#mag travels from time to time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lilypadeater · 4 months

Note

request!

could you do a Rick grimes smut where it’s sorta forbidden that they be together (age gap)

and reader is very sweet and hyperfeminine while Rick is moody and rugged

then one evening the reader thought she was alone, but then Rick ends up watching and catching her touching herself, then smut ensues 🤭

Darlin’

Rick Grimes x Fem!Reader

Summary- (Request)

Content Information: +18, MDNI, age gap (20 and 40s) Cussing, Smut, masturbating, p in v, unprotected, kissing, flirting, smoking, a lil angst, Unedited

The Georgia sun beat down on Rick's body as he lifted a dead walker into a truck. His body was damp from all the hard work he had been doing, from carrying hay bales to shooting walkers. You had your eyes set on him the moment he stepped foot on the farm. Something about him drew you in, capturing your heart and your mind. Currently, you were watching him load up the bodies of some walkers to burn from the safety of your kitchen window.

You rested your jaw on you hands and twirled the ribbon in your hair, daydreaming about him while he worked outside. Lost in thought, you didn't realize Maggie had entered the kitchen. She let out a sigh of annoyance when she noticed you were leaning out the window and gawking at Rick. Her frustrated voice snapped you out of your trance, "Are you kiddin' me? Again y/n? He's twice your age, get away from the window and stop starin' like a cat in heat."

You'd always try to sneak a peek at him as often as you could, but it was impossible to do without getting caught a few times. Maggie, your older sister, was always the one to detect it. She disapproved of your 'little crush,' but helped you keep it secret. If your father found out, he'd probably shoot Rick, and his group would be guaranteed an eviction.

Turning away from the window, you giggled, "Oh come on, Mags. I was just admiring the hard work he does for the farm. Don't act like you've never ogeled at that Glenn boy."

Maggie rolled her eyes, clearly displeased with your behavior. "Glenn's around my age. Just get your ass back to work, those dishes ain't clean," she huffed and walked out of the kitchen, leaving you alone.

After finishing the dishes, you had to go outside and feed the horses. Dusk was approaching and you were eager to finish all your tasks so you could find Rick. He always seemed irritated or busy, so you tried not to bug him. When you occasionally got the opportunity to talk to him, you always attempted to flirt. You were jittery and nervous around him, so it never came out the way you wanted it to. 'Accidental' hand brushes and small compliments were the furthest you were ever able to get, and you weren't even sure if he caught on.

Rick was helping Hershel fuel up the truck when he saw you head to the stables. His eyes traveled from the ribbon in your hair to the the hem of your short sun dress. You were perfect in his eyes. The sound of your soft voice was sweeter than honey, and the way you'd look at him with your big doe eyes enamored him. He could see how desperate you were for his attention in those pleading eyes, and it turned him on. Sometimes you'd even try and touch his hands, sending a rush of electricity to him. As much as he wanted to give into you, he knew things wouldn't end well for either of you if anyone found out. 'But that's only if anyone found out.'

The horses chowed down on their grains while you cleaned the stables up. Daryl had done most of the dirty work, so you were just organizing things. You were thinking about Rick the whole time, trying to figure out what you'd say to him if you ran into him. Most of the time it was small talk, followed by your unsuccessful flirting.

The stall doors creaked open as you stepped out, finally finished with your chores. It was almost night, so everyone had made their way to the house for dinner. 'Everyone except him,' when you spotted Rick smoking a cigarette on the porch. He seemed to be lost in thought and didn't bother acknowledging you when you approached him.

"Hey," you quietly greet, interrupting his focus.

Rick turned his head to you and grumbled, "Hey" before taking another drag from his cigarette. He took a second glance at you, his eyes lingering at your legs.

"Can I try?" You blurted, curiously looked at the cigarette.

He hesitated for a moment before dropping it to the ground and stepping on it. "Nah, they ain't any good for you," he answered smugly.

Your eyes shifted away from him in embarrassment from the rejection. He peered down at you and lifted your chin so you'd look at him. The sudden contact surprised you and met his mesmerizing blue eyes with your widened ones. His other hand snaked around you and pulled you closer to him.

Your heart was racing as you both hungrily stared into each other eyes. He tilted your head up and pulled your mouth to his in one swift motion. His hand traveled to the back of your neck and it sent shivers through your body. You wrapped your hands around his torso, pushing him against your body. The taste of the bitter tobacco filled your mouth as his tongue slipped through your lips. It made the kiss even more addictive.

After a few more moments of intertwining your tongues, Rick pulled away and held your waist. He breathlessly whispered, "That's what a cigarette tastes like, darlin'." His deep and raspy southern accent caused a pool of a warmth between your legs.

You were still in a spell from the passionate kiss, so you simply giggled in return. But Rick immediately straightened up when he heard the doorknob of the front door turn. Both of you quickly turned your heads to the door and took a step away from each other. Maggie came out and looked startled to see you both on the porch.

"Everyone's wonderin' where you guys are. What're y'all doin' out here?" She asked suspiciously and narrowed her eyes at you.

Your faces were flushed and the rapid breathing made it obvious. You spluttered, "I just finished my chores, and just y'know, we were just chattin'."

Maggie was unconvinced and furrowed her brows in disappointment from your weak attempt at lying. Rick completely ignored her question and pushed passed her to get into the house. She glared at him before stepping outside and closing the door behind her.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, y/n?! He's older than you and he has a kid for Christ's sake! Why the hell is he even after someone half his age?!" She hissed, clearly infuriated with the situation.

You could understand where she was coming from, but the world had gone to shit and none of what she said mattered anymore. Lori and Shane had officially gotten together, so Rick was single. And even though Lori and Shane were primarily caring for Carl, you didn't mind that Rick had a kid, especially because he was a sweet kid.

You were frustrated that Maggie ruined the moment and retorted, "It's not your life Maggie, stop being such a pain in the ass about it!"

She sighed and calmed down a little. "Whatever, y/n. Just don't get your little heart crushed by him. Now come in and your eat dinner, or I'll tell Daddy about Rick." There was a slight playful tone to her voice despite the threat.

You followed Maggie back into the house and ate dinner. Rick didn't glance in your direction even once the entire night, and it really did break your heart. Your family and Rick's group were talking together in the living room, but you decided to head to bed as soon as you finished your cold plate of food.

A part of you wanted to cry because of Rick's distance towards you after the kiss you shared, but the other part of you was still so giddy from it. You laid on your bed, still wearing your white sundress. The image of Rick wrapping his hands around you and kissing you replayed in your head. Wetness pooled between your thighs and you slid you hand under your skirt to alleviate the arousal.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you imagined it was Rick's fingers rubbing your clit. Small whimpers left your lips as you touched yourself and thought about him. A smile crept onto your lips when you remembered the way his husky voice called you "darlin'."

Rick felt awful. He was certain that you regretted the kiss, and he avoided looking at you all night. Seeing you was just another reminder of what he couldn't have, but he had the obligation to apologize for kissing you. Although he was infatuated with you, he would fully understand if you never wanted anything like that to happen again. It was all a mistake.

Rick saw you tip toe upstairs before he could apologize. After about half an hour, he decided to sneak away from the group in the living room to go see you. When he got to your door, he could hear your soft cries and whimpers, and it broke his heart. Rick thought you were crying because of what happened, and it made him even more determined to apologize. He softly knocked on the door, but you had been so lost in your pleasure that you hadn't noticed it.

The door slowly opened and he was dumbfounded to see you two fingers deep in your cunt instead of sobbing. "Fuck, baby, you touchin' yourself?" He asked in disbelief. Your brain was hazy with lust and you continued touching yourself in front of him. Your dress had ridden up from your bent knees, revealing your soaking wet pussy.

"Stay," you whimpered out and looked towards him with half-lidded eyes.

Rick shut the door and walked up to your quivering form on the bed. He felt his cock harden at the sight in front of him. Your eyes were glazed over and your climax washed over you. He watched as your legs squeezed together and you felt cunt clenched around your measly two fingers. Your pants and cries filled the room as you came down from your orgasm.

Turning your head to look at him, you noticed the huge bulge in Rick's pants. You slid your fingers out of yourself and crawled toward the side of the bed he was standing over. You got off the bed and crashed your mouth onto his. Rick's hands desperately grabbed at your waist and moved down to your thighs. Your hands were holding his head in place while you kissed him.

He suddenly lifted you up, eliciting a giggle. Your legs wrapped around his torso as your tongue entered his mouth. He moved toward the bed and laid you down on it, breaking the kiss. You began to unbutton his shirt as he hovered over you, but he gently grabbed you hands and held them in place. His deep, southern voice, mumbled, "Y'sure you wanna do this, darlin'?"

"Yes," You whimpered and wriggled your hands free. The kisses he was placing on your neck and chest tickled you, filling the room with your quiet giggles. Your hands went back to unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his toned and muscular body. He was even hotter than you’d imagined, scars littered his warm skin. You could traced his skin with your gentle touch, earning a quiet groan from him.

He moved away from your neck and lifted the dress over your arms, revealing your bare body. A smug grin formed on his face as he teased, “Such a dirty girl, y’ain’t even wearing anything underneath.” His calloused hands caressed your soft skin, sending chills up your spine. A whimper left yours lips as one of his hand wrapped around your breast and teased your nipple.

Rick’s other hand traveled up your thighs, but didn’t go in between them. He had no intention of giving you what you wanted without torturing you first.

His teasing was driving you crazy, so you moved your hands to his belt and decided to unbuckle it.

He quickly grabbed them again pinned them above your head. Those piecing eyes intensely stared you down at you.

"Beg me," He commanded, his darkness making the heat between your thighs even wetter.

“Please, fuck me already!” You pleaded, squirmed underneath him and grinded for some friction.

His other hand held your hips in place, “Use your words, baby.”

"Please, Rick, I need you inside of me," You whined and resisted his hold. He finally snapped and released you. Your hands immediately flew to his pants and unbuttoned them. He helped to get them off, and his hard cock sprang free.

You stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out how the hell it would fit inside of you. Before you could voice your concern, Rick grabbed your legs and rested them over his shoulders. Your pussy was dripping with arousal from all the teasing, and right now he was lining up his cock to it.

"Your so wet, darlin'. This all for me?" He smirked and slid his cock over your folds, taunting you.

"Fuck, oh god. I don't think it'll even fit," You whimpered.

"I'll be gentle," he replied and entered the tip of it into your desperate cunt. He gave you a few seconds before completely going inside in one thrust. You let out a gasp as his cock stretched you out painfully. Rick's idea of gentle was very different from yours. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good. Y'alright?"

"Mhm," you mewled out when the pain subsided, and pleasure replaced it as he slowly began moving. His thrusts were soft but your eager sounds encouraged him to go harder. He pounded into you mercilessly, and the only thing you could think of was how euphoric it felt.

You were engulfed in bliss as his cock slammed into you. The sound of your whimpers and his occasional groans were accompanied with the sound of skin smacking. Your eyes shut as you began approaching your climax, but he grabbed your face and ordered, "Keep those pretty eyes open for me." His breathless southern drawl was what sent you over the edge. You locked eyes with him as your cunt squeezed around him and erotic cries left your mouth.

Rick fucked you through your orgasm, causing you you dig your nails into the veiny arms holding your hips. He moaned and thrusted into you even harder, getting off on the pain. Your slick covered your inner thighs and most of his groin as you climaxed again from the overstimulation. His thrusts faltered and he slammed into you a few more times before pulling out, shooting ropes of hot cum over your stomach.

After catching his breath, Rick grabbed a some tissues from your nightstand and wiped off the cum on your stomach. He lifted you into his arms and whispered, “Our little secret, right, darlin’?”

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

GOOD LORD I AM A FUCKING CORNBALL

THIS SHIT WAS INSANE TO WRITE, YALL DONT UNDERSTAND. I added Maggie’s hatefulness to spice things up

Keep the requests coming, just like Rick

#rick grimes #the walking dead #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes fluff #rick grimes imagine #rick grimes smut #rick grimes x oc #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes x you

323 notes · View notes

3d-wifey · 4 months

Text

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 13

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 9.9k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn, @xngelsau, @coriolanussnowswife Chapter Summary: I've moved the arena around a bit, but nothing major; nothing starts until day 2 1: Blood rain 2: Giant poisonous bugs 3: Toxic Fog 4: Monkies 5: Jabberjays 6: Beast 7: Unknown 8: Unknown 9: Fire 10: Flood 11: Unknown 12: Lightening A/N: this bad boy is 10k, one more chapter b4 we go into mockingjay!!!!!!

Present (XII)

THE ARENA; SECTION 5 (12:23 pm-12:59 pm)

The smell of freshly rained earth lingers around them as they traverse the jungle, and Finnick thinks of you.

During the countdown, he saw you. He locked eyes with you, and, stupidly, he thought that would be enough to tide him over. Just one last moment between the two of you before performing for the cameras. But if that were true, he wouldn’t have looked for you as soon as he reached the Cornucopia—before that, even. When he surfaced from the water, over Katniss’s shoulder as he grabbed a weapon, out of the corner of his eye when he was looking for Peeta; desperate for a glimpse of you.

And when he finally found you—no, when you found him—your voice carried his name to his ears like a gift. He didn’t need to think; his body was automatically attuned to you like a compass. He had his trident poised and ready to defend you from whatever he considered a threat—a knee-jerk reaction. But when he turned, there was only you.

You looked at him as though there was a taut rubber band between your bodies, and you had to use all of your strength to resist giving in to that pressure. The desire to run to you was instinctive.

What would that have accomplished other than showing Snow their hand early? It’s not like he could have swept you up in his arms like he wanted to. He couldn't hold you close and make you promise that you'd come back to him, whole, healthy, and his. Being that bold this soon in the Games would benefit no one. Not when you still had to be separated.

He had almost stopped to watch and make sure you made it out with Johanna, but, as you subtly reminded him, he had to stick to the plan. Plus, seeing you drive your sickle through the head of a man at least two times your size definitely reassured him that you could handle your own.

