The now empty wine bottle sat pitifully on the coffee table next to your equally empty glass, as if begging to be refilled. Since itâd been almost empty when you'd scavenged it, you weren't too far gone. Not far gone enough.
You happen upon the kitchen in search of another bottle as Finnick re enters it, not sure whether or not to make polite conversation or ignore him.
He makes the decision for both of you, âHowâd they do today?â
âAlright,â you shrugged, biting back a jab about him not helping you during dinner. An awkward pause follows before you realize you're meant to give him something back, so you add, âEulaliaâs got a knack for foraging.â
âThat's good,â Finnickâs clearly in his own world and paying little attention to you, searching the fridge for something to eat instead of asking for an Avox to do it.
Heâs so lost in thought, saying absolutely nothing to annoy you, that you realize, for the first time, how young he is. Youâd always associated him with being much older, since he had so many years of experience on you.
But his features were just so quintessentially⊠boyish. There were no lines on his face like there were so many other tributes, save for the small indents where his dimples popped out when he smiled. He was tall and lanky â not awkward with his long limbs, but like he still had time to grow into broader shoulders. His face, although perfectly chiseled and sculpted to perfection, had a fullness to his cheeks that could only be thinned out with age. The only thing that felt fully grown about him was the deep frown etched into his face at the moment, like he was worrying about something a nineteen year old wasn't meant to.
âI thought we already talked about your staring problem,â his voice is low and smooth, bringing you out of the trance you'd been in.
âI was just⊠observing,â you say, embarrassed at being caught in the act. You were just curious to know more about him, and whenever you spoke you seemed to stray further and further from that objective.
âUh huhâŠâ He squints his eyes at you, like he's studying you as well, to figure out what's going on in your head.
âTry to show up on time tomorrow.â It felt foreign to have a conversation with Finnick without it resorting to an argument, so of course you had to ruin the moment. âTheyâve only got a day left before the private sessions, and I think⊠I think they could use your experience. And I think Miller likes you, for whatever that's worth.â
A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. âAn insult and a compliment in the same sentence, all wrapped up in a bow just for me,â his teeth were beginning to poke from his lips, transforming his face into a full on smile. âYouâre spoiling me.â
There was another beat of silence before you say goodnight and rush back to your room, hoping tomorrow will be better â it seems like that's become a daily wish before you fall asleep. One day it'll get better.
DAY FIVE â PRIVATE SESSIONS
Everyone was fast asleep in their rooms, the house silent save for the low murmur of the television as you watched an interview recap from previous years, a notepad in hand. You were trying to decide if it was a good or bad thing that neither of your tributes had nothing to make them stand out. With mediocre training scores, your job was turning more into an impossible task than ever.
The elevator door dings open, and you know it can only be Finnick, since he'd yet again left right after dinner.
âWhy are you still up?â you ask as he passes by, though this time he doesn't bother slowing down and heading straight for his room.
âJust⊠preparing for tomorrow, I guess.â You notice his lips are inflamed and smudged with a lavender shade of sparkly lipstick, glitter trailing down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His eyes are just as puffy as his lips, red rimmed and glassy, but all that pales when you see the long, rather deep scratch on his chin. Itâs still bleeding slightly and trickling down the same path carved by the glittery lipstick, disappearing beneath his shirt and leaving a slight stain against the white.
Your instinct want you to jump up from the couch and ask what's wrong, any disdain you have towards Finnick melting away for just a brief moment. You're not even sure why, but maybe it's because this is the first night in several days he's left after dinner and not returned until late.
âAre you okay?â It slips out before you can suppress the humanity in you entirely. It had to be the blood that was making you ask.
He doesn't respond, save for a short nod, and slams the door behind him. You're left feeling disgruntled at what you saw. Whoâd hurt him?
You went back to your interviews, but your mind remained distracted by what youâd seen. Youâre trying desperately to return to the state of engrossment youâd been at before you were interrupted, but it was no use. With a sigh you shut the television off, rubbing your eyes that were growing heavy with sleep. Youâd just passed the door of your room when you heard a loud clatter of something against something ceramic, followed by a quiet fuck.
âFinnick?â You called softly, uncertain.
âIt's fine, Iâm fine,â came the hurried response, though it was accompanied by a hiss of pain.
You decided, against your better judgement, that you were going to investigate what all the commotion was about. As quietly as you could, you opened the door to his room and tiptoed towards the adjoined bathroom, where the soft glow of a light under the door crack gave away his location.
âFinnick? Are you okay? Iâ Iâm coming in.â You wait for any sign of protest, but upon hearing none, take a deep breath and open the door.
âI told you,â he said through gritted teeth, leaning towards the mirror in front of the sink. âIâm fine.â The countertop was scattered with clutter, colognes and lotions and other knick knacks. There seemed to be an array of things thatâd fallen into the sink as well, which explained the clatter youâd heard earlier.
âHoly fuck that looks horrible!â You blurt out, then instantly wish you hadn't said anything. The small scar was now oozing more blood than before, dripping down his face and neck. He hadn't bothered to wash off any of the glitter either, so now he just looked⊠well, horrible. As horrible as someone with Finnickâs face could look, which still rivaled you on your best day.
âThanks,â he said dryly, not even turning to look at you, still obsessing over the wound on his chin. âYou can go now.â
âYouâre doing it all wrong,â you blurted out as he wiped at his chin with a cotton pad, which only further irritated it. âHere,â you made your way towards him, grabbing a gauze from the first aid kit he'd opened and carefully turning his head to face you, pressing the gauze gently into to the wound.
He didn't say thank you, but he wasn't protesting, either. Just watched you from the mirror out of the corner of his eye.
âHowâd you get this? It looksâŠâ nasty, â...bad.â
The smile that appears on his face is rueful. âCapitol trends have gotten a little wacky lately,â he begins, and then hesitates. âSome people have cat claws instead of fingernails nowadays.â
Oh. So it was one of his lovers? It certainly didn't look like he was okay with it, but what could he have done to warrant such a reaction?
You threw the gauze in the trash, craning your neck to get a closer look at the wound, before reapplying more. âThat⊠that sucks.â
You want to ask him how exactly he acquired this, but something tells you he won't be forthcoming in his answer.
âYeah,â he huffs, âIt does.â
âYouâre probably going to need stitches,â you squinted at the cut. It was precariously deep; you wondered why he wasn't more vocal about the pain he must be in. âYou can probably go to one of the hospitals in the Capitolââ
âNo,â he says abruptly. âAbsolutely not, I don't⊠I don't need that right now.â He pauses, âCan you do it?â
âOh, I don't think Iâmââ
âIâve seen you stitch before. Saved your own life with it,â he says softly, and you're suddenly embarrassed and flattered at the same time. He remembered your games? Where youâd stitched 17 and a half stitches into your own stomach, passing out before the 18th had been completed, just as the trumpets began blaring.
âBut this is your face, this is likeâŠâ you splutter, hands beginning to tremble, â... a national treasure! I don't want to fuck it up, theyâll have my head for sure.â
âYou just keep showering me in compliments.â A real, genuine laugh passed from his lips, and you're surprised at how different it sounds from the one he gives when Phaedra makes an awful joke, or when a Capitol woman lays her hands on him. This one is sweet, melodic almost.
âJust⊠are you sure?â You tug at your lower lip, drawing blood by how hard you bite.
He nods, so you lead him to sit on the toilet, and stand in front of him to get a closer view. The circumstances are much better than they were in your arena, but it's still far from ideal. You, a wannabe seamstress with minimal experience, should not be working on a face famous for his exceptional looks. This could all go so wrong, and you didn't even like him as a person, which made it worse, because if you didn't like him, then why were you so nervous to fuck it up?
You get to work soon after, trying desperately to calm the shaking of your hands.
You wet a washcloth under the sink and bring it to the wound, patting it carefully. Gently, you move the washcloth down to his neck, wiping away the glitter that stained his bronze skin. He didn't object, just sucked in a sharp breath as you tugged the collar down, revealing an angry but fading purple bruise and wiping the cloth over that, too.
The silence is so, so loud. Yo turn to grab an antiseptic, the quiet hisses of pain making you pause before he urges you to continue swiping it across his chin. One hand gently cleans while the other rests on his cheek, allowing you to move and angle his face to best suit your needs for the task.
Aside from that, there's nothing, not even an insult or two thrown either way.
Like when he'd been in the kitchen he's zoned out, allowing you to take a closer look at him.
His eyes, glazed over and off into some far off place, were a perfect representation of the ocean; mostly green with a light blue mixing together to form a beautiful seafoam that people always claimed to get lost in. He had that youthful look about him, the frown he wore had melted away into an almost relaxed expression, which was odd considering the situation he was in.
You continued to work in silence, taking an extra long time to clean the wound to avoid the stitching for as long as possible.
He let out a hiss of pain as the needle pierced his bronze skin for the first time, to which you immediately jumped back and said, "I'm sorry! I can stop, just tell me when you need a break. Please."
He shakes his head ever so slightly, in silent approval for you to continue. "It's fine. Just do it."
Your fingers steadied after the first stitch, like a natural instinct summoned all your grandmother's teachings and flooded them through you.
It was over quickly, but you forced him to remain still, busying yourself with preparing a dressing so you didn't have to acknowledge the way his eyes followed your every move.
"Just hold still," you said quietly, pressing the cream to his chin and leaning in ever so slightly to make sure every inch of your stitches were slathered in ointment.
When you step back to take a look at your handiwork, you feel like somehow you're overstaying your welcome.
You didn't like how the bathroom had grown hot and stuffy, didn't like how his eyes had gone from glazing over to staring intently at you and never leaving.
You didn't like how his hands, which had been resting motionless on his lap, had started to fidget with the loose fabric of his pants, occasionally brushing against your legs, which were pressed up between his â as you worked on his chin, of course.
And you especially didn't like how whenever his fingers accidentally brushed against the skin of your legs, you felt like jumping out of your skin.
"Change it tomorrow," you instructed, clearing your throat. He nodded, watching you leave.
DAY SEVEN â THE INTERVIEWS
Today had been no better than the last one, or the one before that. The only thing was different was that you and Finnick had gone an (almost) two full days without getting into any squabbles, which was a big improvement. Even Phaedra commented something about civility at dinner.
Heâd also made an effort to help Miller and Eulalia prep for the interviews; he was so loveable in the Capitol it only made sense for him to take the reins on this one.
Youâd tried to help when you could, adding in tidbits of information that you thought could be useful. Phaedra even chimed in once in a while, whenever she would wander back to the penthouse in between her very full day of⊠whatever she did. Certainly nothing useful.
Now, night was just beginning to fall, and only you and Eulalia were sitting on the couch watching the interviews. Miller hadn't even bothered to stay past mealtime, and Phaedra and Finnick were off doing who knows what.
Both tributes had remained entirely unremarkable, and while that was not to their advantage, it wasn't to their disadvantage either. They were brushed off as tributes certain to die in the bloodbath, nothing more, and as much as that angered you, you understood why people thought that way.
âYou should go to bed, Eulalia. You have an early morning tomorrow,â you said once the interviews had concluded. You felt that alluding to the fact that she was headed towards her death was a better thing to do than outright say it.
Eulalia nodded her head, though she didn't make any moves to leave. âIâm scared to go to bed,â she admitted after a long moment. âI⊠I think Iâll have nightmares.â
âI know,â you purse your lips, remembering how you felt the night before your own games. âBut you need sleep, you'll regret it tomorrow if you don't even try.â
With a resigned nod she stands up, making her way slowly into her room.
Then, it's silent on the District 9 floor, empty in the living spaces save for yourself.
Youâre halfway through a much needed massage of your temples when you hear the door creak open and assume itâs an Avox, until you open your eyes and see Eulalia running out of her room with a terrorized expression frozen on her face.
âEulalia!â You jump up from the couch and run to her, âWhat happened? Are you okay?â
âI had a nightmare,â she whispered, eyes as wide as saucers.
âAbout tomorrow?â You asked, a hand on her shoulder and trying to coax an answer out of her.
She nodded, her bottom lip wobbling for a moment before she immediately burst into tears. âI miss my mom,â she let out with a sniffle, her little body shaking from the sobs that began wracking her body.
You could almost hear your heart smashing on the ground in a million little pieces. You were there in an instant, on your knees to be at eye level with her as you held out your arms. She didnât hesitate, burying her face in your shoulder and continuing to sob, which only broke your heart further.
âItâs okay, sweet girl,â you said in what you hoped was a soothing voice, trying hard not to let a tremor seep in. âItâll be okay.â Now youâre just lying to her, an evil voice in the back of your head snaps.
She clung to you like a lifeline, her small hands wrinkling the silk of your dress but you couldn't bring yourself to care.
âIt was so scary,â she hiccuped, âI didn't even make it past the bloodbath.â
You pried her hands from your clothes so your own could find her face, thumbs gently gliding over her tear stained cheeks. âYou are so brave, remember that, okay? And remember what Finnick and I have been teaching you, and youâll be okay.â
Her sobs turn into small hiccups as she listens to your words, trying to make the rational part of her brain take over. But she's so young, and she's feeling so much, it's only a moment before the tears explode once more, and she's inconsolable.
You wish there was something you could do, but all that comes to mind is helping her back to bed, a proper routine despite it being in the middle of the night.
The door open and Finnick walks in, stopping short at the sight of you two curled on the floor of the living room. His eyes widen when you mouth the word nightmare, Eulaliaâs face still buried in your shoulder.
âHey, look!â You said as brightly and spinning Eulalia around to look at Finnick. âWhy don't we both put you to bed?â
Eulalia nods, still sniffling, and says, very meekly, âOkay. Finnickâs strong.â She says it like he'll protect her from her own mind. Then she straightens up. âCan we please stay out here? I hate my room, it's so dark and scary andââ
âOf course,â Finnick spoke up. âYou know, the night before my games, Mags made a pillow fort for us in the living room.â He begins to drag pillows from your room, his room, and Eulaliaâs room while you tend to her.
