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3d-wifey · 6 months

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And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 12

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 8.4k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn Chapter Summary: There's a certain kind of pain in reading or watching something from the perspective of a character who doesn't know about the tragedy ahead of them. It's like watching a scary movie and going, "No, don't go to sleep! He's behind the door!" Like in The Song of Achilles, we all know how the original story ends. We know how the actual prophecy plays out. We know that the moment Patroclus's heart stops, Hector and Achilles fates are set in stone. You wince whenever Achilles says he has no reason to kill Hector because "What has Hector done to me?" You want to tell him that Hector will do the unforgivable to him. You want to tell Patroclus not to go on the field. Tell Achilles to get his damned head out of his ass as he disguises Patroclus as himself because he is at risk of losing something far more important than his pride. You hold your breath as Patroclus is speared in the back and as Achilles realizes the consequences of his actions. You knew it was coming, and yet, you still read the story because a part of you hoped. You hoped for the hopeless. All this to say that knowing and still having hope regardless is crueler than complete ignorance. A/N: I imagined your stylist as Anne Hathaway in Alice in Wonderland.

Past (xiii) - You [22 & 23] - THE CAPITOL

If you were from any other district, maybe it would have surprised you how attached Rue is to you. But the sense of community in Eleven breeds this need for kinship. You’re social creatures; you’re not meant to be on your own. Certainly not in a place like the Capitol. It’s how you end up hugging your knees to your chest, an unnamed ocean projected on your wall as you try to get lost in the tides the night before the tributes will be marched into the arena.

No one talks about this part, or maybe they just don’t want to think about it. The part where being forced back into the room you slept in during your own Games eats at you—that anxiety that courses through your veins and leaves your body thrumming. Because no matter what you tell yourself, your body isn’t entirely convinced that you won’t be the one entering the arena tomorrow. You close your eyes and suddenly you’re fifteen again, gripping the sheets so hard you could tear holes in them as you fight the vomit threatening to ride the wave of acid reflux.

Sleeping beside Finnick helped. He reminded you that you weren’t fifteen and alone and wishing you’d die in your sleep so you wouldn’t be slaughtered live. And now? Well, at least there’ll always be the ocean.

There’s a knock on your door, so tentative that you would have missed it if you weren’t already so keyed up.

You pause the projection of the ocean, assuming the sound woke someone up. You get up and go to open it, only to see Rue. Suddenly you’re shamefaced and embarrassed, like you’ve been caught doing something pathetic, even though it’s doubtful she even knows what the sound was, let alone the significance of you listening to it.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Was I being too loud?”

“No.” She shakes her head, shifting from foot to foot. “Um, I couldn’t sleep. And I just—I saw that your light was on and thought maybe you couldn’t sleep either?”

That may be true, but you don’t think it’s the only reason. Rue is the oldest of six and they all live in Shacktown. With all those people in one house, you’re sure Rue’s never slept alone a day in her life. It makes you wonder how she managed these past few days.

You’re an only child; your dad was killed before your parents could have any more, so you can’t say for certain that you understand what she feels. Yet, you reminisce on the fact that you’ve never really gone through a year of mentoring without Finnick being within arm’s reach.

She stares up at you with those big, pleading puppy-dog eyes, and you twist your mouth to the side.

“C’mon.” You move so you aren’t blocking the entrance anymore and you nod your head towards your room. “How ‘bout you sleep in here with me tonight? You don’t have to, of course, but we might as well stay up together.”

You know you’ve made the right choice when she grins big, rushes in, and takes a running start to jump on your bed. You shake your head fondly as she scurries to get under the blanket, lying down with them pulled under her arms and getting comfortable like she belongs there. The door slides shut behind you and you twist the dimmer until the only light comes from the projector. You settle into your bed beside Rue and you can’t help but snort at how she keeps smiling at you.

“So…What were you watching?”

“Uh.” You pick the remote up to unmute the device and the sound of crashing ocean waves fills any remaining silence. “The ocean.”

She looks over, seemingly transfixed by the drag and pull of the water. The nearest ocean to Eleven is the one that rests just outside of the towering fence and only serves as a deterrent for escaping. This very well may be her first time seeing one outside of a textbook. “Why?”

“Well, I,” you let out a weighted breath, "I thought it would make me feel better. Help me sleep.”

“Oh.” Says Rue and then she looks at you. “Why?”

You let out a surprised laugh. “Um. I guess the ocean reminds me of my friend and—I don’t know. It’s just easier to sleep with him around."

“Is he your crush?” Crush? Such an innocent question feels surprisingly weighted considering your current relationship with Finnick. Or lack thereof. Is it a crush now that it’s unrequited?

“I love him.” You tell the wall and it’s the sad truth. You still do. You wouldn’t be so hung up if you didn’t.

"Whoa. You like like him.” Like like. It’s been years since you heard that. It brings to mind how young she is. It’s not as if you needed another reminder. “It’s okay, I won’t tell. I like someone too.”

“Oh? And what’s his name?” You smile. You both flip over to face each other. You picture little you and little Sage, shyly holding hands during downtime, and find yourself hoping this boy liked Rue back.

“You can’t tell anyone.” She narrows her eyes and makes you swear, which you do with a pinky promise. “Coriander.” Her voice goes all quiet and timid as she hides her face and you wonder if you’ve ever seen anything cuter.

“Ah, I think I might know him.” She looks at you with wide eyes as you tease her, peering out from between her fingers.

“Nuh-uh, no way.” She denies it as you tap a finger on your chin and pretend to think about it.

“No, no. I think I do. He’s got pink hair, no teeth, and walks with a waddle, right?”

“No!” She giggles and you can’t help but giggle along with her. You take a moment.

“Finnick. The boy I like.” You provide when she looks confused. “His name is Finnick.”

“Oh! Oh! Is he that boy from Four? The victor?” It’s hardly shocking that she recognizes him. He’s one of ‘the greats’. You nod and she gasps like that’s the juiciest piece of gossip she’s ever heard.

“He’s pretty.” She whispers.

“He is.” You laugh.

“Is he nice?”

“The nicest,” you say without thought or contempt. Finnick’s indeed been nothing but kind to you since you’ve met him, current behavior not included. You find that even when you’re mad at him, you can’t actually disparage him. And you don’t want to lie to Rue. “He made me this." You lift your wrist and show her your bracelet. You’ve been wearing it around your ankle while you’re out in public, but when you’re on your own, it goes back to its rightful place.

“Cori made something for me too.”

She pulls her necklace up for you to see. It’s woven grass attached to a wooden charm shaped like a flower—you squint—or maybe a star? Definitely the handiwork of a child. Adorable. It reminds you of Cane.

“Your token?”

“Yep. He gave it to me when everyone came to see me off after I was reaped. He ran all the way home and back to give it to me. He almost didn’t get back in time, but I waited for him. I knew he’d come, and that’s why it’s good luck.”

“Makes sense.” You nod and she nods with you, like she’s happy that you get her logic. “He must like you a lot to go through all that.”

“Yeah. He’s sweet.” She smiles, fidgeting with the charm.

“I bet he is.” You push some of her curls out of her face. Just two doomed girls talking about their equally doomed crushes.

It’s silent for a moment; ocean noises make your eyes feel heavier with the pull of each tide. You watch as the shadows cast from the projector paint the ceiling in a series of swirling blues. You think you can see Finnick’s favorite color hidden amongst the other shades.

“Were you scared? When you went into the arena?” Rue asks and you still can’t find it in yourself to lie to her.

“Terrified.”

“Really? You’re so brave though?” She sounds so genuinely confused that you have to hold back your laughter. You don’t want her to think you're making fun of her. You appreciate the vote of confidence. It’s more than you have in yourself.

“I think…being brave means doing something even if you are terrified.” You look away from the ceiling to make eye contact. “It’s okay to be scared, Rue. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” She mumbles like she doesn’t actually believe it.