Not that he didn’t know you could bring a man to his knees. He’s had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of your firm hand enough to—he shakes his head, scolding himself like a misbehaving dog.

Not the time, Odair.

Later, he tells himself, there’ll be time for that later.

Even now, he’s thinking about how it felt to sleep next to you for the first time in eons—head against your chest, listening to your steady heartbeat as you hold him in your embrace. If he closes his eyes, he can feel sure fingers carding through his hair and dull nails scratching softly along his scalp.

But he can’t close his eyes. No, he needs them open to dart between Katniss’s sprinting form and over his shoulder as they run for their lives through this fucking jungle.

They’ve covered a good chunk of land in a relatively short amount of time. He’d say it’s taken them about ten minutes to cross a mile, maybe more. He’d be more confident in his estimate if they weren’t traveling up such a steep incline.

Around this point, Finnick decides they’ve put enough space between them and the Career pack that it should be okay to take a short break. He can feel Mags’s heart pounding against his back. Not ideal for a woman this close to ninety.

“Okay, hold up. Hold up.” He calls out, and they all come to a stop. He bends at the knee to help Mags down. “Okay. You alright now?”

He lowers himself to the ground, holding her hand as they sit down. “Okay?” He asks, and she nods, frail fingers gripping his tight as her other hand pats his bicep. Adrenaline makes her shake a little, but she waves off his concern. The four of them sit for a second, gathering themselves.

“God , it’s hot.” Peeta pants and Finnick senses that the oppressive heat might be more to blame than the hike. It’s like he’s choking on it; the air is so heavy that his nostrils don’t feel big enough to inhale it. He breathes in through his mouth and it’s only marginally better. He’s soaked. Something stings as it drips into his eyes and he genuinely can’t tell if it’s saltwater or sweat. “We gotta find fresh water.”

Water. Finnick looks around for any indication of nearby drinking water, listening in for a river or stream. He’d even take a pond. Water would be amazing, preferably without a high salt concentration.

Unknown insects chirp around them in unison; it sort of sounds like a snake. It’s so loud that he’s almost able to ignore the weight of Katniss’s stare. It’s not even like she’s glaring. It’s nearly bird-like how she appraises him—waiting for him to act like the predator she thinks he is.

Three cannons fire in quick succession. The others look to the sky, but he stares at the tree over Katniss’s shoulder. Any one of those cannons could be you. He holds back a flinch at the thought. You’re not dead. No. No, you wouldn’t do that to him. He's only just gotten you back. And even after two years apart, the two of you are so deeply intertwined that Finnick’s sure his own heart would give out when yours stopped.

With a derisive snort and a shake of his head, Finnick says, perhaps a bit manically, “Well, I guess we’re not holding hands anymore.” His chuckle is met with disapproving silence. Too soon?

Katniss regards him with a look of contempt. Definitely too soon then. “You think that’s funny?"

No, not particularly. He thinks. But what else is there to do but laugh at the absurdity of it all?

“Every time that cannon goes off, it’s music to my ears. I don’t care about any of them.” He lies. Sometimes, it feels like that’s all he’s capable of. Even now, in the midst of this death sentence, he still can’t be honest about you. He can’t afford to be. Not until he knows you’re safe.

“Good to hear.” With a sly grin, Finnick observes Katniss taking a machete out of her quiver, seemingly more as a threat than a precaution. It’s promptly wiped from his face when she says your name. “Does she know that? If that’s the case, you should have killed her back at the Cornucopia. She didn't even have a weapon. It would have been easy for you.”

“She’s our ally, Katniss." Peeta attempts to caution her or maybe admonish her; Finnick doesn’t know. And he doesn’t really care, honestly. Not with how focused he and Katniss are on each other. He can’t even acknowledge Peeta defending you, as odd as it is.

Unbidden and without provocation, the mental picture of him killing you takes shape. If he wasn’t already so lightheaded from the moist air, he’d be nauseous at the idea. Is she trying to get a rise out of him by bringing you up? Is that what this is? Or is she—is she threatening you? Whatever the hell her angle is, whatever tactic she’s trying to maneuver, he won’t let a threat against you stand—empty or not.

“You know, Katniss. You really shouldn’t speak on things you know nothing about.” He shakes his head as he ignores Mags’s warning grunt, mouth curling in that frosty way of his that entices those who are stupid enough to mistake a predator baring its teeth for a smile. But Katniss isn’t stupid. This is a language she’ll understand—the language of hunting animals. Her back straightens. His remains deceptively lax. “I mean, can't say that’s ever ended well for you, can we?”

“Are you threatening me, Odair?”

“Threat—” He can’t help but laugh because, honestly.

This is the girl they’re laying down their lives for? The girl you’re laying down your life for? Emphasis on ‘the girl’, because she’s too naïve to be an adult.

People like her—they're too busy fighting shadows to figure out what’s casting them. Too focused on watching their backs that they don't bother wondering why they have to watch it in the first place—and she’s supposed to lead them to salvation?

He wants to laugh. Instead, Finnick bites his cheek. Maybe he’s bitten into another pipe dream.

“No,” he scoffs. “I’m saving you.”

“Saving? Please , you don’t care about anyone but yourself—”

“Let’s keep moving.” Peeta rises to stand in between them, stopping to give Katniss a long look that she doesn't return, before marching forward and taking the machete with him. The two of them size each other up. For someone so emotionally stunted, her thoughts are broadcast clearly on her face.

He can see her weighing her odds against him in a fight, whether her speed with the bow is any match for him and his trident, and Finnick’s weighing how much longer she can stand being a team player. He’s not cocky enough to not consider her a threat; she’s a fighter—but, then again, so is he. That’s not what’s staying his hand. Her survival is their only way out of here—not to mention how disappointed you’d be in him if you found out. He won’t be the one to snatch this chance away from you. Not unless she throws the first punch.

He subtly shifts his grip on his weapon into something more defensive, and she gives him one last withering look, or her version of it, before following Peeta.

He wishes you were here with him. For several reasons, but in this particular moment, to show Katniss how wrong she is. Show her how much he does care about you and how much you care about him in turn. Is it childish that he feels the need to prove anything to a teenager? Maybe. Probably. Most likely.

He bends down to help Mags onto his back, scowling at Katniss’s retreating back.

It’s definitely childish, but still. He sighs. You’d understand. All the more reason to wish you were here. He knows things were touch and go—more go than touch, really—between the two of you at the time, but would it have killed Haymitch to pair the two of you together? Johanna and Blight are more than capable of playing escort for those two brainiacs.

To be fair to the other man, Haymitch had no way of knowing if Finnick would succeed in reconnecting with you.

He takes a moment to really think about it. Namely, how much anger you’ve been harboring over the past two years and the way you drove your sickle through that man’s skull. He tilts his head, squinting. What’s that saying about a woman scorned?

Pairing you together may not have killed Haymitch, but it certainly could have killed Finnick.

His train of thought is violently cut off by Peeta crashing head-first into the force field.

SECTION 11 (12:49 pm-1:12 pm)

“We’re almost at the edge of the arena,” Johanna calls down to your group, climbing halfway down the tree before jumping the rest of the way.

“What does the arena look like?” Beetee asks, pushing his glasses up for what must be the tenth time since you all decided to stop and get your bearings. The sweat on his face provided no traction to hold them in place.

“One big ass circle and we’re almost at the edge. Other than the beach, there’s nothing but jungle.” She sighs, stomping over to where you sit on the ground. Beetee gives a clinical nod.

“How close is ‘almost’?” You ask, handing her axe back.

“I’d say at most a quarter of a mile. We’re closer to the edge than we are to the Cornucopia.”

“What do’ya suppose’ll happen if we hit the edge?” Says Blight in his heavy district brogue, so different than any you’ve heard before. You had asked Johanna about it at some point—the contrasts of their voices. She explained that Blight was born further north than she was, practically on the border of Seven.

It’s not like everyone in Eleven speaks the same, but there’s at least some level of similarity that can be distinctly found in Eleven—in the southernmost districts in general. It shares a likeness with Eight and Ten. The same notes that you can sometimes hear in Katniss and Haymitch’s voices, but not in Peeta’s.

“Most likely? I’d imagine some sort of boundary or force field.” Beetee informs you all.

“Regardless. We won’t know until…” Wiress starts, trailing off as something you aren’t privy to catches her attention.

“—Until we’re upon it.” Beetee finishes for her.

You clear your throat. “I’d say it’s best we don’t find out ‘less we have to.” You drawl, dropping the Capitol accent you’ve been forced to assimilate for what you realize will be the last time. You replace the over-enunciation and grating lilt with slanted vowels and a melodic tempo.

“We can probably head in a little more and then cut to the left or right,” Johanna suggests and you realize she’s talking to you. Not just you in the sense of the whole group, but you specifically. You glance around. They’re all looking at you. It seems you’re the de facto leader.

When the hell was that decided?!

“Right. Well,” you clap your hands, picking your sickles up as you rise, “let’s get a move on. We need to go further while there’s still daylight. Then, we'll find a place to set up camp."

Hopefully.

Blight takes the lead, getting a headstart at cutting through the tightly packed vegetation with his machete.

“C’mon.” You smile down at Wiress as you help her up. She returns it gratefully and Beetee offers her his arm before they trail behind Blight. As you and Johanna carry the flank, you eye the long gash along his shoulder blade that’s steadily bleeding. Your main objective is to get these two to the pickup point, but you’d prefer if you got them there in one piece.

Chaff had said he’d be teaming up with Woof and Cecelia. As well as the morphlings, if they can find them. Unlikely, since they’re masters of stealth. You remember how they didn’t stray far from the camouflage section. You had asked Peeta about the swirls of color on his arm while you were training and he told you it was supposed to be a sunrise that the female morphling painted. She’s apparently fond of them. With skills like that, you know they’ll only be found if they want to be.

The morphlings. That’s like if you only referred to Haymitch as ‘The Alcoholic’. You scold yourself mentally for using such a needlessly cruel nickname for them just because everyone else did. Either one of your parents would’ve pinched the skin off of you if they knew that.

I can’t keep calling them that. It's probably an odd time to do so, but you decide it’s high time you learned their actual names. Before now, you had very little reason to since you rarely interacted with them. Yet, even if they hadn’t been rebels, they still deserve the basic respect of being acknowledged as people, not just in conjecture with their addictions. You don’t expect to be BFFs after you make it out of the arena, but you’d like to, at least, be someone who knows and uses their real names.

“Thanks. For what you did back there.” Johanna takes you out of your musings, swinging her axe to and fro on her other side. “Taking that guy down for me. You didn’t have to.”

You scowl at the reminder, pretending to be focused on navigating your steps along the tricky jungle floor instead of looking at her. You didn’t want to think about that. How killing him was the first solution that came to mind. It’s not that you’re naive enough to think that talking him down was even an option. He wasn’t on your side. He wasn’t one of you. He had made his own bed of flowers by turning down Haymitch’s offer. But why couldn’t it have been Gloss or Enobaria that killed him? Why did it have to be you? Why not you? “I know I didn’t.”

“But you did, and,” she sighs, jutting her jaw to the side as if it’s taking a lot out of her to say this, “and I’d probably be so minced that the hovercraft would have to make multiple trips to get all the pieces if you hadn’t stepped in, so...thank you."

You smile at her awkward discomfort, ignoring the glances she shoots you out of the corner of her eye and acting oblivious to her increasing agitation.

“Are you gonna say ‘you’re welcome’, or what, asshole?” She scoffs.

“You’re welcome, Your Highness.” You knock your shoulder into hers and she knocks yours right back.

“I owe you one.”

You laugh. “God, I hope not.”

SECTION 5 (1 pm-1:34 pm)

The force of the blow is enough to send Peeta flying backward, knocking them over so fast that Finnick can barely register that he’s not still standing.

“Peeta’s not breathing!” Katniss cries and it’s a blur of motion as he moves into action, his body acting on autopilot. “Peeta’s not breathing!”

Prop Mags up against a tree. Check for a pulse that isn’t there. CPR. Tilt his head at an angle. Pinch his nose—a stiff hand to Katniss’s sternum—pinch his nose, blow air into his deflated lungs. Ignore the arrow pointed at his head. Put his body weight behind each pump. Push his will into the unresponsive body. From his shoulders, down his biceps, and into the heels of his hands, to where Peeta’s still heart lies.

C’mon, Peeta. C’mon, c’mon.

“C’mon, Peeta!” He can feel the anticipation of the viewers boiling in on them from all angles, his hair standing on end as he tries to pump Peeta’s heart for him. If they lose Peeta, they lose Katniss. If they lose Katniss, they lose the revolution. If they lose the revolution, they’ll lose, they’ll lose, they’ll lose—“Come on! Come on!”

He’s got no idea why they haven’t called it yet, why they haven’t blown the cannon, despite his heart stopping before he even hit the floor. Maybe they’re hoping, like he’s hoping, that Peeta will come. The fuck. On.

A small gasp, a cough and—

Finnick falls back on his haunches, hands on his hips and panting as the muscles in his arms buzz. He’s lightheaded again from supplying so much of his air to Peeta. And the heat isn’t doing anyone any favors.

“Be careful. There’s a force field up there.” Peeta huffs and Katniss chuckles, half-hysterical, before dipping down to kiss him. Finnick pauses in the middle of a much-needed inhale, watching the two with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, my God. You were dead. You were dead. Your heart stopped.” Katniss sobs as she drapes over Peeta, shrill and so resoundingly real that Finnick blanches for a second. He’s never seen her hands waver when drawing her bow, but they tremble now as they hold Peeta close.

Huh.

“It’s okay.” He assures her, still smoldering and smoking a little. “It’s working now.” She helps him up, still sobbing. Or maybe choking? Choking on her sobs. Peeta looks upon her with concern.

“Katniss?” Peeta prompts, starting to look increasingly panicked and Finnick can’t handle them both freaking out.