You take time to brush her hair before your fingers twist the long locks into two loose braids. Her sobs have quieted down again, her eyes closing on themselves as sleep began to lull her.
The two of you crawl under the couch, which Finnick has done up with pillows and blankets to make a true fort that eases Eulaliaâs fears just a bit. Not enough to coax a smile, but enough to quiet her sobs and hiccups.
âPlease don't leave,â Eulalia begs, looking slightly embarrassed, but it's clear she's too tired and worn down to fight the embarrassment completely.
âOf course.â You tuck the blanket under her chin, trying not to let the rising bile in your stomach spill from your lips. She was just a baby, with little tear stained cheeks and deep circles under her eyes. Too young to be weighed down with the possibility of imminent death the next morning.
You lay down next to her, still in your finery from the interview day, but you don't even let that bother you anymore.
Youâre so focused on Eulalia you don't even notice Finnickâs been by both your sides the entire time, settling down a little ways away from the both of you, with Eulalia in the middle.
Sheâs fast asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, even snoring softly as she cocoons herself into your side.
When you wake, the sun is streaming through the cracks in the blinds. Eulaliaâs gone, the only trace of her being the dried tear stains on your dress and the mess of blankets and pillows around you.
Your heart is heavy as you go through the motions of getting ready, allowing your prep team to do what they pleased. Youâd be in the Capitol all day starting in an hour, watching the games.
DAY EIGHT â THE HUNGER GAMES
The night dragged on without an end to what had been a torturous day, which had passed at a snailâs pace that had only added to its misery.
Despite everything, all your blood, sweat, and tears, Miller didn't make it out of the Cornucopia. Not like you'd thought there would be a different outcome; he'd made it clear he didn't want to give anyone a show, he just wanted to die. He'd been slaughtered by a Career not even thirty seconds into the Games. Eulalia had surprised you, her face not projected onto the sky next to Millerâs, grabbing a pack by her feet and racing for the mountains.
That didn't mean you weren't miserable and drowning your sorrows in a bottle.
âI need another glass,â you decided out loud to no one but yourself, mustering up the balance to rise from the couch and head over to the kitchen and make the drink happen.
âEasy there, sweetheart. I don't think being hungover is a good look for sponsors. Especially since you seem to know best,â a small chuckle sounded behind you, scaring the ever loving shit out of you and causing you to drop your wine glass on the floor.
âShitâ What the fuck, Finnick?â You almost shouted, before realizing you had two sleeping children down the hall. âI thought you'd be out all night again!â You lowered your voice to a hiss as you crouched down to pick up the larger shards, not knowing if there was an Avox around at this time of night.
Finnick had been leaning casually against the doorframe until he heard the glass shatter, and was by you in an instant. âMy plans ended early,â he offered little more than that.
You let out a sudden cry of pain as a shard sliced your palm open. The blood, dark and red and warm, immediately sent you into a panic.
Your heart quickened, a strangled cry barely managing its way past your lips as you were thrust back into the arena like you always were. Other peopleâs blood you could handle just fine, but the sight of your own caused your vision to become slightly blurry, from dizziness or tears you weren't quite sure.
Then, a palm on your shoulder. Grounding you, bringing you back to the present. Youâd cut your hand on a broken wine glass, you hadn't just murdered a child. You were in the penthouse as a victor, not as a tribute. Blinking back tears you looked up at Finnick, whose hand was still on your shoulder, and stood up abruptly. You hated the look of pity in his eyes, it made you sick. You didn't need pity from someone who was contributing to the very system that made you like this.
You were about to open your mouth, lash out at him to distract from the pain of your hand, when an Avox melted from the shadow and hurried to clean up the mess youâd made.
âWe should fix that up,â Finnick suggested gently, cautiously â like you were a wounded animal â his hand trailing down to the small of your back and gently guiding you to a bathroom. Normally youâd be brushing him away, because in what world would you accept help from him.
But you didn't have the strength to argue. Not when it was the night before. Not when Miller was dead and and Eulalia would soon follow. You simply nodded and let him lead you to the bathroom in his room, your head on autopilot as you stood leaning against the cool marble of the countertop.
You remembered being here a couple nights ago; things had remained the same except now your positions were reversed.
âDidn't think I was that sneaky,â Finnick joked as he looked around for first aid supplies, trying to fill the awkward silence.
âDon't give yourself so much credit, Odair,â you rolled your eyes, the quip making you feel slightly more normal. This was what you did. Show him you hated him through petty jabs and dirty looks. The past few days had been too pleasant for either of it to last.
âOh?â He raised an eyebrow, holding your wrist and gently examining the cut to make sure there were no glass splinters. âThen what was so interesting you didn't hear me open the door?â
âMy brain. Duh,â you huffed, hoping he couldn't smell the alcohol on your breath.
âYour brain, or the wine?â Finnickâs eyes, that beautiful green flecked with blue that you pretended not to notice, were lit up with laughter.
âMaybe a little bit ofâ ow!â You yelped, trying to pull your hand away from whatever was making it sting so bad.
âOh relax, don't be a baby,â Finnick kept a tight grip on your wrist so he could work, gently cleaning the wound with an antiseptic. âI know you've handled much worse.â
âI was so much nicer to you⊠This shit still hurts,â you grumbled under your breath, trying not to think about the last part of his comment. Yeah. Youâd faced much, much worse. But perhaps the softness of the Capitol had grown on you, and you were becoming less and less accustomed to hardship. âOh my god!â You exclaimed in horror. âIâm turning into you!â
This gave him pause. He had discarded the alcohol wipe and was reaching for a cream when he stopped. âIâm assuming that's not a compliment, coming from you⊠so tell me, what does that mean?â
You laughed, then hiccuped. âIâm getting soft! Iâm letting all this nice stuff in the Capitol blind me from every horrible thing Iâve ever experienced at their hands.â
Youâd meant it as more of a lighthearted jab than anything, but heâd gone completely still as he looked at you. His eyes seemed to darken, erasing any traces of blue or warmth, leaving an unreadable expression behind. Your eyes trailed down to his jaw, which was now clenched.
âIs that really what you think of me?â He asked softly. So softly, you thought youâd imagined it. It was then you noticed how close his face had gotten, forcing your neck to crane up and meet his gaze as he towered over you, your back pressed against the sink counter.
âI mean⊠yeah, sort of,â You shrugged. âPeople adore you here. I mean, look at all the gifts! All your friends and girlfrââ
âI hate the gifts. And theyâre not my friends. Or my girlfriends,â he cut you off sharply. âYou don't know⊠just⊠nevermind.â
His grip on your wrist tightened as he applied the cream, his movements slow and his eyes glued to your hand as to avoid eye contact.
âIâ I don't know,â you admitted, watching his nimble fingers work expertly to wrap your hand. He exhaled sharply but didn't respond, pretending to be absorbed in his work.
âAll done.â He dropped your hand and took a step back. Already you felt his body heat disappear from you, but it wasn't a warm welcome. You just felt cold. And mean.
âWait, Finnick,â you grasped onto his wrist with your good hand, stopping him in his tracks and forcing him to look back at you. âExplain it to me.â
You wanted to know what he meant, and perhaps you felt a little bit guilty for the genuine hurt you'd seen in his eyes. One of the many assumptions you'd made about Finnick Odair was that he was immune to feeling anything but cool and charming.
He looks around for an escape, nostrils flaring and his palms closing and then flexing. Those famous sea-green eyes get that faraway look you've seen only a couple times.
Selfishly, you take time to notice the features you hadn't absorbed before. You observed veins of his forearms that ran up and disappeared behind his sleeves, where the muscle of his biceps were barely concealed through the thin material of his shirt. You even took notice of how his bronze hair seemed to match his skin, the pearly white of his teeth making his sun drenched tan even more striking.
âI won't judge you,â you say quietly, stupidly, because that's pretty much all youâve done.
He seems to see the irony in your statement too because he laughs, coldly. âIâd tell you if I believed you even a little bitâ but all youâve done is judge me for things out of my control.â
âYou're right,â you inhaled sharply, though it pained you to admit you were wrong to his face.
There's a long pause before he speaks again.
âPresident Snow sells meâ my body. To the Capitol citizens. Those gifts⊠theyâre pity gifts from people who buy me. I don't love any of them.â
Out of all the things you thought could come out of his mouth, that arrangement of words was something you could never even imagine.
âOh.â Think of something better to say, you fucking idiot! You began cursing yourself for such a bland response, but nothing could compete with the overwhelming guilt that was rising in your chest.
Every awful, horrible, vile thought you'd ever had about Finnick Odair was based on the assumption he liked the Capitolâs attention, relished in it. But they wereâ theyâŠ
He took your lack of response as a dismissal. âYeah, told you. Your handâs fine now, so I think you can go now.â
âNo, wait, Iâm sorry!â You hurried to correct your response. âI didn't meanâ I just didn't know he did that.â
It suddenly occurred to you that he might be listening in on your very conversation. Finnick sees your realization and shakes his head. âWeâre fine in this room.â
âOh.â Now you can't stop thinking about every awful, horrible thing you'd ever thought about Finnick, every malicious word youâd spat at him was now resurfacing as a bitter bile in the back of your throat. âOh my god, Finnick, I had no idea, Iâm so sorryââ
He cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. âI don't need your pity. There's nothing I can do to change it, heâll⊠heâll hurt Mags if I try to say no. I just wanted you to know so youâd stop looking at me like that.â
Suddenly his words make sense. Lucky. Because in a way, you had no one left you cared about, no one Snow could hold over your head. You were lucky, so lucky in that sense, you didn't even know it was a possibility.
âI know you don't want pity, but I really am sorry. Not just for your situation butâ for every awful thing Iâve ever said to you. I would've never said any of those things if I knew.â How do you begin to bring up why you felt the way you did? That you were so incredibly jealous he could lead a life full of luxury and companionship?
âThanks,â he shrugged. âYou didn't know. How could you? Everyone you loved was already dead by the time Snow got his hands on you. Youâre lucky for that. Once Mags goesâŠâ Then Iâll be free, is what you're certain he wants to say.
There's a lapse in the conversation and you just stare at him, talking him whole in a completely different light. You don't even care that he's staring right back at you, when normally you'd be embarrassed with his undivided attention.
âWell thank you. For fixing up my hand.â You raised your bandaged hand up and saw a slight smile cross his face.
âJust returning the favor,â he responded simply. âCan you let go of my hand now, or are you planning on hanging around all night? Not that I mindââ You dropped his hand like it was a burning coal, much to his amusement.
âCan we⊠start over? Please?â You asked, feeling like a little kid on the school playground again. âAs friends?â
âAnd here I thought we were friends all alongâŠâ He sighed dramatically.
âForget it! I take it back!â You rolled your eyes and shuffled your feet in an attempt to bypass his large frame blocking the doorway, when his hand slid down to your waist.
âI was being serious! Weâve always been friends, since the day we met. You just didn't know it yet. You had to go through a mean streak.â His eyes bear into yours and suddenly the fingers splayed across your waist feel like burning embers against your skin. His eyes, that always remind you of the ocean, feel like they're setting you aflame with the intensity of his gaze.
âAlright, now you're just being dramatic,â you huffed after a moment, sidestepping him and heading towards the kitchen. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk, trying to focus on the ground in front of you and not the way your heart was beating so rapidly, like it was determined to leap out of your chest and run back towards the bathroom. Towards him. Your mind traced back to that drink youâd been in search of when Finnick scared you.
Every trace of your mess was gone, from the broken glass to the drips of blood that had threatened to stain the carpet. You rummaged around the cupboards for another bottle of wine, sighing in frustration when your search came up empty.
âItâs on the top shelf,â Finnick appeared out nowhere again, causing you to jump.
âYou have got to stop doing that!â You whipped around. âDidn't you learn from literally ten minutes ago?â
He put his hands up in self defense, though a ghost of a grin outlined his features. âIâll try to remember. For next time.â
âCan you grab it for me?â You asked, surprising even yourself as you looked back at him standing in the hallway.
With a nod, Finnick crossed the space between the two of you into the kitchen. Instead of asking you to move, you felt a feather light touch at your hip as his hand ghosted over your dress. You could now feel the heat of his body radiating on to your back, could feel the light, warm breaths he took as he stood for a moment before reaching above you. With a gentle firmness, he scooted you over so he could strain to reach the last of the wine bottles.
You sucked in a breath as you felt his chest against your back, sturdy and warm, and resisted the urge to lean into him. You were so tired of being strong for your tributes. You wanted someone to protect you, tell you everything would be okay.
But you didn't have that. Not anymore. Ever since your grandmother had died youâd been all alone â alone on your Reaping Day, alone on your victory, alone now.
âRed or white?â You felt Finnickâs lips almost brush against your ear, snapping you out of your morose thoughts and sending a shiver down your spine.
âUhâ Iâ you choose.â
The heat was gone just as quick as it had arrived, and the rest happened in a blur. Before you know it you were one, two more glasses into the newly opened bottle, your cheeks flushed from laughing and your body hot from the alcohol.
Ugh, how did you even hate him? He was so funny. And pretty. Especially his eyes. Had you mentioned how pretty his eyes were?
âI think Iâve heard it from everyone but you, to be honest,â Finnick chuckled.
âOhâ did I really say that out loud?â You hiccuped, now entirely sure you would fully overheat.
âYeah,â he grabbed the glass from your hand and placed it on the coffee table in front of you. âNot to ruin your fun, but you should probably stop now. Itâs⊠a big day tomorrow. You need to be ready. For Eulalia.â
âRight.â Suddenly the lighthearted atmosphere turned somber, like all the joy in the world had been sucked from the room. Your head was still heavy and dizzy, but you no longer felt as if your lips were so loose.
