#( kicks up leG LET'S DO THIS CATO )

[theirmockingjay]

➶; @unsnare ♥d the starter call and wanted to have at it and by it i mean her and by her i mean kat be like (ง •̀_•́)ง bring it.

It always comes down to you, she thought. With her mouth open, hands clutching at her neck begging for her throat to release whatever was stuck there and asphyxiated her. A sob? A scream? His name? It didn't matter.

It would always be him. Since the training center, since her score, since the beginning of it all, and continued during the nights. The enemy that was not your enemy. The misplaced target. The personification of what had to be given if you wanted to become a victor. It had always been him.

No. Them.

“Cato” she managed to whisper.

You appear in my nightmares everyday. You’re the prize I had to pay for survival and it’s costly. I did not want you dead. They made you into a weapon and they made me a survivor. It was a matter of time. It was a matter of context.

He was strapped to a chair inside a padded room in the hospital wing. He had a bracelet just like the one she wore during her stay on thirteen, but while hers read ‘mentally disoriented’, his probably had something else written. She was supposed to stay behind a glass panel and talk to him through a piece of machinery by pressing a button, the doctors of thirteen said. She asked to be left alone hoping they wouldn’t catch the lie, the hidden message, and once they done so, she pushed the door open, slid through and grabbed a chair to lock the door. It was a temporary measure to an eternal dilemma.

And Katniss needed this.

As she turned towards him, her lips parted and the beginning of so many sentences flashed inside her head. What happened. Why are you alive. How come are you so strong that neither the expectations placed upon you nor my arrows can kill you. Do you want me dead. Am I the face of everything that was taken from you. Do you resent me. Do you resent what they made of you.

She said none of that.

“I want to stop dreaming about you.”

[clatoera]

Picket Fence is Sharp as Knives: Chapter 1 At Dinner Parties, I Call You Out (ARWBFB sequel)

Heeey besties. We're back. We're back. Thus begins the sequel to Always Remember We're Burned for Better. Fucking wild right.

So. This is chapter one of the sequel. The title of the sequel comes from High Infidelity, not because they're experiencing that, but because I liked the line being about picket fences. This fic is structured much different than ARWBFB. It's going to be more vignette day in the life style fics. It's not high intensity. It's not high drama. ARWBFB has all of that. This is the life after the war and that is this.

This concept of this fucking chicken...this is entirely what I wanted to write the sequel for. The mental imagery of spatchcocking a chicken. I'm not lying as you are about to see.

Thats what this whole sequel is to be. Just..moments of life. Fun moments of life. You are welcome to send requests. I will do my best to honor and address them.

So yeah! Fic title from High Infidelity (t swift)

Chapter title from gold rush (t swift).

AO3 Link

masterpost

So! Yeah!

Here we go again. Thank you all for being here and rejoining me.

Life moves blessedly slow in a world without the Hunger Games. 

A life without training to run, a life without interviews to attend. A life with morning runs as a leisure and not a warm up, a life with meals with seasoning and flavor, a life with friends a forty minute train ride away.

It is a peaceful life, albeit somewhat boring for two twenty something kids who spent their life learning to kill. 

It is unbelievably peaceful, actually.

 Cato and Clove sit nearly on top of each other on their living room couch, her little legs tucked in his lap, her feet in his hands. Their luggage sits unpacked by the door from a ten day trip to District Four, having been discarded immediately upon their return in long awaited exchange for their own cool bed sheets on their sun warmed skin. If you ask Cato the best part of the trip, he will tell you it was watching more freckles appear on the skin of his wife every passing day. If you ask Clove she will tell you it was watching Cato’s hair lighten and his skin take on that golden hue she hadn’t seen since he won his games what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

They don’t need to talk, not when she’s lounging in his lap like this, reading aloud the new curriculum designs Enobaria had dropped off for their input. It was more difficult than any of them had anticipated, adapting their training plans to regular recreation activities. Every once in a while Cato gives a hum of approval or digs his thumb into the arch of her foot in a way that makes her lose her place in a sentence. 

“Do you think they’ll let us come teach?” Cato wonders out loud, before kicking his own feet up and pushing his side of the couch back in a reclining position. “Feels like it could be fun, it’s something to do..”

“I think after reading this shit they better let us do whatever we want, I don’t even think i’m pronouncing the word Calisthenics right.” Clove latches her knees over his thighs and pulls herself closer, the warm thrum of his hand on her knee keeping in cadence with her reading. She writes something in the margins of the paper that Cato cannot see, but it’s almost certainly something about the meaning of a word that she will look up later to save herself the embarrassment of asking Enobaria. “Do you think they’re going to keep teaching kids to read after they turn twelve? I feel like thats a skill we should prioritize.”

“I’m not even sure I learned to read well enough before them.”

A frantic rapping at the door interrupts their commentary, and they share a suspicious look though neither move from their position intertwined on the couch. 

“Who knocks?” Cato raises an eyebrow, his hand stilling from where it strokes at her knee. “Doesn’t half the country have a key to our house?”

“We really should change those locks.” Clove muses lightly, making no move to answer the door or even see who it was. Cato had a point. Whoever it was..either they’d let themselves in or they’d leave. 

“What, tired of Enobaria letting herself in for breakfast?” Cato taunts, but there's no real malice there. If the worst that happened to them for the rest of their lives were their family members inviting themselves over at eight in the morning then they are better off than they were with all the victor glory in the world. 

“I just want to know when I became responsible for feeding the world,” 

As if on cue the front door creaks open, and shuts incredibly softly within the same second. There is only one person, one frame, that could slip in like a ghost and as silent as a wisp. 

They hear her soft voice and the ruffling of what sounds like bags before they see her. 

“Clove? Clove I need help.” Glimmer turns the corner from the entryway, two large white canvas totes on her arm. Whatever panic she was in pauses as she sees them for the first time in nearly two weeks, as if they were separated across a war torn nation again. “It’s been so long since i’ve seen you- oh! Don’t you two just look so cute and in love.” She raises a hand to her cheek dramatically, pursing her lips out in a plush. “How was the honeymoon?”

“So long? We got married twelve days ago, and it was you who disappeared without a goodbye-“‘Cato starts to debate, but a firm kick to his thigh shuts him up. “I mean, it was great, Glimmer.”

