#also i know he has no pupils its Supposed to be that way.. i thought it'd look cool

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

what friends do | f. odair

masterlist

summary: you were a simple town girl. finnick odair was the crown jewel of panem. both of you needed an escape and found it at a secluded beach just outside district four. these were three ingredients that created a year-long friendship. but were friends supposed to have… impure thoughts about one another? you weren’t so sure.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: smut, wayyy too much detail, dirty thoughts, friends-to-lovers, mild angst, mostly readers pov, pre-rebellion, HEAVY dirty talk, fingering, unprotected p in v (big no no), multiple orgasms, so much pining, creampie, cock-warming

notes: i’m so sorry this took me so long. life has been up my ass lately and, as y’all know, i’m a slow writer. but thank you sm to everyone who patiently stuck around, i love y’all <3 this was supposed to be a short smut fic but um, apparently not. anyway, this has taken long enough to come out so imma stop rambling. ENJOY <3

word count: 11.7k

Mid-Autumn was closely approaching District Four.

Harvest in the fishing industry was at its peak and the docks were chock-full with boats bringing in their plentiful catches. The town centre was a bustling scene, crowded with people selling produce and trading for food to bring home to their family's kitchen table.

Last year's autumn harvest was the same picture—overflow, hustle, commotion; chaos like this was something you never came to enjoy. So, it was also around this time last year that you had decided to set off in search of the perfect location away from the rest of society. A place where you could be at peace, where you could forget the disastrous world you lived in.

District Four was home to many popular beaches, but the one you discovered was uninhabited, isolated, found after an hour-or-so-long trek through overgrown dirt pathways and a thicket of sea-grape and palm trees. A true paradise away from society. Or so you had thought in the first few weeks.

You weren't too sure when he had started showing up or how he had even discovered the beach.

However, one evening, as you were seated in the sand watching the sunset on the darkening horizon, you noticed a dark figure diving and surfacing in the flat, glimmering water. Their movements were so poised and fluid like the ocean was something they had conquered. You guessed it to be a dolphin or shark because there was no way a human being could move so gracefully.

But then the figure started wading to shore, and the next thing you knew, they were standing on two legs and exiting the water. You knew then that you had guessed wrong. The sun behind him obscured the bronze of his hair and the swirling lukewarm sea that pooled around his pupils. All you could see was the outline of his tall broad figure as he hiked through the sand toward you.

Fear had told you to bolt from the approaching stranger. You were in the middle of nowhere—it was the perfect place to be murdered or kidnapped. But something else, some deep and tangible instinct, also told you to stay.

"Didn't realise I had a captive audience," thestranger spoke, droplets of gleaming water sliding off his body and into the sand as he stood a few feet away.

Taken by surprise, you fumbled over your words trying to form a sentence in response. "I wasn't—I didn't—"

"Easy, honey," he chuckled. The sound was so warm and pleasant that it almost alleviated the slight chill in the air. "Just pulling your leg."

Your mouth formed a small circle. "Right," you said, gaze locked on the golden sand in embarrassment. "I, uh, didn't think anyone else knew about this place."

To be honest, you were pretty sure it was a restricted area. Probably the reason it was so isolated. If a Capitol official found you, the consequences would most likely involve your tongue, a scalpel, and a hell of a lot of pain. All for a wanting a little peace and quiet.

"Neither did I," the man said. "I only come every now and then. Need an escape from the constant buzz back home. Time for myself, you know?"

"Yeah." You smiled, feeling the stranger's words resonate in your soul. "Yeah, I do know."

You thought you saw the corners of his lips curve into a smile, but the shadows on his face were so prominent that you couldn't tell.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked.

Well... if he were going to murder you, he would have done it already. So, you nodded. Sometimes you questioned your survival instincts. Or lack thereof.

He didn't leave much space as he sat beside you. Only an inch or two, meaning you could feel the humidity of body heat and salt water emit from his skin. Even sitting down, he was still quite tall compared to you, but that wasn't what caused your heart to drop into your stomach.

The setting sun, which no longer disguised his face with shadows, now illuminated his entire figure and revealed his identity. His hair was a mess of wet wavy strands, the colour alight like a pale fire beneath the sun's orange radiance. His skin was sun-kissed, no doubt from days he had spent perfecting his swimming abilities. And those dimples... wow.

He was gorgeous. A man sculpted by the gods of beauty, just like everyone in Panem had depicted him to be. Even his sea-green eyes were as striking as everyone said.

Finnick Odair.

The man who was crowned victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games at fourteen. Who trapped multiple tributes at once in a net and killed them one by one with his famed trident. A killer.

The man whose reputation in the Capitol was known nationwide. A proud womanizer.

That was what everyone made him out to be.

Only, in the brief interaction you shared with him, he seemed like quite the opposite. He radiated effortless charm and warmth, but not in the arrogant way the media had portrayed him. Then again, did the media ever accurately portray the truth of anything?

It was then that you determined it didn't really matter who people said he was or what he had done. He was a human being—just like you. He deserved a chance.

His pink lips stretched into a knee-weakening smile; you were grateful that you were sitting down.

"I'm Finnick, by the way."

The both of you knew he didn't need to introduce himself. The whole of Panem knew his name and face. Though the fact that he humbly did so anyway made you like him the tiniest bit more.

You returned his smile with one of your own and introduced yourself.

Time passed and the sun had set; the moon had risen, but you both remained sitting side-by-side in the sand. Conversation flowed so naturally between the two of you that it was difficult for you to remember that stopping and getting some air into your lungs was an important factor in keeping a conversation going... as well as keeping you alive.

You told him about yourself as he did himself—some things that were meant to remain secrets, some things that seemed too strange to tell anyone else.

At some point, he had offered to walk you back to your house. The trek was over an hour long but neither of you seemed to care. The time flew by. 

When you were standing at your front door and he was gazing up at you from the bottom of the steps, you both promised to meet again the next day. And you did. 

As you did the day after that... and the day after that... and the day after that...

**********

As soon as the nights carried that familiar chill and the town congested with markets and fervent buyers, you knew mid-autumn had made its return. This meant most of your evenings were spent at a certain secret beach with a certain District Four victor.

Having already finished his pre-sunset swim, Finnick was sitting beside you, fingers weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath you. A couple of weeks after you had first met, he had shown up one day holding it all rolled up in hand.

"Made this for you to sit on," he had said with a proud smile. "Took nearly all night and earned me a few good finger cramps, but I think it was worth it."

Pinpointing the exact moment your attraction to him first formed was tricky. However, that gesture was one your mind returned to often. That little palm-leaf mat, the time and effort he put into making it, was scored on your heart.

Finnick was very much a gentleman.

He would always offer you a hand when standing up and whenever you walked back through the overgrown seaside forest. Sometimes he picked fruits for you such as sea grapes and mangos or would climb one of the palms and knock down a few coconuts. One thing he always, always did wasmake sure you got home safe; he never let you out of his sight until you were safe inside your front door.

All those gestures, big and small, added up. Soon enough, Finnick Odair had infiltrated your heart and consumed all your thoughts. You saw his sea-green eyes staring back at you whenever you gazed out at the ocean by your house. Felt the ghost of his hands on yours whenever you picked a grape from the kitchen fruit bowl. Heard his voice calling out your name in your most vivid of dreams.

But there was more to it than innocent adoration.

The guilt came when your gaze started lingering on his body a little too long whenever he left the water at the beach. Shimmering droplets would glide down his beautifully tanned skin; his arm muscles would flex as his fingers raked back his dripping wet hair. It wasn't yourfault he was the walking definition of perfection.

Unholy was the closest word to describe the filthy thoughts that had perverted your imagination. What started as endearing daydreams soon became fantasies that had you seeking relief between your thighs late at night. Your thoughts went wild whenever he dropped you off at your house. It took everything in you not to invite him inside and ask him to fuck you senseless against the front door.

All you had to do was ask. You knew he would say yes.

A year is a long time to know someone. A long time for feelings to grow. It also serves as a lot of time for things to happen between two people—things that linger in your mind even months after they have happened.

Like the times he would walk by you and teasingly whisper something provocative in your ear, then disappear for an hour of swimming, leaving you all hot and flustered in the sand. Neither of you would acknowledge it when he returned. Or when conversations took such a flirtatious turn, the tension only dissipated when houses were separating you at the end of the night.

But that's just what friends do, right? They tease and banter?

Maybe.

However, not all things could be chalked up to being just friends.

Another thing about Finnick's eyes was that they were transparent. You saw how helplessly they clung to you the days you stripped to your underwear and joined him in the water. He had this sort of reaction that turned his eyes into a dark violent sea, like you were some divine temptation planted to test the strength of his resolve.

Sometimes he could resist. Other days it was obvious he couldn't help but reach out and touch.

He would try to be subtle about it. Hands holding yours a little longer than necessary when he helped you stand up. Sitting too closely beside you so that your arms and legs would graze against each other. Brushing off pieces of seaweed that would stick to the dip of your waist and then constantly using the same excuse just to feel the heat of your soft skin.

There was one interaction, though, that you fell asleep to the thought of every night. It was a moment when things almost went too far; an interaction friends definitely did not share.

You could remember it clear a day. Hell, you could still feel it clear as day.

It was a hot summer evening. Both you and Finnick were at the beach and swimming in the water since being in the muggy coastal heat for more than five minutes was parallel to roasting in a thousand-degree sauna.

You were about twenty meters offshore, bobbing beside Finnick as he dived to collect various seashells. That boy could hold his breath for an unbelievable amount of time which meant sometimes you spent minutes alone on the surface, waiting, listening to the calm waves lap eerily around you.

This is exactly how people die in shark movies, said an unwarranted voice in your mind.

As usual, a minute went by. Nothing to worry about. Then a minute turned into two and you were starting to become a little concerned. And then it was two and a half minutes and you were now panicking.

"Finnick?!" you called out, hoping he could somehow hear you from the dark depths.

Three minutes had totalled, and you were pretty certain he had drowned. Just to add to the utter dread coursing through your veins, something slimy brushed against your foot. Most likely a piece of seaweed, but you didn't make that connection at the time.

That very same moment, Finnick burst through the water's surface, only mildly breathless and pinching a small iridescent shell between his fingers.

"Look at thi—"

Before the words could leave his mouth, he found himself enveloped in your distraught embrace. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, crying tears of relief. 

Damn that stupid seashell.

He automatically secured you in his arms, concern palpable in his voice as he asked, "Are you okay?"

You pulled away, an indistinguishable combination of tears and saltwater rolling down your cheeks. Though it was hard to miss the look of distress found in your furrowed brows and trembling lips.

"Don't ever do that to me again!" you exclaimed, gripping his arms to emphasise your urgency. "You hear me?! Ever!"

Finnick's head tilted slightly, surprised by your emotional reaction. He hadn't realised he meant so much to you. The surprise faded into remorse, softening his features.

"I won't. I won't, I promise," he said sincerely. His eyes flickered over the worry lines etched on your forehead. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over the lines, hoping to draw out the anxiety with his touch, and then tucked away a strand of hair. "I'm sorry I scared you."

You took in a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to compose yourself. A mess of emotions stirred inside you—worry, embarrassment, irritation. You were partially frustrated with Finnick for making you fear for his life. Mostly annoyed with yourself for showing such vulnerability in front of him.

"God, you're an idiot sometimes," you sighed, shaking your head.

He smirked. "Didn't think you cared so much about me."

"No, you just don't think, Finn."

He glanced off into the distance for a moment with furrowed brows. "Well, that's definitely not true," he countered, meeting your gaze again with a half-smirk. "I think about a lot of things, actually."

"Oh? Like what?" you asked, slightly annoyed. "Do tell me what the great Finnick Odair thinks about instead of his own safety."

Slowly, the smirk faded from his lips. Something new tinged the atmosphere and suddenly everything around you seemed hotter than it previously was. Not an uncomfortable or sweltering heat, but one that held an intensity that sparked the air with electricity.

You suddenly became very aware that Finnick was still holding you in his arms. You recognised the confined proximity between you and him and realised that, before this moment, your bodies had never been so close.

Your legs were curled around his hips, pelvis pressed firmly against his. The position of his hands, which were keeping you afloat, was bordering on inappropriate but would only be deemed as such if you cared. Which you didn't. You liked it—having his hands on you.

One thing you couldn't ignore was the flickering of his gaze. How his eyes kept dropping to your lips. How they blatantly revealed a long-awaited confession that words just couldn't capture. Still, you wanted to hear him say it. You wanted to hear the purr in his voice as he told you.

Then he was leaning in. You weren't sure whether it was on purpose or if the pure magnetism of the tension between you was drawing him closer. Regardless, you started to lean in closer too, eyes drooping as you focused on his mouth.

And before the short distance between your lips and his became immeasurable, you whispered, "Tell me, Finn."

The hands keeping you afloat trailed up and down your back restlessly as Finnick forced a tense exhale through his nose. He seemed to be wrestling with thoughts. You waited in anticipation, and right when it seemed like he was going to make a move—

"I think..."

—you were interrupted. By no less than a pod of dolphins as they leapt from the water, causing you and Finnick to jolt from each other's embrace.

The rest of that evening was not worth mentioning. Not because you had forgotten what happened, but because the sheer awkwardness between you and Finnick afterwards was so torturous that you wanted to keep the memory squashed in the recesses of your mind. Neither of you acknowledged what happened. Finnick still walked you home, but it was done so in agonising silence.

Surprisingly, you both returned to the beach the next day. You hadn't expected him to be his usual upbeat self, but he was. So, in turn, you too acted like the previous day was erased from history. But your friendship with him was never the same.

Flirty conversations no longer felt like a joke; they now had a deeper meaning. Fleeting touches caused full-body goosebumps that didn't happen before. There was so much unresolved tension, and it was painfully thick. Inescapable.

So, as Finnick sat beside you present-day, weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath your bodies, you couldn't help but notice the transparency of your body language and his. The gap between you both was comparable to the size of a pearl and even though neither of you acknowledged it, you kept catching each other stealing quick glances every half-minute or so.

When you were sure he wasn't looking, you found your gaze drawn to his fingers. They were sturdy, yet nimble; curling and manoeuvring in ways that had your face feeling hotter than the heat of any sunburn or warm summer's day. This heat was beneath your skin. Spreading through your limbs in little tendrils and wrapping around your nerves. A dip in the salty sea wouldn't cool you down nor would a gulp of cold fresh water.

As you stared at his hands, you knew only the source of the sensation could offer reprieve. But that wouldn't happen, so there you burned.

The fact that he was shirtless and that his hair was a gorgeous mess of damp bronze curls helped not one bit with taming the consuming desire inside you. God, you were a mess yourself.

You sighed.

The sun, glowing intensely with a divine orange, was beginning its descent on the horizon. Your feet were buried beneath the soft sand, trying to retain some warmth as a slight breeze blew against your exposed skin.

Wearing a short sundress probably wasn't the most practical idea. Embarrassing as it was to admit, practicality wasn't what was going through your mind when you decided to wear it... Someone—Something else was.

"Something on your mind?" Finnick asked suddenly.

Your heart fumbled in your chest, terrified that he had somehow heard your thoughts. "Sorry?"

"You sighed," he said, turning his head to look at you. "Or am I just getting so old that I'm already starting to hear things?"

With relief of his lack of mind-reading abilities, you laughed softly. "You're definitely getting a bit old, Finn," you teased. "Any nursing homes you've been considering?"

"I heard retirement by the sea has its perks," he quipped, subtle dimples present as he returned to his weaving. "Although, I will need someone to make sure I don't fall asleep while swimming and get carried out by the tide. What d'you say, sweetheart? Up for becoming my personal lifeguard?"

Absolutely. "Depends. Will you force me to wear one of those awful flowery swimming caps with a matching tankini?"

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I'm thinking more like those little red bodysuits. You know, the ones that zip open down the front?"

You reprimanded him by pushing his shoulder, wearing a betraying smile. "Very charming."

"I just think red's your colour, that's all," he laughed.

Your stomach fluttered. You knew he was teasing you; teasing was basically the foundation of your... friendship. Deep down, you knew there was also some truth behind his words. A truth that was as electrifying as it was upsetting—how long were you both going to keep up with this whole 'friends' charade? Could you handle it if the answer was forever?

Best not to think about it. For your sanity's sake.

Finnick finally settled into a comfortable position with his forearms locked around his bent knees, apparently having decided to continue his mat-weaving another time. He had been extending it bit by bit ever since he first made it for you. At this point, you were sure he was attempting to cover the entire beach. For now, it was only big enough for two people to lie down on.

Sounds pretty convenient, came an abrupt thought.

And then you fell down yet another rabbit hole of depraved daydreams... A pair of hands interlocking your own above your head. Hot lips pressing kisses to your neck. Tongue gliding up the sensitive skin of your jugular. Your fingers tugging at bronze curls between your thighs.

You were sick. Diseased with immorality. Finnick was your friend. If not your best friend. You're not supposed to fantasise about fucking your best friend.

"Thinking about anyone in particular?"

You almost choked on your saliva. "W—What?" 

How did he keep doing that?

Finnick seemed to find joy in your perplexity. It was written all over his face. God, those fucking dimples. "You've been completely still for nearly five minutes and your legs are covered in goosebumps," he pointed out. "Hence the question: who are you thinking about?"

As you looked down, you found that your skin was in fact riddled with goosebumps. It didn't occur to you then that the only reason he could have noticed was if he was staring at your legs in the first place. It also didn't occur to you that Finnick obviously had the very same debauched thoughts running through his own mind.

Why did you have to wear such a revealing dress? He already struggled enough with resisting you at the best of times.

If you had been paying attention, a simple glance in his direction would have revealed how his ears were pink and his pupils were dilated. More importantly, you would have seen his legs constantly shifting to ease the discomfort tenting his pants. Fortunately, he had mastered the art of winding himself down in a short amount of time.

Unfortunately for you, that ability was not within your skill set.

You scoffed. "In case you haven't noticed, Finnick—it's autumn," you said, a quick snappy lilt in your tone. "I know you've got some weird internal space heater built into you, but normal people tend to have a reaction to the cold."

Well, it's a good thing you didn't sound defensive...

Finnick raised an eyebrow at you, displaying a puzzled half-smirk that spoke a thousand words.

You lowered your head in embarrassment, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," you murmured. "I just, uh, don't really like the cold."

"Who could've guessed."