The two of you take your drinks to the couch, where you see a glimpse of Finnickâs real personality. He's still charming and confident, but not in a cocky way. He's surprisingly sweet, and somehow remembers everything about you. No seriously, everything. Things you hadnât even mentioned directly to him or anyone around you, but from your interview and the interviews from your former friends once youâd reached the final eight.
In turn, you tried to learn more about Finnick, the real Finnick, and not the persona he put on. You learned his mother and father had died when he was young, just like you, and that he'd trained in the Career Academy in 4 as a poor substitute for finding a family. He found it in Mags, whoâd been the closest thing he had to a mother, friend, mentor, and grandmother all in one.
âDoes it get easier?â You asked after a particularly morbid joke about the Hunger Games.
Finnick shakes his head. âNot really. You just get more used to it,â he hesitates before continuing. âIt's like grief. You just think about it less often, but it's always there. And when you rememberâŠâ his voice catches in his throat. âIt hurts just as badly as when it first happened.â
âWell that fucking sucks,â you sigh, downing the last bit of your wine, earning a laugh from Finnick.
You chat a bit more about things that don't even matter, but there's something that continues bothering you as you talk.
âI really had no idea,â you blurt out, repeating yourself for what seemed like the millionth time that night. Youâd apologize a billion more before you felt even an ounce less guilty.
âI know,â he says simply, and that's what you like about talking with him. He doesn't brush it off, say everything you said is okay, but he doesn't blame you either. He just accepts it as is.
âHow'd you get so⊠okay about all of this?â You asked him.
He ponders for a moment, like heâs never really thought about it himself. âIâm just desensitized, I think. I care about Mags, and as long as she's safe⊠I can deal with the rest of it.â
âAnd if something happens?â You can't help but ask.
He shudders slightly. âI don't think youâd recognize the person you become.â
âEvil? Insane?â You half joked.
But he's not smiling anymore, and the glazed over look in his eye has returned. âNo. More like damaged beyond repair.â
Oh. Well isn't that a morbid thought. Another question suddenly pops into your mind. âWhy are you telling me all of this? I said all those things⊠I hated you up until like⊠four days ago.â
The smiles returned, though this one is unlike any one youâve ever seen before. It's genuine and sweet but it's so, so sad. âIâm lonely, I guess.â
That hits you right in the gut because youâre lonely, too. So lonely.
So the two of you decide, at least for the night, to seek company in one another's loneliness.
DAY NINE â THE HUNGER GAMES, CONT.
Your mentoring had been cut short early into the second day. Eulalia, who'd done everything right, had been killed by a pack of bat mutts, who'd descended upon her while she sought shelter in a shallow cove in the mountains. With their huge wings and even bigger talons they'd dragged her off deeper into the cave system, though not before youâd witnessed them ripping out chunks of her flesh.
It was so bloody and gruesome youâd run off in the middle of a conversation and thrown up your breakfast.
That's why you were in the bathroom stall, leaning against the cool ceramic of the toilet and not caring how disgusting it was. You felt sick, so sick to your very core, wishing that Eulaliaâs nightmare had been her reality instead of whatever had just unfolded before your screen.
All you want to do is go back home â not back to the tribute apartments, not your house in the Victorâs Village, but home. The little, shoebox apartment above your grandmotherâs tailor shop in 8. It was tiny but it was cozy, perfect for the two of you and always smelling like the home you were now longing for.
But that's not an option. The most you could get away with was showering and retiring for a few hours, returning after lunch. You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt and force yourself to stand, wobbling a bit on your heels.
When you walk out the door youâre greeted by Phaedra, whoâs got a sour expression on her face.
âOhâ there you are. Can you believe this! Day two and Iâm already done for the rest of the Games! Why didn't you train them better! Oh, I bet Finnick probably distracted youâ not that I can blame you, but you could've been a little less selfish!â You realize now that she's drunk, but that doesn't stop the anger boiling in your stomach at her comments.
She's probably one of the Capitol citizens buying him for her own pleasure. Your lip curls in disgust but you have the decorum and common sense not to make a scene.
âIâm sorry you feel that way,â is all you end up saying. This just causes Phaedra to scoff and push past you.
Today is the worse day of your life. So much worse than your Reaping Day, than your victory tour, than anything. Because this time, it's your fault.
When you walk back to the apartment, it reminds you more of a graveyard than anything.
Finnick seems to think the same; you're not sure when he came back but he's sitting on the couch with his face in his hands.
There's nothing you want to say to him. Nothing you can say, really, but he says something that forces you to listen anyways. âIt's better this way.â
âHow,â you gasp in disbelief he could say something so horrid.
âThe alternative would've been worse for her.â And suddenly it dawns on you what he's thinking, he says it at the same time the thought comes to your mind. âShe would've turned out like me.â
âShe was only twelve, they wouldn't haveââ
âI was fourteen,â he cuts you off, though not harshly. If anything he seems pained. âThey said they waited until I was sixteen, but they lied. For their own consciences.â
Yeah, now the conversationâs over. You make your way to your bathroom, trying as hard as you can to compose yourself, make yourself feel just the slightest bit human.
It doesn't work; you spend the rest of the day feeling like a zombie, laying on the plush mattress of your bed and not moving. The goosefeather pillows are so comfortable it has the opposite effect you desire, only reminding you more that youâre in the Capitol.
You only know it's become nighttime when Finnick comes in because the sun of midday and sunset have both passed, fading into a deep twilight that remains. All you want to do is sleep, wash away this horrid day with a good nightâs rest, but you can't. You remain paralyzed on your bed, studying the intricate carvings of your ceiling, counting how many little birds there were in a row.
âGlad to see you're alive,â Finnickâs voice is grounding and familiar, but also a reminder of what has happened the past two days. Of who youâve lost and how you lost them.
âBarely,â you groan without lifting your head to look at him, a numbness overtaking your body as you're brought back to reality.
âI told you it'll get easier,â he said, âthe first ones are always the hardest.â
The bed dips and you can feel Finnickâs body heat radiating off of him, but you don't move, donât. even turn your head to look at him.
âI know,â you sigh, defeated. âIt just kills me that I can't do anything about this.â
There's a long moment before he responds, âI know. I hate feeling powerless, too.â
It's nice to lay with him, have him articulate every emotion you're feeling without even having to tell him anything at all. It's comforting.
Youâre not sure how much time passes before you hear Finnick rustling around, and ignore it until he's tugging on your wrist. âI have an idea.â
You hope he's going to whisk you away somewhere so incredibly far from here, but your journey stops at the pillow fort youâd created two days ago. It feels like a memory frozen in time, too painful to look at but too painful to move.
Youâre not even sure why youâre doing this, subjecting yourself to feeling your grief so strongly. When the two of you are comfortably settled into the fort, it's as if you're thrust back in time. It feels weird, but not unwelcome. Youâre lying flat on your back like you were earlier, beginning to count each thread in the plush blanket.
âI don't even know why I feel like this! I barely knew them â I spoke like, four words to Miller!â
âBecause you're human,â he responds almost immediately, rolling over and propping his head up with his hand. âIt would be weird if you didn't feel so bad.â
You suppose he's right. Not mourning them at all would make you no better than the Capitol citizens betting on and cheering for tributes.
Youâre burning alive. You pound on the door to the oven, begging and screaming to be let out, until your vocal cords are fried. You try to move, but it's such a tight fit you can't help but squirm uncomfortably, feeling restrained.
Let me out, let me out, let me out! You scream into oblivion, but no one hears you. It's just you, the oven, and a pile of burning embers that crackle and pop as they get hotter.
Stop moving, the oven groans, starting to shake you.
Then let me out, you struggle harder against the straightjacket that binds you.
Go back to bed, the oven grumbles again.
Wait â the oven?
You wake with a gasp with sweat dotting your forehead, desperate to inhale gulps of cool air.
What a weird dream, you think sleepily, the stuffiness around you making you feel as if youâre melting.
You remember, then, that youâre sleeping in a pillow fort, which has to be trapping all your body heat within the confines of the blankets and pillows. All you want to do is fling the blanket off you and strip yourself of the pajamas that stick to your skin like wet paper. And move away from this stupid heated pillow. Who even has heated pillows?
With a groan, you move to throw the blanket off you and sit up, only to find your arms trapped against your body. Now youâre a little more awake, blinking the sleep from your eyes as they adjust to the darkness.
âHas anyone ever told you about your sleep habits?â A very familiar, very human voice rumbles against your ear. âBecause they suck. You move around so much.â
Oh.
You were not confined to a straight jacket. No, those were arms you had examined carefully when he wasn't looking, studied the smoothness of the tan skin, the muscles rippling underneath when he flexed to tighten his grip around your waist.
His arms circling your waist, tugging you closer.
His voice, causing vibrations in the chest that was currently pressed against your back, repeating the voice of the oven in your dreams.
âWhâ what are you doing,â you whispered, relieved your voice was working but hating how unsure you sounded.
âDunno⊠kinda just woke up like this,â he yawned, not moving. âThink this means Iâm irresistible even in my sleep.â
It's nice, but weird. His voice is heavy with sleep, making it sound deeper and rougher than it normally is. That, combined with the way his arms, corded with muscle, don't leave your waist, and the firmness of his chest⊠it makes your heart beat at an astronomical pace, your breath quickens, your knees weak.
âYouâre trembling.â He's propped up on his elbow again, his fingers drawing small circles up and down your arms in a motion that's meant to be soothing, but it just makes you want to squirm.
Every fiber of your being is vibrating, all the emotions of the past week finally catching up with you in this very moment.
Youâre not sure when the energy shifted, but it's gone from something warm and compassionate to something far more serious.
He loosens his grip enough for you to roll over onto your back, the breath catching in your throat at the intensity in his gaze. Yet again youâre reminded of the ocean, letting those sea green eyes with flecks of blue swallow you whole.
When you speak, your voice is shaking like the rest of your body, your words muffled with unspilled tears. âIâm so tired of being lonely, Finnick.â
âThen don't be.â Without hesitation, his lips dip down to meet yours, and it feels like you've jumped head first into a frozen lake, then dipped into molten lava the way you're both shivering and on fire at the exact same time.
They're warm and soft and they feel like the home you've been craving, and itâs crazy you could ever think otherwise. His hand reached up to cup your face and glide a thumb over your cheekbone, the rest of his fingers tangling their way into the hairs at the nape of your neck.
As he pulls you impossibly closer, the kiss deepens and you can finally taste him. Itâs so new it just makes you hungrier, like youâve been starving your whole life until now.
It makes you feel alive again.
You whine as he separates from you, then quickly change your tune as his mouth reattaches further down. The sensation of his cool teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck, followed by the warmth of his tongue elicits a moan which he quickly swallows with another kiss.
You want him more than anything youâve wanted in your entire life, you're sure of it.
Still connected, your hands trail down the exquisite planes of his chest to the ridges of his abs, marveling at the hard muscle and how they flex instinctively with each touch.
He's just as touchy, mesmerized by the softness of your skin as his hand slips under your shirt and inches its way up to the underside of your breath, stopping immediately when you let out a soft gasp.
He whispers your name, coaxing the two of you apart just long enough for him to look at you. Really look at you â not just as an enemy, or a fellow mentor, or even a friend. He stares at you like you're the only other person on the planet, the only one that ever mattered.
The intensity of these emotions startle you and you instinctively draw back, because how can you feel so strongly for someone youâve known for so little time?
âAre you okay?â He asks immediately, his hands leaving your body and leaving you not only cold, but wanting more.
You nod earnestly, âI just got overwhelmed for a secondâ Iâm good. You don't have to coddle me.â
He shakes his head. âI'm not coddlingâ Iâm just making sure this is something you want to do.â
You remember then, the conversation youâd had with him about Eulaliaâs death.
And I was fourteen when it started, but they lied about that too.
Suddenly you feel illâ no, selfish. Your hand immediately retracts from its place by his torso. âIâm so sorry, I should've askedâ I didn't even thinkââ
He cuts you off with a kiss, a sweet and gentle thing that eddies all worries from your mind. You doubt he's ever kissed anyone with such tenderness before, especially since he's said his only encounters have been with Capitol citizens. âIt's okay,â is all he says.
This time it's you who surges forward and closes the gap, desperate to make up for the lost seconds you'd spent talking.
If you were going slowly and sweetly before, pulled back by hesitation, it's all gone now. Finnickâs fingers unfurl from the back of your neck and trail down to your hips, pulling them flush to his own. You felt his desire for you then and there, evident through the thin material of his pajama pants, and suppressed a shudder.
He continues grasping at your hips until he finally rolls flat on his back with you on top of him, head bumping against the blanket roof of the pillow fort.
One slow rock of your body against his and you know it's all over. âPleaseââ you beg, your earlier conversation still on your mind though you were desperate not to let it ruin the mood. âTell me to stop and I will.â
His fingers gripped your hips even tighter, staring at you like you were ethereal. âI don't think Iâd ever ask you to do that,â he admits, which only makes you blush harder, on top of the heat you were originally feeling. You kiss him again, desperate for the feel of his lips on your own.
Your hips rolled more forcefully this time, earning a moan from Finnickâs lips that barely escaped past your own. He broke the kiss for a moment, only to tug impatiently at the thin shirt that did little to cover your hardened nipples, which had grown sensitive to the slightest touch. Once the shirt was off and he was in full view of your newly bared skin, he reattached your lips immediately, then broke the kiss yet again to stare. He shifted you easily so that he was more in a sitting position with you on his lap, his back pressed against the bottom of the sofa behind you.
You felt slightly embarrassed at this and the way his sea green eyes roamed your skin, devouring every inch that he came into contact with.
It seemed like he was completely in tune with your mind, always knowing what you were thinking without you saying anything. âYou're so beautiful,â he whispered, swallowing hard before bringing his hands up to your chest. They were large, warm and a welcome contact against your breasts, which were aching for something. You arched your back towards him, desperate for more, more, more, and let out a sigh of pleasure as he kneaded them between his hands before bringing his mouth to your chest.