“I was going to ask if you even enjoyed the beach but from the looks of it you did go outside!! I’m very proud.” The woman sits herself down on the other side of Clove, still holding a canvas bag on each shoulder. “I’m still just so happy for you!” 

“I’m assuming you did not bring gifts?” Clove closes the portfolio of ideas, placing it on the arm of the couch on the other side of Cato. “The wedding’s over, what kind of emergency could you possibly be having now? The dresses fit, they were perfect, what do you need help with, Glim?”

Glimmer lets out a sigh of clear distress, finally letting the bags fall to the floor and relieving her shoulders of the weight. “I may have overcommitted.” She begins, and the repetitive way she starts to twist at her fingers betrays the anxiety that’s been building. “My mom used to make this chicken when I was little. She didn't make it a lot, but it was for special days. It was just so warm and comforting, Clove. And for the last few days it has been all I have wanted. It keeps me up at night. I think about it all day and I want it so bad and I don’t have a mom to make it so I told Cash and Gloss to come to dinner because I was going to try and I did try and it was terrible and pink and Marvel definitely hated it but lied not to hurt my feelings and I don’t want to kill my brother and my sister and my- Marvel, and I really really want this chicken I don’t even like Chicken with bones but it’s all I want and-“ Glimmer ceases her ramble to takes a deep breath  and squeezes her eyes shut, willing away the tears she is on the verge of releasing over this chicken she desperately craves. It isn’t even that remarkable- she just wants the comfort that her mother cannot give her. “And long story short they’ll be here in two hours for dinner.”

Clove sits up far straighter than her lounging position in Cato’s lap, and his chuckle in the background would have earned him a glare had it not been for the shock filling Clove’s face. In fact, Clove is sure if she had not literally returned from vacation last night, she would have choked her. 

“You invited your family to dinner at my house. That I have to make?” 

“Well…Cash was bringing Enobaria! So! I told her to invite Brutus too!” Glimmer buries her head in the heel of her hands, physically forcing the tears back into her head. “I’m sorry! I just want this so bad and I almost killed Marvel with it earlier, and I’m lonely, and all I want is this chicken.” 

Cato and Clove share what can only be described as a what the fuck look, and Cato puts his hands up in defeat. There had been an unspoken agreement amongst all of them, that knowing Glimmer’s precarious history with food, that they’d never tell her no if she wanted something to eat. This, unfortunately, fell into that category. 

Of course there was the question of are we actually crying over chicken or is this something bigger, but that was simply not something they were willing to address right now. 

“….as long as Brutus doesn’t bring those fucking dogs.” Cato concedes, and can’t help but shiver in distaste. Something about those three giant puppies made him feel incredibly unsettled, despite the significant size advantages he had on the literal dogs. “I sure as hell won’t complain about anything you make.”

Clove shoots him a look of disbelief, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, as he merely shrugs. “You should make those really good potatoes with it too, Clovey. ”

Glimmer look’s up with glistening eyes, and nods enthusiastically. “I promised there’d be salad too.”

“Am I your personal chef, Glimmer?” Clove mumbles, but pushes herself from Cato’s lap to a standing position. “I need to start now. If you only gave me two hours, come on, you’re helping.”

“But I can’t cook!” Glimmer tries, but Clove is grabbing her by the wrists and pulling her along regardless. 

“You’re going to learn SOMETHING today.”

Clove drags Glimmer, who shuffles her feet in hesitation, all the way to her kitchen island before beginning to dig around her kitchen drawers. “I’ve seen Cato eat an entire chicken for breakfast when we were younger, you better have at least two between him, marvel, and Enobaria.”

She’s fluttering around the kitchen, sliding a cutting board in front of Glimmer along with an impeccably sharpened chef's knife. Directly beside Glimmer she places one for herself, but instead pulls out something that not long ago Glimmer would have seen her throwing at a target in the capitol training center before their conjoined games. She must make a face at the realization, because Clove’s soft laugh grounds her back in reality.”

“It makes me feel like I'm still doing something cool.” Clove explains, running her finger over the sharp edge of the knife. “Not much use for them other than this, anymore.”

Glimmer shakes her head rapidly, eyes wide as Clove pulls the two little chickens out and plops them directly in the large, steel sink behind them. “This is so cool, Clove. So cool.”

“What? Cooking? It’s a basic survival skill when you’re seven and no one likes you, Glimmer.” Clove comments, before bringing the cleaned chicken over to Glimmer. “Okay. You’re going to learn how to do this, today. What’s your mother put on them?”

“...I don’t know. It was just good.” Glimmer shrugs, and takes the most minute step back away from the raw bird carcass, hands flush against her abdomen so she doesn’t have to touch it by accident. 

“What the hell do you mean that you don’t know, I can’t just magically recreate it? Didn’t you want it specifically?” Clove whips her head to look at Glimmer in sheer disbelief, taking the opportunity to pull her long hair to the center of her head, securing it back and out of the way of her work before reaching out and flicking the ends of Glimmer’s ever increasing long blonde hair. “I’d pull this back, unless you want raw meat fluid in your hair.”

Glimmer gags. Audibly gags. So loud in fact that Cato peaks into the Kitchen with a bewildered, but smug expression before he pulls a chair over to the island across from them. “I have to watch this.”

“God you’re such a dick.” Glimmer mumbles, but composes herself in time to loosely tie her hair at the nape of her neck. “I’m fine, I’m fine, let's just..do this.”

“You’re the one who wanted it.” Clove rolls her eyes, but hands Glimmer a pair of kitchen shears. “Okay. Pull out the insides, and then you’re going to cut out the spine. It cooks faster that way.”

What little color Glimmer had in her face drains immediately, leaving her a sickly shade of translucent white. She drops the scissors instantly, and braces herself on the marble countertop. “T-the insides? We’re going to cut out the what?”

Clove tries, oh she tries, to hide the amused smirk dancing along the corners of her lips, and notices Cato does not even bother to hide his own laugh. “Yes the insides, there's a bag of organs in there– Glimmer didn’t you say you already tried this? What did you even do?”

“I just..I unwrapped it and put it in the oven for a while, I don’t know!” Glimmer defends, but anxiously wrings at her hands. “They don’t come with directions.”