Despite serving as an excuse, it wasn't entirely untrue. You really did dislike the cold. And it was now that you seriously regretted your choice of sparse attire. The breeze kept blowing up the dress's skirt, threatening to expose your dignity to the world. Or more accurately, to Finnick. Thankfully, you had decided to wear a pair of delicate lace underwear that morning instead of old granny panties.

Nevertheless, now that it was on your mind, you couldn't think about anything but the cold gusts of wind blowing against you. Chills ran over your skin and you were shaking like a leaf.

Finnick, being the gentleman that he was, scanned the surrounding area for anything he could use to keep you warm. He would've given you his shirt had it not been crumpled in a ball of wet sand on the ground.

There was nothing else of use. Nothing except a single apprehensive idea sitting in the forefront of his mind. It was all he had. He bit the inside of his cheek as he contemplated the potentially disastrous idea.

Then, after taking a silent deep breath, he finally said, "Come here then." Your eyes snapped to his. You must've looked like you had seen a ghost because his brows knitted together in confusion. "What?" he breathed out a chuckle. "I'd prefer not having to carry you home as a block of ice."

You thought about it for a moment. Was it really such a good idea after the thoughts that were just swarming in your mind? Another gust of wind blew by and you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself.

"I won't bite, sweetheart. Not unless you want me to," he added.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, shut up."

With that, you slid across the mat, positioning your body, which was still facing the sunset, in front of his legs. There was a moment of hesitation. Anxiety. But before you could reconsider, Finnick wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back against his chest, situating your body between his legs.

The exhale that left your lips was instantaneous and you couldn't help but shudder at the warmth of his skin. "God," you sighed, overwhelmed by the sudden change in temperature. "How are you so warm all the time?"

"Oh, you know. Weird internal space heater."

You laughed softly, then felt Finnick's chest vibrate against your back as he joined you. His bare arms wound tighter around you, motivated by the affectionate atmosphere. Your body seemed to melt into the cocoon of warmth he provided, and a soft smile graced your lips.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded, responding with a whisper, "Thank you."

"Anytime."

You could hear the smile in his voice and how intently he was trying to hide it. You wished you could have seen it. To see the sense of peace you shared. However, feeling it in the way he held you was enough.

Instead of blood, your heart now seemed to be pumping out rather odd alternatives—waves of sea-green salted ocean, iridescent seashells, smiles paired with heart-stopping dimples. How could he? How could Finnick condemn you to loving him like this? So unwaveringly; so without a hope of ever being able to return to life without him in it.

He made a mess of you. A ruin. And even with wholesome affection running through your veins, you still couldn't ignore the hazy images conjuring in your mind from the way his body was pressed firmly behind you.

How could he?

The sun had just touched the horizon, granting the sky a few more minutes of light, meaning it was almost time to head home—an upsetting reality. You weren't sure how much time had passed before your body started to ache from lack of movement.

You wiggled your toes which were buzzing like television static. The feeling started moving up your legs and you knew if you didn't stretch, you would later embarrass yourself trying to stand on dead legs. So that is what you did. You started moving.

First, you stretched out the muscles in your legs and then moved onto straightening your back against Finnick's chest, feeling the faint pops of your spine offer you relief. And then you started readjusting your position and wriggling your hips to fit more comfortably between Finnick's toned thighs. That was your first mistake.

"Stop moving."

You were taken aback by the rigid inflection in his tone. "What?" you asked, ignoring his warning and continuing your restless movements.

"Stop. Moving," Finnick repeated, sounding more strained.

His hold on you became stiff. Completely frozen.

You were confused. Everything was perfect a moment ago, and all you were doing was stretching—why was he being so weird and snappy?

In response, you exhaled sharply. "I'm just trying to get comf—"

"Fuck," he breathed out.

Your eyes widened and it was safe to say your stomach had flipped inside out.

That was the moment you finally realised your second mistake. The rigidness in his voice wasn't him being snappy with you at all. Not even close. He was just trying to prevent the pleasure he felt below from reaching his vocal cords.

But it was too late. It wouldn't have mattered if he managed to keep quiet because you could feel it now. The achingly hard length that was pressed against your backside, reaching all the way up to your tailbone.

"...Oh," you whispered.

"Yeah," Finnick said. "Oh."

Now it was your turn to freeze. Fear consumed you, similar to what you imagined having to remain motionless in front of tyrannosaurus rex to prevent from being eaten alive was like. Thanks to the damning wind, strands of your hair blew behind your shoulders, undoubtedly tickling the exposed skin of Finnick's chest. Even that minuscule movement had your heart threatening to explode with anxiety.

As per usual, panic wreaked havoc in your mind.

What do I do? Do I get up? How will we come back from this? Does he—

Finnick cleared his throat. "Uh, you still alive in there?" he chuckled nervously.

You felt minor relief enter your bloodstream upon hearing the normality in his voice. At least one of you was composed enough to act normally. Well, as normal as one could act after becoming hard due to their best friend sitting in their lap.

"Is it—" You swallowed the nerves rattling your voice "—is it because there's a girl sitting on your lap, or is it because it's me?"

That was the million-dollar question. Was his reaction simply biological? A natural response to stimulation? Or was it deeper than that? More personal.

Finnick was silent.

The rapid thumping in your chest moved to your ears, like a drumroll leading up to some grand reveal. You felt dizzy; both filled with dreadful anticipation and exhilaration. Your senses were so heightened, fuelled by an inane bout of adrenaline. You swore you could almost hear the gears turning in Finnick's mind, smell the smoke as they rotated over and over, trying to make sense of your question and form a suitable response.

Religion never played a factor in your life, but, oh, how you were zealously praying his answer would be the one you spent all your nights fantasising about. But still, he was silent.

And right when you believed he wasn't going to respond at all, his lips finally uttered that single life-changing word. "You."

Fireworks seemed to light up every nerve in your body. You.

You weren't sure what to make of your thoughts at first. The overwhelming abundance of emotion caused by a singular word was difficult to fathom. Only one sentiment stood out from the rest—and that was the fact that Finnick felt the same as you did for him.

It was no longer a speculation. It was a fact. A truth. An undeniable reality. You had both verbal and physicalproof, literally digging into your backside.

Finnick slowly, very slowly, unwound an arm from your torso, and you held your breath. His hand slid across your waist and then plastered itself over your hipbone, careful not to apply too much pressure to make you feel uncomfortable. When you felt the slight movement of his thumb gliding across your clothed skin, you exhaled the burning air in your lungs with a shaky sigh.

"Do you want me to get up?" you asked softly while staring at the sunset, although you were focused on anything but.

"Not a chance." And then he unwound the other arm, now cupping both sides of your hips with two large hands. The heat from his palm sank into your skin, sinking deeper layer by layer until it reached the rapid flow of your bloodstream. "Do you want to get up?"

You felt a pulsing sensation between your thighs that had your parted lips inhaling slow deep breaths, and you knew the only logical answer was no. So, you shook your head.

Finnick reached up to skilfully tuck a lock of hair behind your ear before placing his hand back on your hip. He then leaned down beside your ear, voice a hot, velvety whisper, "What next then, sweetheart?"

A wave of chills ran down your entire body.

What next? Another question for the ages. You had dreamt of this moment a million times over. You had pictured the unholiest, most vivid of scenarios, and yet here you were, mind blank as an empty void.

Then it hit you. Rather than acting from a pre-planned script, wouldn't it be better to just let your body act on what it naturally desired? On instinct? You took in a deep, stabilising breath and gave yourself into moment.

You slowly began turning your head to the side until, for the first time since he pulled you into his arms, your eyes flickered up and found Finnick's. His lips quirked with the ghost of a smile at the exchange, but he held it back. His jaw clenched and unclenched, muscles ticking with tension.

He was looking at you in a way you had never seen before. Or perhaps, you were just never close enough to notice, and he had always looked at you this way. There was a blazing intensity in his eyes, dark and penetrative, a bridge between yearning and total reverence. It was so enticing that you could feel your hands itching to undress yourself in front of him.

Finnick murmured your name.

"Yes?" you managed to whisper.

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"

Those words—he had stolen them from the tip of your tongue.

You couldn't find the strength to muster any profound response. So instead, you found your head tilting back and the crook of your elbow winding up and around the nape of his neck. You didn't need to guide him down; he came willingly.

His lips caught yours in a soft, warm exchange. Singular yet prolonged. Then there was a brief pause of disconnection, a calm before the storm. And with Finnick, when it rained, it poured. Suddenly, a hand was cupping the area where your jaw and neck connected, and his lips were on yours again.

There was so much more heat in this kiss. A depth that kept growing with each connection of your lips. You could hear the fervour in the breathless exhales that exited his nose, the quiet groans that slipped into your mouth. Though the same could be said for you.

You couldn't subdue the moans and meek whimpers that leaked out. Especially when his tongue slipped into your mouth and took control over your own. At this point, you couldn't even be called putty in his arms; you were pure liquid, totally and completely submissive in his embrace.

It was impossible to tell who was throbbing beneath you anymore. All you were sure of was that the pretty lace panties you had put on that morning were now soaked. Though even if he never touched you, you wouldn't have cared. Having his lips on yours, his tongue on yours, was enough. And if he kept at it long enough, you were sure it would even be enough to get you off. That's how much power Finnick had over you.

Apparently, he felt the same too. Because when you leaned further back into him and your ass pushed against the length of his erection, his fist scrunched the fabric of your dress by your hip and his lips left yours to let out a shuddering breath.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he huffed, half chuckling.

Technically, it was a suppressed moan. Either way, you swear you almost came then and there.

With one last gentle kiss, you opened your eyes, pulling away to replenish your lungs with air. Finnick's eyes were already locked on yours in a drunken haze from the taste of your lips. Your arm unwound from his neck, grazing down his broad shoulders and bicep. During so, your eyes caught on the tiny bumps and raised hair scattered across his arm.

"You've got goosebumps," you smiled, trailing your fingertips across his skin.

His gaze moved to follow your hand, wearing a boyish grin. "Would you believe me if I said I was cold?"

Your throat buzzed with a suppressed giggle. Seeing the way his body reacted to yours was incredibly motivating. Someone telling you they lusted after you could easily be spoken with deception. But having visual confirmation, witnessing a reaction that couldn't possibly be forced, was a whole different story. Finnick's body craved you.

Given that incentive, the slight trepidation still holding you back now disappeared into the back of your mind. Your fingers curled around his wrist, dragging the hand beneath your jaw down to your neck, and then down to your chest. It didn't take him too long to figure out your intentions. He overtook your influence and autonomously moved his hand to cup your breast.

You were essentially caged in his embrace. Exactly how you wanted it.

You stared ahead with relaxed eyes, watching as the sun slipped into the dark water. Night had officially blanketed District Four and, now being shielded by darkness, the stars were your only witness. Strangely enough, you felt a new sense of shamelessness.

So as Finnick kneaded your breast in his warm hand and pinched the sensitive peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the lace of your bra, you allowed a soft moan to escape your lips.

It was almost as if you could actually feel the smirk growing across Finnick's lips behind you. One thing you actually could feel was the twitch of his achingly hard cock beneath you.

"You like that?" he asked, definitely smirking.

"Yes," you sighed almost immediately.

If only he knew how truly euphoric you felt. If only he knew how many times you had imagined being in this exact situation. Having him touching you like this. The guilt of imagining him in such a way used to eat you up. But now that you were past the guilt, there was no shame connected to the thought of Finnick eating you up.

Fuck, he would look so perfect between your thighs—bronze curls all messed up from your pulling and tugging; sea green eyes squeezed shut as he dedicated his attention to dragging you down to the pits of hell with his tongue.

Your head fell back against his collarbone. He took this as a signal to move your hair aside and start planting hot kisses onto the curve of your shoulder. Then he trailed further across, brushing his lips across your skin until he reached the side of your neck and started sucking gently, though enough to leave behind pretty little red marks of possession.

"What about this?" he murmured against the delicate skin.

The faint taste of sea-salted air sat in the back of your throat as your breaths deepened. You felt his tongue glide partially up the length of your carotid artery, and your entire nervous system seemed to short-circuit.

"Yes,"you practically whined.

He must have found this amusing because you could feel the vibrations of his chuckle against your neck. But he wasn't finished yet. Hell, the finish line was a lifetime away regarding the things he planned on doing to you. They probably couldn't all be done in one night though, unfortunately.

You had completely forgotten about the hand still splayed on your hip. Why would you pay it any attention when it was sitting idle? Only it wasn't simply resting on your hip anymore. No. Now it was moving. Moving down.

His lips were still on your neck and he was still cupping your breast, but all you could focus on was the carnal descent of his hand. He found the hem of your dress, fingers toying with the flimsy material as one did when deciding whether or not to go through with something potentially consequential. Ultimately, he began to drag the fabric up your thighs, knuckles grazing over your soft skin until the skirt of your dress was ruched around your hips.

You sucked in a sharp breath. The vulnerability of suddenly being exposed in such a manner hit you like a tonne of bricks. This was really happening. Finnick, the Capitol's darling, District Four's golden boy, and more significant;y, your best friend, was touching you. He was kissing you. He was seeing and feeling parts of your body you had never let him see or feel before.

Naturally, this unfurling web of thoughts produced a surge of insecurity.

But, when his hand curled around your inner thigh and spread a wildfire of warmth across your skin, every thought that was previously passing through your mind disintegrated and was replaced with unadulterated yearning.

Finnick's mouth finally detached from your neck to hover beside your ear. "And this?"

He lightly kneaded your thigh to emphasise his question, dangerously close to the place that undoubtedly crossed the boundary between friend and lover.

You were speechless. The desire running through your veins was paralysing. All you could do was look, see, feel, and hope to god you didn't pass out from the shallowness of your breathing.

"Come on, sweetheart," he roused in that low, seductive purr. "Don't go quiet on me now. Use your words."

And how could you ever disobey a voice like that? It took every ounce of strength and concentration you had in you, but eventually, you managed to find your voice.

"I—" You cut yourself off with a gasp as his thumb purposefully wandered up to the edge of your underwear. Asshole. "I lie awake every night imagining us like this, Finn. You don't need permission to touch me. You've already had it for months."

Suddenly, a gentle finger was turning your chin, compelling you to meet Finnick's gaze. His eyes lacked the intensity from before and were now brimming with awe, brows knitted as if he was asking for confirmation if what you had said was truthful. And it was, painfully so.

To answer his wordless question, you leaned forward and connected your lips with his. He responded with ardency, and not long after, you could feel his hand wander up to the waistband of your panties. 

He wasted not a second before dipping his hand beneath the lace material and finding that sensitive spot that had been begging for his attention.

Your lips separated from his to let out a breathy moan. "Finnick."

He simply smiled, two fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He pressed gentle coaxing kisses to your lips, and you really did try to respond, but you were never one for multitasking. Especially when the man you had fallen in love with was touching you so.

His other hand wandered across your torso, holding your waist, grazing over your stomach, tracing the length of your sternum. All very loving adorations compared to what his other hand was doing.

"I think I'm going to hell because of you," he murmured, millimetres away from your lips. Such a disconcerting thing for someone to admit, but all you could manage was a hum in response. "Every time I see you, I can feel myself getting closer and closer. You derange my thoughts, sweetheart. You corrupt them.

How am I supposed to be around you if I want to fuck you every time you say my name? And what makes it so much more impossible is that you don't even mean to make me feel this way; you just do. God, you're maddening. So sweet and maddening," he cooed, fingers picking up in pace which caused you to melt back into his chest and let out a pretty little moan. "Drives me crazy."

"And to think," you managed, "I thought you had your hands between my legs because you hated me."

Your hips were rolling lightly along with the rhythm of his fingers.

At the very same time Finnick's thighs tensed around your hips from the friction against his cock, he abruptly plunged two fingers inside you. Punishment.

The moan you let out was positively filthy.

"Such an attitude you have," he said. "Anyone would think you're completely innocent in a dress like this. But I know better than that." His fingers slid in and out, curling every time the base of his fingers bottomed out inside of you. "I know exactly why you wore it. Just like I know exactly why you wore those lace panties you pretend that I can't see whenever you bend over."

Heat crept up into your cheeks from hearing his words. You wanted to provoke him by saying 'And look where it got me'but who knew how his fingers would respond to your attitude.

"You can't do that to a man," he continued. "It's criminal."

"It's only fair, Finn," you breathed out, struggling to keep your voice level. "You ruined me."

A deep moan rumbled in his chest, though it never escaped. He couldn't break that easily. He needed to remain in control. This moment, to him, seemed like an eternity forthcoming. He needed to make the most of this moment with you, needed to show you what it was like to receive earth-shattering pleasure so that you only ever wanted to receive it from him. No one else.

Despite his obvious attempts at keeping himself in check, you could still feel his thick impatient cock twitch beneath your ass. Even through the layers of clothing between you, you could tell that he was incredibly big. So much so that it worried you a little. Only, when his fingers curled again, you forgot all about it.

The pads of his fingertips buried into your inner walls with every curl. The heel of his palm struck your clit with every thrust of his fingers and you could feel your stomach start tightening. Fuck, he was amazing at this.

It had been so long since someone had touched you like this. Well, someone that was actually good at it. Just a few minutes and Finnick was already about to make you come.

"Feels so good, so—ah—good!" you moaned, eyes fluttering shut.

He reached a free hand up to your breast, lightly pinching your nipple between his fingers until you let out a gasp. At least one of you was good at multitasking.

"You gonna come?" he asked, not that he even needed an answer. He could feel the way your walls were contracting around his fingers, feel the sticky warmth of your slick leaking onto his knuckles.

You nodded fervently.

"Say please first."

"Finn," you whined in frustration.

You could hear him chuckle self-satisfyingly behind you. "Come on, baby. Sweet girls are supposed to have manners, aren't they?"

His low, husky voice almost threw you over the edge. Oh, how you would love to listen to the sound of him talking you through your orgasm. That is if he ever even let you get to that point.

Never had you ever thought you would be pleading with a man for anything, yet here you were. Though, Finnick Odair could hardly be called a man. He was so much more than that; he was bordering on divinity. And you weren't going to miss the chance of being unravelled at the hands of a divine being.

"Please, Finnick," you begged, your body literally buzzing with desperation. "Please make me come."

He pressed a kiss below your earlobe. "Since you asked so nicely."

His fingers picked up in pace. They weren't even plunging in and out anymore but were rather curling, over and over again in that electrifying spot inside you. He went hard and fast, working to bring you to your high as quickly as possible. Your moans were so unrestrained, so breathless and shallow that you started to feel the world spin around you.