He trailed open mouthed kisses around the swells of your breasts, teasing you as his tongue before taking one nipple into his mouth.
You don't think you can wait honestly. You're certain youâre a wet mess beneath the silk of your pajama shorts, so desperate to feel him you want to skip everything else.
Finnick seems to be keen on taking his time though. When his hands leave your breasts and trail down to the waistband of your shorts, you stop him, shaking your head ever so slightly.
âNo,â you remove his hands and urge him to lie flat on his back, wetting your lips in anticipation. âI want to say sorry.â
âSorry? For what?â he looks at you through half lidded eyes. When you plant a kiss on his collarbone and suck a hickey onto the hard planes of his chest, his eyes immediately widen as he lets out a groan. You can feel his heartbeat increase rapidly as your kisses descend downward, taking your time to kiss every freckle, every scar, everything imperfect that makes him so much more real.
One hand tangles itself in your hair when you reach his waistband and palm him over his pants, while the other fists the blanket next to him as he tries to regulate his breathing.
He can't help it though, as his hips buck involuntarily at your touch. You know it's just his bodyâs reaction but it makes you feel desired; something you haven't felt in a long, long time.
Your fingers hook into the waistband of his pajama pants and boxers, a little nervous at the sight that awaits you. It's long and thick and already glistening with precum, twitching as you wrap a hand around his cock and truly feel him for the first time.
âYou don'tââ his eyes flutter shut, like doing anything but moaning requires great effort ââhave to apologize for anything.â
âFinnick,â you laugh a little. âI want to.â
He seems to like this answer, his head falling back on the pillow behind him as you flatten your tongue and run it along the underside of his cock.
Heâs so obviously into you thereâs no time for any insecurities to cross your mind. It's given you a new state of confidence as you take the head of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue around and lapping up the bead of precum that had gathered. Finnickâs hip twitch, like he's fighting the urge to thrust up into your mouth.
You don't want him to hold back, not even in the slightest. You want to see him completely unraveled at your touch, which is why you squeeze his hip and look up at him through your lashes.
âFuck,â he gets out through gritted teeth, the hand in your hair tightening its hold as you begin to move, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, determined to take him deeper with each one.
âYou're soâ Iââ he can't even muster a full sentence as you moan around him, sending vibrations down. It's addictive, having so much power over him while also wanting so desperately to please him.
His hand that's in your hair pulls you back from his cock.
You begin a protest, âI wasn't doneââ
âI need to feel you,â he chokes out, fingers still locked in your hair as he brings your head towards him. Your lips crash together in a perfectly synchronized move as he sits up, flipping you over so that your back is now the one pressed against the blanketed floor.
Despite his eyes being so wild with desire, Finnick is so, so gentle as he connects your lips together once again, this kiss being so much more searing than any of the ones you've had before.
He wants you, so bad he thinks he might die if he doesn't get you. But when he looks down at you, eyes wide and wanting, he knows there's no need to rush, because he has you. All of you.
His hands fumble with your shorts before he pulls them down your hips, tossing them to the side before returning his full attention to you. His hands tease you as they pry your legs apart, trailing slowly up your legs and rubbing small circles along your inner thigh.
âStopâ teasingââ you squirm, desperate for something, anything he could give you.
âPatience is a virtue, you know,â he grins, his hands sneaking up further and further until they've just barely brushed your clit, but it's enough to have you whining again.
âFinniââ he cuts his name off with a kiss, this one just as sweet as the rest of them. At the same time, he connects fully to your clit, rubbing slow, tantalizing circles that have your hips bucking for more.
He takes this as an invitation to sink one long finger into you, enjoying how your back arched as you chased his touch. After more slow, easygoing pumping he added another finger.
âThat's it,â he coos, his eyes never leaving yours.
You realize at this point neither of you have been very chatty â but that's probably because you prefer to have your lips connected, not spilling out ramblings.
âPlease, Finnickâ I can't wait any longer, Iââ You let out a moan as he adds a third finger, and you can feel the familiar tingling sensation begin to take over.
âYou can do it,â he coaxes, âJust a second."
You try, you really doâ but when he curls his fingers inside you and presses his thumb to your clit the coil unravels and you're gripping his shoulders, crying out his name as your fingers rake through the soft bronze waves of his hair and tug on them ever so slightly.
You inhale and exhale quickly, trying to regain your composure. He's looking at you with a self satisfied smile, but you're not satiated. You want him, all of him, and you tell him so.
This time he obliges.
He leans in and kisses you once more, tongue sliding past your lips, and you can feel his cock pressed against you. He's hesitating again, half wanting to make sure you're okay, half trying to reassure himself it's not a dream. It's real, he's about to be inside you, and you're practically begging for it.
In an act of finality you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer until in one thrust, he's done it.
It stings, and you gasp, only because it's been a while and his size takes some getting used to. His fingers grip your thighs as gently as he can muster, his lips never leaving yours.
âFuck, you feel so good,â Finnick groans, burying his face in your neck and peppering kisses along your collarbone.
His pace is slow and steady at first. As it becomes more comfortable, his pace becomes more relentless, his hips snapping against yours as he fucked you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you breathless, sending scratches down his back and marring his otherwise perfect skin.
His thrusts increase in both force and in pace as you feel every inch of him filling you.
You're overwhelmed with pleasure, unable to say anything and resorting to just squeezing his shoulders and digging your nails into them.
His lips find yours for the millionth time, and it's then you can feel that all too familiar pressure building.
âThat's it, sweetheart,â he panted between kisses. âYouâre so perfect â squeezing my cock so good.â
You can't muster a response as the overwhelming pleasure of your second orgasm overtakes you, not even noticing Finnick continuing his pace to chase his own release.
You feel him as he collapses on top of you, pressing a soft kiss to your neck before he rolls off you. You're empty and cold for a moment before his arms wrap around you. Their weight is a welcome presence. It makes you feel protected. Safe.
He falls asleep before you do, and in the pale morning light, not only is Finnickâs face relaxed, it's truly weightless. His arms don't move from your torso, even in sleep. His eyebrows occasionally twitch in response to whatever dream he's having, but overall he looks so peaceful. So much younger, too, without the frown or seductive smile he normally wore.
It's then that you decide youâre no longer as lonely as you thought, because you need to study him for the rest of your life.
Youâve never been inside the Presidentâs Mansion. Itâs even more intimidating than the grounds that surround it. The walls are tall and imposing, making the rooms feel empty and chilled and making you feel tiny and insignificant.
Theyâre decorated with wood paneling, hand carved with so many details it makes you dizzy trying to look at them all. Plush rugs just as ornate as the walls cover the dark wood of the floors, making your steps â and anyone elseâs â near silent.
âYour home is beautiful,â you breathe out to the man in front of you. He doesnât look that intimidating, but you are on the verge of screaming in terror if he doesnât say something soon.
âThank you, my dear. Itâs a shame you havenât gotten the chance to visit before now.â President Snow motions for you to take a seat in front of his desk instead of continuing to stand there awkwardly.
You fumble your way into the chair, and you hope he canât hear your heart threatening to leap out of your chest and explode all over his beautiful carved oak desk.
âHave I done something wrong? Likeâ am I in trouble?â You force out the question thatâs been eating you alive.
He smiles, the corners of his mouth pushing into his puffy cheeks. âHow did you find mentoring with Finnick Odair to be?â
The way his smile doesnât reach his eyes terrifies you, but not more than the fact that he hasnât answered your question. The way his eyes, beady and cold, are staring at you expectantly suggests he knows everything that happened in the tribute apartment. Everything.
âOhâ it⊠it was fine.â Your nails are now digging into your palms, probably strong enough to draw blood.
âIâve heard you and Finnick Odair have come to a newfound⊠friendship.â
Your blood runs cold, confirming every anxious thought youâve had since stepping foot into this place. âWeâŠâ
He raises a hand to stop you, like heâs not interested in any excuses. âIâm sure he told you how he helps the Capitol,â he began, and you feel sick. Help was a poor excuse of a word to describe what Snow did to Finnick. âAnd Iâm sure you know why you havenât been asked to help as well.â
Because everyone who loves me is six feet under, you think. All exceptâ no. He wouldn't.
âWell Iâm telling you, that changes now. If you have any reservations about this, I encourage you to think of your new friend.â
Thereâs no way he would harm Finnick to keep you in line, heâs so much more valuable than you are. Surely heâs bluffing, and you want to say that, when he continues.
âIf youâre willing to risk his life to see if Iâm bluffing, thereâs nothing stopping you. I would just encourage you to think hard.â
Panic is rising in your chest, threatening to force sobs out your throat as you nod. âCan I go now?â
He nods, and you try not to sprint out of his office.
Finnick, on the other hand, doesnât need a meeting with President Snow to be reminded his newfound fondness for you has its consequences.
Once Mags had passed, he was supposed to be free. Now, heâs only extended his sentence to life.
summery: The first time Sansa sees you is in the Sept and she cannot help but feel like you do not belong somewhere so solemn.
warning: !TW! implied non-con/SA (non-descriptive + mentioned very briefly), language, time-period homophobia, violence and gore, angst, implied smut
word count: 9.13k
The Sept in Winterfell is always quiet. Sansa never had known it to be anything other than quiet and uninhabited. She thinks that none of the other southern wives visit because of its nature. A gift to the newly wedded Lady Stark from her greener-than-summer grass Lord husband. Or mayhaps it was not a gift at all, but an apology for bringing a bastard home from war.
Sansa does not think of faith often, but she has always dreamt of marrying a southern prince, and following his gods would likely please him. So, here she kneels on the cold hard stone and listlessly watches wax tears roll down the candle as it melts.
Her eyes start to grow hazy and her hands that were firmly pressed together start to go limp, but then-
âDo the gods bore you?âÂ
Sansa goes rigid. She turns her neck so sharply that the tendons and muscles pull tight and strained. She is expecting someone she knows, a serving girl or a bannermanâs young wife. You are neither. You are unfamiliar. A stranger lurking in the dark, only the light of a dying flame allows her to see your face.Â
You are very pretty, she thinks to herself. Your hair is braided in an elaborate way she had never seen before, and your clothes are made of a fabric that her fingers had never touched.
Still standing far enough away that your presence is not towering, you take a step forward and tilt your head in a way she had seen hounds do. She suddenly remembers you had asked her a question.Â
Do the gods bore you?
She ponders the question with the same lightness it was asked with. Sansa has no obligation to answer you, let alone speak to you. Although, there is something interesting about you. The two of you are the same age, sheâs sure of it, but you have an air of flippancy that she has never seen any woman wear.
Sansa hums before she speaks. âHow could they not? They never say anything back.â
âMayhaps they do and you do not listen well enough.âÂ
Sansa feels her face go hot at your teasing tone. She scoffs, looking away from you while mumbling, âYou should address me as âmy ladyâ.â
Your brows pull together in confusion. âBut you are not my lady.â squinting your eyes at her, you huff a laugh. âYou are not a lady at all really, just a girl.âÂ
She has decided that she dislikes you greatly.
Do you not know that she will be queen one day? The King and her father are brothers in all but blood. The golden prince will whisk her away South to wed her and the people of King's Landing will sing songs dedicated to their love and beauty. Moreover, you seem to be oblivious that she's a Stark, highest birth in the North.Â
Pressing her palms together and clenching her eyes shut, Sansa feigns quietude whilst attempting to disregard your presence entirely.Â
You laugh, and she decides that she truly hates you.
âMay I kneel with you?âÂ
She opens one eye to peek at you from the corner of it. Your own eyes blaze with amusement, so bright that she thinks they might burn her if you are any closer. Without waiting for the invitation, you walk to her side. Â
Your boots make a horrid gritty sound when you drop to your knees and Sansa winces as it scrapes against her ears. This close she can see your dress properly, pink silks with detailed orange and yellow embroidery. She has to resist the aching desire to run her finger over the intricate pattern of each stitch.Â
It is something one would never catch eye of in the north and Sansa is struck with the realization that you are likely a Southerner who has traveled here for trade.
Even though she finds you rather annoying, her curiosity of the dress's origins and the excitement of conversing with a true Southern girl makes her speak.
âAre you from Dorne?â She questions, feeling as though the vibrancy of those colors would likely come from there.Â
You simply smile, âSometimes.â
âSomething?â She repeats incredulously.
âAye.â
Sansa feels a strong urge to do something unladylike, like calling you a name or shoving you. But she is a lady and will not deign herself. She is about to say something haughty to put you in your place, the way she often does with Arya, but you speak first.Â
âWhat do you pray for?â You ask, eyes fixated on the few unlit candles in the sentry of the Sept. Your grin is so wide, Sansa notices. Although you two have only just met, she feels as though the giddiness on your face is genuine.
She shrugs. âI pray for what every lady prays for.â At your encouraging look, she continues. âTo marry the prince and give him many healthy sons.â
Your smile dampens and you shake your head, but you say nothing else.
After a few moments of silence, Sansa wished to quench her curiosity.
âWhat do you pray for?â She asks.
You turn, fully facing her. She is truly caught by how beautiful you are. Sansa should feel envious, for she has always been the most comely in Winterfell.Â
The grin on your lips turns sly, countering the whore-Ros that Theon favors. Secretive and inviting.Â
âNothing.â You say, âI do not follow the Seven.âÂ
Sansa cannot help the girlish giggle that burst from her mouth. You laugh along with her, and she is even more sure that you do not belong here.
°°°
She sees you around Winterfell. Sometimes trailing after a man who looks much too young to be your father and other times she sees you gallivanting around the courtyard as if you are Lord Stark himself.Â
Robb seems to enjoy you, well he enjoys the crumbs you throw at him now and then. Her older brother always seeks you out when he goes to the yard to practice his sword skills and he laughs a bit too loud when you jest. Jeyne has been practically tearing her hair out with envy because of it.
Sansa cannot find it in herself to comfort her friend, for she should have known that Robb could never marry a stewardâs daughter.