“Damn, I get it now, I wouldn’t want to stick around if I were Marvel either-” Cato starts, but the look Clove throws his way is as sharp as the knives she once did.  “I mean..totally understandable mistake…you know what, I value my life and I enjoy being married so I'm going back to the couch if you need me.”

“Smart move.” Clove remarks, shaking her head as he walks away. “Smart fucking move.”

“I don’t think I can do this.” Glimmer decides, pushing herself away from the cutting board and the knives. “These look like babies.”

“They’re featherless, dead, headless chickens, Glimmer.” Clove reminds her firmly, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her in again. “They aren’t babies.”

“They look like the size of new babies. I can't cut them up.” Glimmer insists, pulling away until her back hits the countertop behind her. “I can’t.”

“Glimmer! YOU have killed people’s babies, now get over here and cut out the spine of this fucking chicken.” Clove snaps, grabbing the pair of scissors. “It’s going to make it cook evenly and faster and it’s called spatch-cocking–”

“You’re doing what to a chicken?” Comes from the living room, the disembodied laugh of Cato following behind. “Say that word again!”

“I married a fucking child.” Clove murmurs, and once again drags Glimmer closer. “Just wait until you have to put butter under the skin.” 

“Oh my fucking god.” Glimmer whines, but stands dutifully beside Clove. She does not reach for the scissors, as she isn’t sure she’s capable of steadily holding anything in this immediate moment. “I just feel so so sick.”

When Clove digs a knife through the back of one of the chickens, the grinding sound of ribs and bones separating from the spine push Glimmer over the edge. “I think I need to lay down.”

“Wait, listen to this. Cato always wants to do this part but it’s my favorite.” Clove climbs on top of the counter, and flips the raw chicken over. She kneels over the cutting board, and puts both her hands on top of the chicken. Quickly and efficiently she presses her weight forward, and the sound of ribs shattering and cracking echoes through the kitchen. 

Glimmer hits the floor within seconds.

“Oh for fucks sake…Cato! Glimmer’s down.” Clove hops off the countertop, and steps over her friend. She switches the cutting board to work on Glimmer’s untouched task. She doesn’t bother to move Glimmer as she begins to work on that one as well, cutting through skin and tissue as if for a moment she is back in the games. 

“Hey that's the best part,” Cato pouts as he appears behind Clove, leaning down to kiss her cheek briefly, before leaning down to scoop Glimmer’s unconscious body into his arms. “What do you want me to do with her?”

“I dunno. Put her in one of the extra rooms.” Clove shrugs, but cocks her head as she looks at Glimmer’s uncharacteristically pale skin. “She seems sick, Cato.”

“What’s new?” Cato grumbles, but does as he is instructed to carry their friend out of the warzone that is Clove’s kitchen. 

Marvel arrives within the hour.

He lets himself in directly through the back kitchen door, a goofy, warm smile on his face. “There’s my favorite ex-bride, how was your little trip!” He announces himself, setting various bottles of wine and other alcohol on the island as a peace offering for Glimmer’s otherwise frantic arrival. “I burn if I even think about the beach too long, but it sounds fun.” He glances around the kitchen, where various arrays of trays full of food cooling or waiting to go in the oven are spread. “Where’s Glim?”

“That's a great segway. I think I should be asking you about your last two weeks.” Clove teases, narrowing her eyes at the man. “Are you two like..back together? Are you just fucking, what’s going on over there?”

“Great question Clove, great question. Things are good, really, they’re great. I’ve been staying there for like two weeks but I don’t know, Clove. I don’t know how I'd explain it.” He reaches for one of the still sizzling roasted potatoes, but drops it both from the burn on his fingertips and the sharp whack on the back of fingers with Clove’s rubber spatula. “I’m just taste testing! Seriously, where is she?”

“I cut the spine out and she passed out. The whole thing really freaked her out, I don’t know. She’s upstairs sleeping.” Clove waves off, focused instead on the slicing and peeling of pomegranate for the salad in front of her. “I thought she said she tried to do it herself.”

“Clove. She did. I threw up for forty five minutes after she left, it was raw. And cold. All she talked about for three days was this chicken, I couldn’t just say no.” Marvel admits with a low whisper, as if the sound would travel all the way upstairs and wake her up with fresh betrayal. 

“Look who it is! I think we need to start calling you loverboy.” Cato surprises Marvel, grabbing him by the top of the shoulders and squeezing. He leans in from behind him and whispers “I have videos of you drunk, crying over her, at eight in the morning. I will never delete them.” 

“It was an emotional day, Cato.” He defends himself, but can’t help the silly little smile that he cannot wipe away from his face. “I was just feeling the love.”

“You were feeling something alright, and that something is five-seven and blonde-” 

“Okaaay, who wants a drink.” Marvel jumps up from the island chair, scurrying over to let himself into the cabinet that contains all the various glassware. “Glimmer made this cranberry thing the other day that was so good, well.. I thought it was good. It made her do that gaggy thing.” 

Clove slowly turns her head to watch him shuffle around the kitchen, narrowing her eyes at him. “Do we need to be concerned that everything is making her do that, because the chicken did too. Is this some new ploy to not eat?”

“Nah, she wants to try things, maybe she’s just getting sick. She’s the one who wanted this dinner so badly.” Marvel insists, stealing a handful of Clove’s pomegranate seeds to sprinkle in the coup glasses. “I guess if she’s sick we’re all going to get it so. Enjoy it before it hits us.”  He slides a glass in Clove’s general direction, before sliding a matching one to Cato. 

It’s Clove’s turn to choke, when the burn of the liquid hits her tongue. “Uh yeah, Marvel, this is straight up vodka.”

Cato seems unphased, and instead takes the entire thing like a shot. “I don’t think it’s half bad.”

“Ah. Right. I’m supposed to add the juice to it. Sorry!” Marvel helps himself to the refrigerator, searching for whatever he simply assumes Clove will have on hand. On his way past a tray of croutons, he nabs a handful to shove in his mouth before he continues speaking.  “I was thinking, you could use the leftover chicken to make chicken soup, that could be REALLY good.” Marvel suggests, words barely comprehensible around the crunch of toasted bread. 

The look Clove responds with is a blend of disdain, disgust, and amusement as the blade of her knife does not stop rocking to slice through the salad vegetables in front of her, a skill to cut and look away from training days past. “...do I look like your mother, Marvel?”