“It’s okay. It’s just her hormones.” Finnick is slow to stand, looking them over quizzically. “From the baby.”

“No. It’s not—” She cuts herself off with more choke-sobs. There’s something here—something he couldn’t see before. Something he hadn’t considered concerning these two, concerning Katniss. That something is familiar. What does it remind him of? It’s nagging at the back of his skull. That staunch fear, the protectiveness followed by the open gasping relief. He recognizes it. Where, where, where—

“She can't possibly care about him that much."

"Yeah, well, you'd be surprised.”

Oh. Oh, shit.

Of course, he recognizes it—that familiar, desperate love. He’s felt it.

Katniss glares at him, snotty and defensive, and he stares, mystified. He shakes his head, pulling himself from his revelation-induced stupor. The two lovebirds hug each other like they’re the only things holding each other up. And with their current states, they might as well be. To give them some privacy, he walks over to check on Mags and finds her knowing gaze. He can’t have been the last one to know this love story isn’t much of a story at all, right?

SECTION 3 (6:50 pm-10:20 pm)

Finnick rolls his trident back and forth between his hands as they all wait for Katniss to come back from scouting in the trees. Mags cracks open and eats another one of the nuts Katniss has been using and substantially cooking by bouncing them off of the force field to show the rest of them where it is, considering she can hear it. He has no reason to believe otherwise; there’s no evidence to indicate she’s lying, but Finnick doesn’t buy that she can hear it just because of her hearing aid. If that’s the case, why hasn’t she mentioned it before now? He has no reason to call her out on it, so he won’t. Any advantage they have in the arena, the better.

He can feel the water evaporating out of his body like a sponge being wrung dry. He feels like a beached whale. They can’t have been in the arena for that long, but the heat—it’s not the kind he’s used to. The sun in Four has nothing on this. He’s never been so thirsty before, not even in his previous Games. They all perk up when she comes back down, hoping beyond hope that she’s seen drinkable water. That hope is crushed when she shakes her head.

“The force field…it’s a dome. We’re at the edge of the arena.” She wipes her sweat-slick hair out of her face. "I couldn't find any signs of fresh water.”

They all sit in dehydrated silence. The human body can only go on for so long with no water. Food, while an amazing plus, won’t be a real problem for weeks. And between the nuts and all the fish they could catch, it’s a problem with a simple solution. Without water, however, they will almost certainly die in five days, with their organs starting to shut down in three. He's seen it back in Four. Dead men brought back from sea shriveled and arid. He always imagined it must be torture to be surrounded by all that water and unable to drink any of it.

Now, it looks like he might find out.

And with that depressing thought, Finnick moves forward. “It’s getting dark soon. We’ll be safe with our backs protected.” Knowing the consequences of touching the force field, they’ll be able to use the arena itself as a weapon. “We should set up camp. Take turns sleeping. I can take first watch.”

“Not a chance.” Katniss scoffs.

He tilts his head.

He knows the heat is just making everything worse, only fueling his irritability. But he is so over her and this teenage snippiness. Peeta’s so easygoing that he honestly doesn’t mind his company; he can see how the two of you became such quick friends. But Katniss? She is a remarkably hard person to like.

How much longer will she treat him like a criminal? As far as he’s concerned, the only thing he’s guilty of is giving her the impression that she has authority over him in any way, shape, or form.

Burying the blunt end of his trident into the ground, he uses it to leverage himself up.

“Honey,” he mocks, his voice long-suffering and chiding, like he’s explaining something that really should be common sense to a child who's a little behind the curve. Which, honestly, doesn't seem too far off. “That thing I did back there for Peeta? That was called ‘saving his life’. If I wanted to kill either of you, I would have done it by now."

He holds her eye before he rips his weapon out of the ground. He’s too tired to have a stupid argument over this, so he nimbly picks his way over to Mags so they can start making camp.

When the Capitol anthem blares throughout the arena and the insignia projects across the sky, Finnick watches with rapt attention. He inhales sharply, watches, and waits.

Portraits of the dead flash beside the full moon. The man from Five that he killed, the man from Six, both from Eight, both from Nine, the woman from Ten and then…it stops. There’s the Capitol seal again and then nothing. No more portraits light up the sky; your portrait doesn’t light up the sky.

You’re still alive.

You’re alive. He knew that. He did. He did. He would have known, he would have felt, otherwise. After all, you had promised him, hadn’t you? In those scant few hours in the early morning before the Games, you both promised to do everything in your power to get back to each other. Promised to see this through, knowing what future waited on the other side—a future together.

He knew you were alive, but the confirmation is—

He lets out the breath he’s been holding, tension easing from his shoulders.

“Seven,” Katniss says.

“Mhm.” He acknowledges.

Seven victors. His brows furrow. The two from Eight, Woof and Cecelia. The male morphling. All dead.

But he’s still alive. And so are you.

SECTION 1 (12:55 am–3:26 am)

In the white, spectral fog of the jungle, Johanna smacks something big and hairy off the back of her hand. Are the bugs even real?

She wouldn’t put it past the Capitol to mutate them—control the mutts to crawl all over them and kill them in their sleep. But that’s too boring a death, too kind. Plus, it doesn’t make for good television. And eating bugs would probably make the audience more squeamish than child murder.

Thanks to you, they at least had something to eat. Berries, mushrooms, and, oddly enough, leaves. Not much, but it was something. But there was still the water issue—meaning there was none. They hadn't stumbled upon anything they could drink. No ponds, no rivers. Not even a fucking puddle.

She and you both agreed that there had to be water in the trees; it was too humid for there not to be. But with no way to collect it, they were all shit out of luck. Luckily, depending on how long it takes to get here, they’re expecting a rain cloud. It was the only logical assumption after they heard lightning strikes not too far off. Makes sense. Short of a sponsor gift or the magical ability to make salt water drinkable, there’s little for the victors to do in terms of battling dehydration.

If this rain doesn’t pull through, she’ll be tempted to tell you to bite the bullet and request a spile or something. Though she understands why you haven’t done so yet. Just the thought of begging those simpering morons to empty their pockets to help keep her alive makes Johanna shiver and she doesn’t even have the same history with them that you do. Knowing your fans, they’d probably get off on you debasing yourself.

Johanna knocks her head against the tree she's leaning on. She offered to take the first watch because she needed time to think. It was smart of Katniss to want you as an ally. It's easier on Johanna's part too, because at least you can take care of yourself.

And, had the rebellion not been afoot, it would've guaranteed Finnick as an ally too. Maybe Peeta is the one who picked you because Johanna doubts the girl on fire is sharp enough to think that far ahead. Or mature enough to pull her big girl pants on and notice anything around her that didn't actually revolve around her.

Johanna is woman enough to admit that she's jealous. Jealousy is nothing to be ashamed of when it's entirely warranted. Katniss doesn't have to worry about losing her family, not really. Because the Capitol just adores them. Katniss doesn't have to worry about losing her self-autonomy, her dignity, her innocence while in bed with a stranger. Katniss hasn't lived with the grief of what she's experienced long enough for it to turn her bitter or make her find an escape through substances.

And yet, here they are, protecting her even if it kills them. No, Johanna reminds herself. They're protecting the rebellion. Katniss just happens to be the face of it.

It’s almost pitch black. Without the sun to shine through the dense tops of the trees, the moon could hardly pull its weight. But it’s been dark for so long that her eyes have adapted a bit. They slept closer to the force field than she would have liked, but she understood your logic. No one can sneak up on them from behind with the force field at their back.

She digs the sharp metal part of her axe into the dense ground, pulling it out, and hacking away again.

She looks over to where the others are sleeping, Nuts and Volts guarded on either side by your and Blight's sleeping bodies. At least they aren't completely useless.

Even if Katniss hadn't wanted them as allies, they would've had to guard them anyway. Haymitch made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that they're the brains of this operation. Or at least Volts is. She zeros in on the spool of wire he clings to in his sleep.

She isn't one hundred percent sure how they plan on busting them out of the arena, but it probably has something to do with that. Or at least, it better. He nearly lost his life trying to get it. And she nearly lost her head trying to get him.

They need to meet up with Finnick, but she has no idea where his group is. It's not like they can just bury their heads in the sand and wait for them to show up. The plan rides on them all being together at the pickup point.

A drop of water wets her scalp and then another. It, like everything else in this place, is uncomfortably warm—bordering on hot. But beggars can’t be choosers. The drops of water feel heavier, but that could just be her imagination.

Rain? Finally.

She’ll wake the others up once her vocal cords stop feeling like she’s starting a fire every time she talks. It slowly but steadily picks up—drops landing on her forehead and dripping down her nape. She tilts her head back and opens her mouth and the dry, cracking chasm that she used to call her throat trembles in anticipation of the oncoming relief.

When it touches her tongue, she recoils. Thick, bitter, and metallic. It's only then that Johanna realizes the warm liquid isn't water. She holds out her hand to catch a drop and it stains red.

Blood.

And, as if the Gamemakers were waiting for her reaction, the sprinkling of rain turns into a downpour.

“Get up!” She screams, scrambling to her feet. “Get up! Get the fuck up!”

You wake up, alert, with your weapons in hand. Springing to attention like you were never asleep to begin with. When you see no enemy you can fight, your vigilance gives way to confusion. The other three are slower to rise until the blood starts pelting them like coins.

They stumble up, much like she did, but they don’t know. They don’t understand what’s falling from the sky.

“Don’t drink it—!” She tries to warn them and gets a mouthful of tacky, festering blood for her troubles. It’s thick and greasy and viscous and slippery, so the remnants of it stay behind when she tries to spit it out. It coats the back of her throat, creeping its way up her nose and slicking in between her molars.

“Blood!” The last thing Johanna can see before her vision goes red is your blurry face going from stark relief to abject terror as her words fully sink in. “It’s–it’s blood!”

From then on, there’s no room for coherent thought. Instead, Johanna gets stuck in a cycle of gagging on blood, spitting it out, and heaving in the fucked up, muggy, contaminated air, only to start it all over.

She tries to shield her eyes, but the blood creeps underneath her hands like its goal is to take out as many senses as possible. The sound of it sliding off the top of the canopies and hitting the ground is deafening; it almost drowns out your attempts to call out to Johanna. But calls for each other are only answered with blood.

They all flounder about, tottering around on unsure feet. Johanna wipes her eyes and tries to squint around it. But it’s no use. Even if her eyes weren’t compromised, the blood falls so thickly that it curtains everything around her.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t realize she’s only seeing three red silhouettes instead of four.

She gives up on her eyes and works to save her lungs instead. She cups her mouth and nose, coughing and hacking so hard that it feels like her chest is on fire. She breathes through her nose and immediately stops when it burns her nostrils. She breathes through her mouth and it’s somehow worse to taste the sickeningly sweet iron-rich mist. She gags and breathes and gags again.

She still can’t see, but she crouches down low, hesitant as she pats the ground. Trembling hands feel around for her axe, but, apparently, everything feels like an axe handle if your eyes are closed. She can’t afford to let another victor catch her in such a vulnerable position. She may be blind, but she refuses to be defenseless.

She doesn’t find it.

They must stay there, stumbling around fully blind and half-mad for hours before a masculine shout accompanies the sound of a heavy body hitting the ground. So loud it overtakes the sound of blood that isn’t hers rushing in her ears, the sound of the rain. They must have flown before they crashed, must have been thrown back to be that loud— the force field.

“Blight!”

A cannon fires. And then. It stops. All of it. The rain, the yelling, the torture. The heat and the smell remain, if not made worse by each other. Johanna can’t figure out which one is making her stomach roll more.

“Everyone—” she gathers the blood in her mouth, along her cheeks and tongue, and spits it on the ground with disdain. She can feel the frothing, light pink saliva and drool dripping down her chin from doing the same thing three dozen times already. “Everyone alright?”

Surprisingly, the voice that calls back first is Beetee’s.

“I–I managed to hold on to Wiress. Blight, however…”

She knows not to expect Blight’s voice and that’s a pain too tender to prod at yet. You, however, don’t respond. And, unlike Blight, there’s no reasonable explanation for your sudden silence. She calls your name, but there’s no reply. There is, however, a spark of panic in her chest right next to her heaving lungs, but Johanna only heard one cannon.

She doesn’t know if the heat encourages it or keeps it at bay, but, just that fast, the blood is starting to congeal. Johanna pries her eyes open and it’s almost like they’re still closed. Now impossibly darker, the jungle is a nightmare. Made even worse by the fact that you aren’t here. She lurches up to spin in circles, shouting after you as Wiress keeps mumbling something. She staggers around, cutting herself off by coughing up the blood that’s managed to get into her chest. There’s nothing, no sign of you or where you could have gone. You are not here.

It’s like you disappeared.

A spotlight shines down on them—No, on Blight. On his cooling body. The hovercraft claw descends open-mouthed, dipping down to pick him up. Beetee pulls Wiress away before she can wander closer. Johanna watches as they take him away.

Blight is thirty, she thinks. Blight is a burly man with a big beard to match. Blight has a wife, a son. Blight’s from Zone Q, the same zone kids used to make fun of for the funny way they talked. Blight had always been kind to her. Blight now hangs limp, covered in blood. Skin singed and smelling of burnt hair. This is the last thing he will ever be.

He’ll never see the culmination of the rebellion he was willing to give his life for. He wasn’t the sharpest axe in the, well, anywhere. But…it would have been nice to give him the District Seven sendoff he deserved.

She gives herself a shake. They need to find you.

“Come on, get up.” She waves the remaining two up with her axe. “Let’s go."

“Tick, tock.”

“Where?” Beetee attempts to look at her from under his blood-smeared glasses.

“Tick, tock.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our group has been dramatically cut from five to three—”

“Tick, tock. Tick, tock!”

“—And what the fuck is her problem?!”

“I think she might be in shock.”

“Right. Of course. That’s just fan-fucking-tastic.”