Your hand flew back to hold onto his arm, nails digging into the hard muscles of his bicep. Your hips were writhing in Finnick's lap and you could hear him groan out a string of curses. He held you down by the hip to try and keep you still, then moved across to the bottom of your abdomen where he pressed down.

That is what did it for you.

You cried out as tightness spread down your stomach and pure ecstasy took control. Finnick murmured words of praise and reassurance as you rode through your high, though a lot of it didn't register in your mind. You heard only a few bits and pieces which were enough to prolong the feeling that was overwhelming your entire body.

"Taking it so well."

"That's it, sweetheart. That's it."

"Such a good girl."

As the waves of pleasure slowly began to subside, you returned to reality. The heat that had been building up inside you started melting away, leaving you in a state of relaxation. Your fingers, which previously clung onto Finnick's arm, now grazed absentmindedly across his skin. It felt like you had been sucked into a dream—a little hazy and surreal, but incredibly tranquil.

"You okay?" Finnick asked softly.

You hadn't even noticed that his fingers had left your body. He had pulled down the hem of your dress— not that your dignity really needed saving anymore—and was holding your melted figure in his arms.

"Mm," you hummed contently, eyes fixed on the view in front of you. "Warmed up."

If only you were able to see his face, his smile. Those dimples. A powerful longing to be able to see every expression known to man morph his facial features washed over you. It was a little ridiculous how attracted to him you were. Nonetheless, you indulged the desire.

You pushed yourself from his lap and pivoted to face him

You were straddling his lap before any ounce of hesitation could hold you back. Finnick circled his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his chest. He was smiling. He was smiling and it was even more beautiful than any sunset you had ever witnessed. You concluded that you had definitely made the right choice in deciding to face him.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hey, stranger."

He brushed back a few pieces of hair from your face, observing the blown size of your pupils and the sultry colour of your lips. He did that—he could not get over the fact that he did that to you. Finally.

You shrunk away from his gaze, a timid smile on your lips.

Finnick tilted his head slightly. "Shy thing."

You buried your face into the side of his neck, groaning quietly in embarrassment. You could hear the perfect sound of him laughing above you. He stroked the length of your spine, somehow managing to ease the nerves from your body with a simple touch. You left a quick kiss on the warm skin of his neck and rose back up to meet his gaze.

"Feeling better?"

"Much," you replied, sheepishly. Your eyes flickered across Finnick's, hesitated, and then gestured downwards. "But... you're not." His head tilted as though he were confused as to what you were suggesting, so you leaned in closer until your lips ghosted over his. "Still need to take care of you."

A breath of warm air fanned across your face as he chuckled. He shook his head. "It's alright. I can hold off for another time."

And although the prospect of doing this again another time was downright exhilarating, you couldn't ignore the palpable heat still lingering in your lower stomach, throbbing between your thighs. You could only imagine how he must have been feeling—cock throbbing with a need for relief, though ready to deny himself the same amount of pleasure he just gave you.

You suddenly curled a hand around the back of his neck and brought him into a slow kiss. To show him he was allowed to indulge himself. That you wanted him to. You ground your hips down on his lap and felt his lips falter against yours.

You pulled back and echoed your previous words, "It's only fair, Finn."

Time seemed to pause for a moment. Your breath and his mixed with one another in a sort of hot whirlwind of anticipation. Your bodies were still. Finnick's eyes were half-lidded staring at your mouth.

Then came the explosion.

His hands were hastily tugging your sundress over your head; his lips were on yours as he reached down between your bodies to unbutton his pants. It felt like a race against time. Like if you didn't do this now, the chance would never come by again. Hell, his pants hadn't even made it off his legs before he was holding himself in his hand and you were rising to your knees, positioning yourself directly above his length.

Your lips never left his, strenuous as it was, meaning the only gauge you got of how big he was wasn't from seeing it, but from feeling it as you pulled your panties aside, guided his cock to your entrance with one hand, and felt the entire veiny length of him fill you completely as you lowered yourself onto him.

A quiet, synchronised gasp left both your lips as you enveloped him completely in wet velvety warmth. His pelvis was connected with yours and his cock was pressed right up against your cervix. So incredibly deep, you could almost feel him in your stomach.

You stayed like this for a few seconds.

"So big," you gasped against his lips.

His hands were on your back, dragging up and down. "Want to stop?"

"Never."

This was so not what friends did.

He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down to your neck. You were grinding sinuously back and forth, Finnick's hands now on your hips as a guide, feeling his tip bury into the sensitive walls inside you. Your head fell back with a gratified moan as he nipped your neck unforgivingly, only to soothe the spots he marked with the glide of his tongue.

At that moment, the past and future were of no significance. The idea that doing this might ruin your relationship with him afterwards didn't concern you. You didn't bother recollecting a time when you and Finnick were merely friends, nor did you ponder how you even managed to reach this point.

All you could focus on was how fucking perfect his cock felt inside of you.

The cold, which was previously a nuisance, now served as a stimulant to your nipples which were only covered by the thin unpadded material of your lace bra. They were bouncing with every movement you made, the hard peaks rubbing against Finnick's chest and creating a triangle of pleasure between them and the depravity that was happening further below.

He was so hungry in the way he kissed you. His lips were soft, but they moved with heat and determination. His tongue was supple as it pushed against yours, moving masterfully in a way you could only compare to how he swam in the ocean. A conqueror—able to bring you into submission with ease.

You pushed yourself upwards, the muscles in your thighs slightly burning as you did so, and felt his cock glide through you. He inhaled harshly through his nose when his tip almost left your wet heat, and then groaned into your mouth when your hips sunk back down, engulfing him once again.

"Shit," he almost whined as your walls clenched around him. "I fuckinglove you."

You pulled away to look him in the eyes. It was incredibly difficult for you to contemplate his words—his confession—when he was, what, eight or so inches deep inside you?

He didn't look like he regretted saying it. He was simply staring at you with raised brows pinched together in pleasure, awaiting your response as you continued your sequence of rising and sinking to fill yourself up with his cock.

"You love me?" you asked in a laboured breath. He only nodded in response. You sank fully down onto his lap, discontinuing your movements, willing him to prove his so-declared devotion. "Then show me."

He was breathing heavily and watching you through strands of sea-salted hair messily splayed across his forehead. He was so beautiful it actually kind of hurt to look at him. His eyes fell to your mouth during this brief amnesty, a decision prominent in his mind. Then he was rushing forward, crushing his lips to yours and forcing your body to lay back on the mat beneath you.

Finnick somehow managed to remain inside you as he switched your positions—him now above you as your legs were wrapped around his waist. His body pinned you down with a comfortable weight, skin warm and flush against yours.

He was overpowering and dominating, and his thrusts were laced with a sense of appropriation like he was making you his. The slow grinds of his hips were hard yet measured and so breathtakingly deep, and the gentle upwards curve of his cock made sure his tip was prodding against that swollen pleasure-inducing spot every single time.

His kisses were sensual and slow; his tongue slipping languidly into your mouth, swirling and massaging your tongue like it was made of pure silk.

You had told him what to do—now he was showing you. Finnick Odair wasn't fucking you. He was making love to you.

Your hands were on his back, fingertips leaving red marks on the curves of his shoulder blades. You moved up to his hair, scratching your nails softly into his scalp, which earned you a soft moan in your mouth. Even you could feel yourself pulsing around his cock. Everything he did, every sound and action he made, had your body yielding to him.

His hand pulled you up into him by the waist, arching your back off the palm-leaf mat so that he was thrusting more profoundly into that blissful spot inside you. He never sped up his pace. He didn't need to. He was savouring the moment as much as he could, memorising each warm ripple of your walls his cock glided over inside you, every intoxicating moan your soft lips released, the pressure of your warm supple thighs hugging his waist.

He was committing every aspect of you to memory. Inside and out.

Having that knowledge only made the moment so much more pleasurable. Knowing that he wasn't just thinking about you with his cock, but was thinking about you with his heart too.

That feeling started creeping up inside you—the blissful burn of heat pooling in your lower stomach. It made your walls flutter around him. Made you whine and moan uncontrollably into his mouth until you couldn't focus on kissing him anymore and had to pull away.

Your head fell back onto the mat, hair strewn out around you. The sounds coming out of you were pure sin. Desperate, greedy sin.

Finnick chuckled adoringly above you. "Too fucked out, sweetheart?"

He couldn't exactly talk. The second you clenched around him again, he groaned out a curse and you—the parts of your mind that were still relatively comprehensible—were sure you could feel the warmth of pre-cum ooze inside you.

"Finnick," you mewled, and he caressed the baby hairs framing your face. "Feels so good. Should—should've done this sooner."

Through your half-lidded eyes, you watched as he nodded and then descended to your forehead, pressing his lips tenderly against your skin. I know, the gesture said. You felt a rush of affection flood through your body, ultimately accelerating the build-up happening inside you.

You could feel yourself teetering so impossibly close to the brink of your orgasm. The tightness inside you was so hot and overwhelming; it was a struggle for you to keep your eyes from fluttering shut and rolling back, though you willed yourself to keep them open. You had to.

Watching Finnick's face contort with pleasure as he's thrown into his own high from feeling your walls contract around him would probably be the highlight of your entire life.

"So beautiful," he cooed as he thrusted into you. "My sweet girl's gonna come, isn't she? Can feel it."

The words flew out of your mouth. "Come inside me."

"Come inside you?"

You were pretty sure he was mocking you from the devilish curve of his lips and furrow of his brows. But your lust-drunk brain didn't really care.

"Please. Wanna feel you—" Your chest heaved with each breath "—everywhere."

Finnick was so obviously trying to keep himself from giving in before you. But you could see how delirious his eyes were as they stared down at you and you heard how every low, gratified—frustratingly sexy—sound he made betrayed him. He was so close.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," he said, finally.

He managed to unhook your hands from around his back and guided them upwards, holding your wrists together above your head with one hand before he brought his other back to your waist. It was oddly romantic how he held you, given that he was fucking you like life after that night wasn't guaranteed.

And then, without warning, he was pounding into you, bottoming out completely with each thrust.

It was almost animalistic now—how you were both unable to control yourselves anymore. You were writhing beneath him, impulsively fighting against the grip he had on your wrists. And Finnick, well, he was fucking you so hard, you weren't sure if walking home that night would be a possibility.

He was a disaster of pleasured vocals, deep moans, and heavy breaths. You thanked the absolute heavens he was because it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard in your entire life.

When your own moans started to rise in pitch, you knew you were done for. You felt so full. Stretched out to the max. Blinded by the heat that was drowning you. But your eyes managed to remain clear and locked on Finnick's the entire time, just as his were on yours.

With a fleeting glance downward, he once again placed a large hand over your abdomen and pushed down, and your back arched off the ground.

You were gone.

"Oh fuck!"

The heat, white and fiery, had consumed you. Your thighs tensed uncontrollably around Finnick, your body shaking beneath him as your insides pulsed all the way down to your stuffed entrance. White, sticky sweetness covered Finnick's cock as he continued to thrust into you, the wet sounds overpowering the waves cresting on the sands. It felt like fucking heaven.

He let out a moan, broken and breathless, and released the grip he had on your hands. In that short moment, you instantly gripped onto him, feeling his body shudder beneath your hands as his throbbing cock spurted out ropes of warmth deep inside you, the essence of both of you mixing inside your body, making you one.

You pulled him down and crushed your lips to his with a sudden intense urge to be as close to him as you could, if it were even possible to be any closer to him at that point. It felt a little spiritual, the way you practically wanted to merge your body with his. That's what having sex with someone you truly loved was like, you supposed.

The kiss was sloppy and messy, but it never lacked heat or affection. Lacking heat was impossible between you and Finnick.

A lot of time passed before either of you even contemplated pulling away from one another. Finnick was inside you for what must have been a good half hour after you had both finished. It felt close. Deeply intimate. He held you in his arms, his hands mapping out various parts of your body with unhurried measure as you lay beneath him, lazily yet affectionately making out with warm, reddened lips.

There were quiet giggles and heated words whispered between you that would have prompted another session had either of you been graced with the energy.

But it was late. The remnants of the sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, dimming the sky to a deep dark blue, the world's only source of illumination being the stars casting their sparkling light on the rippling water.

It was a new moon.

Eventually, you ended up laying over his chest, legs strewn across his as you both faced the ocean. Your head rose and fell with each breath Finnick took and it felt unreal. 

You were momentarily worried your infatuation with him had grown too out of hand and you had imagined the whole day, or perhaps, the entire time you had known him. That it was all a figment of your vivid imagination.

Then, his warm hand slid into your own, which was draped across his stomach, and you knew that this, the newfound relationship between you and Finnick, was undeniably and rapturously real.

He slowly lifted them together above your bodies, palms flat against one another. There was a notable size difference between them—his palm was large and calloused with long fingers that squared off at the tips, meanwhile, your own fist could probably fit into his palm.

Your fingers danced delicately together as you both watched from below. He traced the length of your fingers with his fingertips; followed the etches in your palm, and turned your hand to explore the protrusions of your knuckles. There was a certain gentle curiosity in his touch, similar to that of someone who was discovering the act of human connection for the first time.

"I don't know if I can walk home," you whispered.

Finnick lowered your interlocked hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles before placing them back on his stomach. "I'll carry you."

"For an entire hour?"

"I'll manage," he said, "I've got muscles."

You scoffed quietly to yourself, smiling. "Ok, big strong man."

"Says the girl who needs to be carried home."

"Well, you are kind of the one to blame for that."

You tilted your head to glance up at him and found exactly what you were expecting to see. He was wearing a proud grin, all apple cheeks and crinkled eyes. It was something you had come to adore, even though sometimes it was out of arrogance.

Your head turned to rest back on his chest. You watched as his thumb caressed slow circles over your knuckle.

"What you said before," you began, "is it true? Do you really... love me?"

The heart beating beneath your ear genuinely sounded like it skipped a beat. You imagined that was a good sign, though your nerves were still a little frayed. What if he had only said it because of the heat of the moment?

A beat went by. "I've been trying to tell you ever since I first wove the mat for you," he confessed, his voice quiet yet holding the weight of the history that made up your friendship.

There it was—the truth laid bare. Despite hearing the words, it didn't really change anything. You suspected deep down you knew the entire time; you were just too self-doubting to accept it. To accept that Finnick Odair, the crown jewel of Panem, had fallen in love with you, an ordinary girl from District Four who just so happened to meet him at a secret beach.

Although, there was a sensation you remember upon first meeting him. That instinct that had told you to stay instead of running away, as any logical human being would do upon being approached by a stranger in the middle of nowhere. That instinct, despite sounding utterly ridiculous, caused you to believe that perhaps it was fate.

Maybe you were destined to meet. Maybe it didn't matter that he was a nationwide celebrity, nor you a simple town girl. Maybe your souls were entwined from the start and, one way or another, you would have met anyway.

Maybe.

"That's a long time," you said.

He laughed. "Yeah, well, I thought you would've gotten the hint by now."

And you couldn't help but join him. You thought you were the one who was deranged out of their mind. Here Finnick was telling you he had spent an entire year trying to confess his love without you even realising.

"I'm sorry it took me so long."

"It's alright," he said, earnestly. "I'd say it worked out pretty well. I mean, look where your obliviousness got us."

You smiled. Your legs were tangled with Finnick's; his arm was holding you tightly against his bare upper body, and his fingers were lovingly tracing over yours. Yeah, you were pretty grateful for your obliviousness sometimes. A new pair of underwear might have been something to consider, though.

A silence settled between you, comfortable, peaceful. Being in Finnick's embrace almost made you forget entirely about the reality of your existence—the Games, the dominion over Panem, the chaotic environment back home. It was the reason you had set off last year in search of a place away from society.

You had now found that the escape you were looking for wasn't a place or a hidden paradise, but a person. It was Finnick.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

The trees and palm leaves danced in the light breeze. Waves lapped on the shore.

You angled your head back to look at Finnick and felt him pull you closer. His expression was a picture of relaxation and contentment. His eyes gazed down at you, glimmering with the reflection of scattered stars in the night sky, just like the sea in front of you.

He seemed to already know what you were going to say. Always the mind reader.

"Say it, sweetheart." The corners of his lips twitched expectantly.

Sweetheart. Oh, how could you have ever felt for him in any other way?

"I love you too."

His face broke into one of the happiest smiles you had ever seen.

...roll credits

#when i tell y'all i went feral for finnick writing this #good lord #wife of all dilfs ✍️ #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair smut #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x fem!reader #finnick odair x y/n #finnick odair x you #thg finnick #the hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #mockingjay part 2 #sam claflin #the hunger games fanfic #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #josh hutcherson

[zhongrin]

© zhongrin | 2024  ✼  no repost・translations・plagiarism of any kind・ai data mining. rebloggers get a free cup of tea ♡

✼ characters ┈ wriothesley

✼ tags ┈ minors dni, gn pronouns but reader has boobs and is implied to not mind wearing feminine clothes, chubby reader, insecure reader, nothing explicit but suggestive, fluff, domestic

✼ a/n ┈ 'rin this seems oddly specific' yes well i might have received a cute pajama as a xmas present and i might have faced the same issue as reader ー immensely disappointed that my thighs are too big for them and how my tits keep getting squished in half by the stupid sewing line that is supposed to go UNDER the boobs, so this is how i cope 😔

ᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴍᴇɴᴜ (ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ)  ✼ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱʜɪᴘ (ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ)

wriothesley buying you a couple pajama set to celebrate you finally moving in with him, but he miscalculated your sizes. while it still fits you, they're a little.... tight, especially around your full chest and thighs. you're horrified and embarrassed, insecurity hitting in full force as you exited the bathroom and apologized profusely, as if it was your fault that the clothes he bought you didn't fit.

what you don't know is that the duke's eyes are zeroed on the way your breasts are stretching the top, its buttons straining and creating a slight opening showing your enticing skin ー oh shit, he thinks as he realized you weren't wearing a bra. of course they won't be wearing a bra when they sleep, he berates himself, inwardly facepalming at his own stupidity before another thought struck him, icy eyes shaking as he glanced downwards at the way your thick thighs strain the pajama pants ー

fuck, does that mean they're also not wearing panties?

bloody hell - now his own pants are straining.

he barely listens to your words, choosing to pull you into straddling him while he sat at the edge of your shared bed instead. his cheeks are dusted in pinks and his pupils are blown with lust, promising a night of not-so-innocent activities, if his wandering hands squeezing the delicious plumpness of the fat of your thighs hadn't hinted it enough.

it's fine if the pajamas don't fit.... he can just rip them off you and buy you a new one. you would look delectable in a chemise. or a teddy. maybe even with garters. or perhaps in one of those... indecent ones, whatever they're called.

but for now, wriothesley wants his midnight snack.

and what the duke wants, the duke gets.