“I think you’re incredibly brave.” You know she regularly went foraging for food for her siblings, and she took on more hours than what was required of her. Who knows how many times she’s entered her name for Tesserae?

And she’s still so young.

“Really?”

“Oh, definitely.” You laugh at her skepticism. You’ve laughed more with Rue in the short time you’ve had with her than in the last two years combined. Sadly, there hasn’t been much of a reason for you to. Realizing that this is the last night you two will laugh together is devastating. “I was fifteen and I felt like I was on the edge of breaking down the entire time. How are you so calm?” She’s only twelve years old—not even a teenager. If you were in her shoes, you’d have dehydrated yourself from how much you were crying.

“I am scared, but…" She drags out the ‘uh’, then shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t feel real.”

“Hmm. I get that.” You don’t tell her that it won’t start feeling real until she either wins or dies. It’ll only make her feel worse. She closes her eyes and you two are quiet for a time—so long that you think she’s fallen asleep.

Her voice is small when she asks, “Can I hold your hand?”

“Of course.” You hold your right one out for her to take, and her little fingers lace with yours. Her palms are callused too. Not as much as yours. No, she’ll never have enough time to catch up to yours.

Rue moves closer to you and you wrap your left arm around her. You feel her say your name more than you hear it and you hum in response. “Thank you.”

You pull her closer to your chest, your linked hands resting between you. “Of course, sweetheart.” You say this into the crown of her head, wishing that you could have done more for her and Thresh—wishing you weren’t so helpless.

But you can do this. You can give her this last comfort, this last embrace from home. You hold her tight as you both fall asleep and you only let her go when they come to take her away in the morning.

You do not cry.

You miss him, you decide one day. You thought you hated him after you got through your self-pity, but the words "hate" and "Finnick" are too oxymoronic to ever stay together for long. You were so angry at yourself, angry at the world, but you sat with that anger long enough to know what it truly was. Grief. You miss him the way you'd miss a limb. You're so used to having it that you only remember it's gone when you notice the space it used to occupy and feel the phantom aches of what it used to be—what you used to have and took for granted.

Chaff has described in detail the pain of losing his hand. But, he said, nothing hurts worse than remembering it’s not there.

You've never taken Morphling and you don't know anyone personally who's gotten hooked on it, but you imagine this is what withdrawal feels like. You haven't seen him since before he sent that letter, and it feels like he's actively avoiding you. You said years ago, after Annie's Games, that you could handle just being his friend if he decided he didn’t want you anymore. But he never gave you the chance.

That’s alright. It’s perfectly fine. You know when you’re not wanted around, you can take a hint.

Maybe it's for the best. There’s no telling what you would do if you ran into him again. Something pathetic, probably, like begging him to take you back. There's a specific moment when you really feel your loss. A few days into the 74th Hunger Games. Chaff is finalizing the transaction with the money Eleven gathered to send bread for Rue and Thresh, so you’re on your own.

“Your girl is something else.” You tell Haymitch from where you stand beside him, arms crossed, as you split your attention between him and the Games.

He cocks his head slightly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, then returns to watching Katniss and Rue rehearse their strategy. “I can say the same to you.” You hadn’t expected Rue to team up with anyone, but you can’t say you are surprised that it’s Katniss. The girl did volunteer for her little sister, after all. Primrose, was it? But you’re concerned that your little speech about being brave by doing things that terrify you may have swayed her to come out of hiding and help Katniss.

You can’t take full credit, though. Rue—well, she’s far too kind for her own good.

You look him over, a glass of something alcoholic in one hand while the other remains buried in his pocket. Honestly, you’ve never seen him this invested in the Games before, but you could hazard a guess why. You weren’t just blowing smoke up his ass about Katniss. She’s honestly got a pretty good shot of winning, if not making it to the top five. She’s already a fan favorite, along with Rue, Peeta, Glimmer, and Cato. She’s exceeded your expectations, along with Haymitch’s. No wonder he’s been networking his ass off. If she’s actually got a chance at surviving this, he owes it to her to try.

That’s when it happens.

Rue’s screams echo in your ears as Katniss races through the forest. Something has gone wrong—she's been captured or the Careers are using her as bait, or—you wipe your sweaty hands on your dress and then recross them, wanting more than anything to bite at the skin around your nails. You hold your breath, hoping beyond hope that she’s saved from whatever fate has befallen her.

She’s by herself in the clearing. Caught in a net, but not hurt. Katniss manages to get Rue out and your muscles begin to untense, but the relief is incredibly short-lived.

Marvel, that cocky little boy from two, throws his spear with deadly precision, lance soaring past Katniss to pierce Rue in the abdomen.

Your hands are numb as they cover your mouth, but then you remember where you are and drop them just as quickly. She pulls the spear from her chest and you want to yell at her not to, that taking it out will only make her bleed quicker. Like it even matters at all when she’ll bleed out regardless. You think you need to sit down.

Katniss catches her before she falls. You’re lightheaded.

Katniss sings to her after she whispers something that the mics can’t pick up and it feels like your heart is being wrung dry. You think of Rue’s mother. You think of her six siblings, who all look up to her. You think of Coriander. You think of how small she felt in your arms and how tightly she held your hand. You think of a lot of things in the time it takes for her heart to stop beating.

The cannon fires and all eyes go to you. Ranging from curious to pitying. Some are even tearful. She was a fan favorite, after all. Mentors and Capitols alike split their attention between you and the screens to catch your reaction, but your face is deceptively blank. You stare ahead silently, your eyes unseeing as they remain on the screen.

You will not give them the pleasure of seeing you break down. Katniss will leave and Rue’s body will be airlifted out and that will be the end of it.

This is nothing new for you. You’ve gone through this twelve other times. Why would she be any different? She isn't. You tell that to your shaky hands and they only tremble further. You tell your heavy lungs and they only get heavier. You try telling your chilly skin, but all it does is make you feel colder. Why is she different?

You want to close your eyes as Katniss grieves. To be able to save one little girl but not another, it must weigh heavy.

“I’m so sorry." Someone comes to stand beside you, some Capitol elite. “One less chance for your district to win.” You look at him from the corner of your eye and Haymitch scoffs on your other side. For one stupid moment, you thought he was offering his condolences.

“Right. Well. There’s still Thresh.” He nods along to your words, thoughtful, like you’re talking about the likelihood of a horse winning a race.

“Yes, he’s the big one, right? I have money riding on him or Cato winning.” Of course, he remembers his name and not Thresh’s. You close your eyes before they can roll out of your head. “I’d like to send him something to eat as a sponsor. I worry—what is she doing?” You open your eyes to see what tribute has captured his attention, only to see Katniss again. But she’s still with Rue, kneeling next to her body with an armful of flowers—

“She’s giving her a funeral.” You bite your bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Rue rests on a bed of flowers—white daisies and lavender. She tucks a bouquet of daisies in her little hands and you wonder if Katniss knows the significance that being surrounded by flowers has for your people. Or maybe that’s something your two districts have in common. All that’s missing is fruit and it would be a proper Eleven funeral.

A funeral for a little girl. Your heart grows heavy with that realization and your mouth curls into a scowl.

You shouldn’t think about how she clung to you before she was sent into the arena. You shouldn’t think of Coriander’s childish hope dying with her. You shouldn’t think about her family watching this. You shouldn’t think of how her mother woke up this morning with six children and will go to sleep with only five. You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t—

“Oh, how sweet.” The man coos.

“Yes.” Katniss faces the camera, kisses her three middle fingers, and salutes the cameras—salutes District Eleven. You don’t think of Coriander sprinting to the train clutching a grass-woven necklace with a good-luck charm that wasn’t very lucky. “Very sweet."

On instinct, you reach to the left for Finnick, but there's no hand to hold other than your own.

You need Finnick, and he isn’t here and for the first time since you've become a mentor, you have to brave the games by yourself and shoulder your grief alone.