There’s an odd clicking coming from the right and some hindbrain prey instinct warns Johanna away from it. She practically drags her damsels in distress behind her as she scours as much of the jungle as she possibly can in the dark in her search for you. Down to where the sand starts, back to the edge, and then off to the left—away from the clicking. They can’t be as quiet as she would like to be, considering Beetee’s heavy steps and Wiress’s insufferable mumbling. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, fucking tock.

How the hell did she get stuck with Nuts and Volts, of all people? You and Blight have left her alone and now, Nuts is even nuttier than before, and Volts—

“I can’t—I can’t go on. I must, I need to rest.” Beetee gasps. She glowers over her shoulder at his weak form. He raises a hand before falling on his ass. She groans, stomping back to stand over him. Even in the low lighting, he’s a sorry sight. Alarmingly pale, even for someone from Three, he looks like he might faint at any moment now.

“And what the hell is wrong with you?”

“My wound—I believe I’ve lost a fair bit of blood.” He gestures minutely behind him, and she squints at his back. He grunts as she positions him a bit better in the moonlight and his entire left flank is warm with his blood. The wound hadn’t seemed that serious earlier, long but superficial. What does she do if he’s losing more blood than any of them realize? She isn’t trained in medicine and it’s not like they can just request some kind of aid. If you were here, maybe. They’d have much better luck getting a sponsored gift if you were the one asking for it.

“Great. That’s just lovely. You know, this is exactly what we need right now.” She paces. Kicks a rock. hurts her toe. “Fuck. Fuck!” Johanna drives her axe into a nearby tree, yanking it out to only hack at it again. They’ve been searching for you for over an hour and there’s no telling where the hell you’ve wandered off to.

“What do we do now?”

“I don’t know! I don’t—!” She throws her hands up, not even bothering with rebuffing Wiress when she sways into her with her ‘tick, tock’ shit again. She groans, head hanging low. The plan has been monstrously derailed already and it hasn’t even been two full days yet. “I don’t know.”

Hopefully, you’re closer to finding Finnick than they are.

SECTION 2 ( 1:40 am-2:26 am)

You finally come to a stop, feet tripping over gnarled roots and fallen logs. You cough, blowing blood from your nose like snot. You’ve gotten far enough away from the rain that you can almost start breathing normally again. You look around you, turning in rough half-circles as you try to get your bearings. You’re careful to keep in mind the direction you’ve come from because the jungle looks the same as it has for the last mile and a half.

You want to rub at the stitch developing in your side, but you’re too afraid to take your hands off your weapons, even for a second.

That blood rain was unexpected, to say the least. Not to mention cruel. You’d never seen anything like it. The Gamemakers must have gotten a real kick out of that, knowing how readily y’all were waiting for rainwater, knowing how thirsty you were.

The blood doesn’t behave like it should. It’s made your hair dense and heavy, almost oil-slick somehow, despite the frizz from all the humidity. It dries on your skin in thick, itchy patches. Not unlike the aloe vera paste used in Eleven to heal burns and the like.

There’s no telling if the blood shower is heading in your direction or not. Can you handle that again? That suffocating force clawing its way past your esophagus, into your stomach, into your lungs—hot and thick? The taste is still on your tongue and for a moment, you’re in the eye of the storm once more. Fighting to see, to breathe, to live.

You gag and you push it down, but the longer the taste of iron soaks on your tongue, the harder it is to stop it. You gag again, hard enough that your belly cramps up. Eyes watering, you rock forward, nails digging into the wood of the handles as scorching stomach acid claws its way up your throat. You throw up what little you’ve eaten, and you despair, because it may not have been much but it was something.

You stay that way, hunched over, panting open-mouthed as more spit forms rapidly in your mouth just to drip down into the puddle of sick you’ve already left. You’ll be even more dehydrated than before. Your chest burns with acid reflux, your nose runs, and your mouth pools with drool you can’t afford to lose. You want to cry. But you don’t have that luxury. You want someone to rub your back, but you don’t have that either.

I wish Finnick was here.

You allow yourself that small moment of pity. You pull in a surprisingly cool breath before straightening up. You push your shoulders back, determined to march forward through whatever may be waiting for you because you know that on the other side, Johanna and the others need you. You walk forward, even though the idea of willingly entering that blood-filled hellscape makes your stomach lurch like a threat.

The blood still proves to be an issue without the Capitol’s input. Some of it drips down your face and neck like sweat, damn near blinding you all over again. You can only wipe it away with the back of your hand so many times. You're still trying to find a way to keep the blood out of your eyes when you hear it.

It's like when a bug flies too close to your ear but louder. Buzzing and clicking that makes the hair on your neck stand, foreboding.

You’ve never had much of a problem with insects, you weren’t allowed to. You can’t exactly claim ‘fear of bugs’ as a reason for not doing your job, even if you are six years old. After working around tracker jackers to pick various fruits, spiders climbing over you as you wade around the flooded cranberry fields, overzealous slugs as you pull carrots, to name a few, that fear dissipated. That’s not to say you love them, only that you’ve learned to work in proximity to them and ignore them if all else fails. You turn around, spinning in circles as the noise gets louder. You can’t ignore this so easily. You’re six again, trembling in fear as a peacekeeper directs you to a giant tree with an equally giant tracker jacker nest. That old fear makes a reappearance. It takes root, maturing from childish panic to fresh, genuine terror because something is coming toward you.

You hear flapping, wings. Your vision is still blurred from the blood and you're in a particularly dark part of the forest with barely any moonlight, but you can see it. Some kind of bug hurtling towards you faster than you can run. It’s massive—mutated, most likely—close to the size of a wolf. You duck as it dives at you, bulky mandibles snapping.

You’d rather fight the wolf.

It flies a few feet away before turning around and you curse the fact that you didn't pick up any long-range weapons. Where the hell is Katniss when you need her?

You’ve trained for months. Your stamina, your dexterity, your core and upper body strength. But especially your hand-to-hand combat. Woefully, you consider how well that translates into fighting a giant mutt.

For a split second, you get the urge to hide. That animalistic impulse to find a small space to burrow into that the much bigger animal can’t get you and to find it fast. You’ve felt this before in Eleven and in the Capitol. It’s only fitting that you’d feel it here in the arena too.

It hovers in the air for a moment. It's almost as if it’s thinking. As you both regard each other, it begins to feel like it really might be thinking. Just how intelligent is this thing?

It’s a beetle; you can tell that much, which means an exoskeleton. You’ll have to go for the head, the eyes. There’s no indication that it’s about to happen, it just charges you. And you realize far too late that it'll be impossible to get a clear hit at its head. You lunge to the side, but you aren't fast enough. You yell when its pincer strikes you in the side. You pitch over, rolling along the ground. You barely manage the precarious balance of covering your head and keeping your blades away from your body.

It's not done with you. But down here, you have a better chance of avoiding its bite.

The blood makes your grip on the handles slippery. You flip the one in your dominant hand upwards and keep the other one face down as it gets ready to charge you again. You roll under it, slicing upward along its stomach as it flies over you. You're quick to stand up as it wavers in the air, wings stuttering the longer it bleeds.

You’ve both weakened each other, but neither of you is dead yet.

Your mind is quiet. Only one thought echoes in the abyss back to you.

The head. The head. The head. Go for the head. Go for the head. Take the fucking head!

It swoops down at you, wobbling in the air, but still clicking. You kneel down with your sickles turned outward and cross your arms in front of your face. You wait for it to get closer until you can see its head peeking over the gap your weapons leave and straighten your elbows, decapitating it. You close your eyes as black blood rains down on you and its head and body hit the ground with two distinct thumps.

Its body convulses on the ground and its head stays still, but you don't have time to check if it's really dead. Like the man from Nine. More buzzes and clicks come from your right and you're running before you even register that your feet are moving.

You don't look behind you, you don't need to. You can hear them, closing in on you. You just keep sprinting, lungs burning in exhaustion as you push yourself faster. You don't know where you're running to, but you know you have no way of fighting off more than one.

There's a hill a few feet ahead of you, and you prepare yourself to roll down. You throw your weapons to the bottom and cover your head as you tumble down, scraping yourself on stray twigs and rocks.

You scramble to stand up at the bottom of the hill and look up in time to see the bugs hovering at the top. They're stopped by what looks like a force field. But that doesn’t make any sense. You—you just came from there. Suddenly, they lose interest in you like you were never there to begin with and they turn around. They bump into each other as they fly away, probably on their way to swarm someone else.

A piercing scream comes from the direction the mutated insects flew off to. Better you than me, you think and regret it immediately. That could be someone you care about. Chaff, Johanna, Katniss, Peeta.

Finnick, your brain supplies. You shake away the thought. You don't have to worry about that because he promised you.

"He promised me. He promised me." You repeat to yourself in a whisper.

You stumble back into a tree, chest heaving.

Once the adrenaline rush passes, another problem presents itself. The blood on your body has grown cold, so it's surprising to feel a warm rush of liquid on your side.

You look at where your jumpsuit is torn above your right hip. You stretch the fabric and see two holes about six inches away from each other. Twice the size of a bottle cap, one's a little above your hip bone and the other rests a little before where your back starts, both wider and deeper than you would like—but you don’t see muscle, which counts for something. They're rough, not perfect circles. Skin hangs haphazardly from them both, peeling away at the edges with jagged incisions going towards the middle. As if being punctured like a piece of paper wasn’t enough, they've been torn from the pincers still being buried in you and then violently ripped out after you fell.

Now that you're aware of them, they throb in sharp waves.

"Shit," you curse, breathing around the tears that bubble up from the pain. Your breaths are shuttered, halting. You're bleeding at a pretty steady pace and you won't last long with the wound out in the open. Especially if there's a creature out here that can smell blood. “Shit, shit, shit.” You whimper.

You scream as cramps rocket through your abdomen and the ability to be quiet is beyond your pain-addled mind, you can’t stop it. Luckily, it comes out of your dry throat more of a raspy croak than a real scream. You press a shaking, blood-soaked hand to your mouth anyway. You don’t know what other killer insects may be out here with you and you can’t afford to grab their unwanted attention just because you can’t control yourself.

Your medical knowledge isn’t extensive. Honestly, it’s a little below average for what’s expected in Eleven, but probably far more than what an ordinary citizen in the other districts would know. Not everyone can afford the services of doctors, especially if they live in the Shacks, so you were all taught how to help each other. You don’t know any of the fancy shit they probably teach in the academies, but you were taught how to heal with the land—old methods and practices passed down from before the Dark Days.

Your first thought is to clean it, but with what? You don’t even have clean water to drink. Your second thought is to pack it, if not with cotton then with aloe vera—it’ll ward off infection for a while, right? You have no way of disinfecting it, not by yourself and not with what’s available to you, so stopping the bleeding is the next best thing.

This may not be your environment, may not be your plants, but you learned a thing or two while training Peeta in the Edible Plant section. This is the perfect environment for natural, as natural as the arena will permit, aloe to grow. But it’s still dark. You can’t go looking for it, not by yourself. And you aren’t desperate enough to start begging your sponsors for help.

You sigh. You’ll have to settle for the bare minimum.

You pull both of your sleeves down where they detach at the shoulder and even that little movement makes your stomach cramp again. You flinch as the muscles underneath the wounds spasm, pumping out more blood.

You tie one end of both sleeves together, working past the hurt, and, God, does it hurt. But the hurt is unavoidable. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you’ve always told yourself. You let your mind drift, taking you somewhere else.

The hurt is unavoidable. The hurt is unavoidable. The hurt is unavoidable.

Sweat drips down your back, or maybe it’s blood, as you move the makeshift tourniquet around your waist. You lay a flat piece of the fabric on the wound and nearly black out as you tie the two loose ends in the back. You tie it again just for good measure, biting around a scream as you pull it tight enough to staunch the bleeding.

Your vision swims as you gasp in big gulps of air. Your hands shake from the pain and yet another adrenaline drop. Your legs feel weak, barely holding you up as you lean most of your weight against the tree.

You need a game plan.

Another canon fires.

You don’t know how long you sit there, eyes closed, head tilted back, pitying yourself. But by the time you decide to get moving, you notice something. Something’s…wrong.

Everything sways when you move your head up. You blink nearly twenty times before your eyes can focus again. You feel warm. Not warmth from the humidity. Not warmth from exercise. But warmth from a fever, a sickness. Nausea creeps upon you and, fuck, please, you can’t throw up again—you can’t . An injury this nasty will certainly come with symptoms, but you shouldn't have this kind of reaction. You try to remember what kind of bug it was. You remember it was a beetle, but you rack your brain for what it looked like. Your muscles spasm around your wound, reminding you how open and exposed they are even when covered with fabric.

You’ve got two plugs taken out of your side, you’re covered in blood, both real and synthetic, you’ve been poisoned, and you’re alone.

Alone. There is no sound other than your labored breathing because you’re alone. That’s the worst part somehow.

You’re slow as you lean down, wincing at the slightest movement, and snatch up your sickles. If just that is enough to sap you of your energy, then—

You can’t stay out here in the open where you’re vulnerable, no one to watch your back, no one to protect you. You’re an easy target, no help to the revolution like this. You take a few quick breaths to psych yourself up. You push off the tree, grunting as the smallest use of your abdomen aggravates the wounds. You hobble along, heading in the opposite direction of where you left Johanna and the others.

Hopefully, Finnick’s group is having better luck.

SECTION 3 (3:17 am-3:28 am)

Finnick is sure that there are certain moments that he’ll remember for the rest of his life. His reaping, the first person he killed, meeting you. These moments, these entries penned into the book of his life, define him. They’re all weaved into a tapestry, sewn into a quilt that illustrates his past and blankets his future. Who he is today, and who he will be tomorrow, is shaped by these moments. He’ll remain irrevocably changed by these events.

He’s sure this moment will be one of them.

The fog creeps behind them and he’s suddenly so glad you aren’t a part of their group. A spectral wall of wispy gas that observes their suffering with the same indifference as the Capitol does. Peeta is a solid weight on Finnick’s shoulder and he’s thankful for it. It’s a reminder, the weight of what he’s defending. He clenches his teeth against the fog's stray tendrils and their poisonous grasp, increasing his speed even as pain licks at his heels.

