#onlybeeeanswers

[onlybeeewrites]

Echos

Request: Could I request a one shot where Finnick odair x fem! Reader reunite after the reader is saved from the capital?

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Fem!reader

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Mockingjay violence, torture, psychological torture, jabber jays, peeta’s torture in the capital, Johanna’s torture in the capital, PTSD, anxiety, fear, capital manipulation, president snow

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain. It was all you knew. Every breath, every moment since they dragged you from that godforsaken arena was laced with agony. You never should have left Finnick’s side. You had promised—sworn—that no matter what, you’d stick together. That you’d never risk losing each other again.

But you also remembered what Haymitch had told you before the Games. The plan.

He had pressed a golden bracelet into your hand—almost identical to Finnick’s. A token, a silent promise. A reminder of what you had to do. Keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark. Keep them both alive. But above all else, get Katniss out.

For a while, everything had been going according to plan. The bread had come, the signal was given, and the time had come to put Beetee’s strategy into motion. You had hope. This could work.

And then it all fell apart.

The explosion hit.

A blast of force sent you both you and Peeta flying, slamming you against a tree, knocking the wind from your lungs. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the blinding white light of destruction—debris raining down as the arena shattered.

Pain drags you back to consciousness.

It’s different now—sharp, aching, thrumming through every nerve in your body. Your head is heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and when you try to move, your limbs feel foreign, unresponsive.

The first thing you register is the cold. Not just from the sterile air, but from the hard surface beneath you, unforgiving and clinical. The second is the color. White. Blindingly white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the flimsy gown draped over your battered body. It’s like you’ve been erased, stripped down to nothing.

A cell.

You try to sit up, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. Bruised—maybe cracked. Your wrists are raw, red marks circling them, though you don’t remember why. You don’t remember much at all beyond the explosion. Beyond the moment the arena fell apart.

The soft hiss of a door opening snaps you to attention.

Boots echo against the floor, slow and deliberate. You force yourself to look up, and ice coils in your veins.

President Snow stands before you.

He’s composed as ever, dressed in crisp white, his cold blue eyes studying you like you’re an insect pinned beneath glass. A faint, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. In his hands, he cradles a pristine white rose.

You steel yourself, masking the fear clawing at your throat. You don’t speak first. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Snow takes a slow breath, inhaling the scent of the rose before his gaze locks onto you. “You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you?”

You say nothing.

“I must admit, I was quite disappointed to see you among those extracted from the arena. A shame, really. I had hoped for better from a Victor of District Four.” He tilts his head. “Finnick Odair’s love.”

Your stomach twists at Finnick’s name, but you keep your face blank. You don’t know where he is. If he made it out. If he’s even alive.

Snow takes a step closer, watching you carefully. “You see, we know there was a plan. We know the Quarter Quell was never meant to go as intended. The rebels orchestrated this, didn’t they?” He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell me what you know?”

You blink at him, forcing your expression into something blank, confused. “Plan?” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Lying is beneath you.” He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of blood beneath the overwhelming scent of roses. “Very well. We have ways of making you talk,”

And you know he’s right.

And the pain he afflicts never left. It simply changed—sometimes sharp and searing, sometimes a dull ache that settled in your bones—but it was always there.

Time blurred in the Capitol. You didn’t know how long it had been since they ripped you from the arena, since the explosion stole you away from Finnick. Days, weeks… it could have been months. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t sure of anything anymore.

They never let you rest. The sterile white walls, the blinding overhead lights, the sound of footsteps approaching and retreating—it all became part of your existence. And then there were Peeta and Johanna.

You caught glimpses of them when they dragged you through the halls, when you passed rooms where screams bled through the walls.

Peeta was barely recognizable anymore. The hijacking, the tracker jackers, had shattered him, stolen the light that used to live in his eyes. He couldn’t focus for long, his mind darting from one fleeting thought to the next. His words were broken, a disjointed mess of confusion and hurt. His body trembled constantly, his hands shaking as if they couldn’t hold onto the fragments of his sanity. He would mumble to himself, apologize for things he didn’t understand, and then, in a fit of panic, beg you to stay, to tell him he wasn’t lost. And you would do your best to assure him, sooth him from across the room.

It was unbearable.

Johanna was different. She was quieter, but there was something hollow in her. Her body shook violently from withdrawal, her lips cracked from dehydration. The Capitol had drowned her over and over again, only to pull her back just before she crossed the line between life and death. When she looked at you, there was no spark of rebellion, no fire. Just exhaustion and pure resentment that kept her going.

And then there was you.

They had their own way of breaking you.

At first, they kept it simple—pain, starvation, isolation. Keeping you across the room from your friends. Close enough to talk. Close enough to hear their screaming. But not close enough to comfort.

But then they brought you to that room. The one with the speakers hidden in the walls, where the shadows were deeper, where the air felt heavier. And they made you listen.

Jabberjays.

You had heard them in the arena before, their eerie mimicry of loved ones’ voices meant to torment you. You had seen Finnick fall to them, and Katniss. And it had broken your heart seeing how they were reacting.

But that had been nothing compared to this.

The pain had been your constant companion, gnawing at you, twisting every second into an eternity.

They didn’t just sing—they screeched. The birds were torture incarnate, their calls designed to break the mind, to twist the memories into something ugly. They brought you to the room, the sterile walls designed to keep you isolated, to amplify the terror in your heart. They had programmed the birds to sound like those you loved—those you had failed.

At first, it was a whisper. A voice you thought you recognized, but it was distorted, cracked, like the sound was being pulled through a filter of madness. It came slowly, building, growing louder.

It was impossible. You had never heard that tone from him before. Finnick never spoke like that. But there it was, his voice accusing you, twisting the memory of his care, of his laughter, into something venomous. The birds sang it over and over, forcing you to hear the words that ripped at your very soul.

And then the voice changed again.

The words cut through you like a knife, too sharp, too raw. His voice, so young and full of trust, was unmistakable. But it was a voice that had long since faded from your memory. The bird had twisted it, made it sound like something darker, like something hateful. Your little brother who you did everything to keep safe.

It wasn’t the voice of a child who loved you. It was the voice of a child who felt abandoned, who had been left alone. The bird screamed again, louder this time, its voice shrill and echoing, sending waves of nausea through you.

The birds’ voices layered one on top of the other, drowning out your thoughts, breaking the barrier between reality and the spiraling nightmare that consumed you. It was as though every painful memory, every regret, every mistake you had ever made, was being replayed and twisted into something ugly. Something unforgivable.

The walls seemed to close in as you sank deeper, the birds’ calls surrounding you, clawing at your mind, twisting your thoughts. It was endless. The repetition, the overwhelming weight of their words, started to chip away at you. You could feel your sanity slipping, each scream from the birds tearing a hole inside your chest.

The pain, the guilt, the spiraling madness was too much. You had no defense left. The voices echoed, screamed, whispered, and everything you had held onto was cracking, shattering like glass. Your hands trembled, your heart raced, and you were drowning in the sound of their accusations.

The sound of Finnick’s broken voice, Annie’s hollow sadness, and the desperation in your brother’s cries—each one felt like a new blade slicing into you. Each call, each accusation, only deepened the spiral you were trapped in. Your chest ached with the weight of their pain, your soul shattered from the guilt of it all. The torment was endless, suffocating.

In the haze of madness, time felt like an abstract concept—blurred, stretched beyond recognition. The room seemed to shift around you, but the stillness of it pressed in like a vice. It was as though you were stuck in this moment forever, caught between memories and nightmares. You couldn’t tell when you were moved from one place to another.

Even then as you laid on the cold, white floor of your cell, the sterile walls closing in around you. The trembling never stopped. It was like a constant hum in your body, a fear that never quite left. Your back was pressed against the smooth, unforgiving surface of the wall, your eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Your mind felt detached from reality, a fog clouding every thought. The voices of the Jabberjays still echoed in your head, their cruel distortions of Finnick’s, Annie’s, and your brother’s voices a constant reminder of the horrors they had subjected you to. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t escape them.

You barely noticed the sounds at first—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint shuffle of boots on the hard floors. Then the door to your cell opened with a sharp hiss, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked up. Someone was standing there, silhouetted in the dim light, their features too blurred to make out. You didn’t know if it was real, if you were dreaming again, or if it was just another cruel trick of the Capitol.

A hand reached out, tentative, like they were unsure of how to approach you. “You’re alright,” a voice said softly, but with a firmness that cracked through the haze in your mind. “We’re here to get you out.”

But the words felt distant, disconnected, as though they were coming from underwater. You couldn’t trust anything. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear bubbling up from deep within. This could be another trap. Another lie. You weren’t sure who this person was, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Before you could even form a coherent thought, a sharp scent flooded the room, heavy and sickly sweet. The next thing you knew, the room swirled around you—shapes and sounds warping—and the last thing you heard was the voice again, more urgent this time: “It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”

And then, as the smoke thickened and your vision blurred, everything went black.

The first thing you felt when you woke up was confusion. It was disorienting—your senses a blur, your mind fragmented. You were in a room, but it wasn’t your cell, wasn’t the sterile white of the Capitol. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machines around you was both strange and oddly comforting.

But that didn’t mean you were safe. Not yet. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. Doctors in white coats were moving quickly, their voices a frantic buzz. Someone was touching your arm, their hands too firm, too urgent.

You flinched away, panic surging through your veins as memories of the Jabberjays twisted into your mind. The screams of Finnick, Annie, and your brother—distorted and cruel—ripped through your thoughts again. Was this just another trick? Were they going to use the birds again? Were you being captured all over again?

“Please, just… just stop,” you gasped, your voice raw, barely audible. You scrambled, trying to pull yourself away from their grasp, but your limbs were weak.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” one of the doctors whispered, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t. Safe didn’t exist anymore.

They tried to hold you down, to reassure you, but the more they touched you, the more your skin crawled. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as the room closed in, and the walls felt like they were suffocating you. Everything felt too bright, too loud. You wanted to escape, to run, to hide from the chaos.

Then you heard it—his voice.

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Your heart skipped a beat, a raw, desperate sound. Finnick’s voice. But it couldn’t be him. You tensed, a jolt of panic shooting through you. No, no, no—this isn’t real. It’s not real.

The words that came next weren’t comforting—they were the birds, mimicking him, twisting his voice. It was too much. Your pulse raced, your body trembling violently as you backed away from the doctors, too afraid to look.

“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice called again, closer this time. “Please, please, I need to find her.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The memories collided in your mind, his voice and the twisted birds, and you weren’t sure where one began and the other ended.

Then, out of the chaos, a familiar face emerged. Finnick. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes—his eyes—they were the same. He was real. The fog in your mind started to clear, the panic slowly ebbing away as you locked onto him. The sight of him, standing there, filled you with a raw, aching relief. But the confusion still clung to you, the terror that this was a trick.

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s me, sweetheart” he said softly, his voice full of something gentle, something full of warmth you thought you’d lost forever. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”

Your body froze, heart hammering in your chest, but then something inside you broke. You couldn’t hold onto the fear anymore, couldn’t push him away. You collapsed into him, falling into his arms, the weight of the months of torture pressing down on you, flooding you with every raw emotion you’d been holding in.

The warmth of Finnick’s embrace is overwhelming, like a beacon in the dark. For a moment, it feels surreal, like you’re still trapped in the nightmare, that you’ll wake up any second and be back in that place, alone and broken. But when his arms tighten around you, when he whispers against your hair, you realize that this—this is real.

Finnick was home. His scent, his touch, the way his body feels against yours—it’s everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been longing for. For so long, you thought you would never feel this again. You thought you were going to die there, in that cold, endless nightmare.

“I thought I was going to die there,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, a broken sob escaping as you clutch him tighter. The words spill out before you can stop them, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. “I thought… I thought I’d never make it out. That I’d never see you again.”

Finnick pulls back just enough to look at you, his face full of sorrow, guilt swirling in his eyes. “You’re here now,” he says, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re with me now, and I’m never leaving you again. I swear it.”

The sound of his voice, steady and unwavering, cracks something deep inside of you. It’s like the world around you shifts—like you’re not alone anymore. Like you’re finally home.

He takes a slow, deep breath and leans his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face with gentle care. “I know… I know it’s been hell,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again, sweetheart,”

You nod against him, your breath shaky, but his presence is like an anchor, grounding you, pulling you back from the abyss. Your body trembles, not from the cold or the fear, but from the raw relief that courses through you.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe, or at least the illusion of it. Either way, you didn’t care. And for the first time since the reaping, maybe you can properly start to breathe.

[onlybeeewrites]

Just reblogging just in case…..anyone…..wants to use these…..in a request……👀

PROMPTS FROM THE HUNGER GAMES: CATCHING FIRE *  assorted dialogue from the 2013 film, adjust as necessary

if you die, and i live, i'd have nothing. nobody else that i care about.

it's different for you. your family needs you.

you have to live. for them.

nobody needs me.

i do. i need you.

how does that sound?

what if we set your backyard on fire?

he can't hurt me. there's no one left that i love.

remember who the real enemy is.

we got married... in secret.

we want our love to be eternal.

we've been luckier than most.

i just wanted to say that i didn't know [name]. i only spoke to him once.

he could have killed me, but instead he showed me mercy.

that's a debt i'll never be able to repay.

she wasn't just my ally. she was my friend.

i couldn't save her. i'm sorry.

you guys look amazing.

so what do you think, now that the whole world wants to sleep with you?

i wasn't talking to you.

will you unzip?

thanks. let's do it again sometime.

the way the whole "friend" thing works is you have to tell each other the deep stuff.

what's your favorite color?

now you've stepped over the line.

see, this is why no one lets you make the plans.

you have been our mission from the beginning.

the plan was always to get you out.

people are looking to you, [name].

you've given them an opportunity. they just have to be brave enough to take it.

we have seen a lot of tears here tonight.

you are angry. tell me why.

i'm getting totally screwed over here.

now you wanna kill me again.

nobody decent ever wins the games.

nobody ever wins the games. period. there are survivors. there's no winners.

love is weird.

i would love to borrow that outfit someday.

you look pretty terrifying in that get-up.

i outgrew them.

any secrets worth my time?

unfortunately, i think that's true.

i'm sorry you had to cancel your wedding.

i'm really not in the mood for a lecture.

you don't have to apologize to anybody, including me.

i hardly know anything about you except that you're stubborn and good with a bow.

there's more than that. you just don't want to tell me.

make him pay for it.

any last advice?

stay alive.

she's committed, i'll give her that.

you saved my life. you gave me a chance.

fear does not work as long as there is hope.

you were dead. your heart stopped.

how rude of them.

eyes bright, chins up, smiles on.

we're a team, aren't we?

i am truly sorry.

you both deserved so much better.

i don't want to be with anyone else in there. just you.

that's what i want.

no waving and smiling this time.

i want you to look straight ahead as if the audience and this whole event are beneath you.

that should be easy.

be careful. it's a force field up there.

i think these games are gonna be different.

i guess we're not holding hands anymore.

i don't care about any of them.

i'm here to drink.

you know and i know there's only one person walking out of here, and it's gonna be one of us.

i get to say goodbye.

they will kill us.

whatever game you think you're playing, those out there are not playing it with you.

i don't want you to get hurt.

so how do you like the party?

you could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve that boy.

you don't want to shoot her.

how about i shoot both of you?

get them out of here.

[onlybeeewrites]

Finding Magic

Request: May I request a hunger games request Haymitch x wife reader, she is a district 12 victor from the laye 50's games. She is around 4-8 years younger than him. It is set in district 13, we see him with their young daughter named after his fellow 50th game tribute and just fluff, please Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x wife!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS, characters mentioned

A/N: the first of many Haymitch requests UGH I loved this and seeing soft Haymitch. Enjoy!! <3 ~~~~~~~~

The quarters in District 13 weren’t much—gray walls, stiff bedding, and a distinct lack of anything that could be called personal. Everything was practical, assigned, and strictly regulated, from the meals to the uniforms to the way time itself seemed to tick by in rigid blocks.

But somehow, you had made it feel like home. Haymitch wasn’t sure how she did it. Maybe it was the warmth she carried with her, the way she never let the weight of their reality smother the small joys you still managed to carve out of the days. Or maybe it was the way you saw things—not just for what they were, but for what they could be.

Even here, underground, you made the world seem bigger.

Your ten year old daughter, Louella was sprawled out on the cold floor, utterly lost in the book she held, her small fingers gripping the worn pages as if they contained the secrets of the universe.

Haymitch could see the crease between her brows, the slight parting of her lips as she whispered words under her breath, tasting them as she read. Whatever world she had discovered in those pages had its hooks in her now, and nothing short of an emergency would pull her out of it.

And you sat nearby, your head bent over a needle and thread, patching up yet another hole in your daughter’s jumpsuit. It wasn’t the first tear she’d fixed this week, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

Louella was always running, climbing, sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be. She had the boundless energy of someone who had never known anything but motion.

Haymitch liked to pretend he didn’t know where she got that rebellious streak from, but between your quiet defiance and his own tendency to do exactly the opposite of what people expected, the girl hadn’t stood a chance.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching them for a moment before speaking. “What’s she reading this time?”

You didn’t look up, but there was a small smile on her lips. “Poetry. About magic.”

Haymitch raised a brow and pushed off the wall, making his way over before flopping down beside Louella. “Magic, huh? Didn’t think District 13 allowed that kind of thing.”

Louella shot him an unimpressed look over the top of her book. “It’s poetry, Papa. Not spells.”

Haymitch smirked, leaning in as if she had just admitted to something scandalous. “Still sounds like nonsense.”

Louella let out a dramatic sigh and held up the book. “Just listen.”

She cleared her throat, straightened her back, and read aloud:

“The wind hums secrets through the trees,

The river sings to passing bees.

The sky bends low to kiss the land,

And leaves spell stories in the sand.”

She closed the book with a decisive little snap and looked up expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

Haymitch tilted his head. “Huh. Not bad.”

Louella beamed, victorious, and turned to her mother. “See? Even he likes it.”

You chuckled, tying off the stitch with practiced ease. “Took him long enough.”

Haymitch rolled his eyes but turned back to Louella. “So, you really think there’s magic in all that?”

Louella nodded eagerly. “Mama says magic is just seeing things the right way. Like when the sun looks like melted gold, or when the air smells different before a storm.”

You take a pause, setting down the sewing, stretching your fingers before smiling at your daughter. “My family always believed in magic,” you said, voice soft with nostalgia,

“We grew up in the fields, and we saw it in everything—the way fireflies danced like little stars, the hush of the earth before the first snowfall, the way seeds always knew how to find the sun.”