“Well, no, my mother’s dead and you’re not.” Marvel says so easily, so casually, it’s almost possible to ignore the ache in his voice,

Clove can’t help but drop her knife, bringing her head to rest in her hands as her shoulders shake with laughter, “Hey, so is mine!”

Joining in with borderline giggles, Cato adds; “Hey, Clove, tell Marvel what you had to do to the chicken.”

“...I cut out the spine and broke the ribs?” Clove plays with an innocent intonation in her voice, knowing full well what Cato’s trying to get her to say again. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Noooo, Clove say it. Say the word.” Cato pleads, sticking his bottom lip out in a little pout. “Say it.”

Clove audibly sighs as she rolls her eyes, but gently places her hands on the counter, and looks to Cato with a serious expression. Without flinching, smirking, or letting her expression betray her, Clove looks him dead in the eye as she says, “it’s called spatchcocking.”

Cato and Marvel both erupt into childish laughter, Marvel even more so than Cato, as he has to place the glass in his hand back down so he doesn't drop it. Marvel continues to laugh, nearly bent in half with his forehead resting on the countertop as his entire body shakes with his laughter. “Say it again, say it again.” Marvel begs, resting his face on the cool marble countertops. 

“You’re also a fucking child.” Clove reminds, going back to her task at hand of trying to rapidly finish dinner before the rest of their friends (family?) arrives.  “Leave my kitchen. Both of you.”

“But Clovey-” Cato starts, reaching to wrap his arms around her waist before she slaps his hands away. 

“Out.”

Marvel wipes the tears out of his eyes as he grabs one of his wine bottles and heads towards any room but this. “Hey, do you have any wedding cake left I didn’t get to have any-”

“Out.” 

 By the point Glimmer is awake, she remains curled up on the couch looking rather green. 

“Glimmer do you want to come try the chicken, see if it’s how you like it?” Clove offers, holding out a tiny plate to her. 

As soon as Glimmer reaches for it, the smell hits her and leaves her maybe even more nauseous than before. She gags before she can even skewer it with a fork, and Clove walks away with fury all over her face. 

The audacity to come all this way, beg for dinner, and then outright gag at it. 

Fuck you, Glimmer. 

All four of their older counterparts arrive at once, exactly on time, as if they were waiting across the street for the clock to strike dinnertime.

“At least you didn’t bring the dogs.” Cato greets Brutus, who otherwise would in fact be tormenting him with three pitbulls running through his yard. 

“Clove won’t let them around the food. I had to prioritize.”

Gloss follows close behind, and immediately is confused by the way Glimmer is curled up on the couch rather than playing her favorite role of hostess (even at someone else's house.)

“She had the audacity to gag at my chicken. She better get used to fending for herself. What a bitch.” Clove explains, standing to the side as Cashmere leads Enobaria in by her hand.

“She’s not herself, Clove, don’t take it out on her. She tried to cook. You know something’s up with her.” Cashmere gently reminds her, tugging in Enobaria behind her. 

“Cooking is Clove’s love language these days, Glimmer just broke her heart.” Enobaria teases, but pulls out a bottle of the good District One wine to have with Dinner. “I knew there was no way in hell we were eating in one.”

“I thought you were in One this weekend at Cashmere’s?” 

“Oh, yeah. Whenever Glimmer said dinner at six everyone came to two. We’ve been patiently waiting by the door.” Enobaria explains, looping her arm over Clove’s shoulders. “Look at you. A little housewife making family dinner.” 

“Do NOT call me that-” Clove warns, but any further commentary is interrupted by Marvel, who runs into the living room with that stupid, goofy grin on his face. 

“Clove! Tell everyone what you did to the chicken!”

[kentwells]

who am i to ask for more, more, more

i haven't written fic in at least four years (maybe five which is batshit time is really a bitch) but i was so desperate for more fic abt these losers that i had to write some. title is from "waiting room” by phoebe bridgers!

i love the careers because they are obviously lethal and terrifying and brainwashed and insane. but also the scenes in the movie where they're running up to the water & laughing at the other tributes? they were raised without childhoods but they are also your average teenage bullies and it's so interesting to me. that is like. what i was getting at here. they did not realize being kids was a choice.  also huge thanks to @clatoera​ for talking endless stuff abt domesticity & ambition with regards to cato & clove!! and giving me some inspiration for the scene by the lake thank you so much for reading <3

AO3 link | fic under the cut off

When the 12M announces his love for the 12F, Clove rolls her eyes. It is, however, interesting enough for her to look at the screen instead of staring off into space. His cheeks are flushed pink, his eyes like a child’s. The district stylists might have forced Clove to look like a child, with a puffy orange dress and even puffier hair, but at least she doesn’t speak like one. The Capitol seems to think it something interesting, judging by the way the audience gasps. 

Cato lets out a harsh laugh, the same way he does whenever someone drops a weapon. Clove meets his eyes, and they share their 800th moment of knowing that no one else takes this half as seriously as they do. 

“This is a problem,” Brutus says.

“In what world?” Clove asks, rolling her eyes. Kids get crushes every day. She doesn’t know how many girls she’s ‘accidentally’ let a knife get too close to because they wouldn’t shut up about Cato in the dormitory. Even she has them. But she’s capable of ignoring it. Her heart can flutter all it wants to when Cato grabs her wrist, she’s still going to pull her shit together and wrench it out of his grip. Peeta, who only showed his strength after Katniss told him to and is willing to blush in front of all of Panem, is not going to be capable of that.

“It’s an angle?” Cato guesses. She can tell that he’s trying not to continue laughing, nervous to upset his mentor the night before the games.

Clove smirks. “A terrible one,” she says. “That’s basically saying you don’t give a shit about winning, who would sponsor that?”

“No one,” Lyme says. “But they’d sponsor the girl who kicked your asses in front of the Gamemakers and has a compelling enough personality for someone to love”. 

“Luckily, neither Cato or Clove are really going for lovable”, their escort laughs, though her eyes are still on the screen. 

Lyme’s eyes glint at her in the cold, detached way Clove has practiced in the mirror. “Long day tomorrow. Time for bed, I think.”

Clove takes the longest, hottest shower she’s had in years. Once her skin is burning and raw, she puts on a loose pair of pants and an impossibly soft blue shirt. When she gets out of the bathroom, Cato is on her bed, sprawled out like a puppy searching for attention. 