✼ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱʜɪᴘ (ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ) ┈ @abyssmal-skies | @hamdehlesmis | @depressivecomforts | @sunnshineflxwer | @yuutasbabe | @queen-belial | @stygianoir | @silentmoths | @niktwazny303 | @dustofthedailylife | @marina-and-the-memes | @mixed-kester | @lordbugs | @anonymousficreader | @shizunxie | @ansy-tea | @irethepotato | @sassy-cat-in-town | @syrenkitsune | @smokipoki | @cakeboxie | @crystalflygeo | @ciexuvia | @illaasya | @celestewritestoomuch | @pams-comfortzone | @spidermanluvr444 | @ourstrawberryclouds | @ryuryuryuyurboat | @hrts4hanniehae | @fiannee

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley #minors dni #rin releases a plot bunny into the wild

[badkitty3000]

Weak

Even Five Hargreeves is no stranger to temptation. He tries so hard to stay away. He wants to do the right thing for once in his life. If not for himself, then for her. But every man has his breaking point.

Five Hargreeves x Reader Smut

This one shot is an accompaniment to my other work "Addicted". This can be read on its own, but is a different side of the story, as told from Five's point of view.

As always, I am open to requests. Thank you!

My Master List Of Number Five Fanfiction

Weak:

I never meant to take it this far. I never meant to be cruel. That’s not who I am, or at least I didn’t think I was. I also thought I was strong and had will power. But I guess I was wrong about that, too. Because as much as I try to stay away, I don’t.

I know who I am and what I’m made of. The terrible things I’ve done. That’s not a secret and I’ve never lied to myself about that. My morals can’t even be called a gray area anymore; they’re more like an indistinct blur. But in this one tiny part of my soul, I was trying to be better. For her, at least.

I have failed miserably.

She knows what I am. When things got too comfortable and too familiar, I told her as a way to push her away and to scare her. It didn’t work, though. In fact, it had the opposite effect. She fucking loved it…and I didn’t know how to say no to that.

How could I say no when she was tearing at my clothes, practically panting with desire, and shoving her hand down my pants? All over a bloody stain on a shirt collar and the feel of my Glock against her skin. I’m sure there’s a way to resist that, but fuck if I know what it is. I’m not smart enough or strong enough to figure that one out.

I don’t particularly like all of the killing. But I’m pretty fucking good at it and someone has to do it, I suppose. I certainly never considered it sexy in any way. Then, after that first time, when she begged me to tell her all of the gruesome details, and I watched her skin start to flush and her pupils dilate…well, fuck, that put a new spin on everything.

I still don’t like it, that part hasn’t changed. I get no pleasure from pulling that trigger and watching their skull break open like a fucking pinata, spraying the contents of their brains all over the floor like the world’s worst party game. Now, however, there is a sick little spark that will ignite in me after it’s done. Because I know how it will turn her on.

And, fuck, I am weak.

That’s what this all boils down to. Weakness. For most people that meet me or know me in any way, weak is probably the last word they would use to describe me. Cold; bitter; sarcastic; asshole. Those adjectives are much more likely to be used. But weak? Doubtful.

I know the truth, though. Deep down, that is what I am. Because when you continue to break someone’s heart time and time again, just because you can’t control your own basic urges…that’s weakness. Pure and simple.

She has told me how much I’ve hurt her, and how much I am ruining her life. She has screamed and cried and told me all of the things I know I deserve to hear. She has called me an asshole more times than I can remember, and I have never disputed it. So, I stay away, like I know I should. Until she inevitably calls again. And I slip right back into it without another thought. Like the absolute fucking bastard that I am.

Weak.

Because even though I know it’s wrong and I’m slowly poisoning her with my selfishness, each time I think maybe it will be different. Maybe this time will be the time when I stay. When I will finally be the person I should be and really want to be.

All the way up until the early morning, I will convince myself that this is it. I’ve finally seen the light and I can be the man she deserves; it will be so easy. Because when it’s just the two of us, in our own little cocoon, hidden away from the outside world, the idea is magical. I would give anything to stay there, tucked away, fucking like animals until we’re both too exhausted to talk anymore. I want to stay there and listen to her voice, and her laugh, and feel her hands on my touch-starved body. And I think, yes, this is it. This is what I want.

Then morning comes and the spell is broken.

Once that first peek of dawn starts to light up the sky, all of my anxieties come rushing back, and I remember why I can’t stay. Morning brings back the real world, and with it all of its problems.

I will freeze up, practically paralyzed with fear, as she sleeps next to me, an arm draped over my chest. I will remember what kind of person I really am, and how that just doesn’t translate to boyfriend material. And it’s not just the little fact that I am a hired assassin, although that does put a slight snag in any future meetings with parents and the like.

It’s the mixing bowl of fucked up thoughts and feelings and history that lives inside my brain. Guilt. Regret. Sadness. Rage. Take your pick, none of them are great. And I can mask them for a night or two, while I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. But they will come back again, and that’s just not something anyone needs. Especially someone you care about.

So, I do the worst, shittiest thing in the world, and leave while she’s asleep. No kiss goodbye. No note. Not even a quick morning fuck. I grab my shit and leave in a flash of blue light, like the weak coward I am. Can’t even bother to use the god damn door.

I will stay away after that. At least for a while. I will ignore the incoming texts and voice mails that sometimes will follow, and sometimes don’t. I’ll pretend I don’t care about the lectures and pleas and rightly-deserved insults. But I do care. And that’s why I won’t answer.

A month might go past, maybe more. Just enough time for me to start thinking she really is done with me. Then the call will come through, late at night, and I won’t ignore it. Because, as we’ve determined…I am weak.

She is the only one, although I’ve never told her that and I bet she thinks she’s not. I’m not interested in anyone else. I don’t need anyone else. And when she stops calling for good, which one day I know will happen, that will be it. It’s either her or nobody. And it’s barely even her.

Our paths almost never cross outside of our little midnight meetings. After that first night when all of this started, I’ve never seen her anywhere else besides her apartment. I assume it’s because the types of bars and clubs I frequent are not anywhere a normal, sane person would want to spend their free evenings. But tonight, as fate would have it, I do see her. After I grab my drink off the cracked and peeling bar top and turn to look at the room behind me, I see her. And she’s not alone.

With my glass half way to my mouth, our eyes meet, and for a second neither of us move. It’s not a big place, so we aren’t that far away from one another. But it’s loud and crowded, and the guy is leaning in close to her ear, talking loudly to be heard over the constant bass thumping through the shitty speakers on the walls. Who the fuck is this guy?

It’s not fair, I know that. Believe me, I know that. And I try to give myself a stern talking-to inside my head. She is not yours. Not even remotely. You are an asshole and she deserves better. Leave her the fuck alone.

I take a drink. And then I see his hand disappear under the table, and I can see everything from where I’m standing. He’s squeezing her thigh, leaving his hand there to rest on her leg, rubbing his thumb across the bare skin that isn’t covered by her short skirt. A skirt I know I’ve had my face under before.

Fuck. I hate this guy.

In the thirty seconds that it takes for all of this to happen, she is watching me. Reading me. A faint smile plays on her lips and I know I’m caught. My thoughts must be written all over my face like a fucking billboard, and it’s too late to pretend I haven’t seen or that I don’t care. She’s got me.

If I were stronger, or a better person, I would leave. Pay my tab, collect my coat, and get the fuck out of there without another glance in her direction. Leave her be. Let her live her fucking life. But I am not. And I’m pissed.

My first instinct is to reach behind me, grab the Glock that’s hidden in the waistband of my pants and covered up by my suit jacket, and take care of this asshole right then and there. That would probably be the nicer thing to do, honestly. Then she’d finally see what a fucking psycho I am and that would end things once and for all. But I’m also not that stupid. Or that nice.

Instead, I stay and watch. I let her see me watching, too. I lean with my back against the bar, casually sipping my drink, and my eyes never leave her. I want her to know, even if it makes me more of a giant dick than I already am. I want her to know I am not pleased.

I have no idea who this guy is, and I don’t care. Maybe it’s their first date; maybe it’s their tenth. It doesn’t matter, I want him dead. And now that she knows that, because it’s pretty fucking obvious by the way I’m coiled like a cobra ready to strike right now, it’s quickly become a game. If she had feelings for him before, that seems to have been forgotten now. Because everything she is doing is for me.

Her eyes leave mine and she returns to what I can only imagine is a very dull conversation with the Neanderthal sitting next to her. She smiles and laughs, and moves her leg closer to his so that they are touching. She reaches up and fixes his hair, tucking a stray piece of it over his ear. She rests her chin on her hand and stares at him like he’s the most interesting person she’s ever encountered. And he’s eating this shit up; kicking his game up a notch with even more inane talk and rubbing her thigh up and down with his whole hand. He thinks she’s into him. Fucking dumbass.

That’s the only thing keeping me slightly calm at the moment. Knowing it’s all a play. She is a really good actress, I’ll give her that, but I’ve paid more attention to her than she realizes. I know her tells. I know the difference between her fake laugh and her real one. I can tell when she’s actively engaged in the conversation or she is just waiting for you to shut up. I know how she touches her face when she’s nervous and I know what she looks like when she wants to fuck you.

And, buddy…I got bad news for you.

The corner of my mouth lifts in an arrogant smirk as I take another drink. I shouldn’t be proud of this; I should be appalled. How dare I think I have any right to any of her little traits and quirks? I haven’t earned that. That kind of thing is reserved for boyfriends and husbands and people that can stand to stick around for more than a few hours.

When she runs her tongue over her lips in an obvious gesture meant only for me, I actually laugh out loud. Fuck, she knows what she’s doing. And it’s one hundred percent working.

As I order my second drink, feeling the calming buzz of the booze fill my brain, I start to care less and less. I don’t care if this is not fair. I don’t care that I’m being a complete and utter shit head. I don’t care if I’m weak. I’ll deal with all of that later.

I take out my phone and type out a quick text.

Enjoying yourself?

I watch as she glances to her phone on the table as it lights up. She picks it up, angling it away from Caveman Cliff, and reads it. It’s subtle, but I saw it. A brief twitch of her mouth and a quick flit of her eyes in my direction. I see her type out a quick reply and then she is back to him, completely enrapt in his droning.

Immensely, thank you

Not able to resist, I counter with:

Even I can tell from way over here that your panties are as dry as the desert

She holds in a smile as she responds back.

Too bad you’re not going to find out

Honey, if that pussy of yours is even slightly wet, it’s only because you’re thinking of me bending you over that table you’re sitting at right now

I see her legs shift and she crosses one over the other, squeezing them together as a faint blush covers her cheeks.

And why would I be thinking that?

Because that dipshit you’re with isn’t going to give you what I know you want

I watch as she swallows and then glances at the idiot to her left that is oblivious to all of this, the poor bastard. Her response is short.

Fuck you

She puts her phone away to end this exchange, but I see the small smile she is trying to hide and the way she touches her hand to her face. I can see her chest expand as she sucks in a deep breath, biting at the inside of her cheek.

I give a short snort of satisfaction and put my phone back in my inside jacket pocket. I got what I wanted. I throw back the rest of my drink, leave a few dollars for a tip, and head for the door without another look in her direction. But I know she saw me leave.

As I wait there in the dark, I think about how awful I’m being; what a shit bag move this is. I’m using her, that’s what it boils down to. Using her for her warmth and her openness, and to temporarily calm my mind. Also, for her body and her touch. She sees something in me that isn’t there; or at least something I can’t see. But I can’t or won’t give her what she needs, and I’m also not letting her move on.

Fuck, I’m an asshole.

I hear their voices coming down the hall, the rattle of keys in her hand. As they near the door, I can hear her made up excuses. She’s tired; she had too much to drink; she has a headache. Maybe next time. She’ll call him tomorrow. Then she slips inside her darkened apartment and the door closes behind her.

I’m on her before she has a chance to turn the light on, pressing her against the door as she drops her keys on the floor. Since I’ve been waiting, the anticipation has already made me fully hard and I push my groin into her while I circle my hand lightly around her neck.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? No love connection tonight?” I growl next to her ear.

She never even screams or fights back. She knew I would be there. But her hands grab my forearm and I hear her suck in a loud breath.

“I never knew you were the jealous type,” she smarts back.

 “Only when I see someone try to take what’s mine,” I hiss hotly against her neck, drawing my lips and then my tongue across her skin.

“I’m not your fucking property,” she snarls, but I can hear the break in her voice and she swallows hard against my hand.

I laugh cynically. “Well, then I can go and you can let him fuck you instead. Is that what you want?”

There’s a long pause and it’s just our loud breathing in the dark of the room. Then I feel her head move slowly from side to side.

“No,” she whispers.

As I crash my mouth onto hers, my hands in her hair and on her face, and down to her tits, she is reaching for the front of my pants. I had already removed my jacket and belt when I got there, as well as the pistol that I always carry with me. Our little act back at the bar was already enough foreplay and our bodies are screaming for each other.

Our hands can’t work fast enough as she is shoving my pants down my legs and tearing my shirt open while I rip her top off and yank her skirt up. My fingers are already pushing her panties to the side and entering her, sliding right in with no resistance.

I smile proudly against her neck. “I knew you were wet for me.”

As she moans and throws her head back, she is reaching down to stroke my cock, her warm hand tight and firm as she drags it slowly over my shaft.

My hips are already jerking into her and I want to be inside of her so badly I can’t think straight.

“Get these panties off so I can fuck you,” I snarl.

I pull my fingers out, pushing her underwear down roughly and she quickly steps out of them. With one pull of her hips into me, her arms clutching tightly to my shoulders, I lift her up and start fucking her against the door.

I tip my head back and groan loudly as she whines and pulls her legs tighter around my waist.

“Can he make you feel this good?” I ask between clenched teeth as I ram into her harder and the door rattles in its frame.

“No!” she cries out.

“Do you think about him when you’re alone and fingering yourself?”

Her moans are punctuated by the slamming of my body against hers and her fingers press deeper into my skin.

“No,” she breathes out. “No.”

“You think about me, don’t you?” I say with a sneer. When she doesn’t answer fast enough, I ask again, louder. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whimpers pitifully, her nails digging sharply into my shoulder blades.

I can’t believe what I’m saying and what I’m doing. But she’s loving it and so I continue.

“I’m going to fuck you until you forget all about him, and then I’m going to fuck you some more. And if I ever see you with him again, I will kill him.”

“You wanted to kill him, didn’t you?” she asks, and that knowing smile starts to form as she closes her eyes and bites her lip. “When you saw him with me?”

“Fuck yes I did,” I groan loudly into her neck.

She’s almost there, I can tell. So am I, but I’m going to make her finish first. I pick up the pace, thrusting into her as hard as I can, her back and head slamming against the door, my fingers digging deeper into the flesh of her thighs and ass. I’m practically ripping into the side of her neck, latching on with my mouth and teeth, desperate to mark her as my own.

I listen as she repeats my name over and over in gasps and moans and I can’t hold back anymore.

“That’s it, sweetheart. You are all mine.”

She is falling apart in my arms, violently shaking against me as I penetrate her one last time, letting out a loud, guttural moan. I’m as deep inside of her as I can be, and I fill her up with so much cum, I know it will start sliding out; dripping down her legs and onto the floor. Somewhere deep inside, in the primordial part of my brain, I take satisfaction in knowing that it’s my seed, and only mine, that is coating her insides.

Once the last spasm has left my body, I let her down and she falls back against the door, breathing hard. Her bra is still on, but the straps have fallen down, and her skirt is bunched up around her waist. I look at the painful looking purple bruise I left on her neck, which is large enough and obvious enough that she won’t be able to cover it. Her eye makeup is smeared and her lips are swollen and red. She looks completely ravished. And then she starts to cry.

It’s because of me, I know it is. Because of the things I said and the things I did, and the way I needed her so desperately. She had been trying to break away from me and I reeled her back in. And I did it knowingly and deliberately, just to feed my ego and maybe not feel so alone. I could have found anyone for that. But, like the prick I am, I only wanted her.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, my lungs still working hard to get air in and out.

She just nods silently, wiping her face with her hand, and pulls down her skirt. She picks her shirt and underwear off the floor and heads to the bathroom without a word. I’m left standing there with a softening dick and my pants around my ankles.

Fuck.

I could leave now, while she’s in there, and maybe I should. That feels wrong, though. But then again, so does staying. I feel like shit and I’m so full of shame that I want to punch my fist through the wall. Instead, I zip my pants back up and walk over to her couch to wait. I turn on the table lamp and even though it’s dim, it feels blaringly bright and I have to squint my eyes.

When she comes out, she has changed into some soft shorts and a t-shirt. Her face is cleaned up and I assume her thighs and the area between them are too. She is no longer crying, but I can still see the tell-tale signs of red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks. I’m surprised when she comes and sits down next to me, laying her head on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because I can’t think of anything better to say.

“I know. Me too,” she says and she leans her body against mine.

She has nothing to be sorry for and I’m not sure what to do, so I put my arm around her and hug her to me. I kiss her forehead and she closes her eyes. I don’t know why she’s letting me do this, but it feels good and I like it. Just like every other time, I tell myself that maybe this time will be different. I can do this; I can be that person. I don’t want to be that other jealous, callous, hurtful person. I don’t want to be the asshole.

“Just don’t go yet, ok?” she says quietly with her cheek resting against my chest.

I smooth her hair and run my hand down her back. I don’t want to go. She feels good and warm and soft against my tension-filled body. She feels right. I want to tell her all of that, too. I want to say I’m sorry a million times over and beg for her forgiveness. I want to wake up with her next to me every day.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” I murmur into her hair as I brush my chin across the top of her head.

“Don’t do that,” she pleads, her voice soft. “Please.”

I decide I’m going to tell her how I really feel. Before the night is over, I’ll come clean. And then I’ll stay. If she’ll still have me.

“You are, though. I mean it.”

She doesn’t respond, but sighs and nestles in, holding me around my waist. Fuck, I have craved this. More than the dirty talk and the biting and the ferocious fucking. I want this. I want her. And I’m going to tell her.

The rest of the night goes by in a blur. It’s there, on the tip of my tongue the whole time. All I have to do is say it. But I don’t.