Louella’s eyes widened in that way only a child’s could, full of wonder and longing for things just out of reach. “I wish I could’ve seen all that.”

You smiled fondly, brushing a curl from Louella’s face. “You still can, sweetheart. Magic’s in the little things. You just have to know how to look.”

Haymitch snorted, shaking his head. “That why people used to call your family wild?”

That caused you to smirked at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. “Of course. You’d know that. You’d also remember that people often said we were odd for believing in things you couldn’t hold in your hands. But it takes special people to see the magic in little things.”

Louella grinned. “Good thing I’m special, then.”

Haymitch hummed, “yes you are, sweetheart,” he said glancing between the two of them—you, his wife, with your quiet strength and stubborn belief in things bigger than themselves, and his daughter, practically glowing with excitement at the idea of unseen wonders hiding in the world around her.

Louella yawned, rubbing at her eyes but still stubbornly gripping her book. “Can I read one more?”

You glanced at the clock on the wall—lights-out was soon, and rules were strict here. But sighed, a small, indulgent smile on your lips. “Just one more.” How could you deny one of the few pleasures you were able to indulge in?

Louella grinned and flipped through the pages, searching for the perfect poem. Haymitch, meanwhile, leaned his head back against the wall, one arm draped lazily over your shoulders.

He wasn’t much for poetry, but he liked the sound of Louella’s voice as she read, soft and full of belief. Reminding him so much of you.

“The stars will shine beyond the dark,

Their light will never wane.

A whispered wish, a hopeful heart,

And magic stays the same.”

Luella looked up, blinking sleepily. “That means magic is always there, right? Even when we can’t see it?”

You ran her fingers through Louella’s hair. “That’s right.”

Haymitch huffed. “Poetry’s got a lot of nerve making promises like that.”

Louella giggled, pressing her face into his side. “You just don’t get it, Dad.”

He smirked, pulling the blanket up over her. “Guess not.”

She let out another small yawn, and this time, her eyes didn’t open again. Haymitch exhaled, shifting to pick her up. She made a sleepy sound of protest as he scooped her into his arms, but she didn’t fight it, just curled against his chest like she’d done since she was little.

You stood and followed as he carried Louella to the small cot she called a bed. He tucked her in, smoothing down the blanket while you brushed her hair back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Haymitch stayed there a moment longer, watching as Louella breathed slow and deep, already lost in dreams. He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Sleep tight, wild thing.”

She didn’t stir. You slipped your hand into his, lacing their fingers together as they stepped back from the bed.

Haymitch pressed a kiss to you temple as they settled onto their own bed. “You’re gonna turn her into a dreamer.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Good. The world needs more of them.”

Haymitch didn’t answer right away. He just held you a little tighter, his fingers absently tracing slow, idle patterns against your arm.

Even after all these years, it still felt surreal sometimes—having this family, having you.

He thought back to the first time he saw you, standing on that stage at seventeen, trying to keep your face blank as your name was called. He’d been your mentor then, five years after winning himself. And he had been forced to watch 10 kids die since then. He was sure you would be the 12th.

And so he was forced to watch as you stepped into the arena, as you fought. But this time you proved everyone wrong as you won.

He had known, back then, what kind of person would walk out of that place. What it took to survive.

But you had come back still you, against all odds. You had come back stubborn and sharp and kind in ways the Capitol couldn’t kill. You still held onto who you were. And that alone was the perfect act of rebellion.

And somehow, in the years that followed, through nightmares and rebellion and the slow, aching process of trying to be something more than just survivors—you had found your way to each other eventually. And then became more.

Then two, became three. You had sobbed in his arms when you found out, fearing the day that she too would have to be reaped from the bowl of names. With a high chance of her dying in that god forsaken arena. The guilt, Haymitch remembered, took such a toll on you.

“How could I do this? Bring a child into this world?” You had once said. But after some time you had come to terms with the baby—Luella. Light in the dark. And a memorial name after the one of the tributes from Haymitch’s games. A sweet little girl you remembered from the Seam.

But now, you all were here, in a dimly lit room beneath the earth, with the most incredible daughter who believed in poetry and magic, in a place where hope was hard to hold on to.

And yet, somehow, you still did.

Haymitch exhaled, pressing his forehead against your hair. “You know,” he muttered, “I always knew you were trouble.”

You laughed softly, shifting closer. “Oh? Since when?”

“Since you looked me in the eye after they called your name and didn’t cry.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Since you gave me an attitude that first day on the train. And especially afterward,”

Your fingers brushed against his hand, lacing together. “Guess that means you didn’t do a terrible job as a mentor.”

Haymitch huffed a small, dry laugh. “Didn’t do a great one, either.”

You squeezed his hand, tilting her head at him. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He didn’t answer, just pulled you against him, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You were here. You were still you. Even after everything you both had gone through.

Maybe that was magic too.

[onlybeeewrites]

A Change of Plans

Request: hi!! could i request a oneshot for haymitch where theyre already in a relationship, takes place during the 75th hunger games and shes reaped, reader is very similar to annie cresta - soft spoken, shy, kind but emotionally fragile due to past trauma - maybe haymitch and katniss’s alliance negotiations are more desperate because he promised to get her out of the games? please and thank you!!

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader 

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: mentions of PTSD, spoilers for Catching Fire 

A Change of Plans: Next

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The train hummed beneath them—too smooth, too quiet—like it had no business carrying something as ugly as death. Haymitch sat stiffly in his usual seat, a glass in hand he hadn’t touched. For once, the burn of liquor wasn’t enough. Not for this.

The reaping was over.

For District 12, at least.

Katniss and Peeta were reaped.

Well—he was. Technically.

Peeta volunteered, though it wasn’t like Haymitch could do much to stop him. Not when the Capitol stacked the deck so neatly, not when Snow already knew every move they’d make before they made it.

It was all exactly what he feared.

And somehow worse.

Because it wasn’t just Katniss and Peeta.

It was who else had been chosen.

The third Quarter Quell.

Where the victors themselves became the tributes.

A punishment wrapped in a celebration.

He hadn’t seen her yet. Hadn’t let himself imagine it. Wouldn’t allow her face to take shape in his mind—not until he had to. He thought he could delay it. Maybe she wouldn’t be reaped. Maybe, for once, the odds would lean in their favor.

Now, the screen played the recaps—district by district. A slow, cruel countdown. Effie had turned the volume up, her voice unnaturally chipper when she said they should “know who we’re up against.”

Peeta sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed. Katniss sat rigid beside him, barely breathing.

A notepad lay in Peeta’s lap, filled with frantic notes and rough sketches. Names circled, others crossed out, arrows and question marks scribbled into the margins. He wrote based on Haymitch’s earlier comments—strategy, personalities, strengths. He wanted to be ready. Wanted to protect her.

They didn’t know how impossible that would be.

Haymitch sat bracing himself. His hands were already trembling, though he hadn’t taken a sip. He didn’t look at the others. Didn’t dare.

District 8.

The screen flickered.

There she was.

Standing alone on the platform, washed in that horrible blue-white Capitol lighting that made everyone look a little more ghost than human. Her hands were folded in front of her, fingers white at the knuckles. Her shoulders hunched slightly, like she was trying to make herself disappear into herself.

Just her and one other female tribute.

She hadn’t changed much. Maybe a few more lines around her eyes, a new softness in her features. But the essence of her remained untouched. The gentleness. The quiet strength. The kindness.

Even now, she looked soft.

Everything the arena was not.

Katniss inhaled sharply beside him. “Oh.”

Effie’s hand fluttered up to her mouth, her expression crumbling. “Oh no…”

Haymitch didn’t look at them. Didn’t acknowledge anything but the screen. His heart thudded slow and sick in his chest, and his fingers curled tight around the glass he still hadn’t touched.

Y/N stepped forward when they called her name. Her voice was low, trembling—barely above a whisper. But she walked. Unflinching. No dramatics. No sobs. Just the quiet dignity she always carried, like a thread sewn into her very bones.

She didn’t look surprised.

She didn’t cry.

That was her.

Always braver than anyone realized.

Braver than him.

“Won’t the other volunteer for her? She’s…” Peeta’s voice trailed off, uncertain, trying to say the right thing. “She’s not the most violent, is she?”

Haymitch’s jaw clenched. “I doubt it,” he said tightly. “The other female victor, Cecilia. Sweet woman. But she’s got three kids. If she wasn’t picked, she wouldn’t volunteer.”

Katniss was watching him now, not the screen. Her voice dropped into something softer than he’d ever heard it. “You didn’t think they’d pick her.”

“No,” he said flatly. “But then again…” He raised the glass, whiskey burning his throat. “Sometimes the odds are leaned into our favor.”

He tasted bitterness more than alcohol.

Because he knew.

He knew Snow did this on purpose.

Picked this Quarter Quell theme.

Picked Katniss.

Picked her.

This wasn’t justice. It wasn’t random. It was Snow’s hand around his throat, squeezing harder every time Haymitch dared to hope for something better. Dared to love something again.

Haymitch leaned forward and set the glass down, scrubbing his hands over his face like he could erase the image burned into the back of his eyelids—his wife, his wife, standing stiffly as Peacekeepers took her from the stage. They cut the footage just before she looked back.

But he didn’t need to see it.

He knew that look.

He’d seen it before.

The first time she was reaped, before they’d ever met.

Before she won.

Before he ever dared to let someone in again.

He had spent years protecting her in the only way he knew how—keeping her name quiet, keeping her out of the Capitol’s grasp, tucked away in the shadows of District 8. She had always felt too good for this world. Too soft for it. But she’d survived it once.

Her condition, her fragility, her gentle demeanor—none of it ever made her weak. It just made her precious. To him.

Now they were throwing her back into the fire.

“Haymitch,” Effie said gently. Her voice had lost all its Capitol shine. “I am… so terribly sorry.”

He didn’t answer. What was there to say?

There was no plan. No maneuver. No clever twist of words that could undo this.

All he could see was her. That quiet smile she gave him when she mended his clothes. The way she held his hand in bed when the nights were too dark. The smell of her hair. The small kiss to his wrist when she thought he was asleep. Her voice saying his name like it meant something.

Gone.

No.

Not gone.

Still within reach.

The plan was still in motion. The one he’d built with Plutarch piece by piece. But now… now it needed to be reshaped. Bent to save her.

He stood abruptly. His voice was rough, slurred at the edges, but solid where it counted. “She’s not dying in that arena.”

“Haymitch—” Peeta started, knowing that at the end, only one of them could get out. There was no way they’d let them get away with it a second year. 

He turned, eyes burning. “I mean it. I don’t care what it takes. If we’re—” He stopped himself. Too many ears. Too many cameras. He gritted his teeth.

Katniss nodded slowly, picking up what he was putting down. “We’ll watch her back. But you know how this works. Especially now. Only one can make it out.”

Only one.

That’s what the Capitol wanted them to believe.

But Katniss and Peeta didn’t know what he did.

Didn’t know Beetee’s plan.

Plutarch’s plan.

Didn’t know the ship hovering beyond the clouds that would be ready for when the time comes.

Didn’t know he’d already laid the groundwork to get her out. He just needed to get the other Victors on board.

He just had to keep Katniss alive long enough to make it happen.

For the rebellion to happen.

But now he had another factor to worry about. His wife was now stuck in the games. Haymitch needed to figure out a way to keep her safe. Sponsors would only do so much, and Cecelia would ensure you were looked after. The capital loved you and all the clothes you made. A Capital favorite, especially to all the designers like Cinna.

Maybe Finnick would do. He could be trusted.

Or Johanna. She liked Y/N. Had a soft spot for her, even if she’d never admit it.

It could work.

It had to.

Effie dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “She’s one of the good ones,” she whispered. “Always has been.”

Haymitch didn’t reply.

He couldn’t.

He turned and left, boots heavy against the floor as he crossed the car to his compartment. Once the door slid shut, he walked to the window and leaned a hand against it. The tracks blurred by below, the sky painted in ash and dying light.

Somewhere out there, she was being powdered, painted, packaged for the cameras. Being forced into a dress she didn’t want. Touched by hands that didn’t know her. Made to smile through the terror.

Somewhere, she was alone.

And he was here.

But not for long.

This time, he wouldn’t watch from the sidelines.

This time, if the world wanted war—they’d get it.

Because no one was taking her from him again.

Not without burning for it.

[onlybeeewrites]

Angel Eyes

Request: Hello I would like to request a Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader! I see that you also do starwars and it had me thinking. How would Coriolanus do if either your his tribute or a mentor or his wife? and a little kid came up to the reader and asked her if she was an Angel?

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: classism, mentions of malnutrition/malnourishment, Coryo’s manipulation, slight diversion from canon for fic sake

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Capitol Zoo was unusually quiet that morning, as if the city itself was holding its breath in anticipation of the Games. The sky above was pale and washed-out, making the enclosures seem more like cages.

You walked slowly beside Coriolanus, your fingers brushing together before he finally gave in and laced his with yours. It was one of the few soft things about him—this quiet affection when no one was watching.

Well, when he thought no one was watching, at least.

His eyes were locked on the girl in the District 12 enclosure, her bright dress muted by the grim bars and stale air. Lucy Gray stood with her chin tilted high, a performer through and through, even in captivity.

You both watched her for a few moments—Coryo calculating, curious, captivated. You, quieter, unsure how to feel about the girl who smiled like she knew secrets.

“She’s different,” you murmured, your eyes trialing her up and down.

“She’s dangerous,” he replied. But there was something like admiration in his voice. Though you weren’t threatened by it.

After all, she was the one behind the bars; you weren’t.

You nodded once, then gently tugged his hand. “Come on. I want to see mine.”

Your tribute was a girl of only twelve, a slip of a thing with tangled hair and limbs too thin for her frame. She was tucked in a corner of the enclosure, knees pulled to her chest like she was trying to disappear.

You reached into the elegant satchel slung over your shoulder, the one your mother insisted matched your family’s station.

“A Tolston never leaves the house looking anything less than exceptional.” Was what your mother had always said to you.

The Tolstons were old money. Old, influential, and perpetually seated at the Capitol’s highest tables, with your father’s name on every infrastructure committee and your mother curating the Capitol’s most exclusive fashion exhibits.

You weren’t supposed to cry about the Games. You weren’t supposed to feel things for tributes. But it was different now that you were in charge of taking care of one, to try and help your tribute to win.

So here you were, with wrapped honeyed bread, pear slices and soft cheese tucked between embroidered linen napkins. A large fancy ‘T’ stitched into it.

“Hi,” you said gently. “This is for you.”

She blinked up at you, wide-eyed, hesitant. Then slowly, carefully, she stood and crept over, taking the bundle like it might vanish if she moved too quickly. Her fingers brushed yours, feather-light, and you smiled.

She stared at the food, then at you. And then she said, in a small, wonder-filled voice

The little girl stood on the other side of the bars, hay in her hair while she stood in the dirt. The food you had passed was clutched tight in her small hands like she was afraid someone would take it back.

“Are you an angel?” she asked, voice breathy, eyes too big for her thin face.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She nodded seriously, stepping a little closer. “An angel. My mama used to talk about them all the time. She said they were the most beautiful creatures in the world. That they come when you’re really scared. When you’re about to give up.”

Your heart twisted. “Oh, sweetheart…” you crouched lower so you were more at her level. “No. I’m not an angel. I’m just…” You hesitated, glancing at the food in her hands. “I’m someone who thinks you shouldn’t be hungry. Just someone who is looking after you,”

She frowned thoughtfully, tilting her head like a curious bird. “You look like one. Your voice is soft. Like my mama’s was.”

Behind you, the soft buzz of a camera lens adjusted, zooming in. You could feel the eyes of the Capitol watching—Lucky Flickerman’s commentary somewhere off to the side, smooth as ever.

“Your name is Lina, right?” you asked gently.

“Lina,” she said with a nod, “Lina Grove,”

“Lina Grove,” you repeated, giving her a small smile. “That’s a beautiful name. Mine’s—”

“I know,” she interrupted, suddenly shy. “They said your name on the screen when we got here. You’re the pretty girl that walks with the white-haired boy.”

You choked on a surprised laugh. “The white-haired boy?”

Coriolanus, who’d remained behind you but close, let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a scoff. His fingers tightened around yours—possessive, protective. “Charming,” he muttered under his breath.

Lina giggled.

“You’re funny,” she said to you. “And you smell nice. Not like the rest of this place.”

You leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s because I carry soap in my bag. Want me to sneak you some tomorrow?”

Her eyes lit up like you’d promised her a crown or the most sparkly jewels on earth.

“Really?” she whispered. “Even just to smell it?”

“Promise.”

She hugged the food to her chest like it was a lifeline. “Do angels make promises?”

You hesitated, just for a second. “Only the good ones, I suppose,”

Lucky’s voice rang out from somewhere behind the camera. “And there you have it, folks—our mentors are shining this year! Capitol hearts everywhere are absolutely melting.”

You stood slowly, wiping your hands on your skirt. Lina backed up a step but kept her eyes on you, like she wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

You gave her a nod. “Every day until the Games.”

She bit her lip. “Even after?”

Something in your chest fractured. And unfamiliar ache.

“I’ll try,” you whispered. “I’ll do everything I can, I promise,”

Coriolanus stepped closer, slipping his arm around your waist, his voice low beside your ear. “You’re going to make it very hard for them to forget her.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched as Lina sat back down with her food next to her district partner; an older boy maybe around 16. And, for the first time, looked like a child again.

And for a split moment you felt guilt. 

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The gravel path shimmered faintly beneath your shoes as you and Coriolanus walked away from the enclosure. The buzz of cameras had finally died down, Lucky Flickerman’s voice trailing off into some other scripted sentiment. 

The air felt heavier now, quieter. As if your lungs were remembering how to breathe again the further you got away from it all.

You glanced back once—just once—toward where Lina now slept in one part of the zoo’s enclosure.

“She’s so little,” you said, more to yourself than him. “Twelve. She still has baby teeth, Coryo.”

His hand tightened on yours. Just a bit. Just enough. Though you didn’t see it, there was a small shift in the boy you loved so much.

“She’s a tribute,” he said, like it was supposed to explain everything. So simple. How could it be that simple?

“I know,” you murmured. “It’s just—” You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “She called me an angel.”

“She’s scared. They all are.” His voice was soft but sure, like velvet hiding steel. “And you gave her exactly what she needed in that moment. Comfort. That’s not a bad thing, my love,”

You nodded slowly, but something still stirred beneath your ribs. Not outrage—nothing so dramatic. Just a quiet ache. A tug of something soft and uncertain.