“Kid…” A flinch rolls through you at the unexpected voice, and you look to your left at Haymitch’s face as he goes through a range of emotions before settling on sympathy. No. Empathy. For a moment, you forgot he was beside you. But he hasn’t forgotten you.

He does something that surprises you again. He places a big hand on the nape of your neck, warm and callused, and squeezes. You exhale sharply, your face twisting minutely, and it’s the closest thing to crying that you’ll allow yourself to do. He pulls you into his side, and it’s a battle not to burrow into him—a battle you lose. Your image will allow you to do this much. Allow you to be comforted while many of the other Capitols in the room do the same thing because it’s all very sad. You wrap your arms around his waist from where you’re held tight against his side and his hand goes down to rub your back soothingly.

No words are said between you two, and that’s enough. It has to be. Past (xiii) - Finnick

[22 & 23] - DISTRICT FOUR Finnick has never felt worse.

The sky is clear, the stars are bright, and Finnick has never felt worse.

It’s a particularly quiet night on the beach. There’s no one walking along the shore, no bonfires, no night swimming. There’s only Finnick.

He sits with his legs crossed under him; the coarse sand is warm against the exposed skin of his legs and feet. He’s always been able to come down to the beach to think and unload any weight on his shoulders. With how heavy his heart feels, he’s never needed that release more. A cool breeze carries the smell of the ocean, but it’s not as comforting as it should be.

He reaches into the ornate box sitting between his thighs and just rests his hand there, letting his fingers ghost over the pages upon pages of parchment paper. He’s kept a tight lid on this box, hoarding your letters and your scent inside like a corvid. Even now, outside on the shore, your smell wafts around him—concentrated and stiff. He blinks past the tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t look inside; he doesn’t think he can handle it. To see the length of your relationship measured by words on paper, to know he’ll never be adding to this box again—it’s too much.

He pulls out a letter at random.

His eyes have already readjusted to the darkness as he uses the moonlight to read. He traces the looping lines of your handwriting.

This is the letter you sent along with that pretty picture of yourself in case he forgot what you look like. A beautiful sentiment, but largely unnecessary. Finnick knows your reflection as well as he knows his own, if not better. Even now, with all this space, time, and hurt between the two of you, he could draw your portrait blindfolded. Not that anything could ever live up to the real thing. Nothing can compare to you.

He sighs, twisting his bracelet around his wrist absently. He feels the cool grooves of the fish charm between his thumb and pointer finger as he looks at the stars. There are more stars than there are grains of sand. Each tiny, flickering dot is a blazing inferno, the likes of which he can hardly comprehend. They don’t shine nearly as brightly as you do in his memory.

He just…he just wishes he could have told you that.

Unconsciously, his eyes fall on Cassiopeia. Punished for boasting about the beauty of her daughter. It’s not fair. Her only crime was loving her child, and for that, she was forced to give her up for the safety of her kingdom.

Sacrificing someone you love for the greater good. He can’t tell if he wants to scoff, scream, or cry. Maybe all three.

Are you looking at the same sky as him? Even now, are the two of you still connected? Is it cruel to hope for that? It has to be, but Finnick has found that he's grown rotten in his misery. Rotten and incredibly selfish.

Over the past year, you’ve sent him letter after letter and he read each one with ravenous eyes—desperate for you in any way he could have you. You were angry, you were hurt, you were confused. You alternated between begging him and demanding him to reply. So he did. Of course, he did. He could never deny you anything.

He just never sent any of them.

He kept them stashed in a drawer, locked away so he didn’t have to look at them—wouldn’t have to look at his bleeding heart. It wasn’t healthy; he knows that, but still. He just wanted to pretend, just for a little while, that everything was back to normal. That he hadn’t ripped out his soul by tearing yours apart.

Those letters had been a constant staple in his life for nearly seven years, and—he was going to wean himself off of it, off of you, really, he was.

But he never got the chance to before they stopped coming a few months ago. They just stopped.

He should be happy about that. He should be pleased that you're moving on. He should be a lot of things that he's not, but, as it turns out, he’s getting pretty fucking sick of performing for an empty audience. You've given up on him, and you have every right to, but—

God, it hurts.

It’s for the best. It’s what he wanted—no, it’s what he needed to happen for both of you. And it’s certainly better than the alternative Snow offered.

Knowing all that doesn’t make it hurt any less; it doesn’t make the pain any easier to bear.

He takes out another letter, and it’s…it’s the first one? The first letter you left him after you spent the night in his room. He remembers waking up on the floor, tired and raw from that conversation on the balcony. He was fully prepared to act like it never happened. He was a little disappointed to wake up alone, but he was sure that it only proved that you wanted to forget about it too. Imagine his surprise when he rolled over—not to the empty space he was expecting, but to a note on your pillow.

I really appreciate…

Thank you for…

Just thank you.

He was left floored. He was seventeen years old and he couldn’t remember the last time anyone thanked him for anything.

Finnick brings the note to his nose and your perfume floods his senses, drowning him in memories. Memories of long train rides home from the Capitol, his only company being the smell of you on his clothes.

And try as he might, he can’t forget. He can still feel the blood caked under his fingernails and flaking at his wrist. Can still feel the warmth of your beating heart in his hand after he ripped it out. That’s his punishment. Remembering it all, good and bad.

He’s broken from his musing by the crunching of sand approaching him from behind.

“You’ve been out here for hours. Aren’t you cold?” Annie's soft-spoken voice is almost lost in the wind. No. He isn’t. He’s the exact opposite, actually. He’s scorching from the inside out. He’s burning bright and hot and one day he’ll implode under the weight of it all like a supernova. The only respite he can imagine is the cool relief of your touch. He’s scared he’ll forget what that feels like.

She sighs when he doesn’t answer. “We know you’re hurting, Finnick, and we’re worried. You can talk to us. You don’t have to just…talk to your letters. We’re here for you.”

He doesn’t look up; he doesn’t have the strength to, but he nods anyway. Of course, they can tell he’s hurting. A blind man could spot his suffering from a mile away. He hadn’t bothered to hide it outside of the Capitol.

“...Try not to stay out here too long, okay?

Annie squeezes his shoulder before walking back up the beach, leaving him alone, and he's thankful. She shouldn't have to see him like this. She shouldn't have to see him break down.

I'm allowed to, he thinks, I'm in mourning.

But how can he mourn something he killed?

He reaches into the box one more time, pulling out a stray scrap of paper and a pen. His hands shake along with his shoulders, his handwriting so bad that only he and you would be able to understand it. He writes:

Dear Heart,

I don’t know who Finnick Odair is without his love for you.

Every day, I think I can’t possibly miss you more than I already do. And then another day passes and I prove myself wrong.

Is there a fate crueler than this?

I just want to see you again. I just want to hold you again. One last glance, one last smile, one last laugh, one last kiss. If I knew the last time I saw you would be the LAST time I saw you, I never would have blinked. I’d have made the moment last forever. But forever isn’t nearly enough, is it?

Do you think you could ever forgive me?

-I love you I love you I love you,

Finn

Present (XI) - Finnick

[23 & 24] - THE CAPITOL; ELEVENTH FLOOR

“I thought I’d find you here."

“Haymitch.” Finnick leans in the doorway of your room, wiping sleep from his eyes. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He wanted to stay awake and bask in the little time he had left with you, but he hadn’t slept next to you in so long and it felt like he was lured in.

“Listen,” the man rubs at his scruff, “it’s not what I came here for, but I’m happy you two figured out whatever the hell…” He trails off with a particularly constipated look, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of your room.

“...Right. Thanks.” Finnick clears his throat. “I’m, uh, I’m happy too.”

“Yeah…Anyway.” He sighs. “There've been a few last-minute adjustments to the plan.”