“Can you not get my pillows wet?” Clove climbs in next to him. Unlike the Center beds, these can actually fit both of them. Cato says nothing, just staring up at the ceiling, so Clove continues. “You don't even have to do any work to dry off here.”

“Who gives a shit, you have 20.” He tucks an arm around her waist, and she wraps a leg over his in practiced comfort. She doesn’t even give him shit for still being wet. It seems like a waste of breath right now. “12M’s an annoying little shit,” Cato says as she leans her head on his shoulder. 

Clove grunts. She agrees, of course. Her mind is still thick with Lyme’s suggestion that the 12M’s idiocy will reel in the sponsors. And every time she closes her eyes, she sees the spinning 11 superimposed over the 12F’s face, like a target she’s trying to hit.

“He’s not special for liking a girl.”

“I thought you were annoying, but you’re a fucking saint compared to him,” Clove snorts. He pinches her side.

“C’mon, Clover, that’s the lowest bar in Panem.”

“Give him some credit, it’s hard to be more annoying than you.” Clove grins at him, but it quickly turns to scorn. “He’s an idiot,” she says. “He wasn’t winning anyway, but his chances went from one percent to zero when he decided to commit to that act.”

Cato kisses the crown of her head. “He wasn’t winning anyway, let him have a last few moments of fun.”

For a second, Clove thinks Cato’s going to slide his hand up her shirt and go for his own last few moments of fun. Instead, he gently nudges her head off of his shoulder, shifts to one side and presses his head deeper into the pillow. “See you tomorrow,” Clove whispers.

 ࿏

 Cato is loyal to District 2 and to the Capitol. He didn’t need to be told twice, his eyes lit up when he first saw someone win the Hunger Games and they haven’t darkened since. These thoughts drum through his head on careful repeat, so loud that he couldn’t think something else if he wanted to. He eats on auto-pilot, creating a meal as close to what the Centre would give him as possible. Azalea, his jittery, pink-haired stylist sits across from him, eating nothing.

“Clove is about five minutes behind you,” she titters. 

Cato doesn’t respond. Clove is back in District 2, watching the stream with the rest of the Center kids. Azalea retrieved him from the 2F’s room this morning.

At this point, there is nothing for Cato to do. No one for him to spar, no one to beat. He settles for keeping his mind as blank as possible so that he doesn’t tire himself out. It’s a relief when he rises into the arena, to see the other tributes and the Cornucopia.

He waits a second after the cannon, having been warned one too many times about the possibility of dying from overeagerness. It’s satisfying to watch the tributes on either side of him peel away, clearly desperate to get as far away from him as possible. He has a good foot on the girl to his right, so he goes after her first. She doesn’t see him coming when he tackles her to the ground.  

Once he’s heard enough cracking from her bones and she’s coughing up blood, he pushes himself up and glances around for weapons. He sees a few swords and spears decorating the Cornucopia walls. A few feet before he reaches them, he sees a pack of knives, the kind Clove could strap around her waist. 

“Clove!” He shouts. The breath leaves his body when he spots her in hand to hand combat with one of the older girls. The second she glances up, he tosses the knives her way. Clove’s eyes light up the second she sees them. The older girl, who’s taller than Clove but made of nothing but bone, looks hopeful when Clove darts around her, and begins to make a run for it.

When one of the knives hits her calf, she falls, and Clove flashes Cato an absolutely lethal smile before kicking her over and slitting her throat. “I’ve got the 12F!” She shouts, breaking into a run across the edge of the clearing, and Cato turns to pick a sword. 

He just about blacks out for the rest of it. Kids die. He kills them. Someone makes a very half-hearted attempt to kill him and he snaps their neck. He had expected it to be more difficult, but everyone who ran towards the Cornucopia was hoping for a quick death instead of trying to avoid it.

“Let’s tally,” Clove says, cleaning one of her knives on her jacket. She’s lectured him about 800 times on proper knife care, and this does not qualify, but a good quality cleaning kit is probably too much to ask for. 

“Can we take a lap?” Glimmer asks, hands on her hips. “Some of them might have grabbed supplies, and there were definitely a few bodies with weapons sticking out of them.” She clears her throat. “And not to state the obvious, but why are you here?” She turns to 12M, who is inexplicably standing near them. 

Clove will give him credit for looking impressively unlike a deer in headlights and starting to speak for himself, but Cato beats him to it. “He’s leading us to his district partner.”

So he must not love her. Clove is taken aback by that – not because she believes in the purity of outer district crushes, but because she would have at least hoped he had a reason to sound like such an idiot on national television. “Does she believe all of the love bullshit?” she asks.

12M shrugs, and Clove can’t really be bothered to press. “Let’s do Glimmer’s idea and make sure we get everything before the hovercrafts come around.” Glimmer beams at her, and Clove turns toward the fallen tributes. She holds the knives she finds in her hand so that she can figure out how to clean them, and stalks around the clearing.

“I think you got blood on your jacket,” 12M says. He’s putting on a layer of bravado, but Clove sees right through it to the nerves. 

“Wait, was there blood around here lately?” Clove asks, her eyes wide and her voice saccharine sweet. “I must not have noticed!” She flashes him a grin that’s all teeth and turns back to the Cornucopia. They’re all covered in it – Cato’s hair is basically red, though given his height that’s probably from being flashy more so than real necessity.

“I’m Peeta,” he says, absentmindedly. From the slightly apprehensive way he looks at the bodies at their feet, he wouldn’t have lasted two years in the Center. Clove curses herself for not having slightly better aim, because if 12F was dead, she could just knife him and be done with it. 

“Clove.”

Once everything is collected and reasonably organized, the sun is starting to set. They agree not to set a fire before they need to, settling instead for the food that will go bad soon. Clove eats her apple and watches Glimmer and Cato from across the circle. She’s directly opposite them, so if anyone questions her, she can say she’s just staring into space. 

It's not like someone would, anyways. Marvel and Marina seem to have figured out that they aren't going to win, and even if 12M is still stupid enough to think that he has a chance, Clove could have him dead before he finished his sentence. Glimmer curls into Cato’s side under the pretense of warming herself up and attracting sponsors. Clove starts to feel a flicker of something detached. She wants more than anything to make a joke about how their matching hair makes them look like siblings, but that would ruin any chance of horny Capitolites sending them shit. 