He stopped walking, gently pulling you to a halt beside him. You looked up at him, and the Capitol haze made his blond hair shine almost silver. Stunning. He was absolutely stunning.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, brushing your hair from your face with careful fingers. “But we don’t get to be soft right now. Not when everything we want is within reach.”

You blinked up at him, uncertain.

He leaned closer, voice dropping like it was a secret meant only for you.

“We’re doing this for a reason. You and me. The mentor who make it out of this with winning tributes—our lives change. We move forward. Higher. We don’t get stuck in the mud like the rest of them. The Games are there for a reason. To keep the districts in line. But now they’re also the one place we get to prove ourselves.”

You swallowed, your chest tightening. Your eyes never leaving his, not once.

He slid his hand to your cheek. “You want a future, don’t you? Not just for her. For us.”

Your throat bobbed. “I do. Of course, I do, Coryo,”

He smiled then—slow, warm, like sunlight cutting through clouds.

“Then we play the game, my angel,” he said softly. “And we win it.”

Something about the way he said we made your pulse flutter. As if your names were already written into the Capitol’s future. As if this moment, however sharp around the edges, was only the beginning.

Like everything was already promised, and all you needed to do was just grab it.

You exhaled slowly, letting the guilt drift back into the shadows. He was right. He always had a way of being right. And you were grateful he was there to bring you back to common sense.

“I hate when you talk like that,” you whispered, lips curving into a reluctant smile.

“Why?” he teased.

“Because you always make me believe it.”

His grin widened, all charm and quiet power. He kissed the back of your hand, elegant and practiced. “Good.”

The two of you then continued down the path—two golden children of the Capitol, walking the road toward something both of you could only hope for; while Coryo was determined to grab.

A life he deserved, with plenty of money, power, and the Angel of the Captial at his side.

[onlybeeewrites]

GO HELP MY BESTIE GUYS!!!

YOU GUYS.

Please help me with this or I fear I may lose what little bit of sanity I have left. 😄

I broke through a huge barrier in my writer’s block and started writing a Klaroline fic (for myself tbh) because I needed to get the hell away from everything I’ve got going on in life and enough was ENOUGH u feel me??? (I know there are a handful of you waiting for the next chapter of Whispers and it’s coming. I dunno when but don’t hate me OK!!!) 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

A N Y W A Y . . .

I never do anything half-assed and I need a title or else I can’t function. Don’t ask. I have three. Pick your favorite pls. 🙏🏼

[onlybeeewrites]

Three’s A Crowd

Request: Hello! I have request for a Coriolanus Snow x Fem! Reader. Where the reader is pregnant and has to give a speech maybe during him becoming president but in the middle of it she goes into labour.

Pairing: Coriolanus snow x Fem!reader

Word count: 1.5k

warnings: pregnancy, light mentions of labor, classism, district versus capital opinions, the reader is from the capital

~~~~~~

You weren’t the first choice. You knew that. But did it stop you from turning him away his advances?

Absolutely not.

You were kind, sweet, and everyone around you knew who you were. Growing up with the Snows and your close friends, you weren’t the standout. It wasn’t a bad thing—it just was.

You came from a wealthy family. Generational wealth that had taken a hit during the War, but quickly bounced back when your family invested in clothing manufacturing. Your family helped sponsor the reconstruction of factories destroyed in Eight, and soon, the business boomed. Your wealth grew, surpassing anything you’d ever imagined.

But despite having access to the finest fashion first, you remained the same sweet girl. Always willing to give a skirt, blouse, or dress with a flaw to Tigress, saying, “It would be a shame to waste it. I just don’t have the talents to fix it.” Tigress always smiled in return.

Watching you during the Hunger Games years ago had been painful. When the games changed, and Academy students had to mentor District tributes, you were assigned Wovey, a poor thirteen-year-old from District Eight. You did everything in your power to keep your promise to get her home. But near the end, after Wovey drank some water and died within minutes, your frustration boiled over. You demanded answers, questioned the contents of the water, and felt humiliated. You had failed, and it ate at you, gnawing at your pride.

After the Games, life seemed to return to normal—for you, at least. News broke about Coriolanus Snow’s involvement in cheating and his banishment to District 12 as a peacekeeper, and the gossip spread like wildfire.

You’d liked him—been acquaintances. You exchanged basic pleasantries, nothing more. He was smart. Incredibly so. Even in silence, his eyes were constantly assessing, watching everything.

You felt sorry for him. Sorry that he was stuck in an awful district with awful people. Sorry that he’d been manipulated by Lucy Gray, that District girl who you believed was only using him. How awful those District people were.

Then, near the end of summer, after Sejanus Plinth’s death, Coryo returned to the Capital. And he was different—hardened, colder, more toned. But the way he looked at you was also different.

It began with simple compliments during classes at University. Compliments that made you blush. Then came walks to class, studying together, dinners. And before you knew it, you were standing beside him as the First Lady of Panem, ever so cold, calculating, and calculating. You saw the side of him he only allowed you to see—the soft, loving Coryo you had come to know and love.

And now here you were. Just two years into his presidency. The grand hall of your home was packed, its glittering elite seated in perfect rows as cameras broadcasted the event to the districts. Tonight, the event was designed to be a spectacle—a night of carefully crafted rhetoric.

You stood at the podium, poised, regal, your silk gown flowing over the unmistakable curve of your belly. Coriolanus had urged you to rest, to stay seated during the event, but you insisted. This speech was important.

The initiative you were launching, The Future of Panem Fund, symbolized progress—a new focus on education and healthcare for the next generation. It reinforced Coriolanus’ image as a leader who not only brought order but invested in the future. As his wife, you played a key role in solidifying that vision.

Standing before the audience, you smiled, your voice unwavering. “Good evening. I would like to thank you all for taking the time to come tonight. I assure you, it will be worth it,” you began, the polished ease of a practiced speaker settling over you. A sweet smile, a perfect face, the ideal First Lady for their perfect President.

“For too long, we have focused on the present—on survival, rebuilding, improving. But tonight, we look beyond the now. We look to what comes next. What comes tomorrow.”

A wave of nods rippled through the audience, all of them hanging on your words. You had crafted this speech carefully, balancing inspiration and strength.”

“The Future of Panem Fund is not just an initiative; it is a promise.” Your hand rested lightly on your belly. “A promise that every child in the Capital will have access to education, healthcare, and the resources to grow strong and capable.”

Applause rippled through the hall, and beside you, Coriolanus stood composed, his sharp gaze never leaving you.

You took a steadying breath before continuing. “Because the future of Panem is not written by chance. It is shaped by those with the will to guide it. Together, we will build a nation that does not just survive—but thrives.”

The applause swelled, echoing through the hall. You allowed a brief smile, savoring the moment—

And then, the contraction hit.

Your breath hitched, pain radiating through your abdomen. You gripped the podium, forcing yourself to maintain a serene expression. You weren’t going to falter.

Coriolanus noticed instantly.

Though he didn’t move, you could feel his attention shift, his calculating mind assessing every detail.

Still, you pressed on. “This fund will ensure that every—” Another contraction. This time, your breath left you in a slow, controlled exhale. You gave a short laugh, shaking your head.

Oh.

Oh, this was happening.

You turned to Coriolanus and, in a voice that carried through the microphone, murmured with quiet amusement, “I do believe I’m in labor, my dearest.”

Silence.

Then the hall erupted.

Laughter, cheers, applause—thousands of people on their feet, reveling in the spectacle. This was their perfect moment—their President, his wife, and the arrival of their child, the future of Panem.

But Coriolanus didn’t see it that way.

For the first time, his mask cracked. His usually unreadable expression betrayed sheer disbelief.

You, however, were laughing softly, gripping the podium as another contraction struck. “Well,” you exhaled, glancing back at the crowd, “it seems the future of Panem is arriving a little earlier than expected.”

More laughter, more cheers, more applause. Half the room was celebrating, while reporters scrambled to capture every moment as though it was a privilege to witness.

Coriolanus finally snapped into action.

“Go,” he barked sharply to the peacekeepers, “Bring the doctor. Now.”

The peacekeepers moved immediately, but Coriolanus was already at your side, one hand pressed to your back, the other reaching to steady you. His grip was firm, unwavering, but you felt the tension radiating off him. More peacekeepers formed around you, escorting you out of the hall and to the private part of your home.

“You should have been resting,” he muttered lowly, his voice tight as he guided you away from the podium.

You smirked despite the pain. “And miss my big speech? Not a chance.”

His jaw clenched, but a faint twitch of his lips betrayed something softer. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you teased breathlessly, leaning into his support as another contraction hit, a small groan escaping, “you married me.”

Cameras flashed as Coriolanus led you toward the exit, his grip protective, unyielding. The crowd cheered, watching their leader—newly cemented in power—prepare to welcome his heir, the new generation to rule Panem.

[onlybeeewrites]

Second Thought

Request: Coriolanus snow x fem reader: it’s when the attacks happen the reader gets hit and becomes unconscious but instead of snow looking for her (his gf?) he more worried about Lucy gray and he doesn’t realize that the reader is their next to him in the wing until after he knows Lucy is okay. Maybe the reader is in a very bad condition and had to undergo a surgery.

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader, Coriolanus snow x Lucy Gray

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: violence, injury, blood, cannon-violence, ‘rebel’ bombing

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The arena was supposed to be magnificent. A grand display of Capitol ingenuity, a carefully designed battleground for the spectacle that would begin tomorrow. Coriolanus had walked its perimeter with quiet satisfaction, taking in the towering structures, the hidden traps, the layout that would decide the fate of the tributes—and, in many ways, his own.

The mentors had been given this final chance to inspect the space before the Games began, an opportunity to strategize, to prepare their tributes for what was to come. He had moved through the arena with purpose, eyes sharp, mind already working through every possible scenario that could unfold.

And you had been there, walking just a few paces ahead, your attention locked on your own tribute. The District 7 girl was, forgettable to most. Maybe a year or two younger than yourself, and the girl had found herself unable to stop crying. 

Though despite this rather obnoxious roadblock, you had taken your role seriously, whispering something to her in hushed tones, offering reassurances Coriolanus doubted would matter once the bloodbath began.

He had watched you, distracted for a moment by the sight of you in deep focus. Her eyes moving around the arena to try and come up with some plan for your tribute. With some plan to get her to survive and win. You were always so determined, so certain of yourself when it came to these things.

You caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Admiring the competition, Snow?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, but there was something playful in his voice when he responded, “Hardly. Just wondering how you plan to keep her alive when she looks like she’ll be the first to fall.”

Your smirk widened. “Oh, she’s tougher than she looks.”

That confidence, that unwavering belief, was something he had always found… compelling about you.

And yet, his mind was elsewhere. Always elsewhere.

His gaze flickered to Lucy Gray. She was a little farther away, tracing her fingers lightly over the rough edges of the arena walls, humming something under her breath. Coriolanus clenched his jaw. He needed her to survive. She was his tribute. His way forward. His future.

A future that had no room for failure.

Then, the world shattered.

Coriolanus Snow stood frozen amidst the chaos, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as smoke and dust filled the air, stinging his eyes and burning his throat. The world around him was a blur of destruction, the crumbling remnants of what had once been a pristine arena. 

What was meant to be an ordinary scouting mission of strategy had turned into something far worse. His mind raced, but everything felt heavy, slow, as if he were trapped in a nightmare.

It had all gone wrong so quickly.

Coriolanus’s breath left him as the explosion rocked the arena, tearing apart the walls, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. Rebel activity, he thought. It had to be. His mind struggled to make sense of it, but the ringing in his ears drowned out everything.

The Capitol had never been prepared for this. This wasn’t just a Game—it was something far darker, far more violent. Rebel bombs had torn through the arena, and the deafening sounds of explosions still echoed through his skull, each blast another reminder of the destruction.

The screams of tributes and mentors filled the air, a cacophony of terror. The acrid stench of burning flesh mixed with smoke, overwhelming his senses, turning his stomach.

He stood motionless for a moment, his gaze scanning the devastation, trying to find something familiar, someone—anyone—alive. His chest tightened, panic rising within him, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Where are you?

His eyes darted over the ruins. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that it drowned out the sounds of chaos. Dust and debris clouded everything, but then—there, amidst the rubble—he saw you.

You, the girl he loved.

A chunk of concrete had struck your head in the explosion, and another piece pinned you to the ground. Your body lay motionless in the wreckage, blood pooling beneath you, staining the earth. Your chest rising and falling in short shallow breaths.

The sight of it made his heart stop. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to vanish.

No. Not you.

His legs felt weak as he stumbled forward, but before he could reach you, his name was called.

“Coriolanus!”

He whipped his head toward the sound. It was Lucy Gray, his tribute. She was trapped beneath a heavy beam, her face twisted in pain, but her eyes—they were wide, frantic, desperate, looking directly at him.

Lucy Gray needed him. She needed him alive, she needed his help, and he needed her. Everything, his future, his plans—they all depended on her surviving this. She was the one who could carry him to victory in the Games. She was the one who would secure his place in the Capitol’s grand design.

His heart stuttered in his chest. Lucy Gray was alive.

But you… His eyes flickered back to you, and for a moment, everything in his body screamed to go to you. You were the one who mattered. You were his world. You…

But there was no time. The explosions were still echoing in the distance, the arena was collapsing, and Lucy Gray needed him. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t hesitate.

In an instant, he made his decision. He turned from you and rushed toward Lucy Gray, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.

His hands grabbed the beam pinning her leg. His muscles screamed as he heaved, pulling, fighting against the weight of the debris. His mind raced, his body strained against the growing panic and fear.

“Hold still,” he commanded, his voice more forceful than he felt, though it quivered slightly. Lucy Gray’s eyes met his, silently acknowledging his presence, her gratitude shimmering through her pain. She didn’t cry out as he slowly lifted the beam, inch by inch, her breath shallow but steady.

When the beam finally came free, Lucy Gray wobbled but didn’t fall. She still couldn’t stand on her own, but she was alive. She was breathing.

Coriolanus’s heart hammered in his chest as he helped her to her feet, steadying her against him. She leaned into him, her head tilting back slightly, her eyes half-lidded, but her grip was firm. She whispered a quiet, “Thank you,” her voice soft but laced with something much more powerful—gratitude, reliance.

His chest tightened, the weight of his actions pressing down on him. He had made his choice, and though part of him ached, he couldn’t focus on that now. He had to survive. They had to get out of here.

He turned, helping Lucy Gray limp through the wreckage, but as they moved, his eyes flickered back toward you. He hadn’t forgotten you—not entirely. His heart ached, his mind tortured by the image of you, lying there, blood staining the ground. But the explosion was still ringing in his ears. He had to keep moving.

Then, the ground beneath them trembled once more.

Another bomb.

The force of the blast threw Coriolanus and Lucy Gray apart. He hit the ground hard, his body slamming into the dirt with a sickening thud. His vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening. A heavy piece of concrete landed on him, pinning him down, the heat of it searing through his skin. Metal rods from the shattered arena pierced through the rubble, burning against his body.

“Lucy Gray!” he shouted hoarsely, though his voice was barely more than a whisper beneath the increasing roar of chaos around him. He wasn’t sure if she could hear him, but he had to try.

Through the thick smoke and swirling dust, he caught sight of her—just a flash of that rainbow dress she wore—moving toward him. She was limping, struggling, but she was coming.

But everything else blurred as the pain in his head intensified. He couldn’t focus. He didn’t know if it was the blood rushing to his brain or the bomb’s force, but his vision swam, his head spinning, and everything around him seemed to slip away.

Lucy Gray was reaching for him, her hands shaking as she tried to pull the concrete off. Her hands, torn and bloodied, failed to move the heavy wreckage, and Coriolanus could see the desperation in her eyes. But before she could try again, a Peacekeeper appeared, pulling her away from him.

“Coriolanus!” she shouted as they dragged her back, but the sound of her voice faded as everything around him went dark.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

When Coriolanus woke, the world felt distant, hazy. His head throbbed, his limbs ached, and his vision swam as he tried to focus. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his nose, mingling with the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Everything was too bright, too sharp, yet his mind was dulled, struggling to piece together what had happened.

“He’s awake,” a voice murmured, familiar yet strained.

Blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights, his gaze landed on Sejanus, who stood at his bedside, his face drawn with worry but tinged with relief. Just beyond him, his cousin Tigris sat stiffly in a chair, her usual composed demeanor softened by something unreadable in her expression.

Coriolanus swallowed, his throat dry and raw. “Where…” His voice cracked, the words foreign on his tongue. He tried again. “Where am I?”

“The Capitol’s medical wing,” Sejanus answered gently. “You were caught in the explosion. A piece of concrete hit you. You’re lucky to be alive.”

The explosion. The arena. The rebels. It all came back in fragments—fire and smoke, screaming voices, the ground shaking beneath him. Lucy Gray. His heart stuttered, his thoughts sharpening with sudden urgency.

“Lucy Gray,” he rasped. “Lucy Gray, is she… is she alive? Is she alright?”

Tigris gave a small nod, her expression solemn. “She’s fine. A few bruises it seems nothing serious. Look,” she said, nodding to the tv mounted on the wall.

And as Coryo looked to the tv, there she was, his tribute. His songbird, Lucy Gray, singing to the Capital. The last efforts to get sponsors for the games.

She was alright. She was alive. She could still win.

Relief flooded through him, loosening the tightness in his chest. The words echoed in his mind, steadying him. But something still felt off. There was an unease curling in his stomach, a gap in his memory that made his skin prickle.

His brows furrowed. “And… the others?” He glanced between Sejanus and Tigris, searching for something—he wasn’t sure what.

Sejanus hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. His gaze flickered away for a brief moment before he met Coriolanus’s eyes again. “Coryo,” he said slowly, carefully. “You don’t remember?”

The confusion deepened. “Remember what?”

A heavy silence hung between them before Sejanus sighed. “Y/N…” he said quietly. “She was with you when the explosion hit the first time,”

The words sent a strange jolt through Coriolanus’s chest. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing.

“She’s just two beds over,” Tigris cut in, “She made it, but… she was hurt. Badly.”

Coriolanus turned his head slightly, but the motion made his vision tilt. He couldn’t see past the curtain dividing his bed from the next. His mind scrambled for the last clear image he had of you.

Then it hit him—you, lying motionless in the dirt, blood pooling beneath you, trapped beneath debris. He had seen you. He had almost gone to you.

Almost.

His throat tightened. “She’s alive?” he asked, though his voice was barely more than a whisper.

Sejanus nodded, but his face was grim. “She is. But she had severe injuries. Internal bleeding. Concussion. They needed to operate…” He hesitated, his voice dropping lower. “They don’t know if she’ll wake up. They’re just waiting now,”

Something cold settled in Coriolanus’s stomach, seeping into his bones. He felt… off-balance, like the world had shifted under his feet.

Coriolanus swallowed, his throat tightening as the weight of it all settled over him. You were fighting for your life, just a few feet away, and yet…

Yet, he didn’t regret it.

Guilt curled in his chest, but it wasn’t the kind that consumed him. It was distant, like an echo of something he should feel more strongly. But regret? No. He had done what he had to do. Lucy Gray was his tribute. His future. His way forward. His way out of poverty and back into the good graces of Capital Society. 

You… you had been his girl. But what could he have done? He had needed Lucy Gray in that moment, needed her to survive. For both of them. For all of you.

He exhaled slowly, forcing the tightness in his chest to loosen.

Tigris was watching him closely, as if searching for something. He met her gaze and gave a small, careful nod.

“She’s strong,” Tigris repeated, as if reminding him, “I’m sure she’ll be alright, Coryo..”

Coriolanus didn’t respond. He turned his head slightly, his gaze flickering toward the curtain that separated him from you. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He had made his choice.

And he wouldn’t take it back.

Because in the end, when everything had been falling apart, he had made his choice.

And it hadn’t been you.

[onlybeeewrites]

What are The Odds

Pairing: plantonic (?) Haymitch x fem!reader, Burdock Everdeen x sister!reader, plantonic!Maysilee Donner x reader, Asterid March x reader

word count: 2.5k

Summary: Y/N was always stuck in the middle of good and bad luck. But what happens when maybe her luck finally runs out?

Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SUNRISE ON THE REAPING!! violence, blood, death, cursings

What are the Odds: Next

A/N: THANK YOU GUYS for all the requests I’ve gotten! I promise I’m gonna get to them soon in the next few weeks. But I’m almost done with Sunrise on the Repaing (I have like 3/4 chapters left) and I needed to write. So pls feel free to send in any requests for SOTR <3 thank yall and enjoyyy

~~~~~~~~~~

The morning was crisp, the air biting at the exposed skin of your calves.  Where the end of your dress ends, just a few inches until the tops of your boots begin. 