We fuck again, rough and hard, on the couch and on the floor. I leave more marks on her chest, branding her as my own. I tell her she’s mine, and I make her scream my name again, but I don’t say what I really mean.

We fuck in her bed, while we’re both tired and slightly drunk. I pump lazily into her while she lies underneath me and moans softly. I kiss her lips and tell her how gorgeous she is, and it’s not a lie because she is. I worship her body, running my tongue over every part of it, tasting her skin and her delicious arousal. I can taste my own cum as I lick into her soft folds and inside her pussy that’s been stretched and abused by my cock several times over.

There are so many opportunities and I don’t take any of them. I let her fold her body into mine as I hold her in the dark and I can say it right now. It would be easy and it would be the truth.

I want to be with you.

I want to be yours.

I want you to be mine and mine alone.

I want to stay.

But I am weak, and so I don’t.

She sleeps against me and I listen to her rhythmic breathing while I lie there wide awake. I think about all of the things I should have said. Everything I should have done and should not have done. I hate myself for all of it.

When the sun creeps in, and the faintest light is leaking through the curtains and cutting through the safety of the darkness, it all comes crashing back. I remember why I can’t stay and why those words just wouldn’t come out. The reality of the real world is glaringly obvious in the light of day and I remember all of it.

The real world is filled with everyday things like jobs and homes and bills to pay. Coworkers and families that want to meet you. Graduation and birthday parties. Movie and dinner dates, holidays and vacations. Marriage. Children. Normalcy.

There’s just no way any of that would work. I can’t fit into that life, even though I want to. I think of all of the things holding me back and they keep piling up until they are crushing me and I feel like I can’t breathe.

I am an assassin. A killer. A murderer. I have seen the end of the world and survived the most horrific things. I have PTSD and crippling anxiety. There are nightmares and paranoia and episodes of manic rage. I am old and I am tired. There is nothing left of me and nothing left to give. I am not meant for normalcy.

As I slowly remove her arm from across my chest, she stirs but she doesn’t wake. I take a moment to look at her. Her mind isn’t betraying her with vivid dreams of the world collapsing around her in a fiery blaze or sprays of bullets piercing her body. She is at peace and I am envious of that.

I am not good for her, I know that. I need to go and stay gone. She deserves stability and happiness and a million other things I cannot give her. So, I will be the asshole that leaves in the morning before she wakes, just like I always do. She will hate me and curse me and cry for me. And I will stay away this time. I have to.

I chance it by leaning in and brushing my lips across her forehead. Her face wrinkles up and then relaxes again, but she doesn’t wake. I slip out of the bed and out of the room, following the trail of discarded clothes and put them back on one by one. Then I am gone in the same flash of light that allowed me to enter there in the first place. A convenient exit that I have misused way too many times.

Outside, the sun is bright and the world is waking up. I can feel my resolve growing stronger as the new day builds. That was it, I am done. It was awful and I shouldn’t have done it, but it’s over now and I will not be repeating it. I am a pillar of inner strength. That was the last time and she is finally free of me. I am doing the right thing.

My strength is impressive, both inside and out. But it is not impenetrable, especially when darkness falls and the world around me grows quiet. When I am alone with nothing but my thoughts, and I just need to feel something good again.

Everyone has a weakness.   

#number five x reader #five x reader #five hargreeves smut #number five smut #smut #the umbrella academy #five hargreeves #number five #tua #umbrella academy #number five fanfic #five hargreeves x reader #one shot #female reader #five hargreeves imagine #umbrella academy fanfic #fanfiction requests #tua fanfiction #tua fanfic #fanfiction #requests open

[idkfitememate]

I have another brainrot that suddenly came. You know those crabs in Fontaine? Pick any kind and have an interaction with Wrio or Freminette. Like Freminette is casually diving and he meet this someone unique crab. Or Wrio checking out the pipe inhus territory and meeting this odd crab that has different colors from the usual ones.

Or maybe that stingray

Go wild 🫶

-🌾

Hehehe I gots an idea ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

He wasn’t supposed to go this deep.

That was the only thing on Freminette’s mind. He was a diver, that was true. But he usually stayed in the Sunlight Zone, only occasionally dipping into the Twilight Zone.

Somehow, today, he had fallen into the Midnight Zone. Where things larger than any beast he may have seen lived and thrived.

But as much as he hated it… he was curious.

Would anything even want to interact with him? The Twilight Zone was pretty much untouched by human hands. Untainted. Pure. The things that lived down here probably have never seen anything like him. Could probably not even comprehend something like him.

So as much as he was scared, Freminette was also excited.

He allowed himself to drift through the seemingly endless sea, dark water surrounding him on all sides. He didn’t dare turn on a light, in case it might attract something he couldn’t fend off. It was cool, and silent.

That was, until something large swam beneath him.

The current it created actually propelled him forward. He gripped onto the line that kept him connected to the surface.

He watched the shadow move away into the distance before circling around back to him.

Suddenly light emitted from its back as it swam closer, pulling up in front of him.

It began to make rounds and fear began to creep into the boys bones. Should pull on his line so he can be taken back up? Should he find a way to fight? What would his siblings do?.. What would Father want him to do?..

As he thought, the beast pulled its way in front of him.

He was met with the pupil of an eye stalk that was much taller and wider than him.

You both stared at each other, then finally shook your body, lighting yourself up fully.

Eight long legs descended into the depths below, with two large claws that wrapped around in a wide circle, around him. One claw being larger than the other.

You looked like a bigger, beefier and taller version of the Emperor of Fire and Iron. With a large imposing crown and all.

Your limbs were thicker than if you lined up three Monsieur Neuvillette’s and three Wriothesley’s side by side. Your larger claw looked like it could open enough to snap the uppermost part of the Fortress of Meropide.

Your glow was bright as you shuffled back, raising up to see him better.

If anything you looked like a walking city.

Freminette stared in wonder at you, swimming forward. Seeing this, you took a few steps forward towards him. He placed a hand on your head, right between your eyes.

“…Hello..?” His voice echoed through the space. The small crackle of the microphone on his suit echoing after.

He sat in silence. But only for a moment.

“… H… E… L… L… O…”

Freminette had just made an amazing discovery.

I like this idea. Like a lot. Imagine Freminette finding a way to bring you up, and Fontaine is faced with a Nation sized crab lmao ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

#asks <3 #anon <3 #🌾 anon <3 #Deep Sea Crab!Creator

[hiraya-rawr]

so i betrayed you, my love– (1/5)

Xiao Version || Childe Version || Thoma Version || Gorou Version || Ayato Version

Synopsis !! Part 2 of “You Were The Enemy All Along” featuring the aftermath of betrayal and confrontation, with more depth to their stories! (Part 1 of each character was also included to make reading convenient.)

Contains !! some character lore spoilers / chatty Zhongli! / a little violence / dialogue heavy in some scenes / reconciliation but also complicated relationships mending together / I honestly added a bit of Chinese because I feel like some sentences would be better that way huhuhu / cameos of other characters! / might be easier to understand if you knew the lore of the characters 

Notes !! This was commissioned by the wonderful @mh8 who allowed this to be posted in public for everyone to enjoy! 

XIAO

wc !! 2.1k

Like Zhongli, he's quiet. He doesn't let his feelings show on his face as he summons his polearm. To think he allowed this to enter his walls and tear him apart? He had no one to blame but himself. There's grief in his heart as he tries not to catch your gaze, it worsens when you call out his name like he wasn't about to kill you.

Once the fight is done and, on the off chance you live, he blocks out his thoughts whenever he hears his name from your voice, carried by the wind. There's a sort of humiliation in allowing himself to be swayed — but now he knows better than to trust anyone but himself.

~

“Gods are revered beings. With their wisdom and brawn, they earn the respect and adoration of their people. Rex Lapis saved Alatus from a cruel god, and so he earned the unwavering loyalty of the adeptus. This is how it works.”

It's a small teahouse by the side of a hiking site, barely attracting the attention of anyone but hitchhikers. The place is run down and musty, the only impressive aspect would be the wonderful view of Liyue’s mountains— which doesn't really count when the sun has long since set behind said mountains. 

You wrap your cloak closer to your face as you place an order for something warm. Anything would do. Things such as food didn't really matter to you if only to silence the insistent grumbling of your stomach. ‘Did anything matter anymore?’

“Pardon me, is this seat taken?” Someone asks, gesturing to the seat across from you. Before you could even tell them to sit elsewhere, the person pulls out the chair to sit anyway.

Your face scrunches from the disturbance as you look up from your cloak to tell them off only to meet—

Deep amber eyes. With diamond pupils of gold.

“It's been a while, hasn't it? (Name).” Zhongli smiles. 

To anyone in the room, it would seem polite and kind, but a shiver runs down your spine. You freeze. He must know, surely he knows what you did to his favored Yaksha? You find yourself speechless. What are you supposed to say, anyway? You had only met Zhongli twice before; once when Xiao introduced you briefly in Wangshu Inn, and the other—

Alatus earning his freedom. The “cruel god”, slaughtered, its black blood and miasma seeping, blossoming on cold ground, spreading and spreading until it reached you, hidden, soaked, trembling, as it forcefully demanded you to acknowledge it. Your god -savior and one master- had just been slaughtered. 

Hide, hide, hide—

“Hmm. . . It seems you're aware of your situation,” Zhongli’s voice breaks through, snapping you out of your state. You realize you're shivering and it's not even cold.

“M-mister Zh— Rex Lapis—” You stutter, defensive, alert, as he waves off the formalities by raising his gloved hand.

“At ease with the formalities. If I wanted to talk to you about your god-” He emphasizes with subtlety, “-I would have done so the day the young Yaksha ntroduced you to me.”

So he knew since the beginning, you think.

You eye him warily. A waiter stops by your table, wordlessly placing down a teapot and two cups. Zhongli calmly takes one and pours himself a cup, gesturing for you to take the other as the waiter leaves the table. It's strange to be sipping tea in such a casual setting with the one who killed your god, even stranger to consider the circumstances; Why would he talk to you? A year after you allowed your instincts to take over -your grudge- and tried to fight Xiao?

“To get straight to the point, you've hurt someone very dear to me.” He pauses, blowing onto the tea before taking a sip, “You and I both know just how fond I am of my yakshas. Especially him. He was but a child the day I met him battling to survive the archon war. I still see him in that way, a child, I mean. Naturally, I’m quite fond of him. I let him do as he pleases—”

Pause. He glances from his cup to meet your eyes. The chattiness of the former archon never failed to catch you off guard.

“—even if it means being around the beloved servant of that bastard god.”

You flinch. He continues to sip his tea contentedly.

“Don't think I didn't know. If anything, I only allowed it because I was confident that Xiao would deal with you swiftly should the truth be brought to light.”

Silence, with only the sounds of sudden wind. Your grip tightens on the teacup. Why is he talking to you? The longer he speaks, the more nervous you become. Is this on purpose? Is he eyeing you like prey, waiting to taunt you on the fact that you could never avenge your god?

“So are you here to finish the job? Because Xiao failed to deal with me swiftly?” You utter almost impatiently. You needed to know why Zhongli was here.

“No. As I said, I was confident Xiao would deal with you swiftly.”

“So. . .” You continue.

“Oh dear, you still don't understand?” He raises a brow, half amused, “The fact that he didn't kill you— that alone speaks multitudes.”

You fall silent. Xiao didn't kill you. He didn't even try— you battled and fought, but was it ever to the death?

“Then what does it mea—”

“Ask him yourself.” Zhongli cuts in.

“What?”

“Ask him yourself. And while you're in the process, do share with him about what's consuming you.” 

Consuming you, he says, as if the black blood you carried was parasitic in nature. It took hold of your senses, causing agony after agony when you refused to give him. Vengeance had been the only thing on your mind for a millennium, just as your master had wanted. You wandered and withered, you hibernated like a fossil and cursed your partial immortality. Perhaps it was this same dark debt which allured Xiao to help you. He approached, unknowing of how he was like exposed steak to a rabid wolf. 

Oh, how your master loved to tear him apart.

On a moonless night, Xiao once told you; “My karmic debt. . . it is the corruptive forces left behind by slayed ancient gods. Gods are immortal, even in death. Their will, their power, and their evil would live on forever. It is something I chose to carry, no matter the pain.”. This was after you worriedly panicked over his body destroying itself, a decaying aura surrounding him for hours before it settled into nothingness.

A rare glimpse at his vulnerability.

“But why? Wouldn't it stop hurting if you could just. . . let go?” You ask, perhaps half hoping he'd give it up to be less in pain (perhaps half hoping he'd be more forgiving if he learned of yours).

Xiao stays silent, the answer already hanging in the air; if he doesn't control his karmic debt, then others would get hurt. Xiao will not allow that.

You realized then that you were not like Xiao.

Unlike he who could carry his karmic debt, you drowned in it, a puppet to its pain. It was vengeance that seeped into you. Vengeance was your karmic debt, the black blood of your master that took you as a vessel. A servant of his even beyond death. 

Zhongli smiles upon noticing your expression, perhaps understanding you with a wisdom only possible in gods.

“Well, no matter, you don't have to reply to me whether you regret it or not.” He stands up to leave but you quickly try to grab onto him, not fully understanding why you want to.

“Wait!”

He continues to walk with long strides, leaving the teahouse as you hurry to catch up.

“Rex Lapis, wait!”

He walks further and further. You try to match his pace.

“Please wait!”

Abruptly, he turns his heel, facing you once more with a softer expression. “Don’t. . . be so hard on yourself. You were also just a child.” 

What?

With his hands on your shoulders, he gently gestures you to the side. You spot a figure, colors of teal, purple, and gold from the corner of your eye, blending with the dark backdrop of Liyue’s mountains during the eve. You freeze.

How long has he been there? How much did he hear? 

“Ever since I called his name.” Zhongli replies, thoughts answered, and without another word he walks away to leave you alone with the young yaksha. Mouth dry, it's hard to look away from the one you’ve been trying so hard to avoid. He looks just as hesitant as you, almost awkward in the way he stands alert.

“Xiao. . .” You begin, finally breaking the silence. His expression is unreadable, it's even more uncomfortable than conversing with Zhongli.

‘Do share with him about what's consuming you,’ Zhongli had said. Ha! Easier said than done. How were you supposed to explain everything? Your guilt, your love, your guilt, your inability to handle the karma of your god –former god, you correct– your guilt, your guilt, your—

“Zhongli-dárén told me to meet with you,” He says curtly, “That it would be regrettable if we don't.”

Regrettable?

“Do you believe that?” You ask, stuck to the same spot.  Xiao turns to the side, seemingly focused on other things. You don't expect him to be cooperative with you, but you also didn't plan on talking with him in the first place. 

Quiet,

Quiet,

Quiet,

He sighs reluctantly, “Is it true? That ‘that god’ was your master?”

Unknowingly, you find yourself gritting your teeth, fists clenched. Is it all out in the open now? “Yes. . . he was. I was there the day his body rotted.”

“I see.” 

“Why didn't you aim to kill me that day?” You ask.

“I don’t know.”

You want to scream. You fought the urge to scream. Is that all he can say? I see, I don’t know– This was your god, your demon, the reason you tore everything you ever built with Xiao. 

“You should have killed me-” It slips past your lips, almost unintentional and it snaps his gaze towards you–

“Kill you? Would you really-” Pause. He seems angry. “-want me to do that?”

He’s angry, he’s glaring, the way his eyes narrow as he strides towards you until his cat-like eyes look up into yours. Your mouth hangs.

“I slaughter demons and monsters. Is that what you are? Should I kill you like I do to those things?”

“You can’t even answer me why!” Why didn't he kill you that time?

“Fine! Because you’re neither demonic or monstrous-”

“I tried to kill you just a year ago-” You choke.

“Tell me first why you tried to.” He demands. 

You remember what Zhongli told you. ‘Ask him yourself. And while you're in the process, do share with him about what's consuming you.’ But how could you admit that you were nothing like Xiao, who handled his pain for the sake of others? How could you admit to him your selfishness of falling into cruel urges?

Inhale, “Karmic debt. It was my karmic debt.” You whisper. Is it shame that fills you when you admit it out loud? The fact that you can’t control yourself.

He falls silent, only breathing. 

“I knew it,” He mutters.

“Xiao, I’m sorry–”

“I know.”

“Compared to you, I-”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not alright! I could have–”

He snaps towards you, “You couldn’t have.” You flinch. Then, in a softer voice, “I. . . lost my brothers and sisters in this way.”

You lapsed into silence. You’ve heard of the tragic story before; how each sibling was consumed by their karma, unable to fight against the pain. 

“None of them wanted to do what they did, but it happened anyway.” He turns away from you, back in view as he walks ahead, “But that’s not why I didn’t kill you. You already know the reason, so I don’t understand why you’d ask.”

Huh?

“What?”

He looks over his shoulder, eyes glossing over yours in the dark, “我对你有感觉 (wǒ duì nǐ yǒu gǎn jué). I have feelings for you. Now aren’t you coming?”

You stutter, steps uncoordinated as you attempt to catch up to him, “C-coming where?”

“To Zhongli. He has medicine that helps with the pain.” Xiao stops, extending the palm of his hand to yours, waiting for you to hold onto his. You stare at his hand, hesitant, but cautiously grabbing onto it.

“One last thing.” He queries as wind began to surround you both, his vision illuminating, ready to transport.

“Hm?” 

“If you ever feel like losing control, next time, say my name.” Bright light flashes, leaves take flight, propelling around you. In an instant, you were gone with him–

“Wait! The bill!” A teahouse waiter rushes, huffing as he looks around the now empty field, “Aah. . . not again.”

A year is nothing to Xiao. For someone who has lived for a millennia and more, a year is only the extension of his karma. They say time heals all wounds– but not his karma. His karma is eternal, and deep down there’s a trembling thought -a silent fear- that the pain you caused him would be eternal as well.

A year is nothing to Xiao but -Archons- did you teach him that it was more than just pain drawn out.