She can save it until after the pack breaks. 

Glimmer adjusts herself so that her head is lying in Cato’s lap, and her body is curled on the ground. Clove catches Cato’s eye, and they both try not to laugh. Clove will give her some credit though — her head and vital organs are protected, and her back is to the Cornucopia. Glimmer may be annoying, but at least her survival instincts are decent. 

“Think it’s dark enough to hunt?” Marvel asks.

Instinctively, Clove’s hands go to her vest to run her fingers over her knives. “Hold on, I want to see who’s dead.”

As if on cue, the first bars of the Anthem appear. “Cato, tally?” He grins at her. “How the fuck did you get blood in your teeth?” she mocks, and his grin only widens. It's not really the arrogant smirk he’s been giving cameras for a week, much more the one he gives her after he bashes her with a pillow or plays a prank on his little sister.

Clove and Cato each have three, Glimmer and Marvel managed two apiece, and no one’s sure who got the last one. 

Countless trainers had warned her with sharp words, how dangerous it was to go into the Arena with a friend. Clove had worried about it, because she hadn’t gotten this far by ignoring the trainers, but everything was fine once they were in the Arena. She’s spent most of the last twelve years fighting with and against Cato. This is routine.

 ࿏

 Clove knows well enough to step away from Cato when he’s this angry. Her biggest reaction is to tilt her head to get a better look at the mangled way 3M’s neck holds his head and body together. It’s not that she’s scared – if she was really concerned, she could easily snap a knife somewhere fatal, especially with his reflexes slowed by emotion – more so that he’ll burn himself out soon enough. No one, not even Cato, can hold enough anger to throw a long-ass tantrum.

Out of the corner of her eye, Clove sees Marvel slowly backing away, three packs of supplies strapped to his body and spear in hand.

“Is the alliance over?” Clove calls out. He turns, slightly scared, to look at her. She grins, imagining how easy it would be to kill him right now for trying to sneak off. 

“I should think so,” Marvel says. “You should run from this bullshit while you can.”

Clove doesn’t even have to think in order to give him the coldest glare she can. “I don’t need to,” she says, her eyes immediately snapping back to Cato. Clove pulls herself up to a ledge of the Cornucopia and watches him rage.

She’s right, per usual. He kicks a pile of ashen supplies and lands on his back, and stays there, silently staring at the sky for a little while. He’s breathing hard enough for her to see his chest rise and fall. Clove jumps off the Cornucopia and walks towards him, eventually standing by his side and blocking the sun from his eyes.

“The Career alliance is over,” she says, offering him a hand. He uses it to pull himself up, and cards a hand through his hair. It’s too short for that, hair buzzed regulation short last week before the Reaping, but he does it anyways. “Not like any of them were much use,” Clove continues.

“Sticking together?” Cato asks. His voice is confident, but his eyes search hers. She’s half a step ahead in strategy most of the time, and smart enough to know he’s the biggest threat against her, all too comfortable ducking her knives and exploiting the few weak points she has.

He imagines them in the final two, the way they’ve talked about since they were eight, and how one of them will kill the other in a way that’s interesting enough to create an iconic story, but not too painful for the others. He thinks that he’ll kill Clove as quickly as possible and hack it to pieces until the hovercraft arrives. Clove’s eyes glint, something half steel and half something else. “Obviously.”

 ࿏

 “Tributes,” Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms through the woods around them, and Clove skids to a stop. “For the 74th annual Hunger Games, I am pleased to announce a rule change.” Clove turns to look at Cato. The Centre has stuffed her mind with hundreds of ways to play, but the only Capitol-created rule she can think of is ‘kill as many people as you can’. He looks just as confused as she feels, glancing around like Claudius Templesmith is hiding in one of the trees. “Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district will be declared Victors if they are the last two alive.”

“Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district will be declared Victors if they are the last two alive,” he repeats. His voice is even, as if they were too stupid to understand the first time, but it turns to wicked as he says “May the odds be ever in your favor” and his voice disappears as quickly as it came.

Clove is paralyzed, unsure of what comes next. Cato acts first, hoisting her up and knotting a hand in her hair. His hand sliding beneath her hair tie like he needs to be as close to her as possible. He’s probably mashing blood into her scalp, but there’s plenty of that there anyways. Her arms are around his neck, probably the first time they’ve ever been there without her making a move to cut off his air supply. Cato’s breathing is so heavy against her chest that she can feel herself shift with it. “Hi,” Clove mutters, because it’s all she can really think to do. 

Cato spins her around once before setting her down, but his arms stay on her waist. She leaves her arms on his shoulders, grip loose and easy. He looks at her with a new type of intensity, almost hopeful. “We’re winning this shit,” Clove tells him, without a single doubt in her mind.

He picks her up and swings her around again, and she would scream if he didn’t do this every time he was bored. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” Fuck the girl on fire, this is fucking fire, burning every obstacle in her path and making her future crystal clear.

Cato drops his pack and sits down, and Clove tumbles down next to him. Every bone in her body feels looser, itching for a fight but positive she’ll – they’ll – win it. She crosses her ankles over his, not bothering with any pretenses. They can both go home. No sense in making sure everyone knows how fast she could kill him. 

“I’m serious, Cato,” she says. She knows she sounds like a kid, but she can’t help it. If she had an ounce less of self respect, she would be jumping like a rabbit. “Serious. We can take anyone.” She glances around for where a camera might be, but decides to keep looking at Cato. “I’ve got long range, you’ve got hand-to-hand.”

“Perfect team,” Cato says, smug and satisfied and not with half as much cruelty as he normally says that. 

 ࿏

 They haven’t killed another tribute in two days, and the only thing on Cato’s mind is that he could have been doing this the whole time. He could have had two more weeks of throwing Clove into the lake without her worried that he was about to kill her. She never screams at home when he picks her up, too focused on getting him to drop her, but here, she laughs and shrieks like a kid from an outer district, playing up the childish thing sponsors seem to be in the mood for this year. She catches his eye when he takes his shirt off to clean up, and he is no longer a weapon that so happens to have this physical form but a fucking idiot that would trip on his own sword because she smirked at him.

“You know you like it, c’mon.”