As you step out of your small home in the Seam, the weight of the day’s significance hanging over you like a heavy fog. It was funny. How such a terrible day could look so beautiful.

As the morning sun started to shine down, the clouds above them almost too perfect. Too perfect for this terrible, terrible day. Because today was the Reaping.

Not just any Reaping though.

No.

Because that would be too easy. No, today is the Reaping for the 50th Hunger Games. The second ever Quarter Quell. And this year? The Capital was especially cruel as they announced just two weeks ago that twice the amount of tributes would be entered into the games.

Two boys and two girls from each district.

48 tributes.

And the whole district felt it. The weight that suffocated your small district. The sword that hung over your heads. It hard to ignore the tension in the streets of District 12, of the Seam. 

The square will be filled with hopeful faces, but you can’t help but feel a cold knot in your stomach. Her hands tightening around the small paper bound package, not much bigger than a roll from the bakery.

Beside you, your twin brother, Burdock walks with his broad shoulders hunched against the growing warmth of the morning. 

Both of your boots crunch against the dirt and gravel of the ground. The two of you silent as you head through the Seam and towards the center of town. Around you, lingering kids do the same. 

But know Burdie is already gearing up to say something about your usual “distractions” today. You do it every year. The same packaging in your hands. A little hope in the dark time of July 4th. 

“I saw you,” he says, nudging you with his elbow, his voice a low, teasing growl. His eyes narrowing down on you. “Making eyes at Haymitch again? You know better than that, Smalls,”

Smalls. You hated that he called you that. You had always been shorter than him, not by much. But you have. 

You roll your eyes, shoving him lightly. “I wasn’t making eyes at him. You’re imagining things, Burdock. Why would I made eyes at Haymitch?” You ask as if it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. But your twin knew better. 

“Oh, right, like you weren’t just staring at him across the Hobb yesterday.” His voice takes on an exaggerated, sarcastic tone. “What’s next, you going to hand him a love letter too? I’m sure Lenore Dove wouldn’t appreciate that,”

Lenor Dove. Your beautiful, and fierce cousin. The troublemaker. And Haymitch’s girl. 

You huff, pursing your lips as you push the thoughts away. You weren’t angry with your cousin. You couldn’t blame her for falling for Haymitch. With his wit, the charm, everything about him was magnetic.

But you’re too stubborn and embarrassed to admit that, let alone let Burdock know that his teasing is getting to you. “I wasn’t staring. I was trading. He just so happened to be in that direction,” she said simply.

“Uh-huh.” He smirks, clearly enjoying the way his teasing is getting under your skin. “Well, maybe you should be careful, or he or Lenore Dove might think you’re a little too… interested.”

“Trust me, I’m not,” you mutter under your breath, though you’re unsure who you’re trying to convince. But the last thing you wanted to do was get between your cousin and her guy, who also is happens to be your brother’s best friend.

Burdock smirks and nudges you again. “You know better, Smalls. Besides, you can do better than Abernathy. So can Lenore Dove but god forbid we tell her that,” 

“Yeah I’ll keep that in mind for when I see Asterid,” you added, a smirk growing on your own face as you bring up your brother’s crush. Well, more like unofficial girl. Though the whole district probably knew about their feelings for each other. 

Though before he could retaliate with another word, the two of you approached the town square. The whole space has been transformed for the day’s festivities. Banners of Panem were hung. Large screens and other decorative items. 

And then ahead of you, a figure emerges from the crowd—Haymitch. The air feels like it shifts when you see him, and for a second, everything else fades into the background. He walks towards you both, his face shadowed though his usual smug expression crossed his face, hands in his pockets.

You step forward, swallowing back the nerves swirling in your stomach, hand over the package. “Hey, Haymitch,” you say softly, your voice trying to sound like everything was normal. Like the odds weren’t completely stacked against all of you. 

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of surprise flickering in his gaze when you hand him the gift. “What’s this?” he asks, his voice giving away the curiosity growing as he takes it from you.

“Happy birthday,” you say quickly, offering a shy smile. “I made it for you.”

His expression softens for a moment, though he’s quick to hide it behind his usual guarded look. He pulls the wrapping away with practiced hands, revealing a small leather bracelet, the stitches tight and neat. It’s simple, but it’s a piece of you—something you put effort into, something that’s yours to give. 

You always tried to give him something handmade, or something he could use. With the hunting your family does, it gives a little extra coin. But this year with the Quarter Quell? Something in your stomach told you do to it. You just weren’t sure if it was for you, or him.

Burdock, standing a little behind you, rolls his eyes and mutters just loud enough for you to hear, “Gods, you’re so weird.”

Haymitch chuckles low, glancing at Burdock with a smirk. “She’s considerate, Burdie. That’s more than I can say for you.”

You quickly step back, feeling a flush creeping up your neck at Burdock’s teasing. “I have to go,” you say, your heart racing a little faster as the reaping draws closer. You don’t want to linger too long.

You look between the two boys, “I’ll see you guys afterward,” you say, giving your brother a hug and Haymitch a nod and smile before going and checking in. Afterwards,  youtoward the girl’s side of the square, the weight of the moment sinking in as you join the others, trying to push away the nerves, the fear, the uncertainty.

As you reach your spot in the crowd, you find your group of friends. Asterid March, and Maysilee and Merrilee Donner.

 you glance back one last time at Haymitch, who’s now inspecting the bracelet with a small smile. Burdock is standing beside him, muttering something that you can’t hear, but you catch the shake of Haymitch’s head, that wry grin on his face.

For a moment, everything feels normal. For a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. But you know that’s not true. Today, everything will change.

And as you stand there, heart thumping in your chest, you know that you’ll never forget this moment, even if it’s the last one that ever feels like it.

The square is packed, the air thick with a mix of anticipation and dread. The Capitol’s anthem blares from the loudspeakers, a stark contrast to the somber faces of the District 12 residents. The parents and families of all the children packed away in the square like animals. Watching and waiting to see which four unlucky children get picked.

Which four they have to mourn this year.

It wasn’t long before the mayor gave her speech. Replaying the clips and propaganda of the Dark Days, the games, and the past Hunger Games.

Drusilla Sickle, the Capitol-appointed escort, steps onto the stage not long after. Her presence is as flamboyant as ever, her face adorned with thumbtacks and tiny buzz saw blades, a grotesque display of Capitol fashion. She raises her hand as she begins, and you feel the knot in your stomach growing, playing with the ring on your right ring finger. 

“Welcome, District 12!” Drusilla’s voice rings out, dripping with feigned enthusiasm. “Today, we gather for the 50th Hunger Games Reaping, a special Quarter Quell year,” she said adjusting her clothes again.

Drusilla continues, her tone mocking. “First, we shall select our female tributes.” She turns to the glass bowl beside her, swirling her hand inside before pulling out a slip of paper. Unfolding it, she announces, “Louella McCoy!”

You feel absolutely sick. You know Louella. A little girl from the Seam, just down the street. You had seen her grow up. Knew her family. You helped them as much as you could. 

And as you watched, Louella steps forward, her face pale, eyes wide with fear. Though she doesn’t cry. She slowly joins Drusilla on the stage, standing stiffly beside her. And you try not to think 

Drusilla’s hand delves back into the bowl, and she pulls out another slip. “And for the second female tribute. Y/N Everdeen!”

Your breath catches in your throat. Your name. Your heart races as you feel the weight of countless eyes upon you. Burdock’s gaze meets yours across the square, his face a mixture of concern and helplessness. 

But you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not when your blood has absolutely run cold. You were going to die. It was as simple as that. You were a hunter sure. But hunting animals were much different than hunting humans.

So incredibly different. 

So how the hell were you supposed to do this? Against 47 other tributes? 12 of them being Careers.

Swallowing harshly, you finally snap out of your daze. You turn to your three friends give them biggest hug you could muster. And before you leave, your eyes land on Asterid, “Take care of my brother. Please,”

A final wish. You can’t imagine what your death would have on your twin. The guilt he may feel. Would he tell stories about you to his children? Would Asterid? Or would you be a missing piece of him that he never speaks about.

You hear people crying off to the side. Ma. It’s your parents. But still, you school your features the best you could while you force your legs to move, each step heavier than the last, until you stand beside Louella on the stage. And you don’t look anywhere in particular. Just staring off into the crowd of kids that you grew up around. Grew up with. 

Drusilla gives a theatrical sigh, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Now, for our male tributes.”

She draws a name. “Wyatt Callow!”

Wyatt, known for his quick wit and math skills. His family are gamblers. He was always the one picking out the odds of things. Especially when the games came around, he was particularly handy to his father and brothers. 

Drusilla reaches into the glass bowl again, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulls out the second slip. “Woodbine Chance!”

Woodbine, a lanky boy with wild eyes, freezes. His gaze flickers toward the crowd, then back to Drusilla. He walks out to the aisle that leads to the stage and pauses for a moment. 

Then without warning, he turns and bolts, pushing past Peacekeepers and scattering bystanders. A gasp ripples through the crowd.

“Stop him!” Drusilla shrieks, her voice high-pitched with panic, echoing into the microphone and bouncing off the walls of the square.

The Peacekeepers react swiftly, drawing their weapons. Woodbine’s desperate sprint is cut short as a single shot rings out from the rooftop of the justice building. The gunshot echoing through the square. 

He collapses, lifeless, his defiance snuffed out in an instant. Woodbine is sprawled on the ground, a dark stain spreading beneath him, his wild eyes frozen open.

Then, everything erupts into chaos.

Someone screams—a raw, broken sound that cuts through the cold morning air. Peacekeepers move in a blur, shouting orders, raising their rifles. The crowd surges in confusion, some people shoving to get away, others frozen in place. A woman—Woodbine’s mother, maybe—cries out his name before a Peacekeeper tries shoves her back from the body of her boy. 

You barely register any of it. Your body moves on instinct. Louella is beside you, trembling. Without thinking, you grab her and shove her down, pressing her against the stage, your own body curling over hers.

“Stay down,” you whisper, though your voice is swallowed by the rising panic.

A second shot rings out. Then another.

Something cracks against the stage beside you—wood splintering, or maybe stone. You squeeze your eyes shut, tightening your grip around Louella as she shakes beneath you. Her fingers clutch at your sleeve. 

People are shouting, Peacekeepers are barking orders, but it all blurs together, muffled, distant. You focus on the rough wood beneath your hands, the sharp edges digging into your palms, the way Louella’s breath stutters beneath you.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the chaos dulls. The shouting ebbs, the frantic movement slows.

You don’t move. You don’t lift your head.

A voice—sharp, commanding—cuts through the settling dust. “Get them up.”

Hands grab at you, hauling you off Louella. Your legs buckle as they drag you upright. The world tilts and sways, your vision swimming. Louella is being pulled to her feet beside you, her face pale, her eyes wide.

Drusilla Sickle stands at the podium again, though her elaborate Capitol mask of composure is cracked at the edges. Her mouth is tight, her hands trembling as she smooths down her ridiculous outfit.

“Well,” she says, voice brittle. “That was… unfortunate.”

The Peacekeepers have formed a barricade around the stage, their rifles held stiffly at their sides. In the square, bodies are still. Woodbine is gone—dragged away, erased.

Drusilla clears her throat, shaking out a new slip of paper with a forced smile. “Let’s try that again, shall we? Back to your places! We only have a few minuets!”

You have no idea what’s going on before the peacekeepers bring you and Louella and Wyatt back into the crowds. Right where you were.

Stunned, you realized what was happening. The beer making you do everything all over again. And for what? The camera? You try your best to seem like this was the first time. But it’s almost worse knowing what’s coming.

Louella is called again. Then you. Then Wyatt.

But it’s the name she reads next makes your stomach drop.

“Haymitch Abernathy.”

No. No no the second boy was already called. It was Woodbine. They couldn’t get replacement. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. Not for Haymitch. Not for anyone who saw what really happened.

You wanted to scream. To shout. To cry that Haymitch didn’t deserve to be sent to the games like you, or Wyatt, or little Louella. But no sound came out. Like they completely stole your voice from you.

A silent murmur ripples through the crowd. You turn your head just in time to see Haymitch step forward, his usual smirk absent, his expression unreadable. Why had they called him? What did he do to get himself here? Or were the odds not in his favor.

He takes his place beside Wyatt Callow. The four of you—Louella, Haymitch, Wyatt, and yourself—stand before District 12, before the Capitol’s watching eyes.

Drusilla claps her hands together, as if that will erase the blood, the fear, the chaos.

“There we have it! Our tributes for the 50th Hunger Games!”

The anthem plays. The ceremony continues until it wraps up. 

As if nothing happened at all.

As if you, Wyatt, Louella and Haymitch didn’t just have a promise of your deaths handed to you on a silver tray.

[onlybeeewrites]

A Soothing Touch

Request: If youre taking requests can you write something where the reader is having very bad period cramps all day especially when the reader and Finnick are trying to sleep at night so Finnick rubs her stomach and it feels really good and helps until she falls asleep

Pairing: Finnick Oskar x Fem!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: period cramps! That’s it, soft!Finnick <3

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You woke before the first call bell.

It was the familiar pain that greeted you—dull, insistent, and already pulsing through your lower abdomen like a warning siren. You lay still, hoping the cramps might pass if you didn’t move, but they only seemed to grow stronger the longer you waited.

With a soft groan, you pushed yourself upright. Every movement felt like dragging your body through quicksand. Your limbs were heavy, sore, and your stomach… gods, your stomach felt like it was being wrung out by invisible fists.

You winced as you bent over to pull on your grey jumpsuit, the fabric stiff and unkind against your already sensitive skin. Even the smallest things—like tugging the zipper up—made you want to cry out. But you didn’t. You never did.

The scent of the kitchens already lingered in the hallway as you stepped outside your compartment—boiled starch, onions, and vaguely metallic meat rations.

It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was familiar. You pressed a hand to your abdomen, steadying yourself. There was no stopping now. Not in District 13. Not with your shift starting soon.

And besides… they were just cramps. You could push through them. You always had.

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The kitchen was already alive when you arrived. The clatter of knives, the hiss of steam, orders being tossed across the room like hot potatoes. It was intense, claustrophobic even, but it was yours. A place where you could keep your hands moving and your mind quiet.

You’d always found some small comfort in kitchens—even back in District 4, when your hands were smaller and your burdens different. 

Cooking, baking, prepping meals for your family or neighbors had always been your way of giving love when you had nothing else. Something about feeding people made the world feel a little softer, a little safer.

But today? Today your body was screaming.

You were assigned to prep for the evening meal: root vegetables, stews thickened with lentils, and trays of hard, rationed bread. 

You peeled potatoes until your fingers felt raw. Chopped carrots until your vision blurred. Stirred massive vats of soup as steam coated your face.

Every few minutes, the pain in your stomach would seize you again—sharp and relentless. You’d pause, pressing a palm to your belly, trying to breathe through it.

“You alright?” Tessa, a tall, sharp-eyed girl from District 10, glanced over from the other end of the table.

“Fine,” you managed, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just a bad day. I’ll live.”

She eyed you for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push. Just nodded once and returned to slicing onions.

You soldiered on. You always did.

By the time your shift ended, you were practically dragging your feet through the hallway. Every step sent a pulse of pain through your abdomen.

Your back ached from lifting trays and stirring pots, your legs wobbled beneath you, and your stomach was still twisting in knots.

Your hands trembled as you pressed the door panel to your quarters. The metal hissed open, and you stumbled inside.

Finnick was already there, lounging on the bed with his back against the wall, shirt discarded and pants hanging low on his hips. His sea-green eyes immediately lifted to you, softening as they landed on your face.

“You’re late,” he said gently, sitting up straighter. “Everything okay?”

“Long shift,” you replied, barely able to stand. “Just… feeling awful today.”

He was on his feet in seconds, meeting you halfway. “What kind of awful?” he asked, his tone dipping into that soft, protective place he only used with you.

You shook your head, wincing as another cramp rolled through you. “Period. Bad one. Started this morning and just kept getting worse.”

“Sweetheart…” His voice was nothing but tenderness now. He reached for your arm, guiding you toward the bed. “You should’ve come back earlier.”

“I couldn’t,” you murmured. “They needed help. Besides, they’re just cramps. I can handle it.”

Finnick frowned as you slowly changed into your loose cotton pajamas, trying to hide the way you had to bite your lip to stay quiet when you bent over.

“You don’t have to handle everything alone, you know,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. “If you weren’t feeling well, you could’ve left. They would have understand.”