~

note !! some character analysis on xiao's part

xiao // honestly, i think xiao’s part is a little everywhere. Mainly because karmic debt is so broadly described, i took the liberty of exploring it. Most of it is fill in the blanks which i hope wasnt too confusing for everyone. something i wanted to highlight in xiao’s story was devotion towards gods and the control of karmic debt. i didn't want to justify the cruel god by making him nice to MC, instead, i just wanted mc to show unwavering loyalty to a god just like how xiao is to zhongli. i added zhongli precisely because i think he plays an excellent part on understanding xiao’s perspective! xiao (as a loyal servant of a god as well) would definitely avenge zhongli if anything were to happen to him! even if it takes a millennia. For MC’s case, it focuses more on the shame of karmic debt. It’s like being controlled by a dead person, that’s kind of ridiculous and a blow to one’s dignity! anyway, i really like how xiao and mc can both relate to each other. they're given two choices; loyalty or love? also, i made zhongli a little chatty mainly bc i think he'd do a lot of talking (it's better than fighting u anyway)

#xiao #xiao x reader #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin xiao #genshin zhongli #zhongli #xiao angst #genshin angst/comfort #genshin angst #genshin impact #genshin fanfic

[heliads]

Heyy can I get Four x fem!reader, where four can see sher struggling and offers some private lessons, you can take it from there xo

as a fic writer, i love taking it from there (xo)

masterlist

Four is not particularly suited to kindness. He never has been. That’s part of why he never fit in with the other Abnegation, after all; his inability to carve away pieces of himself to give to others stuck out like a sore thumb. That, and the fact that he hated their two-faced duplicity with a passion so burning that it left him choking on the smoke. 

He’s always figured that even if he was Divergent, even if he contained multitudes of other factions within him, he never once showed a shred of Amity, either. Kindness, generosity, none of these have ever described Four. He certainly shouldn’t be wishing for it now. 

Yet, when he looks across the Dauntless training room, which is strewn with the fighting figures of initiation’s latest round of transfers, he doesn’t feel that usual call to apathy. Not now, at least. Four had supposed it would come later, when the initial interest of new faces had worn off and he was left with irritation prickling under his skin, that fidgety sort of feeling he gets when people refuse to do what’s good for them.

Four has never been the most patient, even if he is forced to play the long game of waiting and hiding due to his status as a Divergent. It makes him insufferable, or so he’s been told. Usually, Four just assumes he’s better off alone and not reaching out to anyone. Fewer secrets are shared when no one knows about them in the first place.

That doesn’t explain why he’s ignoring that favored precept of his in favor of staring at one of the initiates yet again. Four tells himself that he doesn’t do favorites, that he treats all of the trainees with the same blunt criticism and harsh words. It makes it easier that way. He once knew a few instructors who would place bets on their favorites, but they always ended up losing more than their money when their chosen trainees didn’t make the cut.

Dauntless may not be a place that encourages its pupils to choose safety over fun, but Four always betrayed that particular principle while leading initiation. He’s only been at it for a year or two, he can’t afford any screw ups now. That’s why he would do well to ignore that one initiate in the corner. It would be his best choice, but for some reason, it’s the one path he refuses to travel.

As if Four has ever been known for his rational thought. There’s a reason he’s not in Erudite, after all, why he scorned every faction one after another until he could only ever end up here in Dauntless. Dauntless, where at last he’s the one in power, where he’ll risk his life again and again because at least in this faction people wear their hatred firmly on their sleeves instead of hiding it behind some ambiguous political game.

Perhaps Four isn’t one for politicking, then, but that’s no surprise. He does what he pleases, he likes who he likes, and when Y/N L/N happens to glance up at him when she finishes a round in the fighting ring, she doesn’t look remotely shocked to see him looking at her again. No one is, but then again, no one notices Four’s attention except Y/N herself.

Y/N is a transfer. Y/N is an initiate. Y/N is the one person that Four really should be avoiding, but can’t seem to manage it. He doesn’t know what it is about her that keeps calling his interest back to her again and again like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers, but his heart refuses to explain. His head has tried to make amends, but his heart keeps on traitorously beating, still seeking her out after every time Four promises himself he won’t trust that magnetic pull to her again.

She never follows up on his attention, which makes her better than him, at least. She knows the rules. She’s also a little bit afraid of him, Four thinks, which hurts him more than it should. Y/N seems to be frightened of nothing in this world but him, and that is why he can’t bear to look away. Should he glance over at her once and find her willing to stand near him, maybe he would be able to guide his breathing back to a normal state, his heartbeat to return to rest once more.

It has yet to happen, however, and Four thinks he knows why. See, he knows what he thinks when he encounters Y/N, the curious storm of emotions all centrally positive that linger around his heart, but she has absolutely no idea of that. She wouldn’t, because whenever Y/N looks at Four or any other Dauntless training instructor, she thinks not of them as people but as physical manifestations of her initiation rank. Her rank, which happens to be pretty damn close to failing.

In all his time in this world, all his experience with heroes and cowards, fighters and thinkers, Four has no idea why Y/N’s rank should be that low. He knows what his eyes see, of course; fights lost, punches not thrown, but it makes no sense to him. Four is accustomed to the dropouts of Dauntless initiation, the ones who would rather go live with the factionless than stick through training. They’re nothing like Y/N, not in the slightest.

Those kids, those unwanted former initiates, they’re afraid. All of them, they’re afraid. Terrified to throw a punch for fear of bruising their knuckles, hesitant to step in a ring lest they take more hits than they dole out. They lose before they even try, but that’s not Y/N.

Y/N is brave, like he said. Braver than Four, probably. He would love to see her fear landscape if she could manage to make it past the first round of initiation. It would probably be pretty close to empty, what from the way she stares down even the most dangerous threats without a blink of an eye. Four has a brief terror that he might open her fear landscape just for it to hold him and nothing else, but he forces that thought away just as quickly. He doesn’t know that. Nobody does.

Y/N is brave, and that’s what makes this so hard. If she had half the spirit that she does, if she flinched away from every blow like the others, Four could brush her off like the other trainees. She would blend into the crowds, and he would go throughout his life without this trial of conscience that he’s undergoing now.

That’s not the case, however. Instead, Four looks at her and he sees the strength of Dauntless, the bravery, the need to get ahead. Y/N should be at the top of the rankings, but she isn’t. Four has a theory for that, though. Despite the fact that Dauntless loves to pride itself as the equalizer, that its initiation lets anyone from any background succeed, that simply isn’t the case. At the end of the day, trainees with more experience will pick up skills far faster, and that means they’ll always win.

That’s why cruel Candor and Erudite manage to make the transition so well. Y/N lacks that experience, and so although she’s learning things at an excellent rate, she can’t beat the prior knowledge of the others. Four remembers one time in which she’s been struggling with knife throwing. He had given her one hint and just like that, she was hitting the bullseye every time.

If Four wants to keep Y/N around a while longer, that’s what it’s going to take. More of that advice, more of that help. Y/N has the ability to change this faction just like him. Four just has to make sure that she makes it through initiation long enough to make that work.

Four isn’t supposed to have favorites. He does, it’s her. That’s why, despite days of him telling himself that he won’t get involved, he finds himself making up his mind. Still facing torment in his own head, Four drops by the training room later that evening, hoping some time alone with a punching bag and his own bruised knuckles will clear up his mind.

When he opens the door and sees Y/N there still, practicing her hits, he knows then and there that he has no choice. Four walks briskly through the training hall until he’s by her side. He watches her form for a few moments more; she knows he’s there, he can tell by the stiffness of her shoulders, her guard is already up.

He speaks at last, words echoing around the spacious room. “Punch more from your own strength. You’re pushing the bag, you don’t want to do that. Snap your fist forward instead.”

Four demonstrates with one quick hit. Y/N nods, mirroring him. Four has to bite back a smile. The change is immediate. A voice in the back of his head tells him that if he just stayed a little longer, helped a little more, she’d become a better fighter overnight. It’s not hard to convince himself to linger by her side.

“Good,” he murmurs, “now, try hitting with more combinations. Four hits instead of two. You’ll disorient your opponent.”

Once again, Y/N does as he says, and once again, she does it perfectly. That’s another problem with initiation, Four thinks, it’s impossible to help every student as much as they need, what with the incoming class of transfers growing so rapidly every year.

Y/N practices a while longer, then relents, taking a step back and giving Four a quizzical look. “Why are you doing this? I mean, I appreciate the tips, but I don’t think you do this for every initiate.”

“I don’t,” Four confirms, “maybe I just want to see you win tomorrow. Is that such a surprise?”

Judging by the expression on her face, the answer would be yes. “Last time I checked, you were supposed to make sure everyone had an even playing field. I didn’t think private punching lessons were included in that.”

Four has to try his utmost to smother a laugh. “They’re not. Still, I wanted to.”

“You wanted to,” Y/N repeats contemplatively, “what, you got tired of seeing me get my ass kicked all the time? I know you watch my rounds more than the others, that must be it.”

Four swats her gently on the shoulder. He’s just as surprised about it as she is; nothing they’ve done has brought them close enough for soft friendship. Still, it feels right. Maybe that means something.

“Self-pity doesn’t treat you right,” he says, “I like it better when you’re walking around like you own the place. Sometimes I think you do.”

Y/N laughs. “And melodrama has never been your strong suit. I think I like it, though.”

Four likes it too. He raises a brow, inviting her sarcastic remarks once more. “Does that mean you’ll allow the lessons to continue? You won’t keep pushing me away with your own disbelief?”

“I’m still debating,” Y/N retorts, but she’s grinning and that makes it much better.

Four leaves the punching bag, not her; he walks to the ring instead. Climbing easily up, he extends an arm for Y/N to join him. She takes his hand without a second’s hesitation, and Four has to fight all parts of himself to hide the swarm of warmth that cloaks his insides when he realizes her fear of him is gone, if it was ever truly there at all. Perhaps he was just looking for excuses to stay away, knowing nothing would work for long.

Y/N puts up her fists, interrupting his musing. “So? Are we fighting or not?”

“Of course we are,” Four says, getting into his own opening stance.

After that, he loses himself in the even rhythm of punches and kicks, blows and strikes. Sometimes he calls out tips and tricks, other times he lets Y/N learn from what works well and what doesn’t. Even after the night ends, when their strength gives out and they both walk away with new bruises and old grins, Four knows one thing for certain:  this is not the end of Y/N’s time in Dauntless, nor her time with him. No, their story is just starting. It is one that he looks forward to with all his heart.

divergent tag list: @rogueanschel, @with-inked-solace, @gods-fools-heroes, @23victoria, @manyfandomsfanvergent, @ilovexavierthrope

#four #four imagines #four x reader #four oneshot #tobias eaton #tobias eaton imagines #tobias eaton x reader #tobias eaton oneshot #divergent #divergent imagines #divergent x reader #divergent oneshot #divergent four #divergent four imagines #divergent four x reader #divergent four oneshot #divergent tobias eaton #divergent tobias eaton imagines #divergent tobias eaton x reader #divergent tobias eaton oneshot #insurgent #allegiant

[expectopatronum81]

Unpopular opinion

Disclaimer= no hate to anyone who thinks otherwise, you do you

Am I the only one who really didn't like the possession discussion scene between harry and ginny in the order of the phoenix? Lyk ik that scene is revered by hinny fans, but to me, it just shows their stupidity and a lack of understanding of each other's emotions and character. Let me explain

First off, I hate how its supposed to tell us that 'ginny can get harry to snap out of his brooding'. I hate that its framed as brooding at all, considering Harry's having a spiral after receiving no help after such a traumatic incident. Harry has every right to 'brood' in this scene.

Harry’s temper rose to the surface like a snake rearing from long grass. He was exhausted, he was confused beyond measure, he had experienced terror, relief, then terror again in the last twelve hours, and still Dumbledore did not want to talk to him!

… he was so tired… he was scared to sleep… yet he did not know how long he could fight it… Dumbledore had told him to stay… that must mean he was allowed to sleep… but he was scared… what if it happened again?

He didn't come up with the possession theory on his own, he literally heard one of the most experienced and senior most aurors of his time put it forward , plus received some sort of conformation from Dumbledore for it

“I reckon he sent it as a lookout,” growled Moody, “cause he’s not had any luck so far, has he? No, I reckon he’s trying to get a clearer picture of what he’s facing and if Arthur hadn’t been there the beast would’ve had a lot more time to look around. So, Potter says he saw it all happen?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded rather uneasy. “You know, Dumbledore seems almost to have been waiting for Harry to see something like this.” “Yeah, well,” said Moody, “there’s something funny about the Potter kid, we all know that.” “Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I spoke to him this morning,” whispered Mrs Weasley. “Course he’s worried,” growled Moody. “The boy’s seeing things from inside You-Know-Who’s snake. Obviously, Potter doesn’t realize what that means, but if You-Know-Who’s possessing him — ”

Also we literally have proof that harry was being possessed

It happened in a fraction of a second: in the infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said “three”, Harry looked up at him - they were very close together - and Dumbledore’s clear blue gaze moved from the Portkey to Harry’s face. At once, Harry’s scar burned white-hot, as though the old wound had burst open again - and unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, he would like nothing better than to strike - to bite - to sink his fangs into the man before him —

Secondly, most of Harry's assumptions when he's supposed to be 'brooding' turn out to be correct. He theorizes that he could be the weapon Voldy's after. While that isn't completely true, Dumbledore confirms this in the end. He also believes that he might be being possessed, which is also confirmed by Dumbledore:

“You see,” Dumbledore continued, “I believed it could not be long before Voldemort attempted to force his way into your mind, to manipulate and misdirect your thoughts, and I was not eager to give him more incentives to do so. I was sure that if he realized that our relationship was - or had ever been - closer than that of headmaster and pupil, he would seize his chance to use you as a means to spy on me. I feared the uses to which he would put you, the possibility that he might try and possess you. Harry, I believe I was right to think that Voldemort would have made use of you in such a way. On those rare occasions when we had close contact, I thought I saw a shadow of him stir behind your eyes… ” Harry remembered the feeling that a dormant snake had risen in him, ready to strike, in those moments when he and Dumbledore had made eye-contact.

He believes that he's putting the rest of them in an unsafe position, which is confirmed by the whole fiasco with Sirius and the department of mystries. Granted its not really his fault the way he thinks it is, but it does inadvertently lead to Sirius' death( putting the blame on voldy here, not harry ofc).

Which makes the conclusion they come to pretty stupid. We're told in the 1st book that Quirrel was possessed by voldemort, and he didn't have blank spaces in his memory, he seemed very conscious of what was going on and even leaned into it. Which basically proves that there are forms of possession in this world that don't always involve having blank spaces in your memory. Why is Harry so easily convinced then?? HE EVEN THINKS OF QUIRREL WHEN HE'S ASSESSING HIS POSITION IN THIS THEORY

Harry remembered how the snakelike face of Voldemort had once forced itself out of the back of Professor Quirrell’s head and ran his hand over the back of his own, wondering what it would feel like if Voldemort burst out of his skull.

Don't believe me? It's proven by harry's possession as well, he's very aware that voldemort is using him

Blinded and dying, every part of him screaming for release, Harry felt the creature use him again…

Let the pain stop, thought Harry… let him kill us… end it, Dumbledore… death is nothing compared to this…

This clearly proves that the scene was written to mislead the readers so that the necessary shock value is obtained when harry has to take occlumency lessons and throughout the rest of the book. Heck, even 13 y/o me was frustrated reading this, I just went 'oh come on, u lot live in this world, u should be smarter than this!!'. Makes harry and ginny's first meaningful interaction lose value when 90% of it is contradicted imo.

Now, coming to harry and ginny themselves. Harry literally has to be reminded of the biggest incident in ginny's life. What is supposedly a hinny scene requires hermione to be the one to actually bring harry out of his confinement and get him speaking to the rest of them (no, i don't ship harry and hermione). Ginny is inconsiderate as well. She doesn't care to ask about harry's conclusions( which are much smarter than hers btw), she calls him stupid and dismisses his totally valid concerns. In fairness, we don't know how much she knows about quirrel, but it really undermines the importance of the scene when her 'help' is eventually contradicted by the plot itself. If rowling really wanted to sell this as a hinny scene, she should have had harry and ginny have an emotional and mature conversation about what it actually feels like to have voldemort in their heads, about the various complexities and insecurities surrounding it, and probably shed a little light on how ginny overcame this. There should have been a mutual understanding of each other's struggles, and a resultant bonding because no one else can truly understand what they've been through. Instead we have ginny dismissing harry, calling him stupid, stating the experience of being possessed in an utterly factual manner and harry reaching a dumbass conclusion despite being much smarter in the scenes earlier. So much could have been done with harry and ginny's connection, yet we ended up getting a scene that was written for the sole purpose of giving future shock value that lacks any form of bonding or understanding from either of them.

#harry potter #anti hinny #anti ginny weasley #unpopular opinion #wasted potential #possession #order of the phoenix #unpopular take

[shadow-genesis-yay]

Gimme them Memory headcanons! Please!

Say less! o7

>headcanons under the more/reading<

(Sorry it's long & for late response, was shopping for birthday stuff)

First 1: Memory in my design has white streaks they got from Void's side! Void just dyes his hair black to hide em for unknown reasons (probably ego or smth I dunno. Voids out of my control /j)

2: They're 6'4, uses mostly It/They but also uses he. They prefer mostly the other two tho but won't get mad if he is also used. (This one's mostly based off how in canon, Memory was referred to as a thing by Sabre, and he would use It/They until switching to He. Mem was still called a thing but used he ig). Oh and ig they also used nicknamed but only like it when Void calls em them. Like Memmy/Mem/Memoy/Fancy Steve lol

3: He has light sensitivity and uses their mask to help it when outside of the void/memory dimension

4: It has heterochromia, but in a different way! His left eye doesn't have a iris/pupil, and the area that's supposed to be white is pure red like Voids. (I think it's called the sclera) and also on said left side, they have a scar on its cheek that it got during some event they doesn't like talking about

5: Memmy likes cats and owns two! One tuxedo cat named Voodoo, and the other, a black cat (Bombay I think) called Morticia! Memmys had them since they was a smol lil swirly peppermint boi, and treats them like royalty as deserved 😤

6: (this one's kinda from a quote my friend made but it's too funny to not make a Memory headcanon) If Memory got called a specific slur I'm not gonna say, he'd just be like "Yeah no duh, it's obvious. Now please tell me something I already don't know about myself, or leave please and thanks."

7: Memory is highly skilled in swordsman ship, archery, and fighting. It's won awards in competitions they entered secretly (not because Void would be mad, but because they're Void's son. Void's like a king/God in the eyes of the other steves [of course except Nightmare LMAO] and terrifies em.) They's only lost once and that was more on its end since he didn't want to do competitions anymore, so they purposely disqualified itself by starting a fight.