“Fhinnic’, Fhinnic’!” He skids to a stop, looking behind him at Peeta’s slurred insistence. He turns in time to see Katniss and Mags crash to the ground. He rushes over to them. Mags sits concerned next to Katniss who’s beginning to blister.

“It’s no use,” Katniss says. He kneels beside them and he can see she’s feeling the effects of the fog. Her left leg is getting stiffer and her face has begun to droop. “Can you take them both? Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.” The confidence in her voice is interrupted by the grimace on her sagging face.

Mags has been touched by the fog less than the rest of them, if at all. Probably for the opposite reason that Finnick seems to have the most damage, she’s small. By this logic, it should be easy for Finnick to carry her along with Peeta. It should be easy.

“My arms aren’t working. My arms, they aren’t—” From his shoulder blades down to his fingertips, the muscles in his arms are ruined. They spasm sporadically, jerking uncontrollably as they hang limp at his sides. He’s even relying on Peeta to hold onto his trident for him. “I’m sorry, Mags. I can’t, I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” He apologies. He keeps apologizing to her and he can’t see why, too focused on the wave of white threatening to seize them.

It’s all so quick. Mags has realized what Finnick himself is too stubborn to acknowledge. There’s a heaviness in his chest that he tries to swallow around but it only spreads to his throat. His throat gets tight. His senses feel heightened, his heart beating faster, lungs heaving harder, but he’s still trying to find a way out of this. His mind is moving at the speed of light, determined to fix it, determined to row this impossible boat upstream—thinking about everything but the only realistic outcome here.

They never talked about this. Never discussed the possibility. A situation where he would ever have to—it just never, never came to mind. He never thought to imagine it. And yet, she’s taking off the bracelet she’s wearing—his bracelet that she wore as a token for him. The same bracelet he made under her roof, under her knowing gaze. She slides it up his wrist, tightening it before grabbing his face between her weathered hands. She places a gentle peck on his lips and that’s when he realizes she’ll be leaving, whether he’s ready to say goodbye or not.

“Mags? Mags? Mags!” Tears blur his vision as she dodders uphill into the fog. Katniss grabs his wrist, stopping him from going after her. “Mags! Mags!”

“Finnick!” He can see her silhouette just past the veil of mist, convulsing violently before—a cannon fires. He sits there, desolate. He can’t tell if the numbness spreading through him is organic or from the nerve damage.

“Finnick, we have to go. We have to get outta here.” He’s slow to turn around and look at Katniss. “We have to go.”

Finnick climbs to his feet, accounting for Peeta’s weight, as Katniss drags herself behind him. He sniffs once, twice, three times.

Later, he tells himself, there’ll be time for that later.

A/N: 1.) Blight's accent is the Canadian accent - specifically Letterman Kenny 2.) reckon the covey (Lucy Gray's group) traveled to the north from 11 to 12 during the 1st rebellion and got trapped in 12 after they lost. the Seam now has a distinct accent that sounds vaguely southern. 3.) i headcanon there's no singular southern accent in 11, using this map:https://fineartamerica.com/featured/vintage-map-of-panem-from-the-hunger-games-design-turnpike.html?product=art-print you can see just how much southern land it covers. So that's a mix of Creole, Irish, Mexican, and deep south roots. I'd imagine the mix of Creole, southern aave, and Spanish makes for a very particular accent. but if I had to pick one, it's closer to the southern drawl than the southern twang. 4.) the capitol accent basically the transatlantic accent 5.) You and Finnick think the same, since it was his idea to sleep next to the forcefield and use it as a weapon. yall literally think the same. also finnick wakes up the same way you do in the book when katniss screams about the fog. 6.) in the book, Lucy Gray is quiet but cunning. She doesn't have the "girl bossified quirky" demeanor she does in the movie and I blame Disney for that. As such, she doesn't have the "loud and proud/nothing affects me/cocky without a cause" attitude in my canon. What attracted Snow to her was that survivor instinct he saw in her that he felt he had. Everything that made Lucy Gray interesting to him can be found in Star (and Peeta.) I think Katniss's personality wise is so much like Sejanus's that it pissed him off. close enough to District 12, but not exactly. district eleven has the exact background that Snow wishes he had with 12. He has more control over Eleven, they're easier to control/oppress as opposed to the free-spirited District 12. With Star, he strives to fix what mistakes he made with Lucy Gray. my beta reader said "i agree honestly like i think thats also why people are misreading snow in the movie bc they don't actually understand lucy gray and therefore misunderstand why snow even liked her" 7.) eleven is mainly a black and indigenous North American (Canada, US, and Mexico) population

132 notes · View notes

mcgnussen · 1 year

Text

why k-mag is a walking green flag and you should stan him:

devoted girl dad who puts his daughter over anything else. he said in an interview that he wanted louise, his wife, and laura, his daughter, to be at every race if possible, but they are also very focused on ensuring that laura is happy and healthy and if they feel like it’s too much travelling for laura or that she’s not thriving then they will change plans last minute. and when he got the offer to come back to f1, kev’s only concern was about the time he would lose out on with his daughter.

is either still vegan or was vegan due to concerns about the environment and as a way to balance his co2 emissions as he admitted that due to his job then he is guilty of higher emission than most people. in the same interview, literally one single interview with a danish newspaper back in 2019, k-mag came up with a few ideas on how f1 could become more green, but also said he was probably not going to talk much about it because he realised that he would be a hypocrite due to his job, so he was very much self-aware which is just another green flag. and he said that people who do not believe in climate change are stupid.

praises his competitors whether he wins or lose. after austin 2022, kevin lost out on 2 points to sebastian vettel after a heroic stint on his tyres in literally the last few seconds of the race. despite this, he was full of praise for seb in multiple interviews. and after jeddah 2023, he praised yuki for his excellence defence, but this time kevin was the one who came out victorious, but he made a point out of acknowledging yuki’s excellent driving. and both times he sought out his competitors right after the race to shake their hands.

defends his teammates if they are treated unjustly. both with jolyon and mick, there were times when the criticism was fair, but also times when it was too much and was more bullying. kevin tore renault to shreds for bullying palmer and talking shit behind his back, he said that while palmer was not the best racing driver, he was underestimated because he was so intelligent (and now palmer is an excellent f1 analyst! so k-mag was very right about that). he defended mick against his bosses several times and treated him well. there are also instances during races where he calls out competitors for dirty driving against his teammates.

got p2 on his debut race for mclaren as a 21-year old rookie. kevin started his f1 career with beating his former world champion teammate with 15 years of experience in f1 and while he lost out to him over the season, he did show great promise especially in qualifying which was considered one of his weaknesses. while qualifying between the two of them were pretty equal, k-mag managed to qualify 0.2 seconds ahead of button on average ― which is the same time hamilton managed to beat button. kevin did all this... and then mclaren fucked him over, forced him to say no to a seat, but then demoted him to reserve driver, refused to give him a seat in another racing series before finally firing him from mclaren ON HIS FUCKING BIRTHDAY. so danny ric is not the first driver to get screwed over by mclaren.

worked as a welder before his big racing break due to lack of funds. as so many before him, kevin ran out of money as the sport got more and more expensive. before he even had the chance to turn professional, it looked like options of getting a seat anywhere would be impossible because no one could help him on his way financially. his dad, while a decorated racing driver, did not earn as much as you’d expect a racing driver to earn and he was super busy with his own career, so kevin got a job as a welder until suddenly a rich man from denmark decided to sponsor him. but this means that kevin knows what “real life” is like and he has continously respected that. his mechanics love him and he hangs out with them more than his fellow racing drivers. during the discussion about the number of races in a season calendar, kevin has refused to complain for himself and has always said that the victims of the long and packed season are the mechanics and engineers who cannot get home to their families as often. while he does admit being away so much is difficult, he also pointed out that he is travelling in business class and can get home between races, something the mechanics cannot.

raised by a single mother, who was also a teen mother, and he has several tattoos in her honour. when he was a teenager, his mum, britt, got ovarian cancer that unfortunately spread and for several years she battled with it to the point where the doctors did not think she would survive. but luckily they did not give up on her and britt ended up being free of cancer after many years of being plagued by it. in her honour, kevin has a guardian angel on his chest, the one who looked over his mum, and he also has ‘mum’ as a tattoo on his wrist below a tattoo of praying hands. kevin’s dad, jan magnussen, was in his life but is also a racing driver and only really settled down in denmark when kevin was already a grown teenager and had his own career, so kevin barely saw him during his childhood and jan himself has admitted their relationship is a relationship between friends than dad-son due to the lack of day-to-day parenting he did for most of k-mag’s life.

is a champion for girls. kevin has said the most important people in his life is his mum, his wife and his daughter. he is also personally mentoring a 14-year old female karting talent, alba larsen, to help her with her dream of becoming a professional racing driver. he has praised her devotion, passion and skill. he has gotten his whole family onboard, so now his dad is also helping mentor her while kevin is away, his uncle is a mechanic and helps her with her kart despite the fact that his younger brother, luca, is her competitor as he’s the same age and also does karting (kevin and jan are also training him, of course!)

managed to get pole last season in a haas. and on paper, it should not have been possible. even in the dry sessions, k-mag had a pace that cannot really be explained. according to f1 own analysis and data, the haas was, at the time, 1.35 second slower than red bull, but even in the dry sessions kevin managed to get within 0.5 second of max verstappen. and not only that, his pole lap was only 0.8 second off the lap max did in q2 despite the track being slippery. while circumstances worked in kevin’s favour, he also managed to beat seemingly impossible odds. the only true explanation for why kevin managed to do what he did is skill. ask yourselves what the time might have been if k-mag had been in the red bull...

is one of only a handful of drivers not to live in a tax haven. he went back to live in denmark for the first time since he was a teenager in 2020 after his wife got pregnant and will not be moving away from denmark again despite the high income tax for the sake of his family’s comfort and well-being. out of all his seasons in formula 1, he only spent 2 seasons living outside either the uk or denmark and he moved to an area where several danish athletes live due to better weather and better location for international travel.

is around the same age as his wife and she’s not a model. the bar is literally on the floor for male racing drivers, people. but at least k-mag isn’t one of them ― and by model then i mean the actual profession, there is no doubt that louise is gorgeous. also i have nothing against models, but it’s just such a cliché that rich racing drivers end up with them.

is a big fan of dinosaurs and space. look, these are the greenest flag interests that i can think of, he really is just a nerd. other drivers have interests like dj’ing, golf, fashion and collector of luxury cars ― and then you just have kevin being like “idk i like space and dinosaurs” 😂

#kevin magnussen #haas f1 team #formula 1 #f1 #am i ashamed for going full stan? no bc this is me spreading k-mag propaganda for the good of the people #the people deserve to know #cancer tw #themagnussencorner

936 notes · View notes

slocumjoe · 1 year

Note

Companions reactions when Sole finds an abandoned baby and is like, “Welp! No parents, your mine now!” And wants to take them back with them?

Cait; ...okay...she understands that there is something of an obligation to not leave a baby to die, but...does Sole really have to keep it? Surely there's someone else that would like a baby, like a gay couple somewhere. Maybe those lesbians in the DC science center. Or the Ms. Nanny and teacher dude that got married, also in Diamond City. Like...Sole already has a bab—oh. Right.

Codsworth; Gotcha, what are they naming it? He'll sort out the feeding situation while they figure it out, go check shops for baby things.

Curie; Ms. Nanny protocol remnants + Curie naturally having a strong sense of justice = Sole will finally hear Curie say naughty words. They won't understand it if they don't speak French, but Curie is spitting pissed off. If Sole wants that baby, they might have to wrestle it out of her hands. Becomes very mama bear. Fusses over it in incessantly. Will relax once it is in a safe environment, and then Sole can claim it for themselves.

Danse; Goes fucking Terminator levels of bodyguard until the kid is in safe hands, like Curie. If a leaf on a tree moves, he's shooting it. Twitchy and on high alert until they get to a settlement. Sole is already planning on putting a baby room in their house. Very worried. Sole has a lot on their plate, much of it involving travel. Sole is not going to travel with a baby in their arms, fuck no. Pre-BB, suggests taking it straight to the Prydwen. After...surprisingly open to keeping it.

Deacon; Thinks they're straight-up joking. Makes a joke in response. Sole keeps joking, he keeps joking, Sole holds up a baby, Deacon has an aneurysm. Plays 5d chess in his head, planning the safest routes back to a town. Hyperventilating the whole time. Babies are loud. Loud is bad. Sole says they want it. Also bad. Sole. You are a spy. Spies don't have kids. You can't keep it, he's sorry, he knows what it's like, but that kid is safer somewhere else.

Gage; The deepest sigh man has ever achieved. Could have inflated a blimp with it. Okay, yeah, sure. Don't use crotchgoblins as bearbait. He's a raider, but there's...no, no there isn't honor amongst raiders. There is with Gage, though, he has, like, some coupons he can cash in whenever the ol' moral compass stops pointing at money. But...no. No, Sole...no. You don't have to put it back, but you can't keep it. And if they're Overboss? What the fuck are you thinking? What, like Mags is gonna babysit or some shi–why are they looking at him like that.

Hancock; A pendulum of 'chill with it' and 'unchill.' On one hand, SOMEONE GET THE BABY AN ADULT. On the other, WAIT NO NOT HIM, A CAPABLE ADULT. Doesn't matter what relationship he has with Sole. Hancock is getting babysitting duty. Hancock always gets babysitting duty. For some reason, he gets stuck watching kids way too fucking much. It's not that he hates them, it's that he breathes more Jet than air and has a penchant for throwing knives at things when bored. Please for the love of God, keep it if you want, but understand Hancock himself is baby and is not suitable for watching another baby.

MacCready; He's from Little Lamplight. As if he's even gonna blink. Hops on board quicker than Codsworth.