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” you whispered. “It’s just… that’s how life works here. You push through.” You insist.

He took your hands, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “That might be how they do it. But when you come home to me, I’m not letting you push through alone.”

You finally met his gaze, your throat tightening with the weight of the day. The pain. The pressure. The exhaustion. “It’s just… really bad,” you whispered, curling your knees to your chest.

Finnick gently moved closer. “Can I touch you?” he asked, his hand hovering near your waist. “Might help. I’ll be gentle, promise.”

You nodded wordlessly.

He slid his hand across your stomach, fingers warm and patient, rubbing slow circles through the fabric. You let out a soft breath, your body slowly starting to unclench under his touch.

“Better?” he asked after a moment.

“A little,” you whispered. “You’re warm. That helps.”

“You should’ve stayed in bed this morning,” he murmured. “I would’ve brought you breakfast. Stolen something sweet from the ration cart. Whatever you needed.”

You laughed quietly, but it ended in a wince. “I didn’t think they’d get this bad. Usually I can handle them. Today was… different.”

Finnick scooted behind you, guiding you to lie down with him, his chest pressed against your back, his arm wrapped around your middle. His hand continued its gentle motion, never stopping.

“You’re not caving for being in pain,” he whispered against your shoulder, “besides it’s not your fault. I know they can get bad..”

You turned your head slightly. “I feel pathetic,”

“You’re anything but,” he said firmly, but amusement lacing his tone. “You’re on your period, my love. You worked all day while your body was waging war on you. That’s not pathetic. Give yourself some credit,”

You were silent for a beat, letting those words settle in your chest. His touch, his warmth, his voice—it all worked together like some kind of magic.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” you said softly.

“I’m glad,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s kind of my job, isn’t it?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Your job?”

“Mmm. Official Finnick Odair role: Protector of You. Keeper of Comfy Pajamas. Slayer of Cramps.”

“Slayer of cramps, huh?” you echoed, smiling into the pillow.

“Well,” he teased, nuzzling the back of your neck, “I like to think I’m pretty heroic.”

“You kind of are,” you admitted sleepily. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

His fingers slowed, his touch becoming softer, almost like a lullaby. Your body, still sore and aching, finally began to let go of the tension it had clung to all day. His presence wrapped around you like a blanket, and for the first time in hours, you could breathe.

Finnick’s voice was the last thing you heard before sleep crept in.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Sleep. I’m right here.”

And you did. Wrapped in warmth and saltwater softness, the pain faded into the background. Not gone, but not winning either.

Because with him, everything was better.

Finnick was gentle and steady and completely yours.

[onlybeeewrites]

What are the Odds (2/ )

Pairing: light Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader, Haymitch Abernathy x Lenore Dove (mentioned/referred), very light Wyatt Callow x Fem!reader

Word count: 3k

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SUNRISE ON THE REAPING!, light violence, mentions of death

What are the Odds series: Previous

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. This was all one terrible nightmare. And soon you’d wake up next to Burdock. With your Ma’s cooking in the air while she hummed, Pa sitting in his chair by the fire. and everything would be okay.

But a part of you knew this was a nightmare you’d never wake up from. This was a living nightmare featuring you and your friends. Your peers. Innocents that had done nothing wrong, being punished for those who simply wanted to be free.

The still shock clung to you like the coal dust that stained your home. It sunk into your skin, into your lungs, into your bones. You felt it in the weight pressing down on your chest, in the ringing in your ears that muffled everything else.

The world had moved on without you, the anthem playing, people speaking, names being read. But you were stuck. Frozen in the moment your name had been pulled from that bowl. But you refused to allow the Capital to see it.

Your schooled features were all you allowed them to see. The inner thoughts and panic were all your own. A silent weight that sunk deeper and deeper.

Though you were still trying to process it. Who could truly blame you? Out of all the kids in District 12, they had picked you.

District 12 was not that large. Twice as many tributes, twice as many names, twice the deaths. The odds had been worse this year, you knew that. You should have been prepared for the possibility. And yet—

You had never actually believed it would be you.

Or Haymitch. Or Louella. Or Wyatt.

People you knew. People you had laughed with, fought with, lived with. People you grew up with? How were you supposed to survive? How were you supposed to get home?

How awful. How absolutely awful this whole thing was.

You barely heard the conversation as Drusella, who remained you of a canary, wrapped up the hole thing. The square started to empty, though it seemed they were all hesitant to go. As if it would be the last time they saw the four of you—which you supposed it was.

That was until a sharp voice cut through the haze of your mind, causing you to snap back to the present.

“You.”

The man—Plutarch, you think—pointed at Louella first. Then he hesitated, scanning the rest of you before his gaze settled between Wyatt, Haymitch, and you.

“And you,” he finally decided, his finger landing on Haymitch.

Your escort took a pause, then with a flick of his wrist. Dismissive. Like none of you were even people to her. Just names. Just bodies to be moved. Animals to corral.

“Fine. Make sure they’re on the car for the train in five minutes.” She said as she pulled out a cigarette and left the stage, heading out behind the Justice Building.

Then, everything moved too fast.

The Peacekeepers pulled Louella and Haymitch away first, leading them toward the crowd, toward whatever sick Capitol production they were staging. Maybe they wanted a shot of their tearful goodbyes. Maybe they were filming a show of strength, proving how easily they could take your people and turn them into sacrifices.

But you didn’t care about that.

Because the second rough hands clamped around your arms, the second cold metal cuffs snapped around your wrists, it hit you.

They weren’t going to let you say goodbye.

“No, wait,” you gasped, jerking back, your pulse spiking. The panic ran through you like ice water. The Peacekeepers barely reacted, just kept marching forward, starting to pull you along like dead weight.

The cuffs bit into your skin as you twisted against them. “Let me come! Let me say goodbye! It’s the least you can do!”

They didn’t slow. If anything, they moved faster.

“No, please—please!”

Your feet dragged against the dirt, the heels of your boots skidding as you fought against their grip. But they were stronger. Larger.

No matter how hard you dug in, they kept moving. Through the entrance of the Justice Building. Past the halls lined with closed doors—doors that should have been open, should have had your family behind them. But you wouldn’t get that. No final words, no last embrace.

Only this. An unforgiving last glance at your family in the crowd from the stage.

Only the cold hands forcing you forward, out into the back of the building where a black truck sat waiting idle for the four of you.

“Please, just let me—”

“Shut it.”

The first warning.

You twisted harder, your heart slamming against your ribs. Your wrists throbbed where the cuffs cut into your skin, but you barely noticed. All you could think was no, no, no, I can’t leave like this. Not like this.

“I just—please—I just need a minute! Just—“

“I said shut it.”

The second warning.

Then came the pain.

The stun baton cracked against your ribs, and your whole body lit up with agony. Electricity surged through your nerves, burning from the inside out.

Your legs collapsed before you even registered what had happened. The breath was punched from your lungs, your muscles locking up as you hit the gravel beneath you.

Your head spun. The world flickered in and out of focus for a moment.

And still, they didn’t stop. They didn’t give you a moment to pull yourself back together.

Hands yanked you up again, too rough, too fast. The cuffs dug deeper as they forced you forward, your body struggling to keep up. Your limbs felt useless, trembling, weak. The only thing keeping you upright was the strong grip that caught your arm before you could fall again.

Wyatt.

He was cuffed too, his face tight with but showing no emotion. But he didn’t fight them, though. Didn’t waste his breath. He just held on, his grip steady, solid, anchoring you in place as the Peacekeepers shoved you both toward the truck.

He helped you inside, guiding you when your legs refused to work, your mind still lost in the haze of pain.

Then the doors slammed shut behind you.

Darkness.

No goodbyes. No last words.

Not for you, at least.

Not to your Ma or Pa. Not to Lenore Dove, who used to sing with you by the old fence line. Not to Burdock—your brother, your blood. The person who had been by your side through everything.

Your heart broke and you squeezed your eyes shut. Your head leaning back against the cool metal of the truck.

For the first time since they called your name, the fear finally, truly sank in. You allowed it to. Better now without the cameras. Better to do it now until every moment from here on out is recorded and shown on screen.

The truck’s interior was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a small, barred window near the ceiling. The air was stale, carrying the faint scent of rust and oil. You sat on the cold metal bench, wrists bound in front of you, the sting from the stun baton still resonating through your ribs. Wyatt sat beside you, his own hands cuffed, his expression unreadable as he stared at the floor.

But it was company. You’d known Wyatt from school. Knew that he was different than the rest of his brother’s, or even his father. The way his brain worked was fascinating. But now? Now he was a welcome comfort of company as you both faced the same death sentence.

Minutes passed in oppressive silence, each second stretching longer than the last. The weight of what had just transpired pressed heavily upon you, making it hard to breathe. Your mind raced, replaying the events over and over, searching for some way this could all be undone.

The truck’s rear doors swung open abruptly, the sudden influx of light causing you to squint. Two Peacekeepers stood silhouetted against the brightness, their grips firm on Louella’s arms as they hoisted her into the vehicle. She stumbled slightly, her eyes wide and glassy, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor. The doors clanged shut behind her, plunging the three of you back into semi-darkness.

Louella took a shaky breath, her gaze darting between you and Wyatt, before landing back on you. “Are you both… okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded numbly, not trusting your voice to remain steady. Wyatt offered a curt nod as well, his jaw clenched tightly. But didn’t respond.

You weren’t alright. None of you were. You were all going to be dead this time by next week. How were you supposed to comfort Louella? Were you supposed to lie and make a promise you couldn’t keep?

Another agonizing minute crawled by. Then another one before the doors opened once more. This time, it was Haymitch. He was ushered in more roughly than Louella had been, but the tension in his posture was evident. His eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of something passing through them before he settled onto the bench opposite you.

The four of you sat in silence, the weight of your collective fate hanging heavily in the confined space. The truck’s engine roared to life, and with a jolt, you began moving, the vibrations rattling through the metal floor beneath your feet.

As the vehicle rumbled over the uneven roads of District 12, you couldn’t help but think of the families left behind, the goodbyes that were stolen from you. The image of your parents’ faces, etched with worry and grief, flashed before your eyes. Burdock’s teasing smirk, now a distant memory, felt like a cruel reminder of the life you were being torn away from.

The journey to the train was brief. The truck came to a halt, and the doors were opened once more. Bright daylight flooded in, revealing the imposing structure of the train station. The Peacekeepers gestured for you to exit, their expressions impassive.

One by one, you stepped out, the cuffs around your wrists a constant reminder of your captivity. The train before you was sleek and opulent, a stark contrast to the grim reality you faced. Its polished exterior gleamed under the sun, a symbol of the Capitol’s excess and control.

Though the next few parts were a bit of blur. All you remembered was being shoved forward onto the train platform and then into the train.

The next thing you had known was the four of you were sitting in chairs. Wyatt was next to you, Louella across, and Haymitch was diagonal.

Your mind kind of shut out for a moment as Drusilla rambled on in annoyance at the four of you. She had mentioned something about mentors.

Since District 12 had no live mentors, they would be assigned one from one of the other districts. Spares for the outliers. You remembered the last victor though. She wasn’t spoken about often. But you knew enough to know that whatever actually happened, wasn’t something they your family spoke about often.

It was a grief that moved on. But no one forgot her name. Not you. Not Lenore Dove. Or your uncles. You knew exactly where the missing covey girl was.

But one thing was for certain.

The four of you would be completely on your own.

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The train hummed beneath you, steady and ceaseless, a lullaby for the damned. You lay on the upper bunk of your shared room, facing the wall. Your knees drawn to your chest beneath the Capitol-issued blanket. The room was dim, lit only by the soft green glow of a control panel near the door.

Louella’s breathing was slow and even beneath you, curled up on the lower bunk, her arm draped over the edge like a doll left behind. Across the room, Wyatt was sprawled on his back in the bunk opposite, one foot hanging off, rather loud snores occasionally catching in his throat.

“That’s going to get him killed,” you think to yourself. In the arena. If Wyatt snored like that? He would be dead quicker than given the chance.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time your eyes closed, they were filled with images of home—of Burdock calling after you in the square, of Ma’s quiet smile, of the reaping stage, of Woodbine’s body hitting the ground, the gunshots, the crying.

Your fingers twisted the ring on your middle finger. The small copper thing was smooth from wear, the edges dulled by years of being fidgeted with. It had belonged to your grandmother. You’d taken to spinning it around your fingers when you were little, back when bad dreams were your biggest fear.

Now, it was a tether, something to remind you that you were still here, still real. Something to keep you grounded.

Across the room, you noticed the faint shift of movement from the corner of your eye.

Haymitch.

He was sitting up in his bunk, elbow resting on his knee, turning something over in his hand. The light caught the object just right, flickering softly against the polished metal. You squinted, blinking past the shadows.

The flint striker.

Lenore Dove’s present.

Your breath caught slightly. You didn’t know why it surprised you to see it, but it did. Maybe because your cousin had been so excited to give it to him.

“Pretty with a purpose,” she had said to you when she told you of the idea. She had been so excited. She was so in love with him. A love like that was something you were so jealous of. Though you were unsure if it was because of the genuine love that they had for each other, or if it was because who Lenore Dove was in love with.

Haymitch looked up, catching you watching. He didn’t flinch or tuck it away, just held your gaze for a long moment in the dark.

You whispered first.

“She gave it to you,”

His voice was rough, low, barely above a breath. “Yeah, this morning. Before the Reaping,”

You smiled faintly, shifting to lie on your side, one arm tucked beneath your cheek as you whispered back, “I’m glad. She wouldn’t stop talking about it. It came out really pretty,”

He gave a quiet huff, something like a half-laugh, barely audible. “Yeah?” He asked, and you nodded.

“Yeah she came up with it months ago. Working out the design with Tam Amber. Watched over his shoulder and everything when making it,” you say though the memory was hard. How excited your cousin was when she had thought of the perfect gift for her guy.

Haymitch let out a soft hum as his thumb ran over the smooth surface again. As if hearing what you said made it even more dear to him; if that were even possible.

Silence settled again, soft and strange—not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just… quiet. The kind that only people who’ve lost the same thing could sit in. He had always understood you, just as he understood Burdock.

You traced the edge of your ring again, absently. “I thought I’d be more scared than this.”

Haymitch glanced over at you, his face unreadable in the dark. “You are scared,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re just not showing it. You’ve always done that. Even when we were kids. Putting on a brave face. But once you’re alone…then you’ll allow yourself to feel,”

You nodded a little, almost hating how well he knew you. Your tells. Your habits. Straight down to knowing how you’d handle situations like this. “You know me too much, Hay,”

He looked down at the striker again, turned it once more in his hand. “Yeah I know. Makes two of us though,”

You swallowed. You hadn’t expected that to matter as much as it did. But something in your chest unknotted, just a little.

The train hit a slight curve, the walls groaning softly. Louella shifted below you, mumbling something in her sleep. Wyatt rolled over.

“Do you think we’ll…” you started, then stopped.

“Live?” Haymitch finished, blunt and quiet.

You nodded.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I’m not going down easy. There are twice the amount of tributes. Twice the careers. The odds aren’t exactly looking great for us,”

You watched him for a second longer, then whispered, “I know. But we have to at least try, right? Or at least try and get Louella home..”

His thumb flicked over the striker, “Yeah. One of you girls,”

“Louella,” you corrected.

But Haymitch’s grey eyes flickered to yours again, “No. One of you girls. Your family needs you too, sweetheart. I know Ma and Sid will be taken care of when you get back.”

And there it was. That irritatingly sweet nickname he always called you. It started out as a condescending nickname a year or two ago. Everyone kept saying how sweet you were. How you were so willing to spare your own food to those who were hungry. To help out along the Seam, whether with laundry, or cleaning, or medicine.

But to Haymitch you were a menace. Which is why he couldn’t believe it when he heard someone referring to you as the sweetest girl in the District.

Though as you both grew older, it kind of stuck. And still, it gave you butterflies every time he called you that. You wondered if he’ll ever stop, not that you would want him to. But what did Lenore Dove think of it? Did she care?

“They have Burdock. And Burdock has Asterid. Sure, they’d grieve. But they’d move on. They’ll help your Ma and Sid. And eventually Burdie and Asterid will have some kids. The Everdeen will be alright without me, Hay.”

“You say that now. But you’re more depended on than you realize. They’ll grieve you harder than you’ll ever know. I know that for a damn fact,”

“Just promise you’ll look out for Louella. At least I can hunt. But she’s…” your voice trailed off softly as you couldn’t put it into words. You couldn’t say how she was a frail girl. A poor girl, from the poorest District in Panem. A twelve-year old with no experience even holding a weapon.

You could defend yourself. But Louella needed someone to keep an eye on her. And you would make sure to do just that. Louella needed to be the one who got home. She had no much ahead of her.

Haymitch stared at you for a moment, the flint striker between his fingers, “Fine.” He finally had said, “As long as you don’t try to be some hero and pull some self-sacrificing bullshit,” he then tucked the striker back under the collar of his shirt, arms behind his head.

“Alright.”

You turned back toward the wall, ring still on your middle finger, twisting softly.

Neither of you said another word, but sleep came a little bit easier after that.