“Like what, the fact that you won’t smell like rotting corpses and dirt for the next half hour?” He throws his shirt at her and splashes through the lake. She stays on the bench, carefully inspecting her knives, sharpening each one and tucking them neatly into the jacket she’s laid across her lap.

“Cato, I swear to Snow, if you come near me soaking wet, I will kill you,” she snaps, not even looking up from her knives. He laughs and wraps his arms around her shoulders anyways, laughing harder when she doesn’t squirm at the chill. He’s been doing this for years, trying to get a rise out of her because she hates how clammy wet skin feels. Normally, she’d have shoved him off hard enough to bruise by now, but she keeps her eyes trained on her knives and lets Cato touch her.

The metal screech of her knives against a rock keeps going. So does the sound of the water. Cato pulls his shirt back on from where it was on the ground and sits behind Clove, pulling her to his chest. She settles her head on his shoulder and holds a knife up to the sun to inspect it.

“If we win the same games, do we share a house and shit?” Clove asks. 

“Do you want to be roommates?” Cato asks, twirling the ends of her hair. It’s braided today. 

Clove snorts and tucks the knife into her jacket, apparently finding it satisfactory. Instead of reaching for the next knife, she slouches down and holds onto his wrists where they wrap around her shoulders. “I think that if you live alone, you’ll eat nothing but protein shakes.”

“Oh, and you can cook?”

“Yes I goddamn can,” Clove says, indignant, turning to face him. “I’m great at cooking.” That’s not out of the realm of possibility. He hasn’t seen her eat anything not given to them by the Center in years, but she’s good with knives and the smartest person Cato knows. “Will you cook for me when we win?”

“If,” Clove rams a sharp elbow into his ribs. 

Really, even if they were given two houses, Clove knows how quickly one would fall into disuse. The only reason they both actively use their own rooms are because their dorms are tiny, and at this point as stuffed to the brim with extra weapons and strategy books as Center regulations will allow. Most nights though, they crawl into the same bed after covering each other in cheap healing salve and trying to shake off the bruises, locking themselves to each other because the beds aren’t really big enough for two people. She knows that leaving the Arena together would sort of cement their melding into each other, making sure everyone who discusses them says it as catoandclove. 

She had promised herself that it would all end in Remake. They fixed her nose, which was well past crooked from the three times he had broken it. His skin is mostly clear of her tidy, elegant scars, only a few left for dramatic effect. And she had meant it, really, but now she’s thinking about how much of their goddamn stipend they’ll have to spend accommodating his ridiculous appetite and how she can win a fight over the thermostat.

“We need to get someone else soon.”

Cato exhales something long and heavy “Fuck yes. I think we should search out 12 and get it the fuck over with.”

“I’ll get 12F,” she says. She can sense his annoyance at that. “C’mon, I’ll make it entertaining. No one wants to see me methodically slice open someone who already can barely walk.”

“As long as it’s a good show,” he sighs. It will be. Clove imagines pinning her down, carving up her face so that no one wants to see her corpse. At this point in the Games, there are no slow deaths, not when it could be her last chance to slice someone open. Clove wants so much blood on her skin that she has to spend an hour in the lake to get it all off.

“Fucking obviously, who do you think I am?” Clove teases. She twists, albeit a little awkwardly, so that she’s properly facing him instead of pressed to his chest. The smile he gives her is lazy and content.

She slides a hand across his hip, searching automatically for the long, thin scar that should wrap around it. She finds nothing but smooth skin and a scrape, probably from a tree or some shit. She memorizes it, holding onto these new details. 12F and 12M, dying far apart and without the other knowing. An entryway littered with shoes and warm sweaters and a freshly polished rack of weapons in the Victor’s Village.

Cato leans in and kisses her, tugging her to lie on top of him. She’s about to lean back and curse him out for this, but the strategy seems to be working out alright for 12. And if she were in the Center watching this on a screen, she would be laughing with everyone else about how these kids are virgins who barely know each other. This easy affection, hidden among violent plans and strategies, is sure beneath her hands for the first time. 

(She’ll make 12F’s death especially brutal, and remind everyone that they should not fucking think about making fun of her.)

 ࿏

 5F would be hell to track if her hair weren’t bright red. He keeps seeing flashes of it in the distance, egging him onwards. Four more. He’ll take 5F, Clove will get 12F. If 12M doesn’t die on his own, he still won’t be able to put up any sort of fight. 11M will be a solid, respectable final fight, bigger than Cato but not nearly as skilled of a fighter, and Clove will back him up with her knives. It’s so close he can taste it, can’t stop thinking about sharing a bed instead of a shitty sleeping bag.

The first time he hears a Clove’s strangled, high pitched scream yell “CATO!”, he doesn’t slow down. He’s never heard Clove sound anywhere near that scared, not when the air is being choked out of her lungs or the night before a ranking exam. This is a Capitol trick, some sort of trap that he’s meant to fall into.

When he hears it again, every ounce of logic and training goes out the window, and he sprints towards her.

He doesn’t spot her at first, and there’s a wink of relief that she’s somewhere out of sight, ready to hurl knives at everyone but him, but then he sees a flash of red and brown against the grass.

Clove. The bubbled ponytail she tied and untied whenever she didn’t have enough to do with her hands. He is on his knees and she is next to him, a full on fucking dent in her head, lying on the ground, eyes still awake but no longer full of fire. He’s screaming, but he truly does not give a shit if someone hears. He’s easy enough to track down anyways.

And how the fuck could this have happened. How could a fucking nobody from 11 do this to her, careless and cruel, when she was the first person his age to figure out how to escape his chokeholds. 

“Clove, you’re going to get through this,” he tells her, and he does almost believe it. She’s broken endless bones without so much as crying. She likes doing things for dramatic effect – she’s doing this for sponsors, for attention, to create an iconic games moment that will be shown forever after they win. 

He maneuvers her so that her head is in his lap and tries not to think about how this feels like Clove’s dead weight, like lead weighing him down instead of the feather light Clove who fights back like a tiny speed demon. The last time she felt like this was in her dorm room, long after they had stopped pretending to analyze their earlier training stats, and Clove, flushed and catching her breath, fell asleep half on top of him. 