8: while this one may be more of a ship that was started for funnies, it took my brain over so uh yeah. Memory is married to Faceless. The reason for why (to me) is because since Faceless doesn't have a face (no duh), he's immune to Memory's powers, even when mimicking others. And Faceless just couldn't resist a fancy boi in a suit. (I love this ship but at the same time I'm like "I want it gone from my mind its been 3 months help") ik they never met canonically but I speculate they met a tiny bit when Elemental worked for Void and El had to capture Faceless. It's a long shot but yolo I was bored

9: Memmy boi like flowers. Mostly roses or any black flower, but they'll be content with any other color if red & black are unavailable :)

10: While Memory may seem stern and cold, when you get to know them, he's really nice! Though it's usually always on guard and will unintentionally break your arm if you happen to spook them (somehow).

11: Memmys very sneaky and will smile a cheeky smile when it scares someone from behind.

12: Memory really hates cameras. Like, REALLY REALLY hates em. Whether it's off or not, they don't care and WILL throw a dagger at it. This one's more from a funny thing Sabre himself replied with in his discord when I said "I wish Memory had more screen time. He would of bee such a cool villain" with Sabre replying "maybe he did but we forgot".....I walked basically right into that joke but I love it so I'm considering it canon /hj

Uhhhh yeah anyways I think that's it other than more funny meme ones me and a friend made when I was bored and thought 'what if after the camera was off, Sabre and the steves would have a smp world together' and Memory would be the sometimes chaotic one of the server.

Ye uh I rambled alot lmao idk if this will even post but thank you so much for the ask and willingness to hear the headcanons about our silly little peppermint boi! Memory deserves so much more love that what's seen, I love him so much

Memory Steve, our beloved 'forgotten' king <3 👑

#favremysabre #steve saga #memory steve #asks #marii-the-shapeshifter #shadow-gens shadow ask!

[kaeyachi]

I saw your post about the Alberich surname and was curious about kaeya being half tayvatian! Can you explain that for me please? I miss and forget a lot of details and stuff in game, but I do genuinely love genshin lore related to khaenriah and kaeya! I also flip flop between kaeya being full khaenrian and being half whatever just because his star eye doesn't seem to be as pronounced as dainsleif for example. At least in game. (always zooming into his face to try and see the pretty star lol) Like I've seen the hc of his mom being sumeran and I think that's super cute! It could explain his darker skin tone compared to dainsleif and pierro? Or like idk the star trait has been deluted after many generations? Uh I've rambled a lot but I was just curious cuz I didn't know anything about him being half teyvatian!

IM SORRY I TOOK SO LONG *cries*

AND THEN I ACCIDENTALLY EXITED THE TUMBLR APP WHICH DELETED EVERYTHING I TYPED OUT 💔💔💔 THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE LONGER IM HEARTBROKEN

but anyway...THANK YOU FOR ASKING!

I think it would be better for me to come back to this after 3.5 that way I can confirm most of what I initially typed out, but heres a summary of what I've thought of

1. His name being the only one in the history of known Khaenri'ahns to originate from Hindu instead of Norse/Scandinavian

2. Due to the Hindu origin of the name, we can connect it to his constellation which is represented by a peacock- India's national bird as well as the representation for the Spantamad in the Akademiya.

3. Him being there for the 3.5 Archon quest in Sumeru as well as him getting a possible skin that is clearly half Sumeru and half Khaenri'ahn inspired

4. notes or letters from a member of the Alberich clan in Sumeru

5. Most known Khaenri'ahn characters have been pale-skinned (were unsure about Pierro due to dim lighting but even then, he and Kaeya might be related) with distinctly shaped four-pointed star pupils while Kaeya was designed differently (unsure if its because he's the first one released in-game, if its a diluted gene trait, or if it might be indicative that he is curseless)

6. Seemingly curseless or unnafected by the curse. Was even "blessed" by Celestia with a vision, which is already odd. He's still the only canonical Khaenriahn with one (clearly Celestia doesnt care whether you want a vision or not either)

If someone can elaborate please go ahead! I'm sure I've missed some!

***Additional notes mildly unrelated to this theory***

-The Alberich clan must have been known for their strategic thinking, war knowledge, and mind games if they were able to rise as the leaders for Khaenri'ah during the war. If I were a Sumeru scholar, I'd tap that too lmao

-Kaeya's name meaning "Monsoon flower" is oddly tragic yet fitting. The monsoon flowers thrive in the rainy season. Kaeya thrives during the rain as well. His main growth points and tragedies in life have happened in the rain. If it rains during the 3.5 archon quest i will scream and cry please note this.

- oddly enough i am more of a believer of the "Kaeya being frozen in time for 500 years" theory. Its possible! Olaf Katzlein got frozen for 300 after all! Some old Sumeran must have immigrated to Khaenri'ah prior to the Catalycism and got the Alberich started. Alberich clan being the smartest family in Khaenri'ah maybe?? hmm...

-Majority of teyvat suspiciously dont know that Khaenri'ahns are the hilichurls and the abyss order which means this might be forgotten history...which is weird because if its a supposedly slow acting curse then even in future generations there should still be slow-turning Khaenri'ahns right? If they purposely stopped repopulating then how did Kaeya come to exist? Pierro getting funky with whom??????? He has only been beside the Tsaritsa for the past hundred years... OH MY GOD WAIT CRACK THEORY TIME- Kaeya being the Tsaritsa and Pierro's son which explains the white streaks in his hair. No? Ok I'll stop lmao...unless?? NAH JK THIS AINT IT...or is it... JUST KIDDING I SWEAR-

That's all for now! Hope this helped others figure out the thought process behind the Half-Teyvatian Kaeya theory!

#kaeyachi asks #ive answered this finally! #IVE BEEN WANTING TO ANSWER IT FOR SO LONG #BUT MY JOB TOLD ME TO DIE FOR THEM AND I DID BECAUSE IM A MASOCHIST #kaeya #kaeya alberich #genshin impact #kaeya theory #khaenri'ah #what else do i tag here #sumeru??? #i think i should wait for 3.5 before tagging sumeru #kaeya brainrot is still strong babes

[cicadadust]

I promise I'll get back to drawing canon characters soon. But woo- took me three days to finish. But my boi Kaiba is complete! This is probably the most cluttered ref I've ever made haha.

Potential Rakuyou arc spoilers ahead so be warned:

Originally he was inspired by a post where someone mentioned the artist phenomenon of a canon character basically turning into their OC after awhile.

And it all started with well, I love Kamui. And I love his first official appearance with the bandages obscuring his face - maybe I could work with that. But then I shoved so many of my AU things and other ideas I enjoy into this character that he's mutated so much that he barely has any trace of Kamui left in his character. Definitely not story wise, nor personally, maybe a few elements design wise still along with the fact of being a Yato. Kaiba actually ended up being much more like Kouka story wise than I intended though (*cough* probably because Kaiba was mainly based on my AU of Kamui being the sole Altana mutant on Kouan instead of Kouka *cough*) but eh, I'll live with that.

Despite being a yato and Altana mutant...I may have taken a few creative liberties design wise. But I have my excuses! One thing is, I absolutely love Yato- but wish they had a few more I guess inhuman traits. Like please give them larger canine teeth and reflective pupils please🙏🥺. I thought the reflective pupils for Yato would be really cool, or funny, if Kagura had em too. So I tossed those traits into there. And I know Yato are supposed to be fair skinned- but I had an idea! Since Yato seem to be able to build up a slight tolerance to sunlight, like with Kagura being able to be out in broad daylight, while Housen who hasn't been exposed in a long time immediately started dying. I figured what if during Yato disopra, one of the groups of survivors who had fled Kouan ended up on this sunny desert dwarf planet... probably not by choice. Though there, the survivors perhaps started to build up a higher tolerance to the sunlight. But yet they're still not immune to it. And could have been the downfall of the few generations that had managed to survive for long enough. Kaiba was from this specific clan of Yato that had settled on the dwarf planet. With a slightly higher tolerance to sunlight than the typical Yato, and with the combo of being an altana mutant. Kaiba was free to enjoy the sunlight for much longer before feeling the effects of it, allowing him to gain more of his tanned complexion. Also just shares the same reptile brain as me, with the desire to just lay out in the sun on warm rocks. Though if he's an altana mutant, how come he has a scar? That should just heal right? ... Well, I have absolutely no excuse for that for now! I just wanted to reuse a scar design from one of my older characters because I thought it'd look nice on Kaiba 👉👈.

Now to get a little more into his story and such. It starts off similarly to Kouka's. As again Kaiba is the last member of his clan surviving alone on his birth planet due to him being a mutant. The forgotten dwarf planet, which I've named Ardoros, is covered in reddish orange sands, stone, and a whole bunch of space junk wich collects on its surface. With so much metal and scrap around, Kaiba developed a skill in metal working. And even managed to find a junked ship one day. This was obviously very exciting as he managed to get it to function- just barely. With many days having spent wandering Ardoros previously, he had already discovered one of its altana crystals. Albeit small, he fashioned it into an earring to serve as a battery in a way before he finally left. But being the absolute hunk of junk it was, Kaiba's ship broke down when he managed to land on another planet. And with no money or anything to fix it, he's began relying on hitchhiking. Traveling all over the universe with the aid of strangers. This got to go on for years, exploring new planets, trying new food etc- he absolutely loved it. But, the crystal he wears is almost depleted along with his own altana energy. He continues to hitchhike, yes. But now determined to find his way back to Ardoros before it's too late. Thing is - he's never been skilled at navigating, always leaving that up to whoever he was traveling with. He has also encountered no one else who's even heard of Adoros, no one else knows it's location either. And currently his latest stop during his attempts to get home, is on earth.

#gintama #oc #fanart #fan character #gintama oc #original character #yato #altana #altana mutant

[aromanticannibal]

ok something that has been bothering me and that ultimately doesn't matter. but. here I am.

So here Mic is talking about Shinsou. we all get why Aizawa would see himself in Shinsou, what's confusing to me is how he's see Shirakumo in him.

To me this can only be a question of appearance, because Shinsou just. Isn't like Shirakumo?

Shirakumo is joyful and a dumbass and he likes people and stuff, and Shinsou is a bitter, tired and mostly rude smartass (affectionate). Apart from their desire to be heroes, there's not really anything that makes them look alike.

I'll go over some other stuff I think Mic could be talking about at the end, but let's get to the appearance part.

THEY DON'T LOOK ANYTHING LIKE THE OTHER??

Here's a little doodle I made to show their main characteristics.

Shinsou : purple hair that stands on its own (or with hair gel), crescent-shaped eyes w/ heavy dark circles and white pupils.

Shirakumo : Blue cloud-like hair that stands on its own/floats, big almond eyes with white pupil (forgot to put that in the doodle), band-aid over nose, and those two little hair pieces framing his face.

The only thing they have in common is their hair standing up. Shinsou's eyes are also pretty much always the same shape, I noticed, he's not very expressive. see :

even at his most expressive, his eyes don't change that much :

I have no idea what that means but there.

Anyways, where am going with this? I thought of some way I could make Shinsou and Shirakumo look more alike. Think of this as a redesign of sorts.

here's another doodle :

my offer is to :

make Shirakumo's pupils more noticeably white, and make Shinsou and him some of the only characters who always have white pupils.

Give Shinsou hair pieces to frame his face like Shirakumo, but longer, or messier, so they don't look like a copy-paste.

make Shinsou's eyes slightly more almond-shaped - not exactly like Shirakumo's, just. rotate the guys a bit.

make Shirakumo's hair not exclusively blue ; here I made it a bit purple, but any darker or warmer color could work, as long as it's close to purple without being the exact same shade.

ideas that I couldn't incorporate in the doodles : Shinsou could have an aspect of his fighting style be similar to Shirakumo's, or have a similar mannerism as him (like how Aizawa and Shinsou share the nervous habit of putting their hand on their neck).

I think I'm gonna try to edit some screenshot or manga panel to show these changes (uwu follow @lunejump)

Anyways I'm not really doing this for any reason it just makes me so confused that Mic said Aizawa could be seeing Shirakumo in Shinsou.

I suppose he could just be talking about how Aizawa's protective of his students because of Shirakumo, or maybe he's making a parallel between Shirakumo saving Sushi and Aizawa "saving" Shinsou? idk man feel free to tell me if you know

#mha #bnha #shinsou hitoshi #aizawa shouta #shirakumo oboro #just realized shirakumo isn't a spoiler anymore! yay! #shimsou posting

[psalm22-6]

This story comes to you from my dive into the archives of California newspapers, a story which must have reached the west coast the week of October 12 1897 because it was then printed in the San Jose Herald, San Francisco Call, Los Angeles Herald and other newspapers that a girls’ school in Philadelphia had banned Les Misérables, on the grounds that it was not appropriate for young women. Here is the headline from the Call:

The book was proposed as part of the French curriculum, which apparently needed to be approved by the board of education, of which Dr. Thomas G. Morton was a member (side note: he was the first president of the American Anti-Vivisection society and he apparently performed the first successful open appendicectomy. There is an elementary school named after him in Philadelphia today). He had read the book himself and wanted it removed on these grounds: 

My objection is to the tone of the book. It deals, as any one who has read it knows, with the grisettes of France. That in itself is condemnatory. I think that we who have charge of the public schools have a sacred trust, and we cannot be too cautious in setting before the young girls and boys that which detracts from their ideals of virtue and purity. Their parents hold us responsible, and we owe a duty to them and to the girls. If the book is in a library, that is a different thing, for the child's parents are supposed to keep an eye over what she reads, but to require pupils to read a tainted book is wrong. I would object to any classic, even some of Shakespeare's works, if they are immoral.

The only member of the board who opposed him (and also the only woman on the board) was Mary E. Mumford.   The story was even printed in the newspaper Vestkusten (the West Coast), a newspaper for Swedish immigrants in northern California.

People seem to have generally thought banning the book was a silly idea.

By October 23rd came the happy news that the book would be allowed. Miss Dalcourt, the French teacher, had (from the beginning) selected an edition abridged by Frederick C. de Sumichrast, an associate-professor at Harvard, which was made for teaching purposes, in which whole books are replaced with summaries. For example, the entirety of book 3 of volume 1, The Year 1817, is only presented in summary as is Christus Nos Liberavit and a Rose in Misery. Volume 1 ends “She was thrown into the public grave” and leaves out “Her grave resembled her bed.” So I guess that took care of Morton’s anxiety over the grisettes.  But people still were not finished making fun of Philadelphia, as in this article from the Chicago News, reprinted in the San Jose Daily Mercury on the 31st of October 1897: 

The ground of Philadelphia’s objection to “Les Miserables” has, we are sure, been misunderstood and the city of Brotherly Love has, in consequence, been subjected unjustly to ridicule for excluding the volume from the public schools.  Philadelphia’s objection, as a matter of fact, is wholly esthetic, and not ethical, as hast been represented. The Philadelphia ban has been put on the work, not because of its alleged morality but because of its lack of verity, as seen from a Philadelphia standpoint. The criticism is not that M. Hugo put into his book some young ladies whose conduct was not up to the Pennsylvania standard, and whose examples are thereby likely to debauch the minds of Philadelphia's young people, but that the Frenchman filled his books from beginning to end with a lot of absurd and absolutely impossible episodes and incidents, the description of which would inevitably confuse and benumb the Philadelphia intellectuals. Thus, M. Hugo represents a man as sawing his way out of prison in a year, and he tells us that the same man stole some silverware, repented and got elected Mayor all in the space of twenty years. Many other incidents might be recited wherein this reckless and rack-brained Frenchman describes events as happening with a celerity which is not only ludicrous but wildly impossible. Perhaps the most startling instance is where the author makes a female character grow from infancy to maturity in eighteen years. The Philadelphians wisely decided not to place such distorted and misleading views of life in the hands of school children. They argued justly that the inevitable effect would be to make Philadelphia youths dissatisfied with spending eighteen years in getting to the knickerbocker and marbles period of life. Reading that men in France performed long journeys in a few months time, the Philadelphia children might secretly criticize their parents for taking a week to cross the street. Philadelphia for the present will stick to the Chinese drama, where nothing ever happens short of a week, and to the Meredith novels, where nothing ever happens at all.

Of course, there were people who actually thought that banning the book might be sensible, as in this article from the Los Angeles Times, reprinted in the Sacramento Daily Union on the 4th of November: 

A good deal of fun has been poked at the Philadelphia Board of Education, because of the recent ruling of that board, to the effect that Victor Hugo's great novel, “Les Miserables,” should not be used as a text book for the study of French in the Girls' High School class. It is true that most of the criticisms passed by the press upon this ruling have been in the nature of "squibs," or mere flippant comment, but in some instances attempts at serious criticism have been made. As regards the latter, they appear to have been based upon misapprehension. 

There is no denying that Victor Hugo's greatest work of action is a masterpiece of literary excellence; nor can the high moral purpose of the work, considered as a whole, be successfully assailed. But it must be said, in candor and in truth, that it is a work which can be understood and appreciated only by men and women of mature minds. To such it appeals with potency and purpose. But from the very nature of the book, it might prove a stumbling-block rather than a benefit to young persons of either sex, whose minds are immature and whose characters are unformed. 

It appears, as a matter of fact, that the action of the Philadelphia Board of Education does not in any wise [ways] contemplate the exclusion of the book from the general reading public, nor does it attempt to say, even, that young girls may not read it at their homes, provided their parents have no objections. It simply declares that in the education of girls ranging in age from 12 to 17 years, in the Philadelphia High School, “Les Miserables” is not to be included in the works which the students of French are required to study.

But in the end, like I said, it appears that the book was allowed and I think the overall effect of the story was probably basically similar to what is implied by this joke printed in the Chico Record on February 28th 1898:

#les miserables #my research #lm in america #censorship #lm in education

[possessingtheproperspirit]

Fic Author Self Rec

Fic authors self-rec! ✨ When you get this, reply with your favourite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers.

Thanks for tagging me, @kay-elle-cee <3 I found this very hard haha as self-reccing goes against everything I hold dear, but nonetheless here we are...

the way you left me || At nineteen, James vanishes, and Lily breaks.

I wrote this in a fevered rush, and I think it's the one I'm most proud of overall. Not entirely sure why, which doesn't lend itself to this sort of post, does it? It's sad and sweet and painful and all the things I like writing most. Angst with a happy, hopeful ending is my sweet spot.

2. Uninvited || With NEWTs looming, friends gather at the Potters' cottage in Wales to study and let off steam during the Easter holidays of their seventh year.