[onlybeeewrites]

Choose Me

Request: Heyyyyy….me again…can I request where the reader is crushing on aaric graycastle….like she's having a really really bad crush….the ending is upto you darling 😘…angsty or fluffy

Pairing: Aaric Greycastle x Fem!reader

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: mild mentioned violence, cursing, Aaric’s true identity

A/N: this was so much fun to write!! This is also my first time writing for Aaric so please have mercy <3

~~~~~~~

The forest around you was thick with trees, their branches creaking in the wind of the early afternoon. You tried to ignore the ache in your side as you pushed forward, each step bringing a dull throb from the injury you’d sustained earlier thanks to that asshole from third wing.

It wasn’t deep—just a shallow cut from a branch that had whipped past you—but it still stung, especially now with the adrenaline of the Threshing fading away. Now leaving you with a deep toothed fear and anxiety of either not being chosen, or being burnt to a crisp if you did stumble upon a dragon.

Rhiannon seemed to leave out the part of how terrifying this actually was. The waiting. The stumbling around blindly. How your mind can play tricks and your thoughts become your worst enemy.

Your thoughts, however, weren’t focused on the pain. They were on him. Aaric Graycastle. The person who had haunted your thoughts for months since you crossed parapet. The same guy who was in your squad. The same one you’ve been in class with. Training with. Spending every day with for the past three months with. The one who always seemed to appear at just the right moment with his sharp wit and quiet confidence.

The one who, despite your best efforts, had wormed his way into your heart without even fucking trying. You knew you were being foolish. It was stupid. Ridiculously stupid.

Your best friend and squadmate, Sloane had pushed you to confess your feelings so many times. Almost too many times but you always hesitated. The idea of exposing yourself, of showing Aaric the depth of your feelings, felt like too much.

What if it ruined things? What if it changed your bond forever? You were squadmates. These were the people who you could trust and depend your life on. So would it be worth the risk? A sharp hiss of pain pulls your back from your thoughts, the sound slipping from your lips as you shifted the weight on your injured side. You winced, trying to ignore it considering you had bigger problems to focus on—like dragons to find and bond with, if you were lucky.

Then, the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping behind you caught your attention. You spun around, your hand instinctively reaching for the sword at your side. Your hand trembled as you prepared to fight for your life again.

But it was only Aaric who stepped out from the shadows of the foliage. His beautiful eyes softened when he saw you, and the concern in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. “What happened to you?” His voice was gentle but firm, and before you could even respond, his gaze dropped to the side of your body, where the fresh cut marred your leathers.

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to brush him off, but your voice faltered. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch from a run in with someone. I’ll live,” you insist. You didn’t need him worrying about you. Not when they had bigger things to worry about. Considering even less dragons are bonding this year, the odds weren’t in their favor.

He was at your side in an instant, his hands hovering over your injury before he grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not harsh. His brow furrowed, eyes flashing with something that looked an awful lot like panic.

“Nothing? That’s a gash, not a scratch,” he snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. You winced as he pushed back the edge of your leathers, his touch more forceful than usual, but not unkind.

“It’s not bad,” you insisted, trying to downplay it, but Aaric shot you a glare so fierce it nearly made you flinch more than the pain.

“It’s never ‘not bad’ with you,” he muttered, his fingers working quickly as he assessed the wound. “You always act like you’re fine when you’re not.” The warmth in his voice, the sheer intensity of his concern, sent a strange flutter through your chest.

But before you could even process it, he shook his head and went back to tending your wound, muttering under his breath. You swallowed, the heat rising in your cheeks. “It’s not your fault,” you reassured him, softer this time, but he didn’t look convinced. His focus was locked on you, like nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.

Then, a rustling sound broke through the tension. A low, rumbling growl followed. Your heart stuttered. Aaric stiffened beside you, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon.

And then from the shadows, the dragon emerged. The moment was interrupted by a sudden rustling, followed by a low growl. Your heart skipped a beat.

From the trees, a massive dragon emerged, its scales shimmering like molten emeralds in the filtered light. Its amber eyes fixed on you.

The dragon puffed out a huff of steam, hitting you from head to toe. Before you could respond, another dragon appeared, slightky larger but no less magnificent. Its sapphire blue scales gleamed in the sunlight as it landed beside Aaric. The two dragons locked eyes with each other before turning back to you and Aaric.

You didn’t know if it was the bond with the dragons or the moment that had shifted everything. And fear gripped you tightly with these two unfriendly powerful beats that could kill you both in seconds.

Before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out. “I’ve had a crush on you for months. I couldn’t tell you before, because I was afraid… I was afraid it would change things.”

Aaric froze, his eyes softening as the silence between you grew. He opened his mouth to say something, but the dragon beside him gave a low, rumbling growl, as if urging him on.

“I… feel the same,” he admitted quietly, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “I didn’t know how to say it either but I-“

Before you could utter another word, a low growl echoed through the air, a strange pull tugged at your chest. The hairs on your arms stood on end. Goosebumps rising on your skin.

And then, a voice, rich and velvety, echoed in your mind, “I have waited for you, sweet one.”

Your heart raced, the connection undeniable, the bond forming before you could blink. The dragon’s amber eyes fixed on you, and for a moment, everything else—Aaric, the injury, the chaos—faded away as the realization settled. Not only in your mind, but your heart.

A dragon chose you.

Now your focus was just you and the dragon, the one who had chosen you, the one who would stand by your side from this moment forward. The dragon dipped her head toward you, a soft rumble vibrating in her chest.

You blinked, unsure if the words you thought you heard were just in your head.

“I am Niranth. You are my chosen, my rider.” Your breath hitched as the voice echoed inside your mind, smooth and calm, but filled with a weight of ancient wisdom. Nirantha. The name rolled through your thoughts, both foreign and familiar.

“Nirantha?” you asked hesitantly, your voice unsure.

“Yes, sweet one,” Nirantha’s voice was warm, reverberating through your chest like a melody that soothed your racing heart. Her voice like a secure embrace. Firm, solid, but secure. “I have waited years for a rider like you. And now that time has come,”

A shiver ran down your spine at the words, at the rawness of the connection, but also at the comfort it gave. It was as though you had always known Nirantha, as though you had always been destined for each other, even before today.

You slowly reached out a trembling hand, your fingers brushing against her gleaming scales. The warmth of the dragon’s body seeped into your skin, and with it, an overwhelming sense of peace. A Comfort that you hadn’t known you were missing.

You leaned your forehead against the dragon’s side, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“You are not alone anymore, sweet one,” Nirantha continued, his voice a gentle reassurance in your mind. “I will protect you, guide you, and fight for you as long as you fight for me,”

A tear slipped down your cheek, but it wasn’t from fear or pain. It was from the overwhelming relief, the sense that a part of you had finally found its home. You weren’t alone anymore.

You took a shaky breath and whispered softly, “Thank you, Nirantha. I don’t know what to say…”

“There is nothing to say, sweet one. Just trust me, as I trust you,” The bond solidified as the dragon leaned down, nuzzling you gently, her massive head lowering to your level. You laughed softly, a shaky sound of disbelief and joy.

And then, just as suddenly, everything faded back to her senses as Aaric stepped closer, his presence breaking the intimacy of the moment.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking between you and the dragon. His voice was rough, full of emotions you couldn’t quite read. “You… you’re bonded with her?” Aaric’s question was a whisper, full of awe and something else, something deeper.

His eyes lingered on you, and you saw something you hadn’t before—genuine worry and tenderness.

You nodded, unable to form words as Nirantha’s presence flooded your mind once again, grounding you. You smiled, your heart swelling with gratitude, before you turned to Aaric. “Yes. This is Nirantha.”

“Your mate seems to be pleased,” Nirantha’s voice said with amusement. Your face heated up, as your head snapped towards your newly bonded dragon. And you swear you could see the amusement in her golden eyes.

“What?! No. He’s not-“

“What you admitted beforehand says otherwise,” she mused and you swallowed as you realized it too. You both had confessed your feelings as the two dragons had approached you.

You slowly turned to Aaric, flushing as his gaze was already on your own. Something unreadable in his gaze. You opened and closed your mouth, for once, completely speechless.

But luckily you didn’t have to as he reached up, cupping the back of your neck and tugging you to him to press his full lips onto your own. Your eyes flutter shut as the butterflies erupt in your stomach. Your heart beating concerningly fast.

And you leaned into him, leaned into the kiss. Your arms moving around him and gripping onto his back. The warmth of his lips, his mouth on yours. You realized that you wish you could be there forever. Wrapped in his arms, his mouth on you or your skin forever.

“I rather like this Prince than the other one,” Nirantha’s voice muses fondly and with a bit of amusement.

But that caused you to freeze and pull back from his lips. Your chest rose and fell with breathlessness, your mind suddenly rather foggy and muddled.

Aaric pulled back with a smirk on his beautiful face. “What?” He asked, tilting his head, “I didn’t think I was that good of a kisser to make you pull back,” he said before lowering his head to steal another one.

But you stopped him, placing a hand firmly on his chest. Your heart pounded in your ears, your gaze trailing over him once more—closer now, as if seeing him for the first time.

The way his features fit together so perfectly, the sandy hair that framed his face, but most of all, the piercing green eyes, the eyes you’d adored for months Royal eyes.

You sucked in a breath, realization hitting you like a ton of bricks. “You’re Prince Camlaen…” you breathed out, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them.

As you spoke, Aaric’s expression shifted instantly. His smirk faltered, and there was a flash of defensiveness in his eyes. He stepped back slightly, his posture rigid for the first time since you’d met.

The playfulness from before disappeared, replaced by a flicker of tension in his jaw. And he stared at you. For a long moment. You could see the gears turning in his head as if he was debating something back and forth. And finally he spoke.

“I’m still Aaric,” he said, his voice a bit sharper now, though there was still a trace of softness beneath it, but not denying your claim.

“I’m not some prince in a castle. I’m a rider, just like you. I’m still me. That’s who I am.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a protective stance, his eyes now narrowing slightly as if bracing for your judgment. The weight of his words hung in the air, but there was a quiet intensity to them.

He didn’t want to be seen as anything other than the person you had come to know—the man who had fought beside you, the one who had been there when you needed him, the one who had dreamed of you. Fought every urge to get a taste of you. To be the same guy you smiled at so sweetly.

You stood still, heart pounding in your chest, but as you looked into his eyes, you could see the vulnerability buried beneath his defensiveness. The prince title may have been his birthright, but Aaric—the man in front of you—was still the same person you had cared for all this time.

Taking a steadying breath, you placed your hand gently on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I know who you are,” you said softly, your voice calm but unwavering.

“Aaric, you’re still the same person I’ve been falling for all this time. Nothing changes that. And if you tell me this is who you are—who you want to be? That’s all I need…” Aaric’s posture seemed to relax slightly at your words, his shoulders softening as his gaze met yours.

He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, the defensiveness fading slowly, replaced by something far more tender. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

And with that, he smiled—a real smile, one that reached his eyes. And as his lips brushed against yours once more.

[onlybeeewrites]

Easy to Blame

Request: Darling....can I request a fic of xaden ....where the reader is her sister and he and other marked ones don't like her due to some reason...but then she's a goddamn badass and yeah make it angsty as hell(I don't know if this makes sense)

Pairings: Xaden Riorson x sister!reader, Marked ones x Reader, sort of Sawyer x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: IRON FLAME SPOILERS, cannon accurate violence, targeted hated, cursing, life threats, past deaths, misdirected hatred and grief, bad parenting.

A/N: This is where my mind went with this request! Hopefully you all enjoy it ❤️

~~~~~~~~~~~

The weight of the guilt clung to you like a second skin, thick and suffocating. A burden and weight that seems to be placed rather unfairly onto your shoulders. As each and every step through the halls of Basgiath War College was met with narrowed eyes, cold glares, and the ever-present whispers that followed like a specter.

It didn’t matter who you passed in the halls. It didn’t matter when. Didn’t matter who you sat with in class or in the dining hall. The other cadets in your year would see the swirling dark tattoo on your left arm and lift their noses at you. While other marked ones would do the very same thing.

They didn’t trust you.

No one trusted you.

He didn’t trust you.

Xaden Riorson had made sure of that.

Your older brother—the only family you had left—had turned his back on you the moment you arrived at the college when you were old enough. His expression carved from stone, his voice sharp enough to cut. You had known it would be difficult. You had expected anger, the frustration, even the resentment.

But this? This was something worse.

You wasn’t just unwanted. You were avoided. You were the enemy. To everyone.

“Stay the hell out of my way.”

His voice was ice, cutting through the tension between them like a blade. And cut through you like shards.

You had found him in the training yard, surrounded by the Marked Ones in his squad, his second-in-command Garrick, your old friend, leaning against a post while Bodhi, your cousin, didn’t even look at you. While Imogen crossed her arms, regarding her with a mixture of distrust and disdain.

But ever so determined, you lifted your chin. It had been almost two months since you had gotten there. Almost two months and he still refused to even give you two minutes of his time. And yet you refusing to shrink under their scrutiny. “I’m not your enemy, Xaden. I’m your sister. You’d think after six years you’d know that. I’m not here to cause trouble, I’m here to,”

He scoffed. “A little late for that, don’t you think?” Interrupting your sentence

That had hurt. Had it been too late? You could feel your stomach twisted. You had prepared herself for hostility, but hearing it aloud—from him—still hurt. Hurt more than expected. That was your brother.

But in that moment you had never more like a stranger.

Garrick sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, it’s not personal—”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Xaden cut in, his jaw clenched. He took a step toward you, his voice lowering to something dangerous. “Because of you, our father is dead. Because of you, our mother walked away from us. Had you just been a little more helpful, things wouldn’t be this fucking difficult,” he said. His voice filled with pure distain, pure hatred and anger.

His words hit like a punch to the ribs.

You had only been fourteen years old, just barely understanding what was even happening when their father was executed for his rebellion along with the other leaders. You had stood there, frozen, tears streaming down her face while Xaden held her hand so tightly it hurt.

But it was your mother who shattered everything.

It had been before the rebellion. Years before. Right after Xaden’s birthday. She had tucked you both in at bed that night. Told you both how much she loved you. Kissed you both so lovingly and softly. And the next morning?

Gone.

No note. No explanation. Just a home that felt empty and wrong.

Xaden had never forgiven her for that. Neither had you.

And now, surrounded by the people who would die for him, who would follow him into battle without hesitation, he made sure they all knew where she stood.

“She can’t be trusted,” he had told them. “Keep your distance.”

And they had listened.

The isolation was suffocating.

It was a permanent weight in you chest that was always threatening your mind constantly.

You were used to whispers, but the silence was worse. The Marked Ones didn’t speak to you unless necessary. They didn’t train with you. If you tried to spar, they found someone else. If you sat down at a table, they left.

Even the others followed their lead.

Even your squad. They put up with you when they had to. But that was it.

Sawyer was the only one who seemed indifferent, watching her with something like curiosity rather than outright hatred. At least she had him. Sawyer was sweet.

But Xaden?

Xaden didn’t look at you at all.

And that was worse than all of it.

It was months past, presentation and threshing was just around the corner—or just over the gauntlet.

The Gauntlet loomed in the distance above them, an unforgiving structure of swinging beams, crumbling platforms, and gaps that seemed impossible to cross.

Failure meant death.

And you weren’t about to fail.

The morning of the run, whispers followed her as she strapped on her training leathers. Echoed whispers surrounded them around the dining hall and through the halls out side.

“She’ll fall.”

“She won’t even make it halfway.”

“She should’ve never been allowed here in the first place.”

“She won’t make it past threshing.”

“Let’s hope not.”

You ignored them.

You had to.

You couldn’t allow those thoughts to take over. You couldn’t let them be right.

All the odds were against you. Abandoned and ignored by your brother. Ignored and shunned by your family from a decision that you truly had no part of. It wasn’t your fault. In the big grand scheme of things, it was not your fault. But that didn’t matter.

Because in their minds, and in Xaden’s, it was your fault. Everything. Was. Your. Fault.

And that guilt? That unfair burden? That would always remain as long as Xaden blamed you for everything.

It had been months now after parapet. Threshing was in a few weeks. Presentation. But first was the Gauntlet.

Xaden stood at the top with Garrick, arms crossed as he surveyed the cadets. If he heard the murmurs, he didn’t acknowledge them. His dark eyes narrowing down the course at his wing as the other sections and squads prepared to do their practice runs before the timed trials.

Practicing for when threshing was finally around. The test for a chance to prove themselves worthy. Worthy enough to make it past presentation, they’d need all these skills. To ride your dragons. If you made it that far, at least.

The course was grueling. Designed to push cadets past their limits. Designed with dragons in mind for each obstacle. Designed to weed out the weak ones.

And so here you were. Standing in the front of the line for your squad, just behind Sawyer. First squad was finishing up ahead of you. The first few competitors barely made it over the first swinging bridge before slipping to their deaths. Others hesitated at the crumbling stones, losing precious time.

Then it was time for your squad. Sawyer went first, his agility unmatched as he maneuvered through the course with a speed no one could match. It was probably because he had done this before.

Sawyer was a repeat, as you had learned. He had gone through all this last year.

Then it was your turn.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you shoved the nerves down. You didn’t have the luxury of fear. You couldn’t afford to feel. Not now. Not in front of the rest of your Squad, the

As the signal to begin echoed through the training grounds, you launched yourself forward with unwavering resolve.

The first obstacle, a towering vertical wall, stood as an imposing sentinel. Without hesitation, you sprinted toward it, you steps light and measured. Utilizing your momentum, you leaped, you fingers gripping the edge with practiced precision. With a controlled pull, she swung her leg over and descended smoothly, barely pausing before advancing to the next challenge.

The rotating wheel loomed ahead, a notorious obstacle that had bested many cadets. Timing her approach, you synchronized your movements with the wheel’s rotations. With a swift, calculated jump, you grasped a handle and swung yourself to the other side, landing in a crouch before springing forward without losing momentum.

A series of balance beams awaited, each narrowing mean. You navigated the beams with grace. Your arms subtly adjusting to maintain equilibrium. Your focus was absolute, gaze fixed ahead, blocking out the murmurs of onlookers and the weight of expectations.

Next came the rope climb. Seizing the coarse rope, you ascended hand over hand, you movements fluid and efficient. Reaching the summit, you tapped the marker and descended in controlled slides, your feet touching the ground with barely a sound.

The next challenge, the chimney climb, required both strength and strategy. Positioning yourself between the narrow walls, you used opposing pressure to “walk” upward, your movements steady and controlled.

The final challenge was the huge steep wall. The one to run up, the challenge that simulates climbing up the dragon leg to ride. And just above it was where your brother was.

Taking a deep breath, you backed up. Backing up as far as she possibly could. This was where she proved them all wrong. And then. Suddenly, you bolted forward. Using all the strength she had, she spent it into and bolted up the wall. Your feet pressed against the wall as you pushed yourself up and up and up until your hand reached the lip of the curve.

With all the strength you had left, you pulled yourself over the edge. Your body was pulled over with the last bit of your strength as finally your right leg got pulled over. And a soft click of the stop watch sounded in your ears.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd as you finished hauling yourself over the edge.

Garrick’s voiced cleared before he read your time aloud.

Second place.

Second place.

Only second to Sawyer.

The silence stretched, heavy and stunned, before someone let out a low whistle. And then some hushed mumbling.

You got to your feet before you turned, locking eyes with Xaden. Onyx eyes, locking with onyx eyes. Sweat dripping down your skin.

For the first time since you had arrived, he was looking at you.

Really looking at you.

And for a moment—a single, fleeting moment—you saw something crack in his expression. Something uncertain. Looking like you big brother again. But there was something else.

Something like doubt.

But then he turned away, jaw tightening.

He didn’t congratulate you.

Didn’t acknowledge what you had done.

But he couldn’t ignore it, either.

You weren’t weak.

Just like Xaden, you were a Riorson.

And you were a goddamn force to be reckoned with.