Even with his constant attention, your eyes always find hers. You always come find her, in the keep or the dining hall or in the yard. It would be quite the inconvenience considering Sansaâs dearest friend despises your very existence, but she thrives on attention. Her Lady mother used to say that praise to Sansa was sunlight to a rose.
The library is not a setting she can imagine you in, but you rarely achieve predictability. She watches you for a moment in hopes that you have not noticed another presence.Â
You sit curled up against a shelf with a book in your lap. You pinch the corner of the page and lightly roll it between your fingers. It's as if you are already anticipating turning the page.Â
âDo you intend to join me? Or is watching from the darkness something you enjoy?â You ask while finally flipping that page. Eyes never straying.Â
Sansa sniffs and walks forward into the golden light. Her dress glides too close to the hearth and for a small moment, it looks as if the flames from the fireplace are reaching out to grab the fabric, crackling in anger when Sansa jumps away from it. Looking up, your eyes meet hers.
A blaze of yellow and orange glows against your pupils.Â
You smile and tilt your head in that strange knowing way. âYou should be more careful, Dearest. The fire has few masters and you are not one.âÂ
The words are strangely shrewd for the teasing tone, but Sansa waves her hand at you dismissively. She rarely listens to the odd things that pour from your mouth like soured sick. Unlike Robb, who will grip onto every word with snow-white knuckles. She walks to the space in front of you and sits down gracefully.Â
Sansa reaches forward and uses the tip of her finger to lift the book away from your lap just enough to see the cover. The book is one she has seen Jon reading as of late, although she has no knowledge of what it's about.Â
âWhatever are you reading?â
âTis about Old Valyria.â You say while shutting the very book and placing it beside you. She hums because she has nothing else to say. She has never cared for history or sums or anything other than the pretty things of being a lady. Her mother worries but she will have a council of Lords to do the boring things for her when she is queen.Â
Readjusting her position, Sansa clears her throat. âI came to find you for a purpose.â
âOh, how flattering it is to be sought out.â
She pinches your leg. âQuiet you.â Waiting until you stop laughing, she continues. âI wished to speak to you about Robb.â
âWhat about him?â
âHe is besotted with you.â
âHe is a man, next moon he will be besotted with a barmaid with big eyes and bigger teats.âÂ
Sansa gasps and pinches you again. âDo not be crude!â
You laugh and she finds herself restraining her own giggle. It is moments like this that Sansa is so very glad you are a friend. Jeyne is lovely but Sansa would never dare share a true secret with her, as it would end up in every young lady's ears by the time the sun dies. Arya is simply awful and quick to anger.Â
Father always smiles fondly and says wolf blood. She wonders if she looked more like her dead aunt if father would indulge her tantrums just as often.Â
Their laughs subside and Sansa takes a breath, âAs I was saying. Robb wants you but I encourage you to deny him.â
You tsk. âAnd why should I deny the next Warden of the North?âÂ
âYou are not a highborn lady, Robb cannot marry you.â
âThat only makes me want to marry him, Sansa.âÂ
She huffs. âOut of spite and stubbornness?â
You shrug and smile at her easily. âThere is little other reason I would wish to marry him. I find him rather foolish.â Sansa opens her mouth to defend her brother and mayhaps reminds you of your stature, but you quickly press your hand over her lips.
âHush, I meant no offense.â You say swiftly. You slowly drag your hand away from Sansaâs face and place it in your lap. She is almost shocked into silence at your words. You say many unorthodox things, but an apology has never tumbled off your tongue. That was the closest thing akin to one.Â
âBesides, Robb is not mine.â
Her curiosity peaks. âOh, and whoâs is he? Do not say Jeyne, he finds her plain.â While teasing, it is the truth. Her brother only entertains Jeyneâs affections out of politeness and boredom. She waits for you to say something, but you are silent.Â
You stare at her, then blink, open your mouth, and close it.Â
âHe will be the strangers.âÂ
You blink again, shake your head, and smile brightly enough to blind. Sansa watches your odd actions with a scrunched nose. She would ask, but instead, she starts to talk about how horrid Arya had been while they were at lessons.
°°°
The prince will be at Winterfell in just a few weeks. Jon Arryn's death brings her father heartache but she cannot help the feeling of her dream being on the horizon. Sansa feels sick with nerves and anticipation. Her hands are unsteady while she stitches the details of her new dress.Â
She stitches lions around the neck, to win the Lannister queen's favor and express loyalty. When she told you of her plans, you had told her that gold would look horrid with her hair and gray direwolves would look lovely embroidered on her dress collar. She had not listened.Â
So, the two of you sit in silence while she carefully constructs the snout of a lion. Sansa hisses and drops the needle when she pricks her finger once again. In truth, she is starting to believe that this dress will never be completed. That thought makes her even more frustrated.Â
With a huff you reach over and take her shaken hand, cradling it between your own. âThat is the fifth time you have done that. What ails you?âÂ
Sansa lets you caress her fingers while she wills herself not to burst into tears.Â
âThe prince will be here very soon.âÂ
âYes.â You respond as if that means nothing.
She lets out a cry and smacks her hand against the floor. âThat is the problem, silly girl. The prince will be here soon and I'm dreadfully unprepared.â Tears start to track down her cheeks and her breath shutters like the winds of winter.
You move yourself closer to her, where your knees are touching and she can feel your warmth. âNo need to be upset.â You say. âEven if you are betrothed, a wedding shall not take place until you are of age.âÂ
âThat is not what upsets me!â
âThen tell me what does.â
Sansa sniffs and wipes her wet nose with the back of her hand. âWhat if he does not like me? What if he has been with other ladies, older ladies that are more experienced than me?â She cries miserably and hides her face behind her hands. The thought of not being enough for the golden prince makes her cry harder.
You sigh, annoyed, then she feels your hands prying hers away from her face. Your pursed lips and incredulous expression make her feel a bit childish even though you are the same age as she.
âSansa.â Your voice is stern and demanding of attention. âIf the prince does not like you then he is a fool.â
âBut how can I be enough? I have never even been kissed. What if I'm no good at kissing and he hates me!â She yells in your face. In the back of her mind, she knows she will have to apologize to you for being so rude.
âIâll kiss you.â
Sansaâs breath stops altogether and stares at you utterly flummoxed. You stare back unflinchingly, eyes never straying from hers. She could not have heard right, but then again you are rather crude and unpredictable. Pressing her finger against her eyes to dry the wetness, Sansa opens her mouth.
âWhat?â
You shake your head, beautiful hair swaying with the motion. âYou are not hard of hearing, dearest.âÂ
Denying the offer would be the most sensible, the most ladylike. She would deny you for many reasons, you are rather opinionated, you give little knowledge about your life even though you know every inkling of hers, you do not respect titles nor the people that hold them, but most of all, you are a girl.
She wonders if you have been kissed by many. Sansa watches your big smile turn a bit more earnest. Knowing that it is wrong can be avoided with her distress of wanting to impress the prince.Â
She nods, thinking about how much her embarrassment can be quelled with just one minuscule lesson. âAlright, kiss me then.â
âAre you certain?â
âI said kiss me, did I not?â
It seems you do not need to be told a third time because you lean forward and kiss her. Itâs nothing more than a brush of lips really, a whisper of what a real kiss should be. It makes Sansa blush red hot all the same. You pull back sharply as if her mouth stung
So, here the two of you are. Sitting on the floor of her chamber with flushed faces, cloth and string scattered around and Sansa's dried blood on both you and her hands.Â
A moment of quiet, then-
âThat was hardly a kiss!â Sansa says loudly, then shrieks at her volume. She turns to make certain her chamber door is shut and lets out a long-suffering sigh of relief when she sees it is. Facing you again is much less intimidating when she hears you start cackling.Â
You laugh and laugh until tears run streams down your cheeks. They drip off your jaw, one after the other. She watches, bewildered and terribly confused but she finds her own laugh begins to rise up her throat.
°°°
You leave only 3 days before the king's carriage arrives. She cries fat bellowing tears, you kiss her cheek and tell her that you will meet again. You also gift her one of your dresses, the one you wore during that first meeting almost a year ago in the sept.Â
Sansa starts stitching the direwolves onto a new dress. Her blood had stained the lion's mouth and made it unsalvageable.Â
âWhat are your favorite flowers? I'll stitch them onto the dress since I am already using your brilliance.â She asks you as your brother says his goodbye and thanks to her Lord father.
âRed fennel flowers.âÂ
âWhyever would those be your favorite?"
âIt is what they signify.â
âAnd what do they signify?â
Your brother calls your name while he climbs onto the wagon, but you seem keen on pretending he does not. You reach forward and take her hands, leaning as if sharing a secret.
âVictory.â You whisper.
Later that day, Jon places a direwolf in Sansa's eager arms.
°°°
When Joffrey kisses her for the first time, she thinks of how thankful she is to you for preparing her.
And a moon later, in the hours after her fatherâs head tumbled to the ground, she thinks about how thankful she is that Joffrey was not her first kiss.
°°°
Margaery reminds Sansa of you. Tis a foolish thing for the two of you are not alike. Margaery is nothing but a mummer's mask, a beautiful venomous snake covered in honey. While you were raw and still sweet to the bone.
But as she walks in the Redkeep's garden with the soon-to-be queen arm and arm, she thinks the two of you would get along well. You would both talk endlessly about all the strange things you know and how you know them.
She catches Sansa staring at the side of her face, she must feel the burning of her eyes.
âWhat is it, sweet girl?â
Sansa shakes her head, âI did not mean to stare, it's just..â
âYou remind me of an old friend, is all.â
âOh, how lovely. Well, you must tell me of her.â
She does. She talks about your buoyancy and terrible insolence. She talks about your beautiful dresses and the one you gifted her before you left.
Margaery does not interrupt, allowing Sansa the freedom to speak openly about the girl she has not thought of in moons. She regrets it later, while she lays in a featherbed that feels like gravel against her back. She regrets pulling you from the depths of her mind. Regrets dragging you from the black water of memories and tugging you onto her ship. It's painful, remembering how much she misses you.
She briefly wonders if you are even alive. That would be quite the jest, wouldn't it? If her closest friend was simply no more. Dead. Mayhaps someone heard her speak of you to Lady Margaery and is out trying to find you.
Joffrey would jump with glee to find something to punish Sansa with. She thinks of all the things he would do to you in her name.
Sansa vomits in her chamber pot while Shae holds back her hair and coos sweet sentiments.
°°°
Ramsey says your name once. He calls you a âlittle petâ and thanks Theon for telling him all about yours and Sansa's companionship.
She tries to refrain from reacting but cannot withhold the shudder when he tells her of all the things he will do to you.
In that moment, she wishes to never see you again, she prays to any gods listening that you are already dead and the only thing Ramsey can torment her with is your bones.
He never does bring you up again, most likely angry in his fallen attempts to find even a whisper of you.
°°°
Once, while she is at castle black, she hears one of the wildling women speak of bedding another woman. The woman is crude with her words and detailed with the actions they two committed between their furs.
The old Sansa would find it horribly disturbing. Two women together. But now, all she can feel is envy of women finding pleasure in bed and bitterness for all the pain she has gone through. She feels bitter most times when she sees two people happy with one another. She wants so desperately to feel that, feel anything good at all.
While the dreary castle sleeps, Sansa trails her icy fingertips up her thigh, between her legs, and feels.
She thinks of your pretty face behind her closed eyelids. And when she comes, there is not a shred of shame in her chest.
Sansa laughs hysterically when breath returns her.
°°°
The wind carries like a sweet sigh, a whisper against the skin of her cheek. Sansa watches with careful eyes as the dragon queen trots along on her horse. The woman is much smaller than she would have anticipated with all the roaring praise Tyrion's ravens are loud with.
Jon swings over his own steed, boots sloshing into the snow beneath him. His bottomless Stark eyes peer into Sansaâs and she is quite astonished to see him grinning. Tis a silly boyish grin she remembers from when they were children and he wanted to show her a game.
Something with rocks or sticks. Something she turned her nose up at.
Her brother does not help the dragon queen from her horse, nor does he wait to greet his family. Jon is before her and sweeping her into a crushing embrace before the Targaryenâs boots make temporary marks in the snow.
His mouth is cold when it presses into the shell of Sansa's ear but his breath is warm when he whispers, âI have a gift for you.â
Pulling away, he leaves her with a kiss pressed into her hair and moves on to engulf Bran in his arms. Itâs like he might just hold their brother until they are nothing but bones and ash.
There is scarce time to taste his words, less to chew them. Raising her chin, she watches as the Targaryen walks unsteadily to her.
She can see the unease riddling this woman, precarious and glancing at Jon for guidance he does not have. This woman must discern that Jon willn't give her what she is seeking, for she swallows down something Sansa could call bitter and smiles kindly at her.
She should not leave her face so vulnerable, so susceptible to having her grievances and sorrow torn into like one would pry open a clam to find the pearl.
A mummer's mask is the only way to survive court, the only way to win this torturous game.
âLady Stark.â She says, rather personally than diplomatic. This woman speaks her words and molds her face as though they know one another, sweetly and sisterly and for a fleeting moment, Sansa wants to believe in it.
It's been so long since she has believed in anything other than herself, and it would be oh-so lovely to put faith in another.
Daenerys tilts her chin to peer around the stone and snow. âWinterfell is as beautiful as your brother claims,â She faces her again, smiling tenderly. âAs are you.â
Sansa can see these pleasantries for what they are, an olive branch. She knows what her position must look like, desperate for allies as the dead march with little regard for the North's readiness. This woman must feel as though she is reaching forward to offer a hand to Sansa as she balances on a damp plank of a sinking ship.
Fortunately, Sansa learned how to swim in angry waters long ago.
âWinterfell is yours, your grace.â
Crestfallen, her silver brows crease, and Sansa almost feels the clams insides wet her harsh digging fingers.
Jonâs hand reaches out to grip Sansa's shoulder. âLet us move into the hall, but Sansa, I must tell you-â
Bran says your name with the same eerie coldness he does everything else.