Piper; Sole's probably still in that phase after having their own child, where the hormones go all crazy with kids in general...losing their kid isn't helping matters, either, huh? Regardless of the circumstances, Piper is just going to shrug and do what she can to help. Whoever the parents are, they're either dead or don't deserve it, so...

Nick; Will not rest until he finds parents, dead or alive. If they are alive, has some stern fucking words for them. It'll take a damn good reason for him to take the kid from Sole and give it back to the parents. Will also suggest giving it to a couple who wants kids, but can't have them. Knows quite a few people who'd appreciate it. But not against Sole keeping it. Hope they like Uncle Nick back-seat parenting, though. Like a crusty grandpa at Thanksgiving who makes a face when your five year old has an iPad.

That grandpa is right, by the way.

Preston; Also doesn't flinch. Baby alone in the Commonwealth, you take the baby. This isn't a moral conundrum, it's basic common sense. Sole wants to keep the baby? Chill. Preston is not a useless potato sack of a person, like some people. Baby get, baby take care of. Hey, they're Minutemen, too, so they should have access to resources you need for childrearing. Third fastest to hop aboard the This Is My Baby Now train.

X6-88;

#fo4 #fallout 4 #paladin danse #preston garvey #piper wright #nick valentine #companions react #robert joseph maccready #x6-88 #porter gage #Codsworth

437 notes · View notes

companionjones · 7 months

Text

Goat Legs

Pairing: Charles Xavier x Reader

Fandoms: Marvel, X-Men

Summary: You have the power to see other universes. Sadly, that power controls you.

Warnings: Universes colliding

*******

"I'm not asking you to take over my position permanently, just for a couple weeks."

Magneto's mood differed from yours completely. While you were relaxed and amused he was annoyed and agitated. "Yes. It starts off with a couple weeks, then you ask for an extension, then, the next thing I know, it's years later, and you and your lover are never coming back."

You laughed, "We're going to Cancun! You're acting as if we're travelling to another dimension."

"How can I expect you to come back here when you don't even want to go home right now?"

That question took you off guard. "I'm sorry?"

"It's time to wake up, Y/n."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's time to wake up."

"Stop it, Mag."

"You have to wake up, Y/n."

"I said stop it!"

"You have to wake up right now!"

Charles was in the middle of teaching a class when Raven burst into the room.

"She's awake," was all Raven said.

The professor turned back to his class with quite the worried expression. "Alright, keep reading chapter 12 everyone. Ms. Raven will be taking over for the time being."

The siblings shared a nod before Charles exited the classroom and began booking it down the hallways to get to you.

You were in an isolated wing of the Xavier Mansion. Charles thought it best to house you there so the students didn't hear your screams.

That choice was coming to fruition that day, as it did most days. Charles could hear your screams as he quickly quickly approached your door. His heart always experienced a lot of pain, seeing you like this. He couldn't even read your mind because it was too much for him. Charles could never imagine what it was like for you.

"My love! My love, I'm here. Please, you have to try to calm your mind."

As Charles rushed into your room and knelt at your bedside, you saw many different versions of him. One second, he was older. The next, he was the same age, but in a wheel chair. Then, you saw him bald. You tried to close your eyes to refresh your mind, but all you saw when you blinked was worlds and universes colliding. You screamed out in frustration, and reached out for Charles.

He took your hand and combed your hair with his fingers. "It's alright. It's alright, my love. We're together. We're home. Everything is okay."

"Tell that to Logan. He's lighting his cigar on an on-fire car as the world ends," you described what you were seeing.

It took a couple hours, but your episode had finally ended and you were calming down.

Charles still sat on your bed with you. He still had one of your hands in his, and he was combing through your hair with his free hand.

"You had goat legs," you quietly informed after hours of restless silence.

Xavier appropriately chuckled at that statement. "What?"

"You had goat legs," you repeated. "In one of my visions, you were having a young girl over for tea in the woods, and you had goat legs."

He scoffed. "That sounds like something out of Alice in Wonderland."

"It was quite whimsical," you admitted.

There was another silence between the two of you before you asked Charles, "Tell me about here again?"

He smiled. "We got everyone on our side after Cuba, even Erik. There still some arguments on how we should approach the rest of the world but we all teach the next generation of mutants here, at home."

Despite all the happy news, a tear rolled down your cheek. "I wish I could be more help."

Charles reminded you, "You don't have to be anything more or anything less than you are right now."

"Can we go for a walk? I'd like to see the kids," you told him.

Charles nodded, "Of course," as he helped you out of bed.

*******

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it. I would also really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. If you would like to read more, check out my masterlist. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you! <3 <3 <3

#charles xavier #charles xavier x reader #marvel #x-men #james mcavoy #companion jones #goat legs #who knows what goat legs is a reference to?

276 notes · View notes

mikimeiko · 9 months

Text

Day 12 - Ostrava (Czechia)

It's definitely summer today in Ostrava. It's the first day in this entire trip where I felt the need to wear a tank top, and I honestly hope it's not gonna get hotter than this XD

The city center is very nice in the sun, filled with colorful buildings. There's still not so many people around, but the city is not empty.

Ostrava is an industrial city, and the main attraction that every guide tells you to visit is Dolní Vítkovice, and it's a good thing they do because it's kind of amazing.

Have you ever looked at an abandoned factory and wished you could go wander inside the compound? Well in Dolní Vítkovice you can! It's a massive steel working+coal mine that was in operation until the 90s, and now you can visit, learn about the history and the technical aspects, or just vibe with the aesthetic XD

There are museums, a gallery and cafes inside and it's basically a cool neighborhood you can hang out in. 10/10 would visit again (also maybe don't come on Monday because many things are closed on Monday XD).

After seeing it many times on the menu, it's finally the right temperature to try an espresso tonic (a cold espresso with tonic water). And, no. I did not think it was the right combo for me and it wasn't. Damn my curiosity XD

Next stop: Landek park. There's a mining museum here, but it's very hot and the park looks so appealing with its trees and shade, and I don't really need to visit another mining museum (I visited one in Wales years ago with a very good tour guide), so instead I head into the wooden path.

I get a pomelo and grapefruit birell (which is a Czech non alcoholic beer - I wish I knew it was non alcoholic before because it's as inexpensive as beer and I would have gotten it many other times instead of spending all my money on water or sodas XD) and just enjoy the green and the breeze for a while.

The walk through the park is very nice, though sadly the path is very close to a highway and most of what you hear is traffic.

I was very lucky and not only is today the first day of Ostrava's folklore festival but the first event is basically next to the place I'm staying <3

It's mostly dance focused (I thought it was going to be musicians) and though most performers are Czech or from neighbouring countries there are also a couple of acts from farther away (China, Costa Rica). I love that it started in the afternoon!

#ostrava #czechia #czech republic #europe #travel #it's not technically interrail 2023 #mag travels from time to time #my photography #i just want a tag for the things i personally put out into the world

28 notes · View notes

autismprotocol · 2 months

Text

TMAGP Theory Board (Episode 8-9)

Hi guys sorry about the missed week of theory crafting my schoolwork has been extra demanding and I haven't been able to get around to updating the board until now so here's the updated board

Episode 8 especially was insane so I'm gonna break the episode breakdown into two sections.

What Happened in Episode 8: Running On Empty

New Norris Statement! it's been a while since we heard from our buddy and he did not disappoint. though there's not much to say story-wise this was just a cool incident report I loved the way they described the Lonely as a constantly hungry entity. I also noticed that the pattern of Norris's statements having to do with lost love continues to be true. it's much more subtle than his previous two incidents but the statement giver does mention losing his wife because of divorce. which I believe still follows the pattern I've theorized is taking place.

Something up with Alice. She seems more depressed and serious than she usually is in this episode. (through episode 9 I think I know why but I'll get to that later. I don't believe she is completely in the dark like some of the newer employees and after hearing about Gwen's promotion she is getting suspicious. we have yet to know if Alice knows what's happening. but her behavior in this episode might give us a hint about how naive she actually is.

Colin is Absent. After his freakout in EP 7, Colin is MIA. according to Lena, he's on a mental health break but I would not be surprised if that is a lie.

Gerry and Gertrude are Alive!! Probably the most exciting development in this episode was meeting an alive Gerry Keay and Gertrude Robison. Sam is on the hunt for info about the Magnus Institute after the emails Jon has been sending him and he and Celia end up meeting Gerry who in this universe is considerably more happy and lives with Gertrude. I'm interested to know what role Gertrude plays in this universe is she at all connected to the Institute? I definitely think something is up with her because of the way she tries to deflect Sam's question to Gerry.

Celia Lore. after the meeting with Gerry leads to a dead end for Sam, Celia asks him to help her with her mystery. "I'm trying to look into... Weird physics stuff: time travel, other dimensions, teleportation" More proof for this Celia being from from Archives. why else would she be looking into other dimensions specifically if she wasn't trying to figure out what happened at the Panopticon. (Remember as far as we know Celia before the change in Archives was just a normal person she had no connection to the entities or the Institute.) when Sam asks, she says it's for her friend's podcast but I think she's lying. or not telling the full truth.

Georgie Barker Perhaps? speaking of the friend. our last reveal of the episode is Georgie in protocol. I don't think she is from Archives because Georgie appears after Jons's sacrifice in MAG 200.

And thats it for episode 8 so im gonna move on to Episode 9

What happened in Episode 9: Rolling With It

Sam is back to filling out onboarding paperwork but the questions on it are strange. asking about past traumas, how many dead things you've seen recently, and the infamous question why? similar types of questions that appear in TMA job interviews.

A Magnus Statement!?! After Celia tells Sam she can't find anything at the Magnus Institute Sam considers cutting his losses and letting it go. But then Chester without any prompting begins reading a Magnus statement incident to Sam. I still believe Chester is Jon and he acts as a mentor to Sam trying to keep him safe by providing him with bits of the answers he's looking for. (this way Sam won't be in danger of looking for answers elsewhere and maybe he won't be targeted by this unknown force that had killed RedCanary and driven Colin to extreme paranoia.) the statement reveals that the institute collected and stored artifacts much like the Institute in Archives.

What's the deal with the Institute? the statement Chester shares this episode is pretty standard Magnus stuff, magic fear dice is just another Thursday for TMAG enjoyers. but what I found most interesting was the pre-statement info. What does this viability survey mean? viable for what? I and my roommate have a kind of joke theory that the Institute in this universe is a hub for training and creating new avatars but now I'm starting to think this might actually be the case. I think they are looking for people who have the potential to become avatars as subjects. for the agents, they might be employing avatars to work for the institute and the catalyst has to be finding an avatar that can complete the ritual and bring the Change. The unknown statement giver in this episode can't be a subject because they are already claimed by a power from the dice (still unsure what power it is ) they have low potential to become an agent because based on the end of the statement they now want nothing to do with the dice stepping away from their identity as a fear avatar and then dying. and for some reason, the institute must see some potential that this individual can serve as a catalyst for the ritual. I'm hopeful we'll get another avatar statement and maybe we can revisit this Viability survey again

Gwen's First assignment. Gwen gets her first Liason assignment and it has brought up a major player from the protocol ARG. Mr Bonzo is this weird mascot character that showed up multiple times in the ARG that was launched back in the fall of 2023. Gwen is tasked with delivering an envelope with a name and address to Nigel Dickerson someone who according to Gwen is known for Mr. Bonzo. Basically, I have no idea where this is going but I definitely think it must be important.

Poor Alice. Alice meets with Teddy to catch up. Nothing story significant happens here but we do learn that maybe Alice still harbors some romantic feelings towards Sam.

The Ruins. After her conversation with Teddy Alice is approached by Sam with a request. He wants to go to the old Magnus Institute ruins and wants Alice to come with him. This is definitely a bad idea but she agrees and that's where we leave off

and thats it for now. The story is getting so good and I'm already attached to all the characters so im terrified to see what Sam and alice dig up at the ruins (Sam clearly didn't heed the warning of the RedCanary)

117 notes · View notes

profoundbondfanfic · 4 months

Text

And more Christmas goodies.

A Wish For Santa by hollyblue2 [Teen and Up, 4k words]

Dean has found friendship in the father of his daughter's best friend, one that he enjoys and wants more out of, but is afraid to ask. That is until Emma has a sleepover and she and Claire begin plotting.

and mercy mild by microcomets [Teen and up, 3k words]

This, Dean thinks, is possibly one of the lamest Christmases in his thirty-five year history, and that includes the time he and Sam strung up beer cans as tinsel while intoxicated, and the time when he'd gotten a skin mag from his dad on Christmas morning.

By the Hearthside by sconesandtextingandmurder and whichstiel [Teen and up, 7k words]

When a snowstorm prevents them from making the drive all the way home to the bunker, Sam, Dean, and Cas take shelter in an empty cabin for the night. It's not the Christmas Eve any of them had planned, but Dean is determined to make it work.

Just for the Holidays by Fallen_Angel_Meg [Explicit, 41k words]

After going through some tough times, Jess, Castiel's best friend, decides the best thing for him to do is to get away for Christmas. She secretly signs up their shared house on a home exchange website and it doesn't take long for them to get some interest. Castiel ends up trading houses with Sam Winchester, despite his hesitations to do so. So now Castiel has to spend his Christmas alone in Lawrence, Kansas. Which isn't so bad because Castiel is looking for some alone time right now, not wanting to get romantically involved with anyone. That is, until he meets Dean Winchester and things get complicated.

Lost and Found by haus_seeblick [Explicit, 41k words]

A newly-engaged Castiel is traveling to meet his future in-laws, when he collides — literally — with a kind, green-eyed man at the airport. Dean is on his way home from a failed business trip, when he meets a man who makes his heart beat faster than it has in a long time. An unexpected coincidence has them spending the holidays together... and that's when things get complicated.

mistletoe & peppermint cocoa by navylights [Teen and up, 5k words]

Cas and Dean are on a mission: to pick up the perfect Christmas tree for their first Christmas with everyone alive and well. And while Cas and Dean are out shopping, and buying cocoa on a snowy afternoon, a certain meddling younger brother is putting up mistletoe in the bunker. (Or, the absurdly fluffy Christmas carols/cocoa/mistletoe/tree decorating/Christmas lights fic of your dreams)

Naughty or Nice by MittenWraith [Teen and up, 9k words]

Jack just wants to create a festive holiday wonderland in the bunker, but his plans never seem to work out the way he hopes. When Patience shows up to warn Dean of a psychic vision of his imminent demise, she inadvertently helps things go right (but only after they all go shockingly awry).