That wakes Finnick up, his mind running over what Haymitch has already told him to do in the arena. “Oh, should I wake Star—”

“No, no. This is just for you. We realized you’d have no way of knowing when you should be heading to the pickup point, especially since things out here can change on a dime.” He steps closer, burying his hands in his pockets. “Once all of the necessary players are gathered in the arena, a sponsor gift will be sent down, probably some kind of food. Pay attention to the district and the amount that’s sent.”

Finnick squints. “Why?”

“The district tells you the day we’re coming and the amount tells you the hour—do not get the two mixed up.” Haymitch raises a hand, staring Finnick down until he nods.

“Alright, I won’t. And the pickup point?”

“When in doubt, Beetee will know.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s sure working behind the scenes and acting as a messenger is harrowing work, especially with Snow on such high alert. “Our girl managed to get in Peeta’s good graces. Not that I’m surprised; they probably bonded over how ‘fun’ and'rewarding' it is to help the less fortunate or something. Having her plus Beetee and Wiress will definitely give Johanna and Blight some credibility in Katniss’s eyes. You, on the other hand, are gonna need to rely on something other than your good looks and Mags.” He fishes a flash of gold out of his pocket—some kind of bracelet.

Finnick takes it gingerly, examining how the light makes it shimmer.

“Take it into the arena as a token. Show it to her, preferably before she shoots you between the eyes. And, shit, if that doesn’t work, ask her…tell her to remember who the real enemy is.”

He wants to ask what that means outside of this very specific context; he wants to know what this bracelet means to him and Katniss if just seeing it will be enough for her to make him an ally. But he doesn’t. He feels like it’ll bring on more questions than it’ll answer.

“I’m gonna need you to hold onto something for me then.” He reaches into one of the deep pockets along his billowy pants until he feels the familiar shape against his fingers. He’s almost hesitant to give it away. When the Quell was announced, he was sure he would die with it on him. But it’s a part of you and he can’t take the chance of it getting destroyed. “It’s, um. It’s a photo she gave to me a few years back, I always carry it on me—”

“You don’t need to explain.” When it’s handed to him, Haymitch takes a moment to look at you. Finnick feels a little self-conscious of how faded it is from years of him running his fingers along your face—faded from years of being well loved. “I’ll make sure she gets back to you.” He’s careful when placing your photo in his pocket and Finnick feels relieved that there’s someone on the outside who wants to get you out of the arena just as much as he does.

“Good luck, kid.” He squeezes Finnick’s shoulder and hesitates. His eyes shift to the walkway that leads to where you’re resting. “When she wakes up, tell her…Tell her I said…” He trails off, his face severe, and Finnick understands painfully well.

“I will.” He promises. Haymitch purses his lips before giving a nod. Finnick watches his back as he leaves and wonders if that will be the last conversation he has with the man, one of his oldest friends.

Present (XI) - You

[23 & 24] - THE CAPITOL; THE ARENA “Your tracker.” The Peacekeeper yanks your arm up wordlessly and waits for you to pull your sleeve back. You squint around the sharp pain as he jabs the needle into your forearm, burying the tracking device under your skin. You glare at his back and rub at your now-raised skin.

You grip the straps of your seatbelt as the hovercraft begins its ascent.

As relayed from Haymitch to Finnick to you, Peeta brought you up as an ally, and, luckily enough, Katniss wasn't against the idea. It might have something to do with the conversation you and she had before the Chariot Rides or maybe it’s the fact that you're the only person Peeta suggested. It hadn't been your intention to get on his good side when you offered to train him, but you're glad you did. It makes your job that much easier.

“It's a very breathable, lightweight material, so I’m thinking of a humid environment, maybe tropical. Large bodies of water for certain. Have you decided on a token?" Your stylist pipes up from her seat beside you.

“Oh. Yeah.” You lift your hand to show her the blue bracelet sitting snugly on your wrist. She gasps and you pull your wrist away, looking around the carrier for anything that could be the cause of the sound. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing!” She waves you off with a flippant hand. “It’s just, I didn’t think I’d see you wear that bracelet again. I know Finnick never took his off, but—” You yank your arm back against your chest, holding your bracelet almost as if you can hide it.

"Wha-what..how do you, how…?”

“Us stylists confide in each other, and, well, those of us behind the scenes thought the two of you were just so cute together! I never saw you without that bracelet for five years straight and then one day, it was just gone. Poof! Oh, we were worried sick something happened with you two. But now it’s back!” She cheers, clapping her hands.

You gape at her. “You…you knew? All of you? And you never…?” Never leaked the gossip to the tabloids? To Snow?

“What? Heavens no! We're not heartless, dear. It wasn't our place. Besides,” she leans over, her crimson-painted lips pulled into a smile as she pats your thigh. Her eyes are glossy enough that you’re almost certain she’ll start crying. “You two deserve to be happy.”

You nod stiltedly, rocked by this new information. Did Finnick know? No. If either of you did, you would have been a bit nicer to your stylists. You’re quiet for the rest of the flight as she talks to you. This time around, you do try to listen to what she’s saying, nodding along at the right moments to show you’re paying attention. It’s a bit late, but you feel like you owe it to her.

She walks you down to the tube that’ll take you to the arena.

“This is it, my dear.” She sniffs, raising a hand to her mouth as she actually starts crying now. “Oh, I’m a mess. I’m sorry.” She apologizes, fanning her pale face. You don’t think about it too hard; instead, you step toward her and pull her into a tentative hug.

“It’s okay, Shimmer,” you comfort her. “And for what it’s worth, thank you.”

“It’s not okay. It’s not fair at all.” You let her squeeze you tight, allowing the hug to go on longer than you normally would. She inhales and then pulls away. She holds you by your shoulders and takes you in. “It’s been an honor working with you, my dear.”

“Same here.” You smile, but it feels more like a grimace.

You step onto the platform.

The door slides shut behind you and you start feeling sick as you rise. Sick enough that you worry you might vomit before you even make it into the arena. Your heart beats in your teeth. It’s starting to dawn on you, you realize, just how fucked you are. There’s the revolution, but there’s no guarantee you’ll even live long enough to be saved. You’ve been training like crazy, not that it was that hard with the way you grew up. It’s one thing to use your skills for physical labor; it’s another to use them in a fight to the death. That wasn’t how you survived your Games.

You hold your breath, gathering and reminding yourself of what’s important. The plan. And the plan hinges on you getting to the Cornucopia and surviving.

Your stylist tearfully waves you off as you rise, her elaborate and puffy white gown the last you see of her. You look up at the hole of light as you approach it, your nails digging into your palm.

The drastic temperature change makes you shiver and squint, raising your hand to block the blinding rays of the sun. This heat is different from the kind you’re used to. Heavier, somehow even more humid than Eleven’s muggy summers. The sun disorients you and the little wind that comes through carries the smell of salt. You push through the fog of your senses and force yourself to see.

There’s water—a shit ton of it. Saltwater if your nose is to be trusted. Shimmer was right.

The first thing you do is look for Finnick. You can’t help yourself; the need to know where he is is stronger than your need to acclimate. Your gaze bounces from tribute to tribute in your search for him. Sweat is already gathering on your brow when you finally find him. You see him, but only barely, on your left. He’s about three sections away, close enough that you make eye contact with him. It’s brief and fleeting, but long enough for your stomach to settle and your heartbeat to slow.

You’re all divided by rocky strips of land that protrude from the island the Cornucopia rests on like the spokes of a wheel. And in between each spoke are two tributes. That would mean there are twelve sections.

Mentally, you try to map out where everyone is. You note that Finnick is standing beside Chaff.

On your immediate left is Johanna, sectioned off from you by the long line of rocks. You nod at each other and relief courses through you knowing you won’t have to search for her. Beetee stands with Cecilia in between Finnick and Johanna’s respective sections. Was this placement intentional or just luck?