Her breath catches in her throat and suddenly she sees you.
You sit upon a sand-colored horse that is littered with white spots. You are already watching her, she realizes. You have been watching the entirety of this exchange.
She feels her own face crack open, tongue spitting the pearl into your hands like she had done at the green age of three-and-ten.
You've changed. The purity of youth has been shaven off your face, your hair is different than it once was and there is a scar that drags down your lips as if it's trying to sew them together.
It frightens her, that you are no longer the ungraspable thing that she can look to for comfort, that you are no longer just a memory she keeps on a throne.
âYes, She is an adviser of mine, my Lady of Whispers.â The dragon queen says softly, and Sansa feels as though a blade has just sheathed into her gut. She does not turn away from your gaze, even when your lips curl into a smirk that she can only describe as predatory.
You do not look away, not even when Bran tells them of the rogue dragon and the shattered wall.
°°°
The halls are silent as she walks to her bedchambers. Although approaching doom has become a recurring presence in her life, Sansa has still not become accustomed to it. Nervously twisting around the ring on her finger she arrives in front of her door.
It's open, just enough to put her finger between the door and framing but not nearly enough for her to peek into. She glances around, but there is not a guard in sight, all most likely sleeping before they see battle.
Placing her hand on the heavy wood, she wrenches it open with a horrid ear-stabbing creak.
You sit on her bed. The dress you wear is black, with beautiful Stark gray embroidery. Sansa noticed the color when you scurried into the hall with the others; now, she sees what the stitching is. Detailed patterns of wolves, all connected by the same stitch, seem to prance across your breast to your back.
The dress itself is rather strange, with sharp pointed shoulders that counter the beast that had flown over Winterfell. The skirt parts into a cape-like thing at your hips, trousers wrapped around your crossed legs and boots cover your feet. You do not meet her eyes.
âYou took your Lord Father and Lady Mother's chambers.â You speak with no true inflection, only a soft slyness that reminds her achingly of her girlhood.
The tip of your boots moves in union with your head as you greedily take in the decor of her chamber.
There is something unsettling about you, she thinks there always has been, truly. Sansa remembers Jeyne being envious of you, but she had always forgotten how perturbed she was with you near.
âYes.â She agrees. Sansa brings her hands behind her back and raises one eyebrow at the woman lounging on her bed. âWhy are you here?â
You blink, eyes fluttering as though you did not expect the question. âI wished to see you,â you tell her, words slow like falling snow.
You say it with an obvious tilt like Sansa is simply supposed to know one single thread in the mess of your mind. She imagines it to look like Arya's old stitching basket, a clutter of silk ribbons, furry yarn, and fine threads all crumpled into one pretty woven basket.
You do not seem to understand that you are a stranger now, another foreigner who has invaded her home with intent to snatch it from Sansaâs dying grip.
She parts her lips, and says, âHow flattering it is to be sought out.â Instead of voicing her grief with you.
A loud surprised laugh jolts from your mouth, it sounds a bit like someone has squeezed it right from your chest. Fingers digging into the soft linen of her bedding, you shake your head. Sighing long and loud, you look up at her with starry wet eyes.
âFuck, I had forgotten what a rude child Iâd been.â You gasp out, something caught between a laugh and cry scratching your voice.
Sansa watches as you bring your hand up to your face and wipe at the wetness beneath your nose. One of your fingers is missing on that hand, all the way down like someone had plucked it from the bone. She pretends not to notice for her own sanity.
Grimacing, Sansa makes a disgruntled noise. âYes, well, I can see little has changed.â
Again, you laugh. âToo much has changed, dearest. Too much for even myself to understand.â Your voice trembles into a whisper, like the wind against the glass of her window. She says nothing, for there is nothing she knows how to say. You have always been shrouded in mystery.
Gracefully leaping around any question of your life, but bearing your heart wide open, prying it apart like an overly ripened fruit and gifting the mush mess to Sansa.
Swinging your foot, you lift yourself from her bed. She is close now, like when you were girls and only sat with brushing knees and fingers twisting in one another's hair. You do not step forward, studiously keeping distance.
âI missed you.â You tell her so earnestly she feels sick.
She steps into your space and practically collapses into you.
âI missed you too.â
°°°
There is very scarce time to speak when the army of dead march, though you and Sansa seem to steal time between bearing the weight of Lady Stark and the Lady of Whispers.
Stolen moments like now, as she follows you out into the snow after you insisted she must meet your steed. It amuses her greatly that you have not grown out of that petulant way of demanding things instead of asking. It reminds her of Robb.
You glance behind at her many times as if to make certain she is still following.
âYou have been rather quiet.â You say softly after approaching your speckled horse. You give him a firm pat on the snout. Sansa chooses her words very carefully when she converses with you.
The Lady of Whispers is not a person she can afford to trust. No matter how much she aches to.
âThe dead are very close. All words seem wasted, don't you think?â She responds thinly. Sansa is aware that you can sense her distrust like a hound can sniff out blood, but it seems you are willing to eat any words Sansa feeds you. Even if they are terribly cold.
The timidly hopeful look on your face washes away into something incredulous. âWhen would words matter, if not now?â
Sansa huffs through her nose, âFoolish words could be your last.â
âThat is for all of time.â You tell her with a haughty flick of the wrist. âDeath has no bonds. The Stranger is greedy and constantly reaching out to take.â
A memory clings to her mind, when she was a girl and you had interrupted her prayer. You had confessed to not following the seven gods, and somehow Sansa cannot fathom that you have found faith in your years of travel.
Staring at the side of your face, she says, "I did not think you followed The Seven.â
Startling her, you throw your head back and cackle as if it is the most humorous ridiculous thought. Snow falls into the tendrils of your hair, melting instantly after it touches your warmth.
âOh dearest, I do not.â You reach up and press your fingers into your eye. âYou do not need to follow something to know it is real.â
âAnd how do you know it is real?â The query is spoken lightly, but she is truly curious. She wishes to know how it is you simply know. How you say things with such certainty that she has no choice but to believe.
She longs to know you. Not the girlish giggling memory she has held close for so many years, but the woman who stands before her. She longs to know you as you are. She thinks that you wish to know her as well, for you are the one who has always sought her out.
You do not answer her, strangely solemn and quiet as you pet your horse. And then she sees it, a tear rolls down your cheek. Without thought, she is touching your skin and caresses the drop of salt and sadness away.
The wet clings to her thumb.
âDo you know what a greenseer is, Sansa?â Your voice is much like the tear that fell, like the snow that drops from the sky. Serene and sad and twisted with the approach of something dreadful. She cannot recall the last time she heard her true name on your tongue.
Her hand does not leave your face. âI..â She hesitates and is reminded of Bran. Her brother who is not her brother at all, but a hollow-eyed creature that wears her brother's flesh.
âYes. I- I believe I do.â The words are small and breathy. Akin to confession to the gods. You smile, a true smile with no slyness, no cajolery hidden in the curves of your teeth. It pulls on a thread of desire she had not known was left in her.
âIs that what you are? Do you see all, know all?â She asks, with less caution than she had with Bran. He had been thoughtlessly cruel, intending to tell her something only she and Theon could possibly know.
But you are only cruel with purpose, only sharpened your words when you intended to pierce.
You laugh wetly, nose scrunching up with a sniffle. âGoodness, no. Truly, I believe I know very little compared to some.â Your hand reaches up to where hers cradles your cheek.
You place your atop hers, completely trapping her in warmth. âI am not like Bran. My dreams have never been clear. Tis like reading a book through torn out crumpled pages.â
Sansa suppresses a sigh when you remove her hand from your face, but smiles when you continue to hold it tightly. In truth, Sansa does not know what to say. You are not one to take pity without feeling sour, and she is glad for that.
Rarely is she content with a secret shared with her,
Jon and his true parentage, Aryaâs whereabouts over the years, The raven that speaks through her brother's voice.
But this, you. You she can accept. You she can continue with as if the secret had never been one at all. She had always known you were odd.
Mayhaps if she was not so consumed with herself as a girl, she would have surmised this. You never hid it from her, simply never spoke the words.
âThat must be confusing.â Is all she says. If you are relieved by her nonplussed response, you do not show. You swing your and her connected hands.
âTâwas, but I find that trying to make sense of it is a futile task.â You lick your lips and look up, gazing into Sansaâs eyes like you are searching in her soul. âAlthough, there has been one clear thing in all my years alive.â
She does not look away, intent on seeing your soul as well. âAnd what is that?â
âYou.â
Sansa blinks, âPardon?â
You sigh, âOh dearest, it's always been you. Before I knew me I knew you.â Stepping closer, your breath makes a fog against her mouth. âThere was no other, no gods, no words that I knew before you.â
Sansa can feel tears welling in her eyes and her chest shake with the weight of confession. The moment is happening so fast, but she has waited so long for something that it does not feel fast at all.
âHow..â
You bring your hand up, pressing it against her cheek and caressing her bottom lip with your thumb. It's a mirror of what she had just done to you, but it makes her gasp all the same.
âI have always known your name, Sansa Stark. I know not what entity has given me this sight, mayhaps the stars, mayhaps the gods, but they told me your name when I knew not else.â
And then you are kissing her. Sansa gasps into your mouth, caught between kissing you back and crying out for a reason she knows not. She brings her hands up, placing them on your neck, feeling the thunderous pulsing of your heart.
She's kissing you back. The kiss is rushed and messy and desperate, both of you seem to be gasping for breath whilst diving in for more. She has never been kissed like this, and she thinks of her first kiss.
She wonders if you had known then, if you had felt this against your lips instead of a soft brush of curiosity. She forgets her thoughts when your tongue curls around hers.
It feels so good, Sansa never wants it to end, never wants to come up for air. Drown me please, let me swim in you forever, she thinks and moans when your hand flutters down to her waist, tugging her closer.
A throat clearing behind you and she makes her pull apart.
Jon has his hand covering over his eyes and Daenerys Targaryenâs lips are pressed together like she is desperately trying not to smile.
Daenerys is the first to speak. She clears her throat and pats her chest with a gloved hand. âI am terribly sorry for interrupting. Please, continue." The dragon queen giggles at the end of her words and Sansa hears you huff in what she assumes annoyance.
Jon squawks, âDany! They cannot-you cannot!" He waves his hand wildly between the Targaryen and the two women beside the speckled horse.
Daenerys seems keen on ignoring him and says your name instead, âPlease find me when you return. There is something we need to discuss.â She says and then she picks up her skirts and turns to walk the way she came. Jon does not move, looking humorously betrayed as if he has caught his closest friend with a hand up his sister's dress.
Mayhaps his feelings are justified, she has always known that you and Jon were close but she never thought much about it.
The dragon queen calls over her shoulder. âCome along, Jon. Leave them be.â
He begrudgingly follows after her.
âShe will be a good queen.â
Sansa glances at you, bruised mouth and blushing cheeks. She imagines she looks quite similar. She does not answer you, it feels rather futile to argue after what you have just confided in her.
Leaning forward, she presses a sweet kiss against your mouth and pulls away when you try to deepen it.
âGo to your queen.â She says, patting down her dress as she walks back toward the Keep.
Sansa feels strangely at ease. Everything is changing, falling apart, and growing all at once. But she feels sure and content in a way she has not since her father was alive. She can not imagine you would kiss her if she were to die. It gives her a comforting reassurance.
Your taste is still on her tongue when the horn blows.
°°°
They lose many in the battle of dead and living. Good men, good women, bad men, redeemed men, Sansa has stopped counting the corpses. She looks through the bodies, looks for your face, wide-open eyes and lips bluer than the fresh morning sky.
She does not find your body, nor anything that would indicate you have fallen. In the midst of her search, a hand curls around her arm. When she turns, she comes face-to-face with her sister.Â
Arya has blood crusting all over her face, and the rest of her is covered in soot. Arya must see her crestfallen face, for she chuckles. Tâis an unnerving sound Sansa has not grown accustomed to yet.
âAre you not pleased to see me, Sansa?â Her sister tilts her head with the query. Sansa swallows her unease and bile, the smell of death too strong.Â
âOf course, I am. Do not be foolish.â
Arya hums, "I am not the one you were looking for.â It is not a question, but Sansa feels as though she must disagree. It feels sinful, to be less pleased with her sister's survival than she would be yours. But Arya is a child no longer and does not need Sansa to water down truths in fear that it will be too strong for her little sister to swallow.Â
âNo.â She whispers, âNo, I was not looking for you.â The confession makes Arya let go of her arm. The younger takes a step away and hums once again. Sansa feels her skin crawl under the Stark grey gaze of her sister, but she does not cower.
Instead, she strains her chin up and shows some lion-like pride. âWell done, NightKing Slayer. Allow the maesters to look after your wounds after you bathe." She then picks up her dress and moves to walk away, but Aryaâs voice cuts through.
âI saw her, she is alive.â The younger says, voice smooth like the finest silks. Arya seems to have absorbed an accent from her days in Braavos. Sansa wonders what that would have been like, to shed the gown of girlhood whilst under the warm sun and splash in the sea as a woman grown.
It sounds like a lovely sentiment, something she might have longed for in the prison of the Red-Keep.
âShe is well?â
Arya scoffs, âI believe I said âaliveâ. She will need to see a maester, and she will have scars.â She raises a bloodied battered eyebrow. âI know you have always been quite vain bu-âÂ
âYou do not.â Sansa interrupts. She does not intend to, truly, but the words slip off her tongue and she cannot remember the last time she allowed herself to speak so freely with anyone other than you. The younger says nothing in clear expectation of more.Â
âYou do not know me. Not anymore, Mayhaps you never have.â It is calm and even, not quite cold but never warm. Sansa does not mean for the words to pierce, but for a moment she thinks that Aryaâs mummer's mask of indifference slips.