Under the Mistletoe by Kitmistry [Teen and Up, 5k words]

Dean didn't understand why Charlie insisted they hang a mistletoe over the door of the bakery, but maybe she was onto something. Or the one where Dean kissed his Christmas crush.

#destiel #group rec #holidays

78 notes · View notes

kurooscoffee · 11 months

Text

lmaooo Slovenian gossip mag published a clickbaity article saying

"Bojan had to say goodbye to his Eurovision lover for the second time already"

Then in small font below:

"Beautiful story about friendship."

cont: Bojan Cvjetićanin is the lead singer of the popular Slovenian band Joker Out, which represented Slovenia at Eurovision this year. And they did it perfectly!

Bojan had a great time in Liverpool, where the music contest took place.He also bonded closely with the runner-up from Finland. At the end of Eurovision, they said they would see each other again soon and Bojan has already travelled to Finland. He joined the Finn at his gig, they watched a romantic film together and parted ways again.

But probably not for long. Käärijä has also announced that he will come to Slovenia.

(Airport IG story screenshot) This is how they said goodbye at Helsinki airport. Bojan waved him goodbye and left for the plane.

#bojan cvjeticanin #bojan cvjetićanin #Käärijä #Käärijän #käärijan #bojere

201 notes · View notes

aesopsharpmybeloved · 6 months

Text

In the Light of Care

The Aftermath of In The Shadow Of the Study. Aesop Sharp finds the new fifth-year half unconscious in the Slytherin dungeons following an adventure gone wrong.

Shout out to my ever-fabulous partner in crime @tea-withjamandbread

I have a love-hate relationship with Sebastian, on one hand, I love him, on the other, he is an irresponsible blinded hot-headed dumbass.

And then I have a love-love relationship with Aesop, who despite knowing you are going to give him a heart attack one of these days is never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you.

In the Light of Care (5.7k words)

tw: descriptions of pain, vomiting

You felt godawful all over. Ominis and Sebastian left you alone a while ago. You put up a brave face for them, but truth be told, you've never felt this terrible before. Your vision was blurry and all of your muscles were still cramping up with a pain that burned so much, you were certain it was burning your veins, dissolving you from the inside like acid. It was only when you were alone in that blasted corridor that you allowed yourself to fall down onto your bum, tears escaping your eyes and falling down freely. You tried to stretch as if that would help. You felt your body was inflamed, fever settling into your skin. You were sweating like mad and it took everything within you not to scream, not to sob, not to let your dinner travel up from your stomach and out of your mouth.

You were glad not to have learned the Cruciatus curse when Sebastian offered to teach you. However, you supposed, that even if you had learnt it, you would never ever use it. Even though the poachers, the goblins, and the dark wizards you've often engaged in combat were absolute scum, nobody deserved to have this cast on them. It was terribly unfair, terribly cruel. This wasn't offence-defence, it wasn't about prowess, or skill, or just plain luck. It was terror. There wasn't a right side of the wand to be on when it came to this. Both sides were horrible.

You curled in onto yourself. Even after you broke down and onto your knees before the boys, Sebastian seemed to disregard it, being only interested in that blasted scriptorium. He was your friend and you loved him, but at that moment... At that moment you hated him, at that moment he was your tormentor. And he didn't even feel bad about it. You wanted to shake his stupid head, to scream at him, to tell him that he was going to find nothing in the scriptorium but more dark magic, more pain. Salazar Slytherin was a vain and cruel man, why on earth would he have made a cure for something, when it was only agony he wanted to create? It was pointless, and foolish and dangerous to have come here and you regretted it dearly as you tried to bury your pain, keep your tears contained.

Yet, at the same time, you were glad that you went with them. Because if you hadn't, either Ominis or Sebastian would be forced to cast the curse on one another. And Ominis wouldn't, you knew now. And Merlin knows what would've happened to their friendship then if Ominis' best friend cast that curse on him, the very curse because of which he now had no family. So you chose to power through it, you put up a brave face.

It almost crumbled immediately after. Sebastian looked like a child on Christmas, looking at everything in the scriptorium, while you were still cowering on the floor. A warm hand landed on your shoulder. On any other occasion, you might have welcomed it, but now the hand burned you, made the already aching muscles hurt even more, and you winced. "Are you alright?" Ominis asked, sounding just as close to crying as you were. And though you were still in agony, you did what felt like an Herculean feat, and put your own hand on top of his and squeezed. "Alright," you said simply. You really should stop lying to your friends.

You felt horrible for making Ominis go through this. When he asked the two of you to swear to never ever engage with dark magic after that endeavour was done, you agreed with him wholeheartedly. Mentally, that is, as you couldn't speak by then. You knew you had to apologise to him later, make it up to him.

You wondered who would lose first, your consciousness or your stomach. What were you to do? You didn't bring any Wiggenweld potion with you, because you didn't think you might need it. You envied the boys now for being Slytherins, the comfort of their common room so close, while yours was so many flights of stairs away. There was no way you'd be able to crawl all the way there. There was no way you'd be able to crawl anywhere, not Ravenclaw Tower, not the Room of Requirement, not the Hospital wing. Now that you thought of it, you really shouldn't go to the Hospital wing anyway, the questions Nurse Blainey would have would only get yourself and your friends in more trouble.

As you sat and thought, your stomach finally lost its battle. You keeled over and promptly emptied your stomach on the stony floor. You felt the bile burn your throat, your eyes were losing focus. A voice came from somewhere far away. Annoyed at first, but as it got closer, you heard genuine concern. You were dry-heaving when a hand - larger than Ominis' - grasped your shoulder and forced you to turn. It didn't help your nausea at the very least, but seeing as you've already vomited all of the contents of your stomach out, you thankfully didn't throw up into the potions master's face. His striking dark eyes were panicked, his jaw hard, and he was kneeling next to you, which most likely did nothing for his leg. You would've attempted to speak, but your vision got dark and it dragged you down into the abyss.

You fell in and out of consciousness for a while. At one point, you looked down, professor Sharp still at your side but something was different. The smell of vomit was gone. You looked down at your robes and they were entirely clean. So was the floor. It was dark again. You saw professor Sharp's face, the underside of it, to be exact. He looked worried to bits. You felt movement and saw the surroundings change around Sharp's head. You felt strong arms underneath your back and legs. You wanted to comfort him, to tell him you were fine, that he needn't worry for you. Everything went black again before you managed to do so. Before the darkness consumed you, you felt the prickle of his chin on your index.

You woke on a bed after, and this time you stayed awake. You weren't in the Hospital wing, that was for sure. You weren't in your dorm or the Room of Requirement either, however, and you felt rather disoriented by that. Where else would you be, where else was a cot you'd use? When your eyes began focusing once more and your brain regained control of higher functions, you actually took in your surroundings. The air was cool, chilly almost, and it felt like heaven on your still feverish skin. There were shelves around the room, and in the middle of it stood a slightly curved desk. You were in professor Sharp's office.

The door to your left opened and the man in question came into focus. "I am very cross with you," he said, though his voice lacked any actual cut. He sat on your cot, and you now noticed he had a phial in his hand. It contained some dark liquid, still bubbling and looking utterly awful. "Drink," he said as he pushed a hand under the nape of your neck and lifted your head. He brought the phial to your lips and poured it into your mouth. You wanted to resist, the potion being foul enough to cause a dangerous churn in your stomach again, but you were so tired and the professor was unyielding.

You panted heavily after you swallowed the last drop, your body trying to bring it up again, but then you began to feel... Comfort. The pain was being flushed from your body. You didn't notice when professor Sharp grabbed your hand, but you felt his thumb stroking the back of it now. You looked up at him and regretted it immediately. He looked so tired. Once more, you unknowingly reached to touch his cheek. He startled when you did, yet almost right away closed one of his hands around your own.

"You know, I often say that the students will make me go grey prematurely, but I swear, you will make me go bald before you graduate," he said humourlessly. "Either you or your dear friends, Mr Sallow and Mr Gaunt. They told me what happened. Not everything, but the main gist of it. I've half a mind to give them both detention for the rest of their time here for leaving you the way they did. I've half a mind to give you detention as well for getting your stupid self into this, for not speaking up that you're unwell," he paused, his voice quivering slightly, "so clever, the lot of you, yet so incredibly stupid.”

The professor sighed then: “Look, I think I’m really starting to think I understand who you are - a good person who’s always willing to help her friends, which is, of course, noble of you. However, someone should finally tell you that you don’t have to insert yourself into every potentially life-threatening situation for them. In fact, as a Ravenclaw, you should be, and I believe you are, clever enough to talk them out of entering such situations themselves, which is just as good.”

You wanted to tell him that quite the number of these situations you didn't expect to be as dangerous as they turned out to be, and you were literally thrust into many of them. Not to mention there were simply some things you had to do…

But you didn’t say a single word. Not only did Professor Fig specifically ask you to keep quiet about your ancient magic abilities (which were the reason you got into these situations in the first place), but you knew that if professor Sharp knew… Well, he’d most likely try to get you to stop. Something that was absolutely unthinkable.

Sharp was watching you like a hawk, obviously trying to see if he could find an answer to at least one of his no doubt plenty of questions fleetingly appearing in your eyes. The feeling of comfort the potion he gave you turned into mild dizziness again, and you felt a sudden need to sit up. The potions master seemed to have anticipated as such because he was helping you into a sitting position not a second later, his strong hands having no problem lifting your upper body up from the cot. You were glad for his help, as you honestly felt like you were suddenly made of solid lead.

"Could you kindly enlighten me as to why you mad lot would even enter such a place?" He asked after the dizzy spell went away again. You still felt exhausted, but decided it was easier to answer his questions now, especially if he let you off the hook afterwards.

"Sebastian's sister… She's ill. Well, cursed. But you probably know that sir," you rasped out, wrapping your arms around you to battle the coolness of his office. "Indeed I do," answered the professor, "truly awful what happened to her."

He actually sounded remorseful, but also appeared to have lost himself in his head a little bit: "So what, were you searching for a cure down there? I can assure you, you will find no cures to any ailments under Salazar Slytherin's name, it's not one of the things he was famous for… And unless Mungo Bohnam himself left a little scriptorium of his own here, I am afraid you won't find Miss Sallow's cure in these corridors at all."

The teacher suddenly looked ten years older than he usually looked. You didn't know just how old he was, your guess was perhaps mid-forties, but then again, this and his previous job may have caused him to age prematurely. You realised that he and Anne were in quite similar situations, and seeing as he, an adult, and an experienced former auror was not able to find a cure for his leg, he didn't give Anne too many chances either.

It was all rather horrible, you thought. You've only met Anne for a while, but she seemed like a genuinely sweet person you could see yourself being friends with. And professor Sharp? Well, he was very different from the teachers you used to have before you came to Hogwarts. In the best way possible. He was strict, like they were, but also fair. He was tough and looked like a man not to be messed with. He administered both criticism and praise where they were due, and was very honest and open about everything. You had to admit that you enjoyed both the potion class, and his extra lessons to help you catch up to your classmates.

It was a little alarming to see a man who normally radiated authority so… down.

"I think," you said after several minutes, "I think Sebastian is trying to find… the curse itself. Because when he does, finding a cure should be easier…"

"His sister was cursed by a goblin though, no? What makes you think you'd find something about goblin curses down there?"

"I don't… I don't know. I just wanted to help Sebastian."

The potions master sighed heavily, tapping his healthy foot on the stone floor, and you thought you heard him utter something about you being 'so bloody loyal, it’s a wonder you’re not a Hufflepuff.'

"And did you find anything?" He asked after a while, once more fixing you with an intense expression.

"No, not a thing, sir. Some old books and scrolls, half-eaten by rats and other vermin, some egocentric busts and statues of Slytherin himself, a goblet of something I almost drank after… after the torturing curse, because I was so thirsty, but then I realised that the cup's been sitting there for maybe 900 years at least and it might not be wise."

"See, Miss (L/N), you're learning the art of 'not dying' quickly. Indeed, you should not drink anything that's been standing in a cup for 900 years," Sharp said in a deeply sarcastic voice, and he looked like he wanted to throw his hands up in the air. He calmed himself down with several deep breaths: "And that's it?"

"That's it."

Hold on… Something was amiss. What was it? There was one book that wasn't eaten away by any creepy crawlies, wasn't there? A book…

"Are you perfectly certain?" the teacher asked once more, watching you intently.

Should you tell him about the spellbook Sebastian picked up? Did he and Ominis tell him about it? Sharp wouldn't be asking you if you found anything of interest if he knew about the spellbook, would he? It was at the tip of your tongue when you remembered:

'It’s a personal spellbook of one of the founders of Hogwarts! There’s got to be something in there that will let me reverse the curse! Anne will be cured!'

Sebastian sounded like a child on Christmas when he said that, all the while Ominis was pale as a ghost and you were trying not to tremble too much from Crucio’s pain. In the brunet’s voice was something that was just so absolutely convinced that he was right. And what is he was? What if he could really cure his sister with some counter-curse from the book? Maybe then you could also use it and help heal Sharp. What if Sharp took it away in fear that you may use the book for wrong, or that the book itself had a curse put on it?

Should you tell him?

Your mouth opened and you took a deep breath. A feeling in your chest was telling you that you were signing a deal with the devil, but the 'yes' that rolled from your lips sounded perfectly calm and sincere.

And there it was. You lied to a teacher who told you explicitly that he hated it when somebody lied to him. But you decided you were doing so out of good intentions. Like when you kept your mouth shut about ancient magic.