With half of your group near you, your eyes rove around for the missing two and—

“Shit.” You curse. You’ll have to go looking for Wiress. That’s the first part of the plan: Johanna gets Beetee, you get Wiress, and Blight waits for the four of you away from the Cornucopia. You’re lucky to be placed next to Beetee and Johanna, but it would have been nice if Wiress was a little closer. Or within your line of sight, at least.

“Let the 75th Hunger Games begin. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The sound of Ceasar’s cohost echoes throughout the arena and you rush to gather more information. On your immediate right is the woman from Nine, about the same distance from you as the strip of land on your left. You know she never stepped foot in the training center, so you’re confident in the fact that she isn’t a threat. A little further down are Peeta and the man from Ten. You do a double-take. You hadn’t expected him to be so close to you and you have to force yourself to ignore him. You beat back the instinct to watch him like a hawk; that isn’t your job right now—it’s Mags and Finnick’s. The next section houses Woof and Mags and beside them are Enobaria and the female morphling. That’s as far down as you can see.

Your muscles tense up when he begins the countdown.

You take stock of your surroundings. Before you is the Cornucopia, and behind you is a beach and a deep forest—no, a jungle. The large body of water surrounding your platform looks pretty clear. Nothing but fish and plants, you’re sure. It’s doubtful they’d put anything deadly in there. Not when so many of the tributes can’t do anything more than doggy paddle. And certainly not this early into the Games. What an odd choice to have water this deep. Especially considering how rare a skill swimming is in the districts.

You watch the red, rotating cube as it flashes down to one, your muscles poised like a spring as you prepare to jump. You take a breath and dive in.

Deep in the woods behind the shack your family used to call home, there was a lake in an area the Peacekeepers seldom patrolled. That’s where your dad taught you to swim. You haven’t done it in a long time, not since before he was killed. You’re more than a little rusty and you wish you had aimed a little more to your left.

The cold water is a shock to your system, but you don’t have time to stay idle. You don’t sink to the bottom like you think you will; you’ve forgotten how much lighter water makes your body. The salt in the water burns your eyes every time you try to open them so you squint and swim towards where you think the strip of land is. It’s a battle. The distance, while a problem on its own, is nothing compared to the strength of the waves.

You’re panting by the time you make it there, shaky fingers grappling with the wet rocks as you pull yourself up, thanking your forethought to focus on training your upper body strength. The woman from Nine had jumped in the opposite direction, aiming for the beach instead of the Cornucopia. Smart. You’d do the same, but you need a weapon and you need to find Wiress. You push your water-laden hair out of your eyes, getting your feet under you and taking off towards the Cornucopia.

You're surprised when you make it across without slipping. You have to make the split-second decision between getting a weapon or looking for Wiress first. You glance behind you, and no one seems that adept in the water on your side. Johanna is just now clawing her way out of the waves. You guess there aren’t many reasons to swim in Seven. You make a run for the mouth of the Cornucopia with the sound of cannon fire chasing you and you hope to God that no one sets their sights on Wiress. You glance to your right, and you can blurrily make out Finnick, Katniss, and Mags helping Peeta out of the water.

You skid to a stop, your legs freezing without your actual input.

“Finnick!” You yell, and his head whips up before you fully get his name out. The water weighs his hair down, turning it a darker blond than you’re used to seeing it. You aren’t entirely sure why you called out for him. Maybe it was more for his comfort than yours; he’ll need to know that you weren’t the cause of one of the cannons firing.

“Star!” He grasps his trident tighter, scanning your surroundings for potential threats. When he sees none, his shoulders relax but his trident remains poised in anticipation.

He looks from you to his group and back again. You shake your head to stop him from taking that step forward. It was only three hours ago that you last saw him. And before that, the two of you stayed up talking about nothing until you fell asleep in each other’s arms. Nonetheless, the desire to run to him is strong. You can see him fight that same impulse you do. When the cannon fires again, Finnick leaps into action, nodding at you with an uncertain gleam in his eyes before placing Mags on his back.

You watch them all run for the jungle before getting your weapon. You spot a scythe propped up with spears and tridents and can tell immediately that it was planted for you. You take a second to analyze it distrustfully. A metal handle and a deeply curved blade, undoubtedly for show rather than harvesting. You won’t take it. It’s big and cumbersome, and it’ll slow you down in this kind of terrain. Plus, the strength needed to wield this in an actual fight is beyond you. Someone like Chaff or Brutus would get far more use out of it. Maybe even Finnick, if his trident ever fails him. It’ll just tire you out.

Instead, you opt for the twin sickles hanging next to it. They’re also bigger than any you’ve seen in Eleven. With their thick, smooth wooden handles, the blades are sharper than any you have ever used. Their weight will take some getting used to. When you notice more tributes orienting themselves on the rocks behind you, you decide the time for contemplation is over.

You sprint to your left, eyes scouring the water for a small brunette woman. Wiress is on the other side of the Cornucopia, more floating in the water than swimming.

“Wiress!” You call. She waves her hands as if you can’t see her and you nod, weary of attracting unwanted attention. Luckily, she’s been in the water for so long that the waves have carried her towards the island. It doesn’t take much to pull her out.

“You, you’re hurt?” She speaks in her usually broken speech pattern, gesturing towards you, and you’re quick to look down, thinking you’ve been hurt without knowing it. When you come back with nothing, you look back at her, confused, and she gestures again. You realize it’s a question, not a statement.

She seems tunneled in on whether you’re hurt or not. Drenched with water and frustration, you spin around in front of her. “I’m fine, Wiress, I’m fine, but we have to go.” She’s a lot more amicable now, allowing you to corral her back to where you saw Johanna last. The bodies littered around give you pause. In front of you lies a woman who is half-submerged in the pinkish water. Taking a deep breath, you step over her and drag Wiress with you.

When you get to the mouth of the Cornucopia, you spot your two allies locked in a fight. That is to say, Beetee huddles behind Johanna as she fights, clutching a spool of wire to his chest as if it were the only thing between him and certain death. Johanna and the man from Nine are locked in the most dangerous game of tug of war you’ve ever seen. They both have their hands on an axe and if this were a game of speed, she’d have him on his knees already. But he’s bigger than her, stronger too, and just as unwilling to let it go.

Her teeth are bared in exertion, legs almost buckling under the strain. He has the blade pushed alarmingly close to her neck and you don’t think about it; your body is pushed into action before you’re even aware that you’re moving. Later, you’ll think back on how easy it was. You’ll think about how quickly he stopped being a human being like you and instead became an enemy—a threat. You’ll think about it—about who he used to be before he became a body—and you will come alarmingly close to crying. For now, you kick the man in the back of the knee and he goes down with a grunt. Johanna uses the leverage the new position gives her and snatches the axe out of his hands with a huff.

You lift the sickle in your dominant hand high in the air, putting your full weight behind it as you drive the blade into the top of his head. The collision of metal against bone ricochets up your arms, leaving your muscles vibrating. He falls forward with a heavy thud and you stumble backwards. Your hands feel like they’re vibrating and the adrenaline coursing through you puts a stop to any panic before it can begin.

You move forward and have to place your foot on his back, grunting as you use both hands to yank your weapon back out. He makes a keening sound in the back of his throat—the guttural moans of a dying animal. You’re not used to being the one on this side of the slaughter. He’s still alive, but he won’t be for long. You won’t wait for the cannon to go off.

“Let’s go!” The four of you sprint towards the beach, glancing behind you in case the Careers decide to give chase. There are still plenty of tributes on their platforms, too scared to brave the water. They should hold their attention long enough for your group to get away. Running away as the Careers lay claim to the Cornucopia makes you feel like prey.

“Blight!” Johanna shouts and your head whips around, searching until you find the burly man a few yards away, waving you over. You all run to him and you take another mental stock.

Between the five of you, you have an axe, two sickles, a machete Johanna grabbed, a spool of wire, and two brilliant minds. That should be more than enough for the plan. Johanna hands the machete over to Blight and you and her share a glance before wordlessly booking it into the jungle with your charges. Blight leads and you carry the rear.