Big steel eyes stare up at her, a telltale shine of hurt pooling in her lashes.Â
She nods, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. âYou are right, IâŠI do not know you. The girl I knew would never have been in love with a woman.â She says it with a playfulness that she has always reserved for Jon. Sansa smiles back.
âAs I said, mayhaps you never knew me.â Because she has always loved you. When she was a girl as green as summer grass, she would get on her knees and pray for a sweet love. The gods sent you to her. Right there in the sept, they gave her what she prayed for. No matter the tribulation she endured, you had always been there. Kept close to her beating heart.
âIt has always been her, always.â She repeats in attempt to quell the prior baleful words.Â
Arya stares at her, as though she is witnessing her again for the first time. âThen go to her, Sansa.â She steps forward, clutches Sansa's hands in her own and squeezes. âGo find your knight and dress her wounds, kiss the battle from her brow, and sing her songs of victory.âÂ
She moves closer and presses a kiss on Sansa's cheek. âSheâs a lovely knight, Sans. Iâm happy you get this dream, I am truly sorry for what others became.â
The younger drops her hands and turns, walking in the blood soaked sludge towards the Keep.Â
Sansa never quite knows what Arya is thinking, cannot read her mind the way she can do others. But at this moment, she thinks that Arya understands her much better than she imagined.Â
She thinks that her sister finally understands the appeal of what poets have named love.
°°°
The door of Sansaâs bedchambers is ajar, once again. There is much less finesse than the first time you pushed through her door. She speaks not as her feet carry her through the sanctity of her room. There is warmth, the hearth crackles over her thundering heart.Â
She had prepared her hurt in lest you chose to abandon her for another queen. But you sit in front of the flames, red stained and leather bound.Â
âHave you not bathed?â Sansa says and feels frivolous for it. You throw your head back and let out a gritty laugh. She shut the door, sliding the lock in place before she carries on. There is leftover water in the basin, and a cloth somewhere in her oak chest of fabrics.Â
She can feel your eyes follow as she pulls a thin net cloth from the chest.
âWhatever are you doing?â Your question is so very soft, it makes her smile. Collecting the water in an iron chalice, she comes to you and sets the cup near the fire. Looking at your face so close, she can now see all the cuts and bruises.Â
âDo you have any other wounds?â
âNah.â You scoff âThose ice fucker only got in some blows. Nothing that will not heal on its own.âÂ
There is something wrought in your cavalier retort. The delight of victory does not quite reach your eyes. She hums and dips the cloth into the water, bringing it to the burst of blood congealed on your lips. When you were girls, you would squirm like a caught rodent while theÂ
Septa tried to brush the tangles of sleep from your hair.Â
As she swipes the blood from your mouth, you are unmoving. Tranquil in your contentment. If only Septa Mordane had allowed Sansa a try then mayhaps they would have been to lessons sooner.
She can see much in your eyes this close, the love, the quiet, the melancholy.
Sansa scrubs at a partially dry flake of blood on your cheekbone. âWar is not over, is it?â She asks, not ceasing her ministrations.Â
You do not look away from her, âNo.â
You give her no other explanation, and there is nothing in your manner that would inflict worry upon her. It is calm and faint just as the chamber's atmosphere.
Whilst serene, there is a thick tension that has consumed the air like smoke. Sansa feels no wariness for she could simply sooth the taunt if she pressed her lips to yours.
She does not.
âWill you go to Kingslanding?â She breaks through the silence, âWill you follow Daenerys?â Â
You do not respond with an instant denial and she feels a petulant anger bubble up in her core. She wants you to not need to think. She wants you to know which queen you would follow. She wants you to seek her out like you have always done.
She wants you.
With a hesitant sigh, you open your mouth. âIâŠI wish things were simple, though they never are.âÂ
Hearth glowing against the pits in your eyes, you stare into Sansaâs.
âWhat would I be?â You ask, a hysterical thread of desperation sewn into your voice. âWhat- What shall I be if I stay?âÂ
âMine.â Sansa says, âYou shall be mine.â And she dives forward, head first into warm waters. Sansa Stark learned how to swim in thrashing frigid water long ago, but now she thinks kissing you is akin to swimming in the balmy Dornish sea.Â
You taste of blood and peach and home.Â
The two collide atop the furs in front of the firelight. Between kisses, Sansa tentatively tugs at the laces of our leather jerkin. You disjoin your mouth from hers, but your hands stay put in the tendrils of her vibrant hair.Â
Swallowing, she watches the fast rise and fall of your chest. She moves her hand to press against the motion and feels the heavy rapid pound of your heart on her palm. Your eyes flutter as you sigh, she is so close that she feels every move you make.Â
âI love you.â You whisper into her.Â
She gasps, âYes, yes, I love you as well.â And bears up to kiss any other words from your tongue.
âI covet you.â The words are slid into her mouth and she wants to taste them forever. The kisses become frantic and your hands are digging into her skin deliciously.
Sansa pulls at your laces until she can see your lovely skin peaking out. âSo many words, too many words.â She moans into the kiss and only breaks apart to continue, âSo many things to be said, let us say them on the morrow.â
âSansa-â You breathe against her throat and she shutters. Her whole body feels not unlike a piece of flit being scraped against steel, desperately trying to catch spark.
âShow me.â She says as she unclasps her cloak. Sansa lays down on her back against the furs.Â
The fire reflects against your skin, and she remembers all those years ago in the sept when the candle made you glow and she thought about touching your dress.Â
âShow me,â She whispers, âShow me how you covet me. I want to feel it.â You are above her, your hand pressed flat beside her head.
Pulling apart your jerkin, she presses her hand on your naked breastbone and drinks in the sigh you let out. It sinks into her skin and settles in the marrow of her bones.
Sansa likes this, that you are letting her spread you open with no uncertainty.Â
You dip down and press delicate kisses against her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and then her mouth. Your tongue twists against hers as your hand digs underneath her to tug at the laces of her dress.Â
The fire burns hot and she knows what it is to be coveted.Â
°°°
You stay.Â
°°°
The Dragon Queen's reign is fleeting and not without madness. Sansa knows not what has happened between her and Jon, but she does know that he stuck a knife into her belly. She knows that he loved her.
Her brother sits solemnly in the snow, staring up at the Weirwood tree as though the face in it shall speak its wisdom to him. She walks over and sits on one of the ancient trees protruding roots.Â
He does not glance away from the face in the wood. âDo you think there was another way?â He asks, and she does not know if he is speaking to her or the gods. Jon turns his head and she is struck with a sadness of how much he looks like father.Â
âDo you think I could have saved her?â He says again.
Sansa has no thoughtful answer for him, for she is rather glad Daenerys is gone. She thinks the woman caused more harm than good, but she is well aware that Jon is not alone in his mourning. You had shed many tears when you heard of Missandeiâs demise.
She has a strong inquiry that you knew then. You knew what the Dragon Queen would become.
âShe was going to be the greatest who ever lived. She who was promised.â You had whispered to the dark starry sky as Sansa dragged her fingertips up your arms in tries of comfort.Â
âNo.â She decides. âYou cannot save someone from their own madness, Jon. You cannot reach into their skull and pull out the rot piece by piece.âÂ
Jon says nothing, but he starts to smile in a pained way.Â
âWhen did you become so wise?âÂ
She laughs, âMayhaps I have always been wise, and you never took note.â
They are both smiling and she feels this lovely bittersweet moment soak into her like sunshine.Â
She will most likely never see her brother again, but was that not always what she was meant for? She was always meant to leave, to fly away and only speak to her family through ink and parchment.Â
For that is the life of a woman.Â
Jon stands, smile never ceasing. âI am surprised you are here with me, and not letting your lover fawn over you before your coronation.â Reaching her, he takes her hand and puts it in the crease of his arm, linking them as they walk the old path of childhood to the rest of their lives.Â
Sansa hums, âShe will be pleased I am here with you.â She gently knocks her shoulder into his. âShe loves you, you know.âÂ
Those words seem to make Jon choke on a sob, for he turns his face away from Sansa's watch. âShe is my oldest friend.â Is all he says in return.Â
âWell then, I shall send her when I need your council. I will be quite busy as queen, you see.â She leans her chin up in mock of your particular haughtiness. Â
âAh yes.â He chuckles. âThe men of castle black will learn respect in lest she eat them for sup.âÂ
Her coronation is close calling by the sudden falling of the sun. They come close to the Keep, still gripping one another tightly enough to leave a remembrance in bruises. Jonâs steps come to a halt.
âWell, won't you look at that.â He conveys in awe. Sansa looks to where his eyes are gazing.
A little patch of green grass under the wet sludge of ice and snow. The flowers are long blossoms that are connected but thin stems. The plant is a rather bronze color, and she feels as though she has seen these flowers before but cannot place where.
âRed fennel flowers.âÂ
Sansa blinks, startled. âPardon?â
âRed fennel flowers.â He repeats, light with a buoyancy that comes with the start of spring.Â
âThose signify-â
âVictory.â Sansa whispers.Â
She stitches bronze blossoms into the lining of her dress only moments before she is to be presented as queen.
When she sits on the Northern throne, a Direwolf crown on her head, she looks for you in the crowd and suppresses a smile when she sees tears flowing down your face.
You always knew, in life and death, you always knew it would always be you and Sansa Stark.
Summary: Y/n and Anthony are in an arranged marriage. When she stops trying to make the relationship work and be the perfect wife, Anthony realizes what he's lost. Will he be able to get her back?
(gif is not mine)
It wasn't the marriage she wanted. And it wasn't what he wanted, because, in fact, he didn't even want to be married. And he didn't mind showing it. But for Y/n, she tried to make the best of their unfortunate situation.
It all started at the beginning of the season when Violet Bridgerton decided that her firstborn had been single for too long. So, she spoke to Y/n's parents, who were good friends of hers, and they both decided that a marriage between the two would be beneficial to both families. Anthony was going to have the support of someone who would take Violet's place as Viscountess and Lady Bridgerton. For Y/n's life, in this society, having a husband was essential and this marriage would allow social advancement.
Thus, Anthony and Y/n agreed with this decision. The preparation for the wedding was carried out quickly and this event was the biggest news for days. Lady Whistledown didn't help matters either by immediately releasing an advert showing her doubts about Anthony having a wife.
This only worsened Y/n's mood, who already feared being married to Viscount Bridgerton, as she was now doubting all the lovers Anthony could take to their bed. Would he not respect their marriage? Did she just want an heir and take care of the children? With these doubts, she said the "I do" in front of hundreds of people watching the ceremony, and allowed just one tear to fall.
From the beginning, Anthony made a point of making it clear that their marriage was purely a compromise, and that he would never truly love her. He was going to fulfill his role and try to have an heir and outside the house, they would act like a happy couple, but it wouldn't go beyond that. In silence, Y/n just offered him a nod, showing that she understood.
However, since then, nothing has happened between them. Anthony allowed her to have her own room, something Y/n was more than grateful for. Having to look at the face of her husband who would never love her every time she fell asleep would be too painful.
She was expecting that on some nights he would enter her room to try to get her with child. But none of that happened, which only confused Y/n more. Was he so disgusted by the idea of being married to her that he didn't even want to have pleasure with her?
So she tried to distract herself with tasks that could take some of the work off Anthony's shoulders and try to be the perfect wife. But Anthony still refused to spend more than five minutes alone with her. At breakfast, he was already at the office when Y/n woke up to go eat, at night he preferred to spend time with his brothers instead of returning home. He was making everyone's life difficult and Y/n was starting to get more and more sad. Would this be her routine until the end of her life? Trying to please a husband who didn't want her?
It was on a summer afternoon that Y/n, upon returning from a social gathering with Anthony's mother and sister, realized how hot the mansion was. She quickly remembered how Viscount's office, the few times she had been there, was directly in the sun which made it even hotter. So she decided to be brave and try to have at least a friendly relationship with her husband, so she went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
With growing nerves, Y/n went to Anthony's office door and knocked on the wood. After hearing Anthony's voice, she opened the door, finding him plus Benedict, who had become good friends with Y/n.
"Oh, I apologize if I am interrupting." she said shyly, keeping to the doorway.
"You are." Anthony immediately agreed in a deep voice, not paying attention to her and turning his attention back to the papers.
At the same time, his brother hurried to assure Y/n, "You're not interrupting anything. You even saved me from Anthony's boring lecture here."
The woman smiled uncomfortably. "Right. I just came to bring you a cup of water. It's so warm outside. I wasn't aware you were here, Mr. Bridgerton, but I can go and also bring you some water."
"Thank you, Y/n, I wouldâ"
However, he couldn't finish his sentence as Anthony hit the table, causing his wife to jump in fright and immediately take a step back. Her reaction made Anthony's expression show some regret, but he quickly hid it. A silence fell between the three.
"I'm fed up, Y/n! Can't you understand that men are trying to work?! Go back to your life of looking at flowers and walking around without having to do anything and leave!"
Y/n's mouth opened and closed several times, trying to understand what had just happened. Finally, she pursed her lips and her eyes turned cold. "I apologize, Lord Bridgerton. It won't happen again. If you'll excuse me."
When she left the room, Benedict looked at his brother in shock. "That was so harsh. The poor girl was trying to be nice and cared enough to bring you a glass of water. If you don't want it, I'll have it. I'm talking about the glass and her."
"Don't you dare." he muttered with a clenched jaw, glaring furiously at Benedict. Where did this anger come from just thinking about Y/n with another man? "Now, let's go back to discuss how you spent money on a bet."
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
Y/n's behavior with Anthony changed completely. Everyone noticed that the Viscountess finally reached her limit, and stopped being the friendly wife, now looking coldly at her husband whenever they passed each other in the mansion. However, as a couple and heads of the family, they still had obligations to fulfill together.
Public appearances were more tense, but they still managed to keep a smile on their faces and talk to all the ladies who asked about their marriage and when they would have children, giving short answers so that nothing would end up in Lady Whistledown's hands. They also attended a horse race, even betting on different horses that would win. Y/n ended up winning the bet, and her smug look irritated Anthony for the rest of the day, something his brothers were quick to tease him about.