[onlybeeewrites]

Safe and Warm

Request: Could you do a Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader where the reader volunteers as tribute for her younger sister Maude Ivory and they reunite later in either the hob or in the meadow?

Pairing, Coriolanus Snow x fem!sister, platonic!lucy gray x fem!reader, sister!maude ivory x fem!reader

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: violence, ptsd, flashbacks to the games, blood,

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The meadow was alive with music, laughter, and the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Your family—The Covey had gathered, as they always did when the weather was nice like this, playing their instruments, singing old songs, and letting the melodies dance on the breeze. Maude Ivory twirled barefoot through the grass, her laughter high and sweet as she tried to teach Shamus, their old goat, to follow her lead.

You sat a little apart from them, Maude Ivory’s yellow dress spread across your lap, needle and thread moving instinctively through the fabric. The dress had torn near the hem—probably from one of her many adventures climbing trees or racing through the Seam. Mending things had always been your way of keeping the world together, even when it threatened to fall apart.

Your hands stilled. The stitch was uneven. You’d never made mistakes like that before.

The memory crept in, unbidden, as your fingers trembled over the fabric. Your mind replaying the moment she was almost taken from your family. Taken from you.

“Maude Ivory Baird.”

The name rang out across the square. A sharp intake of breath. A beat of silence. Then the wind carried the sound of her quiet, startled gasp.

Before she could even step forward, your voice rang out, clear and unwavering.

“I volunteer!”

Maude Ivory’s small hands clutched at your skirt, her pale curls wild in the summer heat, her face twisted in confusion.

“No—no, you can’t—”

“It’s done, Maude Ivory,” You bent down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You have to take care of everyone while I’m gone, alright?”

You hadn’t let her see your fear. But it had been there, deep in your bones, setting your blood cold as the Peacekeepers took you away. Away from your family, your home. You swore you’d never be back.

The sound of a tune box brought you back. You exhaled shakily, forcing your hands steady as you returned to the stitches. One thread at a time, one piece at a time—keep the world together. But the past still pulled at the edges of your mind, unraveling everything.

The Capitol had been too bright. Too loud. Too cruel in its beauty.

You had stood stiffly across from your mentor, chained to the table. He was there supposed to ask about you, interviewing you.

Him. Coriolanus Snow.

He was only a student, but there was something in his pale blue gaze that made your stomach turn. He smiled, polite, charming, watching you like you were an instrument waiting to be played. And you couldn’t help but flush under his gaze.

“You’re a musician?” he’d asked, sipping his wine.

“I am,” you’d answered carefully.

“Then play for them. That’s how you win their favor. That with how much you love your sister. They’ll eat it up and sponsor you,”

You’d wanted to snap at him, to tell him you weren’t there to put on a show. But your mind had screamed at you to survive, to do whatever it took. So you had. You played. You sang. The Capitol had eaten it up like it was nothing more than another performance.

But later, before he left the zoo where you were being held, you had found him in a quieter moment. Your hands grasping for his through the bars as the desperation clawed at your throat.

“Coriolanus—please.” The words had felt foreign on your tongue, your pride screaming at you to stop. But Maude Ivory’s face, safe at home, had been more important than pride. “They’ll be watching me. They like me. That has to mean something. Just—just tell me what to do.”

He had studied you for a long moment, as if weighing his options. “Preform,” he said, “charm them as you charmed me,”

Your breath hitched as you remembered everything. The crowds. Barely being fed. Coriolanus coming and giving you what scraps he could bring. And the night the games started.

Bright lights, roaring crowds, extravagant feasts that made you sick. The dress they put you in sparkled under the stage lights as you played your guitar, your voice smooth, your smile charming. Because you had to make them love you. That was how you survived.

That was what Coriolanus had told you.

He watched you differently than the others did. Where the Capitol saw entertainment, Coriolanus saw something else. He saw you as a person to help, not an animal. He cared. He cared for you.

You had fallen for him slowly, then all at once.

He wasn’t kind, not in the way you had always imagined love to be. He was sharp edges and careful ambition, but with you, he softened—just enough. When no one was watching, he touched you like you were something fragile. He had kissed you in the dim light of a Capitol, whispered promises you wanted so badly to believe.

“Win.” He had said so firmly. His hands had cradled your face, his forehead pressed against yours through the bars of the zoo. “Win, and we’ll find a way. I’ll find a way.”

You blinked hard, pushing the memory away as your stitches blurred.

Maude Ivory called your name, drawing you back to the present.

“You’re almost done, right?” She plopped down beside you, eyes bright, oblivious to the ghosts that haunted you. And you’ve never been so grateful to take something on. 

Who knows what would’ve happened if your little sister went in instead of you. You’d never want her to experience what you had. The nightmares and reminders that plagued you each day. 

“Almost,” you murmured, but your fingers curled tightly around the fabric.

Almost wasn’t the same as whole.

The meadow was safe, the music was warm, but the arena still lived in your mind. The blood, the fear, the way your hands had gripped a weapon meant for survival. 

The first time you killed someone, you hadn’t even realized what you were doing until it was over.

It had been instinct, a moment of blurred desperation. The other tribute had lunged, and you had reacted. The knife in your hand had sunk deep. Their eyes had gone wide with shock. Then empty.

The cannon had sounded.

You had stood there, shaking, your hands wet with something warm and red.

And then you had done what you had always done. What you had learned in the Covey. What you did for your family—for your sister.

You had stitched yourself back together. Piece by piece. Pretended you weren’t breaking. Because if you didn’t, everything would just fall apart.

You had sung when they asked. Smiled when they wanted you to. And when the final cannon echoed through the ruins of the arena, you had stood alone.

The lone victor.

The needle slipped in your grasp, pricking your finger. You hissed, staring at the tiny bead of blood welling up on your skin.

“You’re here now.”

Maude Ivory’s voice was quiet, but firm. Her smaller hand rested over yours, grounding you. As if she saw what was replaying in your mind. 

You swallowed hard, looking at her, at the soft yellow dress she loved so much, at the meadow where she danced and laughed like she hadn’t almost been lost to the Hunger Games.

The past could not be undone. The stitches would never be perfect. But Maude Ivory was here. Safe. Alive. And that was enough.

You took a steadying breath and picked up the needle once more.

Maude Ivory squeezed your hand again, pressing a kiss to your cheek before she skipped back to the others, her laughter echoing in the meadow. 

You watched her go, your fingers still working on the dress, but the weight of the memories clung to you. 

You watched Lucy Gray disappear into the distance, her teasing laughter still echoing in the air, and your fingers continued their work on the dress, though your mind was far from the task at hand.

The weight of the past, the Games, and everything that had led you here lingered like a shadow, but it wasn’t long before a familiar voice broke the quiet, drawing your attention.

“I swear, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be so focused on mending a dress. Look at you—like the whole world is in those stitches.”

Your heart leaped in your chest at the sound of that casual, teasing tone. You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

Coriolanus Snow. Coryo, as you’d come to call him, stood there, leaning against a tree with that mischievous grin playing on his lips. His sharp eyes held something tender, something rare, that made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected. He hadn’t just shown up by coincidence. No, this had Lucy Gray written all over it.

But you didn’t dare question it. Or your grinning cousin who was standing just a few feet behind him. 

You hadn’t expected to see him here—of all places. District 12. The Meadow. In this moment, in the calm after everything had felt like chaos. Like the worst storm and he was the light to bring you back.

For a moment, you couldn’t move. You just stared at him, surprised, but then a relief so deep flooded through you that it left you breathless.

Without thinking, you were on your feet, the dress abandoned on the grass as you rushed toward him, the world around you blurring into the background.

“What are you doing here?” Your words were a mix of disbelief and joy, the laugh that escaped you carrying all the weight of the relief you felt.

Coriolanus chuckled, stepping forward as you closed the distance. His eyes were playful, but there was something else in them now, something softer.

“It’s my day off. They caught me cheating in the games…the snakes….anyways they decided time as a peacekeeper was enough. I asked them to send me to Twelve. So I could see you again, make sure you were safe. ” he said, shrugging slightly, as though this was the most normal thing in the world. 

His words hit you like a punch to the chest, the promise he’d made ringing in your ears. It had seemed like another hollow thing, another Capitol lie, but here he was, standing in front of you, as real as the ground beneath your feet. 

You didn’t waste any more time. You threw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug, your chest pressed against his, and you felt his breath hitch, surprised at first, before he embraced you back.

You didn’t care that he was a Peacekeeper. Didn’t care that he was once just a student in the Capitol. Didn’t care as to what brought him here.

All you cared about the warmth of his arms around you, the way he smelled like the quiet of a place far from the noise of the Capitol. Secure. And safe. Warm.

That’s what Coryo meant to you.

You pulled back enough to look at him, still in disbelief. His gaze softened when he saw you, and that rare smile of his—a real one, not the carefully crafted one he wore in public—spread across his face.

“I missed you.” The words left your lips before you could stop them.

Coriolanus tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow with that playful smirk.

“Careful, birdie. I might start to think you actually like me.”

You laughed, shaking your head, the tension in your shoulders finally easing.

“I don’t care,” you said, quieter now, your hands still resting against his chest. “It’s good to see you. Really good, Coryo.”

He smiled again, this time with something more genuine, more raw, than you had ever seen.

“I made a promise didn’t I? I told you I’d find a way,” he murmured softly, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down.

You hugged him tighter, as though afraid the moment might slip away. But for now, it was just the two of you, standing in the meadow of District 12, away from the Games, away from the Capitol. Just two people who had found each other when everything else seemed lost.

The moment stretched on, neither of you moving, neither of you wanting to break the fragile peace between you. Behind you, Lucy gave a quiet cough, reminding you both of the reality that had been pushed aside for a few precious minutes.

“Well,” Lucy said with a teasing smile. “I see the reunion’s going well. I’ll leave you two to it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, despite the embarrassment. When Lucy was around, nothing was ever too serious. She had a way of making everything feel less daunting. And you watched as she left back over to the other side of the meadow with your family.

Coriolanus gave you a playful glance as Lucy Gray disappeared into the distance. “Your cousin’s something, isn’t she?”

You nodded, still a bit flustered, trying to compose yourself. “She’s relentless. But you get used to it.”

He smiled, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. There was a quiet understanding between the two of you now, a bond forged in the chaos of the Games, and here, in the stillness of the meadow, it felt more real than ever.

Without a word, you took a small step toward him, your heart racing again. He didn’t move away; instead, he stepped closer to you. The distance between you seemed to disappear, the world around you quieting in that moment. Your breath hitched, your hands lightly brushing against his chest as you stood face-to-face.

And then, as if it had been waiting for this moment all along, he leaned down, gently cupping your face with his hands, his lips brushing against yours.

The kiss was soft, hesitant at first, but it deepened as the tension between you both eased. It was everything—the relief, the emotions you had been holding back, the connection that had been building since the first time you met.

When you pulled back, you found yourself breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

“About time,” he whispered, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You laughed softly, shaking your head, the last of your nerves melting away.

“Yeah, about time,” you murmured, feeling like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, with him.

[onlybeeewrites]

A Change of Plans (2/)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader 

Requested: yes!

Word count: 2k

Warning: Mentions/illusions to SA, mentions of blood, gore, mentions of past games.

A Change of Plans: Previous

A/N: OMG I’m alive??? So many people requested a part two and I finally got around to writing. Between how busy life is plus writers block I promise I’m not ignoring the requests in my inbox <3 i appreciate all of your patience and I really hope you enjoy, this was a lot of fun!

      · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You never for one moment had thought that you’d be back here. Not like this at least. Of course you had been a mentor for years. You had did your best to keep the kids alive, to try to at least bring one home each year. But like many of the other districts, not many did.

You remembered their names. Their faces haunting your dreams every night when dreams of your own arena decided to give you a break. 

The dreams started off kind at first. But then as usual, they turned awful. Dark. Bloodied. Murderous. The smell was thr worst part. It all felt so real, that you could still smell the flesh and blood even after waking up. 

All of it reminding you of the failure to save them. Most of them at least. Celia was one of the ones you were able to save. Now a mother, she had her life ahead of her. At least as much of a life a victor could possibly have. 

But that’s why you always kept to yourself. Always. For the most part at least. You always kept your head down. Did as Snow asked of you. Continued to put out clothing lines the Capital thrived off of. Played the happy shy girl until you grew up and the Capital had new toys to play with.

Like Chasmire. 

Like Finnick.

You had been spared. Too shaken too meek. Not desired enough by the Capital to be sold off to. Though you supposed that was a blessing in disguise. A blessing that you didn’t get called on. Used by greedy hands and dropped back off on the train to go home.

But that didn’t protect you completely. Even now, after so many years after your own victory. You still returned to the Capital often. For parties, fashion shows, interviews, collaborations, meetings, work ups. It was exhausting. 

It was always exhausting.

But it Haymitch soothed it. 

It was rough at first. For a few years at least. Both young and scrambling to learn how to live with the content losses. The loose mentoring as the both of you were kids yourselves. Dealing with the aftermath of your own traumas—though dealing in very different ways.

It had taken years for you and Haymitch to become friends. Even longer to be lovers. With knowing how the Capital worked, you both knew Snow would do anything to use each other against one another for something.

So you both kept it close and quiet. 

Your own little peace. A little get away from the bright lights, and the constant cameras. It was something that was purely your own that no one could take.

But somehow, even without knowing? Snow had exactly done just that by putting you in the Games and not Haymitch.

You had known what was being planned by the rebels. Especially being from District 8, you had seen it yourself how fast that fire is spreading. And once the Quarter Quell had been announced? You knew the poor girl, Katniss, who you had been able to see and meet and call, was being thrown back into the games. And sweet Peeta refusing to let her do it alone.

Snow was trying to kill her. That much was clear to you as well. But what was also clear was how important the two kids from the District 12 were. You knew there was something sort of plan being brewed. You just needed to wait to hear what it was. But a gut feeling told you that that plan, didn’t include you as a priority. 

Not that you mind. You didn’t really if it meant getting the kids out and stopping these Games once and for all. It was Haymitch that you were worried about. And you hoped to whatever power was out there 

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The metallic scent of polish and artificial roses hung in the air, sharp and suffocating in the way only the Capitol could be. You stood backstage, shoulders pulled back despite the weight of the dress stitched to your body like armor.

District 8’s stylists had worked you into something stark and hauntingly beautiful — a dress made entirely of thread. Fine lines of black, silver, and deep plum wound tightly around your frame, as though you’d been sewn together by the very fabric of your district. 

The skirt trailed behind you in curling stitches, unraveling and reforming with every step, a visual metaphor for resilience. Your bodice was structured like a corset —though it was amusing considering both your and Woof’s outfit were your own design your stylist borrowed. 

Your hair was swept up into a loose bun, tendrils left to fall and frame your face in soft waves. Silver pins shaped like needles sparkled subtly in the Capitol lighting. Your makeup was more subdued — matte lips the color of dried blood in your opinion, and makeup around the eyes lined with a metallic powder. 

You smoothed your skirt with a quiet exhale, not from nerves, but from weariness. The Capitol made everything feel louder, heavier. But you’d been through this before. You knew how to hold yourself without becoming something else.

A familiar voice broke the hum of prep around you.

“Well, well. Look at you.”

You turned, lips tugging into a smile as Finnick sauntered over in his absurd sea-green netting and too-confident smirk. Though you knew it was all pretend—expect for that fond look in his eye that he saved for his true friends.

“I thought they were supposed to make me the pretty one tonight,” he teased, giving you a slow once-over.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “You look like the garnish on a seafood platter.”

He laughed — loud, bright — and leaned in to bump your shoulder with his. “Good. Then they’ll never see me coming.”

You gave a soft hum, smiling now as he settled beside you. Finnick never stayed still, always pacing or fidgeting. But next to you, he stilled — if only for a few breaths.

“You nervous?” he asked, tone lighter now, but still careful.

You shook your head. “Not for me.”

He nodded, glancing down the hall where all the other tributes laid: older and younger, and the newest additions at the very end of the line. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Me neither.”

You reached up, gently adjusting one of the messy strands of hair that fell across his forehead. “Don’t show off too much tonight,” you murmured.

“I make no promises,” he grinned. “But I’ll try — for you.”

You shook your head fondly your heart aching knowing that he, like many here, are hating the fact they they all had to be there agin. Then the horns blared, signaling the parade to begin. 

Taking Woof’s hand, you stepped up into the chariot, and waited to get this over with.

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After the parade was finished you told Woof you’ll catch up with him later on, your heels clicked softly against the floors. You didn’t glance around — not yet. Your eyes found Haymitch immediately, though you pretended they didn’t. They always found him.

Your heart pounded as it had the first time you saw him. And ever time after.

He stood with Katniss and Peeta near the elevators, arms crossed, his usual grim scowl in place. Though he seemed to be talking with him, almost amused.

You kept your pace measured as you walked toward them. Your heart kicked at the sight of him, at the way his eyes swept over you quickly — worried, relieved, proud — before he looked away like it hurt to look too long.

“Smooth ride?” he asked, voice dry.

You nodded. “Crowd still loves a tragedy. All their favorites are in the ring,”

“You’d know,” he said. But there was a faint curl to his lip. Almost a smile. “Though not all their favorites. I’m not in,” he said.

That had earned him an unamused eyebrow raise, “Well unfortunately for you, Abernathy, you haven’t been a capital favorite in a long time. Especially now wi the these two,” 

Katniss’s eyes lit up when she saw you properly, as if the weight on her shoulders lifted for a second. Though it was quickly replaced with that familiar stoic gleam in her eye. The reality that you too, were back in the games.

“Y/N!” she breathed.

You gave her a nod, eyes warm. “Nice to see you again, Katniss. You looked good. Cinna did a great job,”

She laughed under her breath. “You looked terrifying.”

Peeta smiled too, softer. “We are glad to see you. It’ll be good to know someone here,”

You met his eyes reaching and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Peeta was too good. Too sweet. And especially with his leg gone? These games for him especially would be almost impossible. “I wish I could say the same,” 

The elevator opened then chimed open and you all stepped in. You stood beside Haymitch. You were careful not to brush against him even as your fingers ached to reach for his.

Silence stretched. Capitol gold and steel blurred past the glass walls.

Then the elevator chimed — twelfth floor.

The doors slid open.

You waited until the kids stepped out and headed to their rooms to change before they ate.

“Y/N,” Haymitch started, the moment the two of you were alone. Well, as alone as you could be in those apartments. 

“I’ll find you later. But you know I can’t stay long,” your voice was quiet, but quick as your gaze met your love’s. His eyes, the same tired grey ones Katniss wore. And his messy scruffy dark hair that Effie tried to tame.