You really hope it doesn’t take long to find Finnick.

A/N: ┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴ Heyyyy, are you mad at me? I hope you didn't mind that rant in the summary. I felt like Rue's death from this perspective hurt a little more bc you know it's coming, but Star doesn't, and sometimes I get carried away with writing my thoughts. ┐(シ)┌ More Finnick audios in the next chapter to make up for the shortage in this one. Come yell at me!!!

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malum-forev · 1 year

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Ooo hiiiii! If it’s okay (I’m sorry if this is too detailed!!),

Can I please request a Everyone lives au! (All of the Avengers are alive and well, and the team is still together as a family😅) Bucky x fem!civilian!reader where they first met when he was The Winter Soldier, and again in TFAWS? He miraculously had saved Y/n’s life back when he was the Winter Soldier, something that he had never told anyone about (as Hydra probably would’ve had her killed for seeing the Winter Soldier). It all comes to the surface years later when Bucky, Steve, and Sam are out at a restaurant when they run into Y/n, who is their waitress, and drops their food once she sees who Bucky is (he thinks it’s because she’s afraid, but she’s not, it’s because she recognizes him as the man who saved her life). + she hugs and thanks him? Sam and Steve being proud of him🥺 + Y/n and Buck falling in love?

I feel like it’d be really meaningful and emotional for Bucky to have someone see him as their hero, rather than the villain that he thinks he is (POOR BBY)🥺🥺

Hiii thank you sooo much for your ask!! This is my first one! I hope I do it justice!

The chill of the midnight breeze made Bucky shiver, he shouldn’t be out right now and he knows he doesn’t need to be. It’s a conscious decision. Steve, Sam, and Bucky are veterans and they have no business taking on the graveyard shift but they didn’t care. They didn’t care that the new recruits were younger and would adapt to the bizarre sleep schedule better, they didn’t care that they had to bundle up with an extra layer of clothing before leaving the compound so they wouldn’t get a cold, they didn’t care that now they understood the term: ‘I know tomorrow’s gonna rain, my knees always hurt before it does.’

After they ‘gently convinced’ (as Bucky would say) the person who supposedly knew information about the new mission they were on, the three men found themselves at a 24hr diner at 2am. Hoping to get in their third cup of coffee on the shift.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” Sam groaned, leaning his head on the back of the squeaky red booth.

“I knew I was going to stop at some point, I just didn’t know that the end would come with me having to crack every single bone before fighting.” Steve laughed into his coffee.

Bucky looked up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I dislocate my shoulder every time, I’m starting to think I should just keep it out of the socket. It’ll give me less trouble that way.”

“When did we get so old?” Bucky said with a groan, putting his face in his hands.

“We should get some food in, wouldn’t want to get acid reflux before a fight.” Sam flagged the waitress down.

Bucky didn’t know what he was expecting, scratch that- he knows exactly what he was expecting and it wasn’t you. He thought his waitress would be an older woman, she would smell of stale coffee and fryer oil. But suddenly you were here, with him, and everything started moving in slow motion.

At first you didn’t recognize him, it had been years since you’d last saw him. And even that time you first met, you didn’t get to truly see him. You were too afraid to even peek through your hand covered eyes. You balanced the tray of food, meant for the person a few tables behind them, with one hand while the other one rummaged through the pocket at the front of your apron for a pen.

You finally found it and clicked the top.

“What will you guys be-“ Your mouth suddenly turned dry as you met his crystal eyes. In a matter of milliseconds your world shifted. Like one second you were working the late night shift your obnoxious boss had forced you into doing and the next your back in time. Exactly eight years ago, the night your life changed.

Everyone around you worried, your first-time leaving home and you chose a big city. “You know they have pickpockets there, right?” someone had told you, trying to convince you not to go. But you’d roll your eyes and say: “I’m more scared of the guys around here who drink and drive than a couple of pickpockets.”

You were surprisingly autonomous for a person who had never been apart from- well- anyone you knew. All of your family, friends and safety net now resided a couple of thousands of miles away.

But there was something about that day eight years ago, the first day where everything went wrong. Maybe it was your brains way of giving you some sort of bad omen. You had stayed out a little too late that day and missed your train, now you had to take the bus. But the only route available took you to an unknown part of town. From there you would have to walk some 40 odd minutes to get back home.

Your boots clicking on the hard cobblestone was the only thing to be heard, the light of the moon the only thing that was shining. A strange feeling took over your being as you looked around the foreign place. And just to make things worse, it started raining.

As you started feeling the droplets becoming more aggressive you decided to wait the storm out in what looked like an old hotel. But as you pushed the door open, you realized it was abandoned on the inside. You stayed close to the door and took in your surroundings.

There was an old wooden door to your left, it was slightly open so you peered inside. It creaked as you opened it and your heart sank as you saw what was inside. A man tied to a chair, his cheekbone was cut and bleeding, a knife was sticking out from his upper thigh. You gasped as you came closer.

“Help me.” The man groaned but before you could do anything, something came out of the shadows.

Half of his face was covered and his hair was long, but your eyes were glued to his. His dark cerulean eyes were lit by the moonlight coming in from the skylight.

He marched towards you until you were backed up against the wall. You’d heard about him before. The Winter Soldier, but you thought he was a character made up by mothers across the world so their children would do as they said. A sort of Boogeyman.

Your life flashed before your eyes as you saw his metal hand come up to your throat. You closed your eyes tightly and waited for the light at the end of the tunnel, but it never came. You opened one eye and saw the shining red star at his shoulder slightly shake, the only indication that he was there because when you saw his face it was blank. The dark hue in his eyes you saw a second earlier had disappeared. In its place was a light crystal blue shine. His silver hand was still around your neck but he didn’t apply any pressure.

“Who are you?” He muttered through gritted teeth. The lines in his forehead a clear indication that he was battling with himself.

“I’m nobody.” You squeaked, your eyes never leaving his.

He opened his mouth to say something but turned his head to the side, listening for something. “You have to leave.”

“What?” You gasped.

He took your hand in his right one and lead you to the window in the room. He smashed the glass, making sure there was no sharp edge as he picked you up to sit on the windowsill.

“What are you doing?” You asked quietly, not sure how you even got one word out. You finally heard some voices coming closer to the room you were in.

“Leave!” he ordered looking from you to the door. “They’ll kill you if you don’t!”

You jumped out into the rain and looked back at him.

“Run!” he yelled before taking a knife and stabbing it into his right arm. He groaned in pain.

“What’s going on down here, Soldat?” You heard someone ask.

“Someone came in, wanting to take the prisoner out. I took care of them.” The Winter Soldier said.

Your fight or flight finally kicked in and you ran, you ran until your legs gave out and you were far away from him.

He recognized you too, you saw it flash in his eyes. You took a step back in shock and bumped into the table behind them, dropping the contents of your tray on the floor. You gasped.

“I-I’ll-“ You stuttered. “I’ll bring over a mop.”

You rushed back to the kitchen, taking the cleaning supplies from the closet and passing them over to your coworker, Frank.

“What’s this about?” He rolled his eyes.

“I’ve covered for you hundreds of times.” You spat out. “Clean up the mess at table 17 and call it even.”

Before he could even answer you rushed out the back door, desperately needing fresh air. Your breaths were shallow and no amount of air could relieve the pressure you felt in your chest. You ripped the apron off and threw it on the ground, pacing back and forth.

You heard the back door creak open. “I don’t need your shit right now, Frank!”

But you could recognize the sound of those boots anywhere. You lifted your head and saw the Winter Soldier walking towards you. Your breath got caught in your throat. He picked up your apron up and brought it closer to you.

“We’ve met before.” He gulped. “When I was someone I no longer am.”

His voice had a strange quality to it, like he was unsure as to what to say. Your eyes widened at his tone.