But despite not liking Anthony after his cruel words, which Y/n still thought about constantly, she adored his sisters and mother. They had accepted Y/n into the family, including her in their gatherings and even being a should to cry on. Daphne had already said more than once that she would have no problem going to Anthony and try to talk some sense into him, but Y/n refused. Anthony already didn't like her, if he thought she was turning his family against him he would hate her even more. And she didn't need to make her life worse than it already was.
One day, when she went with Anthony to the Bridgerton mansion to drop off some documents, Hyacinth, Anthony's younger sister, took her aside. Y/n followed the girl to the bathroom where she, with teary eyes and trembling lips, asked her if she was going to die when she started bleeding from her lady parts. Hyacinth also revealed to her that she wanted to go to her mother, but she had gone shopping with Francesca and was alone at home with just Collin. Y/n, very calmly and gently, assured her that it was a normal thing and that all women went through this, explaining what she should do.
It was no secret that Y/n was happy that Hyacinth trusted her with this scary situation and that she was able to help the girl. Despite all the problems in her marriage, she now had a role in helping Anthony's sisters and she never wanted to fail in that.
To Y/n's surprise, Hyacinth ended up giving her a big hug, remaining attached to her for the rest of the afternoon. Her period was making her so affectionate, more than she already was, that Y/n couldn't stop a big smile from appearing on her face at receiving so much affection.
Anthony, when he finally finished talking to Collin about the documents he brought, I was surprised to see his sister on the couch hugging Y/n. "Hyacinth, what are you doing?"
"Hugging my sister-in-law, brother. But you don't know what that is, do you?" she snapped. The girl's change in mood made Y/n have to put a hand over her mouth to keep Anthony from hearing the laughter that escaped her.
The shock on Anthony's face was comical. His little sister was basically choosing Y/n over him. And in truth, he didn't judge her because his wife was, without a doubt, better than him. And she deserved so much better.
On the other hand, his heart warmed when he saw the bond that the two had created. It was clear that Y/n felt great affection for his family. Could it be that if he had accepted this marriage from the beginning, they would now be a happy family? That they would spend afternoons together, cuddling on the couch and talking to his siblings? All these thoughts were racing through his mind, and the guilt was growing so much that he felt like he was going to vomit.
"Lord Bridgerton?" that sweet voice he had come to adore brought him out of his thoughts. He hated that since he snapped at her, she never called him by his first name again.
"What?" he asked, still disoriented.
Y/n was looking at him like he was stupid. "I asked if you were ready to leave. Hyacinth already went to her room to rest. I would like to do the same. So you must make haste."
Her bossy tone almost made his lips curl into a smile, but he controlled himself in time. "Of course, wife. We shall leave now. But I have to ask, what happened between you and my sister?"
"All you need to know is that she's fine and she's a woman now. But don't worry, as your wife, I'll handle these situations. Unless you prefer me to go look at the flowers, take a walk, and do nothing?"
The hint, which was delivered with great anger, caused the man to blush in shame and lower his head. Y/n didn't wait for his answer, taking her coat from a maid and walking to the carriage. He had screwed everything up.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
A few more days had passed and the situation between Y/n and Anthony had only gotten stranger. The day after the situation with Hyacinth, Y/n was coming down from her room to go get breakfast, as she always did, when she came across Anthony at the table, appearing to be waiting for her to eat.
Y/n stopped abruptly, looking at him in shock. "What are you doing?"
"I'm waiting for you so we can have breakfast. I have to go see my brothers again today to talk business, so I was thinking you could come with me and spend some time with my sisters. My mother She's also been saying how she hasn't seen you in a while. That is, only if you want to go. If not, I'll just go⊠Or I'll stay here to keep you company, whatever you want." he choked up, finishing his speech by drinking some milk, perhaps to calm his nerves.
Y/n remained in place without moving. She looked at Anthony strangely, as if doubting that those words had even come out of his mouth.
"It was silly of me to askâ"
"No," she interrupted him. "It's fine. I would actually like to go and spend time with your sisters. They are lovely. I shall go get ready then."
"Aren't you going to have breakfast with me first?"
"Lord Bridgerton, I've been eating breakfast alone since we got married and I came to live with you. I think you can handle doing the same for a day. Excuse me." she said with an exaggerated smile, turning her back on him and starting to go back to her room. However, she turned back to go get a cake that was on the table. "But I'm hungry so I will eat this in my chambers."
"Call me Anthony!" he exclaimed before she was completely gone. He had a desperate look, almost looking like he needed to hear his name come out of her lips.
"No."
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
Like every year, the Queen decided to throw a ball to celebrate the Diamond of the Season. The most eligible maiden on the marriage market. Y/n still remembers the first ball she attended â Daphne was the diamond of the season, but Y/n also managed to dance with a few suitors. Of course, in the end, she didn't end up marrying any of them. However, the nerves she felt at that ball were equal to or less than what she felt today: her first ball married to Anthony.
The Viscount and Viscountess had entered together, her hand resting on his arm, followed by Violet and the rest of his siblings. Tonight they would have to be on the lookout for suitors who might want to dance with Francesca, the diamond of the season.
Anthony quietly appreciated his wife. She looked breathtaking in her dress, her hair neatly tied back that showed off her majestic earrings, given by Anthony on their wedding day. He was proud to have a wife like Y/n, and he regreted that he hadn't shown it since day one.
While the Bridgertons started to go their own way, interacting with other people and dancing, Y/n preferred to stay in the corner watching the couples dancing. She longed to experience that with Anthony, but not in a forced way like some were. No, she wanted it to be felt, for them to dance to the music and really appreciate that moment.
But instead of her husband approaching her, it was another man, Earl Cavendish. Y/n remembered some moments when she had already seen him, as he was looking to get married this season. As she approached her, with a confident air, Y/n lowered her head to compliment him, "Good afternoon, Earl Cavendish."
"Lady Bridgerton, a pleasure to meet you. I must say, you look flawless. Would you give me the pleasure of dancing with me?" he extended his hand.
Y/n's eyes widened, not knowing what to do. People had already started looking at them, whispering among themselves. However, she didn't have to respond to the invitation as she felt an arm wrap around her waist and bring her closer to him.
"Excuse me, Earl Cavendish, but I want to have the pleasure of dancing with my beautiful wife first." Anthony said with his jaw clenched, looking him up and down menacingly. "I'm sure you will be able to find other ladies to dance with tonight. Just not my wife."
The two men looked at each other for a few seconds, neither of them wanting to back down. Anthony grew more and more furious, her wrists clenching and bringing Y/n even closer to him, but careful not to hurt her.
"Very well. I shall leave. I hope to see you again someday, Lady Bridgerton."
"I will â" Anthony began by exclaiming in anger as the Earl walked towards another woman, not having liked the way he looked at what was his.
"You will do nothing." the Viscountess snapped coldly. "I can't understand you, you ignore me, you treat me badly, and then you act protective when another man shows interest in me? I never said anything about you having lovers, even though I didn't like that in our marriage."
"What? I've never disrespected our marriage like that, Y/n. In the past I've done a lot of things, but since we got married the only woman I'll look at and touch is you. I don't want anyone else."
"You have a funny way of showing it." she laughed sarcastically, feeling increasingly emotional. "I have to go get some air. You should go check on Francesca again."
Feeling the cold night air, Y/n's heart began to calm down. It was so difficult having to deal with Anthony's changes of attitude, she couldn't understand him. She just wanted to be loved, and since that wasn't possible, she preferred that they stay as far away from each other as possible since being friends didn't seem to be an option either.
"I'm sorry." the voice she had come to know so well whispered behind her. Y/n refused to turn around, leaning against the balcony and taking deep breaths to control her emotions. "I shouldn't have acted the way I did. I know that marrying me shouldn't have been your choice either, but I was scared. I was scared to have a wife, because that meant I had another person in my life that I could lose ."
She finally had the courage to turn around and look into Anthony's brown eyes. They held back tears and showed the sadness, regret and anger that Anthony felt.
"I'm so angry with myself for the way I treated you. You deserve so much better than this. And I'm sorry I couldn't give you that. The cruel words I said to you but didn't mean. I was scared to let you in. in my heart, so I tried to push you away. Believe that all I want is to have you in my arms. To love you. To start a family with you. Please, I promise I will do better. And every day I will try to reward you for what you do.
"Lord Bridgertonâ"
"Please, call me Anthony. It pains me when you call me like that. Reminds me that I was⊠Am so close to losing the best thing of my life. I will kneel before you and beg for forgiveness if that's what you want." he murmured with a hand over his heart, beginning to kneel on the ground without hesitation.
"There is no need for that⊠Anthony." she enjoyed seeing the relief and happiness that spread across his face upon hearing his first name. "I just don't understand why you didn't love me? And now you want to try to make our marriage work?"
"That's the thing, I have always loved you. I love you. My whole body, my heart, feels love for you. That has never changed." he revealed desperately. "I was a coward and didn't know how to deal with my feelings. Because they are so strong that my heart feels like it's going to come out of my chest. Please, give me another chance."
"Hmm, I don't now." The look of disappointment was so marked on Anthony's face, almost looking like he was ready to burst into tears, that Y/n stopped his suffering and showed him an amused smile, making him understand that she was joking. "I think I want you to suffer a little more to get my forgiveness."
"I will do anything for you, Y/n. Ask me the world and I will give it to you."
"Such a romantic now, aren't you?" she whispered, admiring his features.
She didn't realize their faces were so close until she felt his nose trace the delicate skin of her cheek. A gasp escaped her mouth, and Anthony took the opportunity to connect their lips in an unforgettable kiss.
Anthony pulled away quicker than he wanted, but he needed to make sure this was really what his wife wanted. "I love you."
"Kiss me again, and maybe I will also tell you that."
And what his wife wanted, he did. The two remained on the balcony, enjoying the comfort the other gave them. They still had a long way to go, but they knew that from that moment on, their lives would change drastically for the better. They had each other.
âBlink Motherfuckerâ an essay of Papyrusâ battle.
Papyrusâ battle is fucking weird an unnatural and hereâs why.
Ok so, think about the battle sprites.Â
Nabstablookâs eyes shake so, constatly moving.Â
Toriel stays VERY still but her expression changes enough to make up for that.
(I couldnât find a good gif so uh https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmC-pihm8YE If you want proof)
Undyne? bouncing. hair blowing in the wind.Â
Mad Dummy? bouncing.Â
Mettaton? Dancing his motherfucking heart out.Â
Asgore? bounceing.Â
Asriel? flying around at the speed of sound.Â
Sans? bouncing, swaying side to side.Â
Almost all the other monsters bounce and sway as well.Â
Whatâs weird about Papyrusâ battle is he doesnât move at all.
His cape could be flowing in the wind. But no. Completely still. He could be moving at ALL but nope. But you know whatâs REALLY WEIRD??
During the battleâŠPapyrusâ mouth doesnât even move. watch a playthrough againâŠ.iâm right.Â
During Papyrusâ date he moves, his mouth moves, his expression changes, heâs very active.Â
But in his battle? Nothing. A statue. Itâs like thereâs a cardboard cut out of Papyrus. Â Papyrus, the most active charecter in undertale not moving a mother fucking inch.Â
A Bunch or the reactions are people say âOh! Heâs concentrating on not killing you!â
WhichâŠ..I actually took the exact opposite interpretation.
Because, think about the movement in battles. Who moves the most?
Omega Flowey
Undyne the undying
Asriel Dankerr
Mettaton
Mad Dummy
People who are putting their ALL into killing you. Putting in all their concentration and effort into ending your little motherfukn lifu.
The people who move the least? (besides Papyrus the paper cutout)
Toriel
Nabstablook
most of the minor battles
Asgore
So, Toriel: Who does not want to kill you, and due to her lack of concentration on her attacks and more on her emotions causes the attacks to miss you. (Can still easily accidentally kill you) But still, distracted. Not putting her all into the battle
Nabstablook: Who needs ghost depression therapy. Really not feeling up to it right now. Not putting their all into it.
Minor monster battles: They do MOVE, and a lot of them do extensively, but theyâre more still than like, Undyne or MTT. Theyâre only fighting you out of obligation. Not putting their all into it.
Asgore: He moves more than the otherâs I pointed out, but his movements are small. He bounces slightly and slowly, if he moves itâs for his trident attack. Because well, he does NOT want you dead. He does NOT want that seventh soul. Heâs not putting his all into it.
(Note: Sans is kinda an inbetween. bc he bounces a bunch and dodges and teleports a HELL of a lot. moves his arm. but he also like, aint moving a lot compaired to Asriel and Undying if you get me.)
D-Do you get where iâm coming from?
The Sprites that move the most? Putting in EVERYTHING into this battle. They want you dead. They are using all their energy and strength to end you.
The Sprites that stay still? Not putting in their all.
Not putting in their all.
Papyrus has the same amount of energy he usually has during his date, and the finale. He zips and zooms around the screen like a ping pong ball.Â
He is always putting in 110% into every little thing he does.
In his battle, he is still. A statue. A motherfucking plastic barbie. Not even moving his mouth.Â
(Note: I think some sprites donât move their mouths in battle screens, but Papyrus moves his jaw later on the date, the dump, and in the finale. There is no excuse for him not moving his mouth during battle. But you know who else never moves their mouth bc heâs to lazy to? Sans the mother fu-. Sans is never putting in his all and doesnât even bother to move his mouth to words.)
(Also note the only time he makes a diffrent expression is when you hit him, and not for long)
Papyrus isnât putting in all his energy.Â
Papyrus isnât putting in all his power.
Now listen, If when using his bare minimum, he can still control his attacks to a point where you cannot die, he can summon words spelled out and a GIANT FUCKING BONE, have a whole conversation with himself and not paying attention while fighting you, holy fuck.
I donât want to know what Papyrus is like putting in his all.
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