How cruel the world was. With how much it look from your Haymitch. And how cruel it was that it just continued to take from him. His friends. His family. You. 

“Nothing changes,”

“Plans change.”

“Do they?” Your eyes, usually so soft, timid were fierce like they had been so long ago. Before the burn out of the games. Before the toll of the losses started to take that light from you one year at a time. 

There was something in your voice that made him turn. His eyes were sharper now, clearer than anyone ever gave him credit for.

“You talk like you’re not part of this.”

You gave him a long look. “I’m not the one that matters in this right now, Hay.”

He flinched. Barely. But you saw it.

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching a hovercraft drift past in the distance. Its lights cast brief shadows across your face.

“I know the rules,” you said finally, your voice low, but steady. “I know how this game is played. Who the sponsors will favor. Who else is watching.”

He stared out at the city, jaw clenched. “Don’t make decisions for me.”

“I’m not,” you said gently. “I’m reminding you to make the right ones.”

“You are the right one.” The words escaped before he could stop them. Rough. Unfiltered. Careless.

You glanced around the room. Knowing that all over there are most likely cameras and bugged wires placed and hidden all over. Your eyes fell back to him, and raised your brow slightly, a silent careful.

He let out a breath and shifted, eyes on the horizon now. “There’s a plan,” he said, voice more careful. “A way to keep certain… valuable pieces on the board. To ensure the games win,”

“I know,” you said. “I know the pieces. I don’t need to know all your strategies to know the goal is to win,”

He turned to you, eyes searching. “You’re not just a piece.”

You gave him a small smile. A sad smile that broke his heart. “But I know where I sit on the board.”

Silence stretched again. Not cold — just full of things neither of you could say.

Then, softly:

“They’re good kids,” you murmured, hands tightening on the railing. “Kind. Brave. The kind of good that’s hard to find now. But they’re also incredibly important,”

He nodded once.

“You make sure they win and get out of there,” you said. “You do whatever you have to do.”

“I’d rather not have to choose,” he replied, quiet.

“You won’t have to,” you said, finally looking at him again. “I already did.”

[onlybeeewrites]

Whatever it Takes (3/)

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x sister!oc, Fen Riorson x daughter!oc (flashbacks), Bodhi Durran x cousin!oc

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Fen Riorson, Fourth Wing and Irom Flame (?) Spoilers, Violence, blood, cursing, fighting, death, execution flashbacks,

Summary: Karina was nothing like her brother. Their father made sure to remind her of that. Now facing death in the face every day, she was glad she wasn’t. Now there are two Riorsons at Basgiath War College; what could go wrong?

Whatever It Takes series: Previous

~~~~~~

The moment the fight broke out, Xaden moved. His chair scraped loudly against the stone as he shot to his feet, eyes blazing with fury. His muscles tensed, ready to cross the hall, but before he could take a step, a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Xaden’s head snapped to the side, where Garrick stood, his expression unreadable. “Are you insane?” Xaden snarled. “He’s trying to fucking kill her.”

“She can take care of herself.” Garrick’s voice was steady, calm—but there was something hard in his gaze. He wasn’t indifferent. He was watching. Waiting.

Bodhi stood just behind them, looking between the fight and Garrick with barely contained rage. “She doesn’t have to,” he growled. “We’re right here.”

“I know.” Garrick didn’t look away from Karina. “But trust me. She needs this.”

Xaden’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he didn’t move. He wanted to—fuck, he needed to—but deep down, he knew Garrick was right. He wouldn’t always be here to protect her. Karina had to learn to stand on her own, to fight her own battles.

Even if it killed him to watch.

Karina’s vision blurred for a second as the male’s knuckles glanced off her temple, but she recovered fast. She had to. He was already swinging again, rage fueling his every move.

She ducked under his wild punch, twisting behind him, and slammed her knee into the back of his. He grunted, stumbling forward, but before he could regain his footing, she grabbed a fistful of his uniform and wrenched him sideways. His body hit the edge of the table with a sickening crunch.

The hall erupted in shouts and gasps.

He shoved off the table, trying to lunge again, but she saw it coming. She stepped inside his reach, grabbed his arm, and twisted. Hard.

A wet pop filled the air, followed by his ragged scream as his shoulder dislocated.

Karina barely had time to register the next movement before he was pushing himself up, shaking with fury. His face was contorted in pain, blood dripping from his nose, but he wasn’t done. Not yet.

He let out a guttural snarl and charged at her.

Karina shifted her stance, bracing, but he was faster than before—wild with rage. He slammed into her, his good arm wrapping around her middle as he drove her backward. The force sent them both crashing into a table, plates and cups clattering to the floor.

Karina barely dodged the first blow, but the second clipped her shoulder. Pain radiated down her arm, but she gritted her teeth and stepped into him.

Her fist slammed into his ribs. Once. Twice.

He wheezed, doubling over.

She grabbed his head, yanked it down, and drove her knee into his face.

His entire body went slack.

He collapsed to his knees, swaying.

His chest heaved as he tried to get air past his shattered nose, his dislocated arm hanging uselessly at his side. Blood poured down his face, pooling at his lips and chin.

Karina stared down at him, her pulse pounding in her ears.

“Stay down,” she ordered, her voice sharp, unwavering.

But he wasn’t done. Even as his body sagged, even as his breath rattled in his lungs, he reached for her, hate burning in his eyes.

She let out a low breath.

Then she grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face into the stone floor.

A loud crack echoed through the dining hall.

This time, he didn’t move.

Silence swallowed the room.

Xaden’s body coiled tight, every instinct screaming at him to step in. But Garrick’s grip remained firm, keeping him in place.

The male lay motionless, his chest barely rising. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping from his nose and mouth. His breathing was ragged, wet, struggling.

Karina stood over him, her knuckles split, blood dripping down her fingers. Her ribs ached, her jaw throbbed, but she forced herself to breathe through it. Adding onto what was already a brutal sparring match earlier.

Karina breathed through all the pain. Through the spinning in her head and the nausea. She turned in a slow circle, sweeping her sharp gaze over the cadets watching in stunned silence. Even the third-years. Her squad leader, Dain. Section leader. Garrick. Wingleader. Xaden.

“If anyone else thinks they can come for me, you’ll be meeting Malek by the time I’m done with you.” Her voice was low, lethal. She spat onto the stone floor beside the crumpled body. “And that’s a fucking promise.”

Silence.

There was nothing but absolute silence in the dining hall.

Then without a second thought, Karina turned on her heel and strode out of the hall, her boots echoing against the stone. Behind her, the limp body was dragged away, blood smearing across the floor.

Xaden exhaled sharply, rolling out the tension in his shoulders.

It was only then when Garrick finally released his grip.

“She just proved to every bastard in this room that she’s not a target,” he murmured, watching Karina’s retreating form. “That she’s not just your sister—she’s a Riorson. And if someone tries to come after her, they know what to expect.” He said.

Bodhi couldn’t help but scoff, “yeah but now they’ll think it’s okay to come after her,” he said with irritation. Karina was more than a cousin. She was a sister to him.

Garrick simply shook his head, “If someone else tries, we can take care of them. But you both know how important this first week is for.”

Xaden didn’t respond.

Because he knew Garrick was right. He wouldn’t be there to protect her considering both him and Garrick were graduating at the end of the year. And then Bodhi and Imogen would be next. And she would be in charge of the marked ones that would later come through the quadrant.

Xaden knew Karina could handle herself, fuck, everyone knew that. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch his little sister walk away, bloodied, battered, and utterly alone.

She barely noticed the whispers starting up behind her. The sharp, hushed voices of those too afraid to speak before she left. Let them talk. Let them wonder if they were next.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she moved through the dimly lit corridors of Basgiath, her vision tunneling. Her body ached—sharp, pulsing pain radiating from her ribs, her knuckles screaming with each step. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

By the time she reached the first-year barracks, her fingers fumbled with the latch to the showers, the cool metal biting into her torn skin. She shoved the door open and stepped inside, letting it slam shut behind her.

Quickly she stripped off her uniform and tossed it aside as she turned on the shower. Almost immediately the water sputtered on as it rained down on her.

The scalding water burned against Karina’s raw knuckles, turning the blood swirling down the drain a deeper red. She braced her hands against the slick stone wall, her arms trembling.

Pain settled deep in her bones, a reminder of every hit she’d taken. The bruises forming on her ribs, the ache in her jaw, the sharp sting in her side.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

Her fingers curled into fists.

She wasn’t weak. But she had gotten into the fight so quickly with no hesitation. Would that Vader even survive? She didn’t even stay to check.

But the moment the first tear slipped down her cheek, she gritted her teeth, pressing her forehead against the cold stone. Just for a second.

Karina shook off the straying thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to fall into that hole again of everything she missed. Everything she needed to hear. She needed to pull herself together.

The hot water from the shower had done little to ease the tension in Karina’s muscles, but it helped wash away the blood and the violence of the fight. She had scrubbed her skin raw, as though trying to erase the bruises and the bitterness that clung to her. But as the water drained, so did some of the heavy weight pressing down on her chest, even if only for a little while.

The barracks were quieter now, the muffled sounds of the rest of the cadets in the halls, killing some time before they had to get to bed. The weight in her chest hadn’t fully lifted, but there was a sense of calm. She could still feel the adrenaline in her veins, her muscles sore from the brutal fight, but the water had helped clear her mind—at least for now.

Karina climbed into her own bunk, her body aching from the day’s events. She stared up at the bunk above her for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of her squad-mates winding down for the night.

And as he eyes shut, just for a second she remembered her father’s words to her. Echoing in her head as if he told them to her just now.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls of their small home. The faint scent of smoke hung in the air, mixing with the herbal oils Karina’s mother used to patch up her wounds. But her mother was long gone by then.

The warmth from the fire was a small comfort, but it did little to ease the sting of the bruises on her face or the knot of anger still tight in her chest.

Karina sat on a worn wooden chair, her legs stretched out in front of her, the hem of her tunic grazing the cold stone floor. A fresh cut bloomed across her cheek, a black eye already darkening her right side.

The cut on her lip stung as her father carefully dabbed it with a cloth, the water mixing with blood from her lip. The silence between them felt heavy, like the weight of the entire world pressed down on her.

She didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to explain the fight to him. She was proud, angry, and far too stubborn to admit that maybe, just maybe, he was right.

Another fight. Another scuffle with one of the boys in the village—another fight she’d won, but at what cost? The boy’s mother had come rushing to his side, screaming at Karina, calling her nothing but trouble, just like her father.

Those words burned deeper than any punch ever could, and Karina could still hear them ringing in her ears as she sat there, silent and still, while her father cleaned her up.

Her father stood in front of her, his expression unreadable, his large hands steady as he worked. He dabbed at her wound, his focus sharp. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his voice broke the silence.

“You should’ve walked away, Karina.”

Her instinct was to bristle, to argue, to say she had done nothing wrong. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she raised her chin defiantly, meeting his gaze. “I had him beat. He deserved it.”

Fen didn’t flinch. He simply shook his head and set the cloth aside, meeting her eyes with a look she knew all too well. “It’s not about deserving it. You’re better than that, Karina. Better than picking fights every time someone insults you.”

Karina felt a flash of irritation, but she didn’t speak. Her father’s calm voice only made her anger feel more intense. She clenched her fists at her sides.

He sighed, his brow furrowing as he spoke again, his voice softer. “You want to prove something? Don’t get caught in petty fights. You want them to respect you? Make them remember you for your strength, not your temper.”

Karina’s chest tightened, but she couldn’t bring herself to back down. “You don’t get it. They always start it. They always—”

“I know, Karina. I know.” Fen’s voice softened further, and he crouched down in front of her, his eyes locking onto hers. “But there will come a time when it’s not just some brat down in the village trying to make a name for himself. There will be bigger fights, harder ones. And if you keep charging into every battle like this, you’ll lose before you ever get a chance to win.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, her frustration rising with each word. “What do you want me to do, then?”

Fen’s gaze didn’t waver as he placed his hands on her shoulders, gently forcing her to meet his gaze. “When the fight comes, don’t start it. But when you finish it, do it right.”

The weight of his words settled over her like a heavy cloak. Karina swallowed, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her as she tried to wrap her young mind around the advice.

Fen’s voice lowered, more serious now, as he spoke again. “And never let them think you’re afraid to finish what you start. If you fight, you fight to win. Always.”

Karina’s breath caught. This was more than just about fighting—it was about survival. It was about making sure that when she stepped into a battle, there was no hesitation. No doubt.

“Promise me, Karina,” Fen said, his voice lower, his gaze unwavering. “You’ll fight to win when the time comes. And you won’t hesitate. Not for anyone.”

Her pulse quickened. The pressure of the promise weighed heavy on her shoulders, but there was no turning back now. She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing with determination. “I promise.”

Fen’s face softened for a moment, and he squeezed her shoulder. “Good. Because when you’re out there, and I’m not around to pick up the pieces, you’ll need to remember this.”

The door to their small home creaked open, and Xaden, stepped inside. He was thirteen now, tall for his age, and his broad frame was already a reflection of the strength their father had taught him. He looked between Karina and their father, brow furrowed in concern.

“Is she okay?” Xaden asked, his voice quiet but tinged with worry. He was used to being the protective older brother, and he always seemed to take on that role with Karina, even though she often resented it.

Fen looked over at Xaden, then back to Karina. “She’s fine. But she needs to remember what I’ve been telling her.”

Xaden moved closer to Karina, folding his arms over his chest. “You’ve got to stop getting into so many fights, Karina,” he said, his tone softer than usual. “You’re gonna get yourself really hurt,”

Karina rolled her eyes, though there was a hint of warmth in her expression. “You sound like Dad.”

Xaden shrugged. “That’s because I’m smarter than you.”

Karina huffed a breath out, “Are not!”

Fen grinned, his voice more playful now. “You two, stop bickering. Karina, listen to your brother, and Xaden, stop worrying so much. She can handle herself.”

Fen’s gaze shifted between them, and then he straightened, his tone serious once more. “Promise me this, both of you,” he said, his voice low but firm. “No matter what happens, you two look out for each other. Always.”

The weight of the promise settled between them, and Karina could feel her chest tighten. She had always known that her father’s words carried weight, but hearing him say this—hearing him ask them to protect each other—felt different. They weren’t just siblings. They were a team, and in the world they lived in, that would mean everything.

“I promise,” Karina whispered, her voice barely audible.

Xaden gave their father a firm nod, “I promise too.”

Fen nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because the world out there won’t care about promises. But as long as you two have each other, you’ll stand a chance. For each other, and our people,”

Her father’s words echoed in her mind like a constant hum, a reminder of the heavy burden she carried, even when she didn’t want to. He had always been blunt with her and Xaden, never one to sugarcoat things or offer false comfort.

Karina hadn’t understood back then—not fully. But now, in the mess of Basgiath, even just two days into it, she knew exactly what he meant. She was surrounded by people who would stop at nothing to prove their worth, to get power, to get their revenge.

She was surrounded by people who would go to any lengths to tear her down if she showed even the smallest sign of hesitation. If she faltered, they’d exploit it.

Her father had been right. He always had been. Right to the end.

Karina lay still, staring at the beams of the bunk above her. The dull ache in her body pulsed with every slow breath she took, a constant reminder of the fight. Every muscle screamed in protest, her knuckles burned, and her ribs ached with each inhale. But she’d won.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind, a steady drumbeat beneath her exhaustion. She hadn’t fully understood back then. She’d been just a kid, scrawny and stubborn, fists swinging before she even thought about the consequences. But now? Here?

Now she knew exactly what he had meant.

It was only the second day at Basgiath, and already, she’d had to take down two males who thought they could break her. One in the sparring ring, another in the dining hall. She had no doubt there would be more.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

This was just the beginning.

Her pulse thrummed in her ears, drowning out the quiet sounds of the barracks. She could still hear the gasps and shouts from the dining hall, feel the weight of a hundred eyes on her as she stood over the body, bloody but victorious.

Would they come for her next? Would someone else take a shot at her tomorrow?

Probably.

She clenched her jaw, gripping the blanket in her fists. She wouldn’t let herself care. She wouldn’t let herself hesitate. That’s what her father had been trying to teach her all those years ago—hesitation got you killed. And she refused to die here.

Her chest rose and fell, slow, controlled. She wasn’t alone in this. Xaden was here, and even though he was a third-year, even though he had his own battles to fight, she knew he would never let anything happen to her. And then Bodhi. Imogen. Garrick. And her squad too—well, they were starting to feel less like strangers and more like people she might actually be able to trust.

Not family. Not yet.

But something close enough.

Karina closed her eyes, but instead of sleep, all she found was fire.

It had been years, but the memory was burned into her mind as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. Still haunted her sleep more

The open space had reeked of charred flesh and smoke, the heat from the execution pit unbearable even from where she and Xaden had been forced to stand.

A crowd of children of all ages had gathered, some watching with grim expressions, others whispering, hungry for the spectacle. Cries filling more of the air.

And then there was him.

Fen Riorson, kneeling before the flames, his hands bound, his dark eyes burning with a fury that even death couldn’t snuff out. He hadn’t pleaded. He hadn’t begged.

Instead, he had lifted his chin, staring down General Lilith Sorrengail and General Melgren, both who had condemned him with nothing but scorn. And before the dragon unleashed its fire, before the inferno swallowed him whole, his last words had cut through the air like a blade.

“You’re all cowards!”

Karina had clung to Xaden, her fingers digging into his arm as the fire consumed their father. She hadn’t looked away, hadn’t let herself flinch, even when the heat made her skin prickle, even when the smell made her stomach churn.

Because Fen hadn’t looked away either.

The flames reflected in his dark eyes until there was nothing left of him to see.

And then, as the roar of the dragon faded and the crowd began to sob, cry and whimper. Karina had lifted her gaze—past the flames, pasta all the officers, past the executioners—until she met his eyes.

General Melgren.

He hadn’t turned away. He hadn’t looked regretful. No, the bastard had watched the entire thing like it was just another day’s work.

And Karina had hated him for it.

She had hated him more than the officers who had followed orders, more than the riders who had stood idly by, more than the cowards who whispered but did nothing.

Because Melgren had chosen this. He had decided their father’s fate.

And he had watched without a flicker of remorse.

For years, she had let that hate simmer. Because one day, she would make him pay.

One day, she would burn him the way he had burned her father.

Her target had never been Sorrengail. Not really.

It was Melgren. It had always been Melgren.

And no matter what it took, no matter how long she had to wait—

She would finish what her father started.

So she’d fight with whoever she needed to; as long as it got her to him.