You wanted to find a way to say what you felt but how can you put into words: ‘Thank you for saving my life eight years ago and not killing me even though you were programmed to kill anything in your way back then.’

Maybe you could find a Hallmark card?

He looked down at the floor with shame as you didn’t answer, almost embarrassed.

But before you knew it, you were wrapping your arms over his shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. Now it was his turn to widen his eyes.

You let go after a few seconds. “I’m sorry about that. The hug, I don’t know if you’re a hugger.”

His mouth opened slightly and his cheeks had a pinkish hue to them.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Did you- did you just say thank you? You’re not afraid?”

“Afraid?” You asked. “You saved me that night. You fought all your instincts and saved me, even when it would have been easier to just get rid of me. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“I- I don’t understand. I don’t know what to say.” Bucky was shocked, he thought you were scared of him. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be on the other side of the Winter Soldier. A young woman being almost choked to death by a machine. But here he was, being thanked by you.

You shook your head. “Don’t say anything, just listen. Thank you, you saved my life.”

A rare, small smile tugged at his lips. Those words changed him. Six silly words that came out of your mouth like sweet honey seeped into his fractured heart. He felt something, for the first time in decades.

Bucky cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You smiled at him, brushing back your hair.

When you returned to the table much more composed, you finally asked for their order. One cheese and spinach omelet for the Falcon, one BLT for Captain America and just a black coffee for the Winter Soldier. Was this real life?

They asked for the check a while later, surprised when you said it was on the house.

“If I’d known you guys give food for free, I would have come by sooner.” Sam laughed.

“It’s not every day you get to see the man who saved your life.” You said with a smile.

Both men turned to look at a now blushing Bucky.

“Please, it was nothing.” He said shyly, not looking up.

You nodded your head, a feeling of pride filling your body. This man who has only felt feared deserves to be awarded for his good. “He saved my life eight years ago when I wandered into a place I was definitely not supposed to be in.”

A smile appeared on Steve’s face as he patted his best friend on the back. “I’m proud of you Buck.”

----

The shift happened immediately after that day. Suddenly Bucky started to push Steve and Sam to take the graveyard shift with him more often, and when they stopped going he decided to go by himself.

“My head feels clearer at night.” Was Bucky’s excuse once.

But everyone could see the Sergeant’s true intentions. He had quite literally fallen in love with you, he’d slipped on the linoleum floors one night after missing the caution cone you’d put out, but Bucky couldn’t for the life of him figure out a way to ask you out. And today was no exception.

“Can I get you anything else?” You asked as you placed his regular order in front of him.

His lips were sealed tight and he shook his head furiously.

You smiled. “I’ll be around if you need me.”

You’d become quite confused, he had flirted with you a couple of times now. Cute compliments would flow out of his mouth constantly, he’d even called you beautiful once as a pet name. But maybe you had mistaken his kind words for something other than what they were.

“I’ll leave this here, whenever you’re ready.” You placed the receipt in front of him after he’d been in the diner with only his coffee for around 30 minutes.

You didn’t expect him to grab your hand, and you certainly didn’t expect the sparks that shot.

“I will not be paying this.” He said, his eyes on yours.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “If you want I can get my manager.”

“I will not be paying this.” He repeated. “Until you accept my date offer.”

You went from confused to truly shocked, and he noticed because he immediately backtracked. He slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead, mumbling under his breath.

“I am so sorry, I don’t know why I just said that. I sounded like a total creep. You obviously don’t want to go on a date with an old man like me it- it’s just I think you are beautiful but more than that you are kind and I would love- if you gave me the chance to, maybe I’m not used to this modern way of courting but I think that-“

You placed your hand over his babbling mouth. “Of course I’ll go on a date with you.”

Bucky let out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding.

“Thank god.” His muffled voice said.

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gentlenotes-moved · 5 months

Text

how to get rid of nausea (or at least reduce it)

ok y'all so it's almost 1 in the morning and i can't sleep so i figured i might as well make use of my time. these tips are from what have personally worked well for me as a person who's been dealing with ibs and gerd since basically birth. of course these might not work for everyone, this is just what has helped me the most :)

first, make sure you've taken your meds!

sip on some cold water. preferably with ice.

get some cool air. whether that's through a window or just a fan.

drip some cold water onto the veins of your wrist. i know this sounds kinda weird, but my dad said it's a trick he learned in the military to help nausea. it's worked pretty well for me, personally. though the effect is temporary.

sip on some cola or another fizzy pop. carbonation helps you burp, and you honestly might just have some trapped gas. you'd be shocked how just one good, trapped burp makes you feel like you need to projectile vomit. drink in small, frequent amounts, not large gulps(for the love of god don't take large gulps. please). this is honestly one of the best tricks for nausea for me, it helps within minutes or sometimes a bit longer.

sniff some rubbing alcohol. again, kinda weird, but it works pretty well for some reason.

drink some pepto bismol. a life saver honestly.

take some tums. i highly recommend the peppermint flavored ones. tums are usually for acid reflux/gerd, but the peppermint really helps the nausea part for me. that's why i usually get these bc i'm killing two birds w/ one stone lol

sleep at a high elevation. this helps stomach contents from coming back up. there's been many times where i've had to sleep at a 90° angle. get out your pillows and stuffed animals to make one giant mountain if you have to (that's what i do at least).

sleep on your left side. if you really want to sleep on your side, sleeping on the left keeps the stomach contents down the best.

distract yourself. either watching your favorite show, playing a game, or, hell, even working. this might be a bit tricky if the nausea is overwhelming, though.

avoid strong smells. rubbing alcohol is the exception here, but strong smelling things (esp food) has always made my nausea much worse.

avoid spicy/punch-to-the-face type food. eat simple foods like toast, saltine crackers, or applesauce. my personal favorite is dried seaweed (salted)!

sit upright; try not to slouch. sitting upright helps you digest food properly and gets rid of any trapped gas as well.

don't move around a ton. of course, some simple stretching is beneficial, but i'm just suggesting you don't go run for a few miles when you're feeling like shit <3

#ibs #gerd #nausea #tw vomit #chronic illness #spoonie #mine #personal

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causeimhappinesss · 1 month

Text

His baby mama, part 2 (Corey Cunningham x reader)

PART 1

Pairing: Corey Cunningham x reader Warning: kidnapping Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :) + it’s gonna be a short story, so don’t seek a full development as you would in a novel

---

When you open your eyes, a thick veil of unconsciousness dissipates, revealing a dark room. Your head spins and your limbs feel numb with a strange sensation that sends shivers through your whole body, amplified by the coolness of the surroundings. Suddenly, you realize you’re in your basement. You try to move, but your movements are hindered by tight restraints that hold you to a dusty old mattress in a sea of forgotten boxes. Your hands are tied with a thick rope. Actually, it’s not tight enough, you can move a little, but it’s still reassuring.

What happened...?

Memories of yesterday come flooding back. Terror wells up inside you, a venomous snake wrapping itself around your heart and choking you. Why are you here? Where’s your baby? Panic overtakes you as you frantically search for answers, your eyes feverishly searching the dark corners of the cellar for a clue, a way out.

And then, like lightning in a storm, you see it. Your daughter, your precious treasure, sleeping peacefully in her crib beside you, oblivious to the threat in the air. A sigh of relief escapes your lips, though your anguish continues to clench your throat and twist your stomach. You lean over her and slide a hand over her soft tummy. She seems to be doing just fine. He hasn’t hurt her. More surprisingly, he didn’t kill you... That’s not Michael Myers modus operandi. So… why are you here? What does he want with you? The questions swirl around in your head and gnaw at your insides, without you understanding what’s going on.