What's not to enjoy about pining, a Welsh beach and a 'there was only one bed' scenario? It includes this sentence, which I feel nicely encapsulates the gang:

They ate their fill; Mary tried to teach them a strange Muggle game called cricket, which James had a natural affinity for (“ever the fucking sportsman,” Marlene jeered from her position on the opposing team); Sirius tried to lead a team into the shallows, forgetting that the waters around the British Isles were frigid at the best of times; Remus built a bonfire in a bid to stop said team from developing frostbite.

I mean, what more can I say?

3. Forget-Me-Not (cw: sa). ||. At eighteen, Lily Evans fell - and fell hard - for James Potter, a classmate she had never given much thought to before. He seemed as into her as she was into him, so why is it, when she starts a new job almost a decade and a lot of water under that particular bridge later, that her new boss - James Potter himself - doesn't seem to remember her at all? A Don’t You Forget About Me by Mhairi Mcfarlane AU fic.

I wasn't going to include this one, but I guess I changed my mind? I'm proud that I a) finished this fic at all, and b) hopefully managed a very fine balance in dealing with an extremely sensitive subject. It was all a very personal writing experience and I guess I'm glad it all came out okay in the end.

4. A Lesson in Communication || There's a rule at his school that teachers are strictly not allowed to date the parents of pupils. James has never minded this rule before...

This largely started because it so amused me to think of James wrangling children at sports day. This is one of those stories that was supposed to be a quick thing, and then morphed into a nearly-12k monster whereby the misunderstandings piled up on top of each other like delicious pancakes. Yes, if anyone asked a straightforward question this fic would be about 500 words. Yes, my favourite bit is still Remus' reaction when he realises James' mistake.

5. The Price We Pay || As the summer before their sixth year comes to an end, Sirius, Remus, Lily and James consider how things may be different on their return to Hogwarts. When Sirius finally breaks free from his toxic home, it should be a fresh start - but unfortunately, it's the start of a spiral that will threaten the foundations of friendship, and change their lives irrevocably.

Last but not least! That blurb could do with updating, really, given that now – 27 chapters in – we're into seventh year and rather a lot has happened, haha. Still, when I started it, I didn't think I'd write more than maybe five or six chapters, and then it sort of grew its own little legs and scurried away from me. You know, how writing does? It's my original baby fic and I love it so but I also go through phases where I worry it's all utter bollocks, so it's very much a rollercoaster of a relationship. There is something both wonderful and challenging in writing a canon multi-chap, especially in this fandom where there are so many amazing canon multi-chaps. We battle on.

What a strange, therapy-esque post this ended up being 😅

Tagging (please feel free to ignore if you don't fancy it/have already done it) @wearingaberetinparis @mppmaraudergirl @clare-with-no-i @thequibblah @isahorcrux

#writing #fic #jple #jily #tagged #self-rec

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 152 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: apple cutting.

An old statement... Couldn't remember this one at when I heard it the first time, as always with statements older than 100 years. Even now, I only remember the basic premise.

Looked into the name Wakely, since it contains "wake" which I find a bit poetic given the fact that he has trouble sleeping. However, it seems like it means "damp meadow" and has its roots in Norman culture. Damp meadow kind of makes me think of dirt...

"Those days I spent digging graves in the churchyard – on those nights I sleep, if you’ll forgive the joke, the sleep of the dead." Buried-End overlap here?

"He was never buried, was he? Not truly." Ahhhahaha, is this the 1800s version of "not really"? xD

The thing about the Buried is I don't think I have a problem with tight spaces in general. What gets me about being buried alive for example is the fact, that I have can’t escape. And there are many others ways to have that escape taken from you. A lot of the horrors in TMA come from the inescapability of these situations.

JON: "Perhaps to anyone listening to these tapes I sound remarkably similar to Hezekiah. Or to Manuela. Or to Jane." Until now, I don't think Jon has sounded like any of these. However, at the end there, when they reach London, he actually does more and more. Though I don't think it's just the desire of Knowing and taking the position as the pupil, but also his guilt driving him to this martyr complex.

JON: "The worms must have been down here for – weeks, months maybe, spreading… growing. They could have spread all the way through these tunnels, but they didn’t. They didn’t find Leitner down here, didn’t find Getrude’s body, didn’t find… whatever else is here." Oh yeah, finally this gets addressed! Somehow I can't believe Leitner wasn't aware of the worms and with the Seven Lamps of Architecture he was very well able to just cut himself (and Gertrude perhaps?) off. Though I'm not sure why he wouldn't have grabbed all the tapes if he actually knew where Gertrude's body was. Still, Leitner didn't mention any of them. So is there supposed to be even more to the tunnels? Is there some limit to them being controllable? Like, would Leitner have been able to find the Panopticon?

JON: "I can’t See things properly here. I thought it was just me, something interfering with my connection to the Eye, but… I’m wondering: maybe it affects everything else? Like this place is some kind of – universal blind spot. Everyone gets lost down here." That’s perhaps an explanation for Leitner, Gertrude's remains and Jane never meeting each other? I'm not so sure about the "universal" blind spot. The worms seemed to have an advantage in the tunnels. The NotThem didn't seem handicapped in any way.

JON: "I’ve been thinking a lot about Jane. She was the first, you know. The first I actually encountered like… (tiny, resigned ‘heh’) like us." Meeeh, talking about something like this to Helen doesn't seem healthy...

HELEN: (leading) "It is astounding the sort of thing you’re willing to choose – given an unpleasant-enough alternative – isn’t it?" Hm, yeah. Brings back the question of free will. There are all kinds of outside forces which are very likely to herd us in a certain direction.

Helen is just soo... urgh. Implying that Jon absolutely will feed again and it's just a matter of time. Saying that the others don't need him...

HELEN: "Sharp enough to pull out worms," A friend of mine recently started to listen to TMA and Eye-aligned me wants to hear all his experiences and thoughts of course. And he said something which made me think. He gave very much thought into Sasha not feeling the worm that burrowed into her shoulder when she went with Michael to see Timothy Hodge. So my friend then thought, maybe Martin did not leave his flat unscathed and was just not aware because the worms seem to burrow without the victim noticing. Which made me think, because I didn’t have the impression, that getting bitten by a worm would be all that painless. Did Michael really pull out a worm? Or did it grab a worm and stab Sasha with it to create the illusion of being helpful and saving her! The Distortion is lies, delusions, it could very well be the case I think! But also, considering this exact nature of the Distortion, we very well will never know. Could be, that Helen lied here to Jon as well. She still wants to be on his good side, otherwise she can't get to him in a way she does now.

JON: "When does it stop?" HELEN: "What?" JON: "The guilt. The misery. All the others I’ve met, they’ve been – cold, cruel. They’ve enjoyed what they do. When does the Eye (inhale) make me monstrous?" That seems to be a curse that works very well with the Eye (or maybe also the Web... or Vast). Hyperactive Default Mode Network. A lot of the time we get Jon sulking, which is nothing else than constantly thinking about things, mind-wandering, rumination etc. I guess this is one of the reasons I love TMA so much, this highly speaks to me. And then I like to think about this even more and what it means to me, or for me.

HELEN: "You’ve sworn of other people’s trauma for now because you’re caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually stopped you walking the path of the Beholding?" Yeah, right now it would probably be more dangerous to take live statements than trying to survive on the old statement diet, so it seems that she's right there. But other than that. Difficult. How much is Jon actually to blame for his fate? How much is this actually him seeking answers and knowledge and where do influences of the Web and the Eye begin? Simon said last episode he hears "the song in this dreams". So I'm guessing, there is something similar going on in Jon. Yeah he was a real prick and yes he was always very curious but is that enough to say it's actually his fault that he stumbled onto this path? He may not be the friendliest of fellows, but he certainly isn't unkind. And exactly this, caring so much about others and often specific people, is driving him to get all 14 marks. Gertrude didn't care about people, not per se. She cared about the state of the world, but not individuals. Uhm, what was I saying? Ah yes, Helen is an awful "person"! (But just like Simon, such an amazing character!)

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 152 #tma #tma spoilers

[aakaneeee]

content: till (ALNST) × reader

tw: post round 7 events (based on theories I THINK make sense), reader is part of the resistance, slow, SLOW burn, fluff, VERY SELF INDULGENT, kind of bad and ooc😭

CHAPTER 1 | part 1

your eyes landed on the one saved from the ominous round 7, the one supposed to have competed with Luka, the oh-so-well known for his morally questionable ways of winning and dubious practices. a grey haired boy with suspiciously vibrant teal eyes (you thought it was funny, as his name was Till), and really, a dead expression, only changed by the slight light that appeared when he looked at the also pretty new colleague of yours, Mizi. "And Hyuna?" you asked, looking at the pink-haired girl. "She insisted that she has bussines to finish, even though wounded." she sighed, seemingly disappointed at the reckless behaviour. you nodded in acknowledgement, as your attention shifted to the boy next to her again. "nice to meet you." you said, adding your name, trying to sound as friendly as possible, afterall he seemed like he needed it. he reciprocated curtly, and I look confused at Mizi, who once described him as "wild, but kind nonetheless". she shrugged with a gaze that said "he's was like that when I took him out, too." "weeell! make yourself at home, I suppose?" you continue, before explaining how stuff went. he awkwardly went and sat down, looking somewhere distant. just as him, you went to do your own work, which unfortunately was waiting impatiently for Hyuna to hopefully come back, to ask about how it went. A bit nerve-wracking, since Mizi mentioned her being wounded, and she seemed just as worried. you couldn't help your gaze from drifting towards the hopeless-looking new member of the resistance. trought dark lashes and half-lidded eyes, you watched him do absolutely nothing (later that day, you were shocked and honestly, embarassed, at how long you admired someone simply barely breathing.) Something about his way of being seemed enticing in a way, it made you want to know more about him. You brushed it off simply: you always wanted to know about the new ones who join. But the new ones were usually happy to be free.. but he seemed like he couldn't care less. (You told yourself that so you wouldn't formulate it into "he looked like he would have rathered to die in the competition".)

once, for a second, perhaps feeling stared at, he turned his gaze towards you. His lifeless pupils looked into yours, before looking away again. You couldn't help but feel intrigued, while also noticing something tugging at your heartstrings.

out of respect (or shame) you decided to stop staring and got up from where you were sitting, yawning briefly. trying to make yourself helpful (and failing miserably), you walk around the 'base'. apparently once in a lifetime no one needed any kind of help, probably all waiting for hyunas return.

once more, your gaze drifted. should I try to get to know him better? no. better wait for him to get accommodated, you thought with a bit of hesitance.

| part 2

you silently clicked away trought different programs, looking around, searching for something, anything, about Hyuna's whereabouts. the technology was.. according to the era, but unfortunately, the resistance couldn't access the best of it without the aliens (probably) finding out. you swore you could feel a pair of eyes on you, and when you looked up from your screen, it seemed to be Till. "Interested in what you see?" you ask, a little proud that someone appreciated what you did. ".." "..I was staring into space."

oh.

"oh!" you look.. embarassed and you should be. "Im- Im sorry! I thought someone um.. felt like it was cool, what I was doing.. but really, you were in ALIEN STAGE, so I'm sure you saw technology even cooler than this!-" you babble and babble on, almost incoherently fast, before realizing, you're making a fool of yourself. and you stop (a little too late).

"Its.. fine. They did have technology. I wasn't allowed to use it."

"only you werent allowed to?.."

"there were definitely some.. less collared than me."

I decided not to ask, because there seemed to be something dark in his gaze when he said that.

"well.. if you're interested in what in doing and.. not staring into space.." he grimaced at your very awful 'pun'. "..you can always watch!"

he slowly gets up from where he sat ever since he was brought to the 'base'. "can you make music with this?"

"Hmm, i think so! I never tried, really.. Hyuna does most of the singing around here." you chuckle. "but it's possible for sure!" you begun explaining how all of the different programs worked, how you sometimes hacked systems, how the whole crew knew about little entrances or moments of inattention, speaking about everything without a chronological order. He listened silently (to your surprise, as your mind drifted to the way Mizi described him again).

who exactly is this person that everyone thought was "feral"?

#alien stage #alnst #fanfiction #vivinos #fanfic #Till × reader #Till alien stage × reader #ALNST #alnst spoilers #round 6 alien stage #post round 6 events #this is very awkward btw #depressing shit

[quietwingsinthesky]

actual proper 11089 snippet that is Not from a hypothetical future au. real actual 11089 content that is canon to them! probably! it is still not anything Actually Happening and continues to be the aftermath of Things and subsequent conversations alluding to them.

like say, what if u were a spaceship baby allowed to leave for the first time (and the last) and ur first question was ‘can we pretty please try to get my ship towed in early so that everyone i know doesn’t live their whole lives and die on it’ (<- you do this after having an existential crisis about the fact that the place you were supposed to be traveling to to build a home there (not someplace you, personally, were meant to live to see, but the hypothetical you that encompasses every individual who lives or ever will live on your spaceship) is already inhabited by other people who got there faster when technology advanced after your ship got shot off into space) and then adventures happen, you save some lives, but that doesn’t actually mean enough against how much it would cost to bring your ship in, so you get a thank you, a pat on the back, and a gift basket. and everyone you’ve ever known will live and die on the ship you were supposed to do the same on, except that you left and they can’t.

but this isn’t any of that because instead its what happens after that.

“Is it meant to happen?” 11089 asks. It’s a glorious, sunny day, and they are shivering because they aren’t used to wind yet.

The Doctor doesn’t consider lying to them. In the end, the truth is harsher but healthier.

“No,” he says. 11089 is watching the way their shadow moves below their foot when they shift. “If it was, I couldn’t have picked you up. It’s not fixed, if they arrive on time or thousands of years early.” Or not at all, he doesn’t need to say. They already know that. Instead, quietly, he adds, “I really thought you could convince them to take up that rescue mission.”

11089 laces their fingers together until their knuckles go white and then lets go.

“Could we go back and get them?” they ask in a very small voice, one that already knows the answer but has also seen the Doctor do impossible things.

“Do you think they’d come?” They look up at the sun. They don’t look down again, and he realizes belatedly that they don’t know they should. He shades their eyes with his hand, and they blink up at his palm as their pupils dilate into comfortable darkness again.

“But they won’t ever-” 11089 gestures at the whole of the world they aren’t supposed to be standing on, at the strangers and the sky and the streets.

“They know,” the Doctor says.

“I knew!” they argue back. It’s an unused muscle and still sore from shouting their lungs out at people who thought it cost too much to listen.

11089 drags their legs up onto the bench and bunches themself up.

“Do they get celebrated, at least?” With detached regret, the Doctor notes that they’ve stopped talking about the people of the starship Persistence as ‘we’, and that there is nothing he can do to change that now that it’s happened. “They make it all that way. People have to celebrate.”

“Some do,” he answers.

“Some,” they echo.

“Look-“ He stops halfway through look at me, but 11089 never really does. They’re always looking somewhere else, behind him or at another part of his body, so he changes course to say, “Look over here.” They swing their head in his direction and blink towards him. Their cheeks are turning pink very quickly under the sun. “They make it,” he reassures, “they do that because of you. And me. I helped. Well, I did most of it. Well-“ 11089 wrinkles up their nose and makes a chuffing sound that’s nothing like the full-throated laughter that had rung through the TARDIS when they’d first been let inside. He smiles. “But they will make it now. They’ll be just as excited as you are to get sunburnt and roll around in the dirt, and soon enough, they’ll settle in. They may not have been the first to get here, but that just means the malls are already built.”

11089’s brief smile falters, and their gaze traces along a wrinkle in his coat and back up it again. “They must make it to very high numbers by that point.”

“No more ship computer, no more need for numbers. They’ll be able to pick out names.” 11089 still breathes shallowly on instinct, surprised when they do take a deeper breath and sneaking guilty glances at him like they’re checking if that’s really allowed. There are conversations they aren’t ready to have yet, and he does have to try to be gentle. Still, he nudges their side, “You could, too.”

11089’s head snaps down to the point of contact. They don’t flinch, just watch.

“I could what?” they ask, not picking up on the hint at all. He withdraws his elbow from poking into their side, and they look properly upset about it. So much so that he scoots closer and lays his arm over the back of the bench behind them. 11089 leans back, tipping their face up to the sunlight again as they rest on his arm. At least they close their eyes this time.

“Pick a name,” he says. “Something you’d like to be called.”

“I’m 11089,” they rattle off the numbers easily.

“You want me to say that every time? It’s a bit of a mouthful.” He’s teasing, mostly, — because taking their lack of understanding too seriously is going to make a good day go bad quickly — but they frown.

“I’m 11089,” they repeat, sounding confused.

So, this is another conversation they might need more time to be ready for.

If the Doctor has one thing in spades…

“You’re 11089,” he agrees, for now. “You’re sure you want to stay with me?” They jolt, and for a second, they meet his eyes before their gaze jumps away like they’ve been burned.

“Do you want me to go back?” Fear. Tremulous and trying their hardest not to believe what their mind has jumped to, but palpable all the same in their voice.

“No! No. I thought it’d be polite to offer.” 11089 visibly relaxes, leaning back against his arm again. When they shift, he can feel the fuzz of their shorn hair against his hand. He wonders if they’ll let it grow or if he’ll be standing over a sink with them in a few weeks, shaving it all off again.

“That’s… That’s good.” 11089’s voice drops lower, like they’re scared someone might hear when he’s the only one around. “I don’t think I could survive that. You let me see the sun.” Their voice warbles higher with barely suppressed excitement. “It’s all so- It’s so much bigger on the outside. I can’t go back.”

“There’s more out there than you can imagine,” he says. 11089 swallows and looks at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Promise?” they whisper, as if he’s playing a trick and they’re going to turn a corner and find the walls he’s been hiding from them, the ones keeping their world small and cut off from the rest of the universe. Maybe one day they’ll stop expecting to run into one.

“Why promise anything when I can take you there?” 11089 is smiling, and if it still hurts, knowing how they failed to change history, the future, the present, then he has places they can run to. He doesn’t even have to go for the most impressive, though he will anyway. If they can be spellbound watching pigeons like earlier, then he could show them a single ocean and change their life forever.

He stands up. He can hear 11089’s shoes scuff against the ground, and when he turns back to them, they’re poised on the edge of their seat. “Where?” they ask.

“Everywhere.” He offers them his hand. They don’t hesitate to spring to his side.

#fanfiction #dw oc #im very attached to them now. gee i hope this decision theyve made doesnt both fill their life with so much more joy than theyd have ever #known otherwise while simultaneously destroying them later <3