He sighed once more: "Alright then… I hardly think that you'd tell me if your goal was to become a dark witch, so I suppose this will have to do."

"I can assure you, sir, that's not the case," you replied weakly before you could stop yourself, "I hate those."

"Oh," Sharp asked, his interest seemingly peaked again, "meet many dark witches?" You cursed yourself inwardly, the last thing you needed was for him to probe at you even more: "I've met a few, sir. But it was enough for me to decide that I hated them…"

The professor's eyes were as sharp as his name, and you felt his gaze burning holes into you. Finally, he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, deep in thought. And then he spoke again, his voice softer this time: "What is it you're not telling me? What is it that causes the bruises and the cuts on your face I see each time you come back from 'a visit to Hogsmeade'? And do not try telling me that you crashed into a shrub or fell off your broom, this excuse can only work on me so many times…"

The professor looked genuinely concerned. He was the first professor to question your occasionally banged appearance, the only one who insisted you tell him over and over again. "Are you in any kind of trouble?" He continued, "Because if you are, just tell me, and I promise I'll do my best to help you."

You put your hands on your face.

"Why can't you tell me?"

You did not answer. You didn't even take your hands away. The office was overtaken by silence. It must have been after curfew, as you heard no sounds from the corridors beyond the potion classroom. After what felt like hours, Sharp sighed once more. "Despite what some students may say about me, I am actually not some heartless monster. I won't make you tell me by force. But please, please, Miss (L/N), can you promise me one thing?"

It took a while, but you cautiously lowered your hands to look at him. He looked tired once more, but he didn't drop his gaze from you for a single second: "If you start feeling you're in over your head, if you feel like you need help, be it anything you're dealing with, please... Come to me. Even if it's just for a phial of Skele-Gro…"

Aesop Sharp was a good man, you decided, and a minute later, you found yourself nodding your head.

"Good," he said.

"May I be dismissed, sir?"

"Dismissed? Lass, the only place you're leaving here for is the Hospital wing! And given the nature of the curse that was cast on you, and the caster, I rather think that you wouldn't like that, would you?" You grimaced. Damn. You truly did not need more attention drawn to your little adventure into Slytherin's scriptorium. Obviously having no other options, you carefully lowered yourself until you were lying down again.

"Do you need anything? Food, water, are you warm enough?" Asked the teacher then, his voice softer once more. "I'm alright, thank you, sir," you replied and closed your eyes. They were so heavy, you felt like you might not open them again.

"Sleep, Miss (L/N)."

—

When you woke up, you felt disoriented once more, and it took you a few seconds to realise where you were, and what sort of events led up to this situation. Looking around the office, illuminated by the faint morning light coming from the window behind professor Sharp’s desk, you saw the man himself sitting in his chair, sound asleep. His hands were loosely folded in his lap, his leg was propped up on a little footstool he must’ve conjured up for himself, as you’ve never seen it there before (could teachers, unlike students, conjure things in Hogwarts outside of the Room of Requirement? Most likely, how else would he have gotten your cot in here?), and his head was hanging to the side. The silence of the room was occasionally cut through by a snore from the teacher.

He looked quite a few years younger while he slept, the line between his eyebrows gone, his face relaxed and open, much softer than it normally was. You supposed he was not at all bad-looking when he wasn’t currently giving Garreth Weasley the snarl of Chimaera.

You lay there, panic slowly creeping in. Was he going to tell the Headmaster about your little adventure to the Scriptorium? Maybe professor Weasley? Fig? Has he already told them? Were you in trouble?

You shortly considered sneaking past the professor and away into your dorm. You were itching to have a nice hot bath and change into a different set of robes. You fainty remembered that Sharp cast a cleaning charm on them, yet they still felt grimy on your body, because what you remembered perfectly was the pain you went through in them. At that moment when Sebastian cast Crucio on you, it felt like your very clothes were choking and burning you, like they were covered in salt and your skin under them was scratched and cut up. You decided to burn them the first chance you got and get a new set from Mr Hill.

Once more you thought about making an attempt to leave but ultimately decided against it. The man was an ex-Auror for crying out loud, there’s no way he wouldn’t wake up if you as much as made a single step from the bed. He probably put a ward on it to alert him were you to get up. Not to mention it would solve absolutely nothing. He knew of the Scriptorium, and he knew of the Cruciatus curse. The only thing you’d achieve if you tried to sneak past him would probably be angering him.

And so you stayed put, reclining on the cot. It was quite comfortable, which was something you couldn’t appreciate much most mornings. Even when you didn’t have classes to attend, you rarely allowed yourself to indulge in sleeping in, much less just lazying around in bed after you woke up. There was always something to do, somebody to help, someone to run an errand for, a beast to rescue, a potion to brew, a plant in need of fertilising or harvesting, a hot spot of ancient magic, or a Merlin trial to solve. You were a busy woman, you didn’t have time to lie around. And yet, as you did, you had to admit that you felt more well-rested than you had in weeks.

Professor Sharp on the other hand you thought couldn’t be very comfortable. You were never able to fall asleep sitting up, even during long hours spent on the train when you and your family went for a holiday to St Ives, and the first class coupe you used had seating that was much more comfortable than his chair seemed. But then again, maybe there was some sort of cushioning charm placed on it to make it comfier.

But then again, maybe not, you thought as a quiet but obviously pained groan replaced the professor’s snore suddenly. “Oh, Merlin’s saggy left-...” growled professor Sharp, his lips forming into a thin line and and the wrinkle returning to between his brows. His hand disappeared into the insides of his robes and searched around in the breast pocket for a bit, before resurfacing with a vial of green liquid. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and gulped the potion down in a single swallow, breathing heavily before his muscles finally relaxed once more.

The potions master opened his eyes, dark circles underneath them indicating that he himself didn’t rest quite as well as you. “Miss (L/N),” he said his voice rough from his slumber, “please know that I hope that you won’t get yourself into such a situation again not for only your sake, but for my own as well. I am entirely too old and too tired for sleeping arrangements like these.” Your quiet apology went unanswered.

A few minutes passed with the teacher having closed his eyes once more, and you would’ve thought that he had fallen asleep again, had his hand not been slowly tapping on the armrest. “How do you feel?” he asked without opening his eyes, and you were actually quite glad for that. “Much better, sir,” was your answer, “thank you… For taking care of me.” His dark eyes opened and bore into your own, their intensity nearly enough to make a chill run down your spine: “That’s not what you’re supposed to thank me for. Or did you think I’d just leave you there, half collapsed in your own sick? Is that what you think of me?” You cringed, your eyes screwing shut.

After a few moments of silence, Sharp sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I suppose I am a bit… grumpier than usual because of my aching body. And while I wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of sleeping in a chair were it not for your little suicidal adventure, it is not your fault that I am an old man…” “You’re not old… sir,” you replied, not really knowing why, you just… you just didn’t like seeing him so resigned. You respected the professor a lot, and you were confident that despite his bad leg, he was very much a force to be reckoned with.

He sighed again: “Be that as it may, know that I would not leave you there. I’m responsible for each and every one of my students. The official job description is teaching you lot the art of potion-making, but every member of staff is sworn to do everything in their power to protect the students. Yesterday evening’s events mean that we have failed in this aspect. And while failure is undoubtedly a part of the learning process, I certainly do not take it very well.

“Now, you shouldn’t be grateful to me because I took care of you, as absolutely any and every one of your professors would’ve done the same. What you should, however, be grateful for is the fact that I kept your little adventure to myself. And I am still not convinced I am doing the right thing doing so. The fact that Mr Sallow used the Cruciatus curse on you is very concerning. The fact he even knows the curse is concerning! However, as he used it to get all of you out of that place, I might be able to forgive it. I plan to have a long talk with him about it, however. Being friends with Mr Gaunt, he should know better than to meddle with dark arts. He’s a bright young man, I don’t want him to end up in Azkaban because of youthful stupidity. You’re all terribly clever, it’d be an awful waste to lose you because you decided to bite off more than you can chew. And entering a place built by a man who was a single Unforgivable away from being considered a dark wizard is absolutely more than a fifth-year can chew, no matter how capable.

“That said, I offer you a deal - you tell me all about this excursion of yours, beginning with the location of the entrance, so that I can later make sure it is no longer accessible to anyone, followed by a detailed description of the events that transpired so that I can make a clearer picture about the whole situation, and I in return keep it all to myself. Mind, you and your friends will be scrubbing cauldrons by hand for the following few evenings so that I can make sure you’re staying out of trouble and not, for whatever reason, doing something as insane as going back.” You opened your mouth to protest, but before you had the chance to even take a breath, the professor spoke again: “You were mad enough to go there in the first place, how do I know you’re not mad enough to return, even with all that happened?

“Well, Miss, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

And so you told him. You told him about Ominis’ aunt and her disappearance within the centuries-old Scriptorium. You told him about a passage that could only be opened by one who can speak the tongue of snakes, therefore making the very first of the rooms a certain deathtrap for anyone and everyone who is not of Slytherin’s descent. You told him of statues that would strike as real snakes would if one took too much time solving their riddles. And finally, about learning of Noctua’s heart-wrenching and untimely demise at the hands of Salazar’s cruel trial. You then described the Scriptorium itself in length, leaving out the part where you found Slytherin’s spellbook.

“So there is another entrance?” asked Sharp, his arms crossed over his chest. He was listening to you attentively, only occasionally asking you to specify or fill in a few things. “Yes, professor,” you replied, “however, I don’t know whether it can be accessed from outside as well.” The potions master thought for a bit: “It would be good to retrieve the poor woman’s remains from there so that she can be given a proper burial, but I do not want to distress Mr Gaunt even more than he already was when I spoke with him yesterday by asking him to go back with me, not to mention bearing witness to yet another instance of the Cruciatus curse, so it would be convenient if the room could be accessed from the other side.”

You bit at your lip nervously. “With all due respect, professor Sharp,” you spoke then, your voice quiet, “Ominis said his aunt and the rest of his family weren’t exactly on the best of terms. I’m not sure if they would give her a proper funeral.” “They may not, but your friend Ominis might… Well, best not to trouble the young man even more now, he seems to have a lot on his mind as is.”

“Will you… will you keep this whole thing to yourself, sir?”

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Miss (L/N). You told me everything I wanted to know, and I will keep my end of the bargain. I must, however, still discuss with Mr Sallow about his knowledge and uses of Unforgivable curses. There are some curses whose usage could perhaps be excused in some cases, but when we start to do so with the Unforgivables, we’re on our merry way back into the Dark Ages, when wizards and witches would calmly cast the Imperius curse at anyone who was merely mildly inconveniencing them. These curses were outlawed for a reason. Please, tell me that your classmate didn’t teach it to you…”

You squirmed in your seat. Sebastian did offer to teach it to you, but you said no. Should you tell Sharp? No, no… Best not to, Seb was in enough trouble as it was, no need to make it worse.

“He did not. And after I felt what it can do, I know it’s for the best… Nobody should know a spell like that! It’s so… unfair. It’s like… It’s like bringing a rifle into a sword fight.”

“That is a very good comparison, Miss,” said the potions master, “and you best never forget that. These spells are like poison, they’re unnatural, and each one tears away at your very humanity. I know that you wish to remain loyal to your friends, and I, once more, praise you for that. But I implore you to discourage your classmate from using such a spell again, even if it’s for a ‘good thing’. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

You nodded solemnly. You truly hoped there never came a time in which you’d have to once more witness the foul spell, or any of the other two Unforgivables. Sebastian wasn’t that kind of boy - yes, he did teach you one unsanctioned spell once before, but it wasn’t exactly a dark spell. If you were honest, you used it more during Merlin trials than against adversaries.

You hoped you were doing the right thing still, not bringing up the book your friend your friend left the Scriptorium with.

Aesop Sharp watched you intently, possibly hoping that you’d perhaps shed some more light on the situation, but when several minutes passed in absolute silence, he cleared his throat, stretching himself once more. “Now…” he said, “I don’t know how about you, Miss, but I could eat a Hippogriff right now.” Despite yourself, and despite the dark thoughts swirling about in your head, you actually giggled: “If you do, sir, make sure it’s not white with orange eyes, that one’s a friend of mine.”

The professor scoffed: “Friends with a Hippogriff, all the travelling merchants around the Highlands, and two of Slytherin’s three biggest troublemakers. I will need to keep a closer eye on you. This isn’t a joke, by the way, I do intend to keep an eye on you - the things Fig tells me combined with what all I hear about you doing is quite concerning.”

You gulped. You knew he’d find out about everything, sooner or later. After all, even professor Weasley was more than a little suspicious about your activities, but you managed to evade her questions by performing brilliantly in class and helping everybody you encountered. Professor Sharp, a former Auror, would certainly have no problem finding out the truth in the end.

There was only one solution. You had to work faster and harder, You had to carry on with the Keepers’ trials, and you had to stop Ranrok from opening war upon the Wizarding world. And ideally not die in the process. And, hopefully, then Sharp would understand. Maybe he’d even forgive you for the secrecy and the lies.

The teacher sighed and ran his hand over his face.

“What I said yesterday stands. If you need help, you know where to find me. I won’t turn you away. I promise…”

He stood then, towering over your form, still reclining upon the cot.

“Come on, you’ll tag along with me to the Great Hall, so I can make sure your encounter yesterday didn’t leave any lasting effects. In case it has, perhaps your fellow students will find the sight of you limping next to me amusing.”

You grinned. Despite everything, you truly appreciated Sharp’s sense of humour: “Very well, sir.”

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story. As always, you can find this fic and all of my other works over on my AO3

I am always very grateful for feedback 🥰

#fanfiction #hogwarts legacy #aesop sharp #aesop sharp and reader #aesop sharp x reader #protective aesop sharp #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow #hurt/comfort #ravenclaw reader #aesop sharp and mc #aesop sharp is a good teacher #reader instert

99 notes · View notes