Your trembling fingers slowly move up to touch the soft skin of her little hand. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize how vulnerable she is, how you’re both at the mercy of the surrounding darkness... At the mercy of a madman. You’re not stupid enough to believe that if you open the basement door, it will open and you’ll get on with your life as before. As if reading your mind, the creak of the sinister door pierces the silence. Your hair stands on end. Your heart misses a beat. The door opens slowly, revealing a menacing shadow. Your breath freezes in your throat and acid reflux surges up your throat, burning your windpipe.

And there, in the doorway, you see him. Michael Myers. His empty, dark gaze pierces you. He represents a silent threat that chills you to the bone. Fear paralyzes you and your limbs are refusing to answer to your desperate orders to flee.

You’re a prisoner in your own home, at the mercy of a faceless monster bent on your destruction. You feel your strength ebbing away, hope flickering in the darkness as you realize that you’re alone, powerless against the unspeakable horror befalling you.

The flickering light from the basement illuminates a strange figure, a man in a boogeyman mask standing there motionless, like a specter straight out of your darkest nightmares. You don’t understand, none of this makes sense. Your heart pounds in your chest as you instinctively step back, your baby in the crib next to you, a fragile barrier between you and this terrifying intruder.

"What do you want?" Your voice slightly shakes and you’re certain he can sense your fear... Like the wild animal he is.

The man doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze hidden behind the inexpressive mask of a boogeyman. He slowly moves in your direction, as his footsteps sinisterly echo in the room. You stand over the cradle, protective, ready to do anything to defend your child from this unspeakable threat... If you have to be stabbed 15 or 16 times like he did Judith to save her, you’ll do it. She’s the most precious thing in the world to you.

"What do you want?" you asked again, in a sharper tone.

Silence.

Annoyed, you grab the first thing that comes to hand – a box of condoms forgotten on a dusty shelf – and throw it at the masked man. He barely catches it before it hits his latex mask. He drops the condoms to the floor and slowly removes the serial killer’s mask. Your eyes widen. You think you’re dreaming. It’s impossible, isn’t it? You almost choke on your saliva. You’ve never been so disturbed in your life, so much so that your whole being is shaking like a leaf.

Corey.

Your ex, the father of your daughter.

The man you loved and still love.

"Corey?" you whisper, stunned, as if you were in a bad dream.

He looks at you with his dark eyes, reflecting a pain you can’t understand, beyond anything you could imagine. For the first time, you perceive something different… As if he’s not quite the nice guy you used to date.

"I’m sorry," he murmurs at last, his voice little more than a whisper.

You stand there, petrified, unable to move as the pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place in your jumbled mind. Why is he there? Why is he covered in blood? Could it be that he’s usurped the notorious serial killer’s name for revenge…? Revenge on whom? So many questions loop in your mind.

"Corey, what happened?"

Your words are barely audible, a desperate plea in the oppressive darkness. He looks away, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his invisible burden.

"I need to talk to you…"

In the suffocating atmosphere, the echo of your breaths intermingles, in a song of fear and confusion. Corey stands before you, still in a menacingly silhouette, his piercing gaze on you… the gaze of a killer.

"We’re together now and no one can separate us," he declares in a deep voice, each syllable falling like a stab into your already wounded heart.

You stare at him, incredulous, unable to understand how events could have taken such a turn. Allyson, his girlfriend, a mere puppet in a game with rules you didn’t catch. Confusion fills you, mixed with a hint of dread, as you desperately try to make sense of it all.

“Corey, what are you talking about?" you gasp, your voice trembling.

He sneers, a cold sound devoid of any humanity.

"Allyson has been nothing but a pawn," he repeats, a touch of disdain tinting his words.

Your eyebrows furrow, your thoughts intertwining in a swirl of confusion and distrust.

"What do you mean?" you ask, anxiety tightening your throat like a vise.

Suddenly, Corey comes closer, his gaze anchored in yours. His hand firmly grasps your chin, forcing you to keep your gaze in his. A flush of panic rises in you, aware that a completely different man is standing in front of you right now… If only you could bring back the old Corey. Now he’s looking at you, as if he’s trying to read your soul, as if he likes to see the fear on your face.

"I hated the idea of you separating me from our daughter," he whispers. "You never gave me a chance."

You hold your breath, your thoughts swirling in a chaotic tumult as his words echo in your mind.

"You didn’t want to assume your paternity and you told me to get an abortion…" you retort, in a tone full of bitterness.

He glances down at the cradle where your daughter rests peacefully, her little arms waving in the air as she chirps, a sign that she’s just woken up to the sounds of your discussion. With a surprising delicacy, Corey takes her in his arms, and presses her against his chest, without hurting her, all of this with a gleam of tenderness in his eyes. One of his hands strokes your daughter’s curls, so similar to his own, then he presses a kiss to her forehead.

Something tells you that a new chapter is opening, charged with mystery and danger, but also with a glimmer of hope... Not forgetting the element of uncertainty.

However, the basement seems to shrink around you, its walls becoming oppressive, threatening to crush you. Corey is still standing in front of you, but he’s putting the baby back in the cradle. On the other hand, your struggle against the bonds holding you captive, icy anguish gripping your heart with its claws.

"Untie me, please," you beg in a trembling voice.

Corey shakes his head, a shadow of distrust hovering in his dark eyes.

"You’ll run," he declares in a calm but resolute voice, each word weighing like a silent condemnation.

You frown, your frustration mixed with a hint of anger.

"Why would I run away? I don’t understand you," you protest, a note of incredulity piercing your fragile voice. A beautiful lie you hope to serve him on a gold platter, but you both know very well why. You suspect he killed people that Halloween night. Something dangerous has awakened in him.

He scrutinizes you with his inscrutable gaze. Then, in a voice devoid of any empathy, he lets slip the brutal truth behind his mask of apparent calm.

"I killed my mother", he reveals coldly, his words reverberating in the heavy cellar air like echoes of doom. "She got what she deserved. And Ronald… Ronald was killed by some kids I wanted to eliminate. They threw me off a bridge a few days ago. Fortunately, I got them all, one by one… Their deaths were equivalent to their degree of involvement in my torment."

He smirks, then snicker. A shiver of fear rips through your spine and you wince as best you can. How can he announce such a thing so lightly? A wave of horror washes over you, a deadly embrace that compresses your chest and suffocates every part of your being. Your breath catches in your throat and your eyes mist with tears. This isn’t your Corey, this isn’t the man you loved. It’s a monster, a predator lurking in the shadows, ready to strike without mercy.

You feel trapped, imprisoned in a hell you can barely understand. Fear seeps into every fiber of your being, a throbbing pain that twists your insides. What are you going to do now that you know the truth? How can you escape this unspeakable horror that threatens you from all sides?

He slowly comes nearer, his face so close to yours so you can feel his warm breath skimming your skin. Your heart pounds in your chest. A wave of panic rises inside you and that same suffocating sensation threatens to engulf you.

"You’re gonna love me again like you used to," he whispers, in a voice as soft as it is tinged with madness.

Terrorized, you nod weakly, your eyes fixed on his, a flicker of despair in your gaze. He smiles, a smile devoid of warmth, a smile that chills you to the bone.

Then, in a dark, sinister voice, he breathes the words that echo like a warning in the tension-filled air: "You belong to me".

A shiver of horror runs down your spine as you realize the magnitude of the threat b You’re a prisoner in your own basement, at the mercy of a man you no longer recognize, a man who seems to have lost most of his humanity… He’s the darkness.

You’re trapped.

---

[Author’s notes] Should I write another part? Do you have ideas for another part? Again, sorry if it’s not developed enough. I would totally do it if I was writing one of my novels.

My Ko-fi: betrayedwriter My AO3: BetrayedWriter My Instagram: carolinemertz_

Want to read my novel if you know some french? Find them in my bio 😉

#Corey Cunningham #corey Cunningham x reader #Corey Cunningham x you #Corey Cunningham imagine #halloween 2018 #halloween kills #halloween ends #Halloween 2022 #corey cunningham headcanons #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher imagine #slasher headcanons

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