Clove’s always had a reputation for being cold. It annoyed the fuck out of Cato when they were younger, the way it was near impossible to get a rise out of her, but he likes it now. It’s most of why they were sent in together, the way he runs hot and impulsive and she stands a few steps above everyone else. This is different though, it’s not so much that her mind is whirring like crazy behind a thick shell, moreso that everything has gone hazy for Clove. Clove, who can muster a terrifying glare even while freshly concussed. 

On the ground, most of Clove’s energy is going to distinguishing one word from the next. The words Cato is saying are familiar – “I’ll slice him open for this, just how you like it. I’ll smash her head in, break enough bones that she’s unrecognizable. Remember – fuck, I still don’t know his name, actually – remember that kid that tried, yeah, I’ll recreate that, except now I can actually fucking finish the job.” She knows his threats, but his voice isn’t the hard monotone or reckless yelling she’s used to. It’s cracking like it hasn’t done since they were thirteen. She’s heard his voice wracked with emotion before, but never like this, equal parts warm and desperate. His hands cradle her cheeks, oscillating between desperately grabbing her like he can keep her alive with his touch and holding her face so gently that she thinks she might be imagining it. 

For a moment, she wonders if the cameras are still on them. She’s not sure where the line is – what violence the Capitol citizens find hot or funny or impressive, and what violence they find disgusting. Clove doesn’t find any of this disgusting. She knows Cato would do everything he’s promising if there were enough bodies in the arena for the amount of threats he’s making. He might use all of them anyways, to keep a promise to her or work out any extra anger.

He’s thought about this more than enough times since they were kids, the way he’ll eventually stand next to her dead body. This is a nightmare, the kind where he’s holding his breath and waiting to jolt awake in the Center, because she’s actually slipping away and he doubts she could so much as laugh at him right now and someone else did this to her and he wasn’t fucking there in time.

Cato doesn’t quite know what he’s saying anymore, but Clove does. It’s a babble more than anything, and she would bet that it’s because of his own emotion instead of her inability to distinguish words. He tells her that he loves the smirk she gives when she hits every bullseye in the training room and the way her face twists as she pulls her hair into a braid for training. He loves how she never slows down from an injury and the way she makes fun of him as she sews shitty stitches into his skin. He’ll do anything to try and make up for this, the way she lies on the ground, eyes glazing more and more with every minute.

She knows what he’s building to. And she already knows it, has for a while, really, but didn’t let herself think it until Claudius Templesmith told her she could. The two of them have endless, endless advantages over the 12’s, but at least those dickheads got to say whatever they wanted.

She can’t quite make words anymore. She can’t quite do anything. But despite the way she shakes violently beneath her, his knee is solid on the small of her back, and for once it’s not a trap. 

[vanserraseris]

END OF PART XIV - I feel like I should say that things don’t really get any happier?? A few years have passed since the last part and Eris is a little ooc. Just a warning that there are mentions of character death and blood. Thank you to everyone who reads.

omfg i am SO sorry it took me forever to get this part up. anyway im crying

Prince of Ashes. Part XIV.

masterlist.

Eris sat on his stool once more, the old wooden legs creaking under his weight. He was well aware that the small, ugly tavern was well below an acceptable place for him to be, but he’d needed a break. Pity, Eris thought, that he hadn’t been able to find one. He shook his head, little pieces of broken glass falling from his hair and onto the sticky bar top. He felt blood dripping down the side of his face and wiped it away with the back of his hand.

The female behind the bar had pressed herself up against one of the shelves, had put as much distance between the two of them as was possible. Eris simply pushed the glass in front of him towards her, no emotion in his voice as he said, “I’ll have another, if you don’t mind.” Her brown eyes widened before she whirled around, quickly grabbing the already open bottle of cognac behind her. With shaking hands, she poured the drink into his glass.

Eris could hear her rapidly beating heart and scowled, bringing the glass to his lips and draining its contents. The female rushed to refill his glass just as the doors to the tavern opened. Eris didn’t turn to see who it was, he didn’t have to. He recognized his friend’s scent, scrunching his nose as he wiped at more blood that dripped down his face. Eris’s ears twitched at the sound of Lagos walking towards him, his boot-clad feet crunching the broken pieces of glass on the floor.

Eris tried not to breathe in too deeply as Lagos pulled a stool towards the bar, the wooden legs dragging through a pool of blood, it’s iron scent burning through Eris’s nose. 

“Have you been doing that all day?” Lagos sounded very disappointed as he sat down. 

Eris wasn’t entirely sure whether Lagos was talking about the drinking, or about the two dozen faeries he’d killed. It didn’t really matter, his answer remained the same, “Just started.”

“It’s unlike you to drink without company.”

Eris raised a brow, turning his head in his friend’s direction, but looking past him. Eris stared at the dead faerie slumped against the dark wood of the bar as he spoke, “Are you here to join me?”

Lagos sighed, moving so that Eris could look at him instead. “I’m here, Eris, because Rufus told us where you’d be. He’s worried, we’re worried, and you won’t tell any of us a thing.”

Eris scowled, turning away from him to face the female behind the bar.

She was staring at him differently now, the fact that she recognized who he was evident in her lovely features. “How much for the whole bottle?”

“Ten coppers,” she said, voice clear despite her obvious nerves.

Eris shoved his hand into the back pocket of his brown pants, placing ten gold marks on the table instead. “I’m buying the bottle and I’m buying your silence.” Eris made sure there were flames in his eyes as he looked at her.

Eris hadn’t known that the rebels he was looking for would be sitting in the tavern he’d entered. They’d paused at his arrival, their loud talking turning into hushed murmuring as he’d sat at the bar. Eris had seen the leader, had recognized her from the large scar over her brow, and wished he hadn’t. They’d all put up a good fight, would have made excellent warriors had they not chosen to fight against Beron.

Eris had decided to spare the young female behind the bar, the only survivor, because she’d reminded Eris of his mother. She placed the bottle in front of him, nearly dropping it as she said, “Yes, my prince.”

“I think it would be best if you left,” Lagos advised, tilting his head towards the door.

Eris only briefly watched the female as she grabbed the gold, as she scrambled out of the tavern, stepping over a dead male as she practically ran away from the bar.

Eris sniffed, swirling the cognac in the bottle as he slowly pushed his full glass towards Lagos. Instead of speaking, Eris chose to lift the heavy bottle to his lips.

“You aren’t going to find happiness at the bottom of that bottle,” Lagos muttered, running a hand through his long, dark hair. The gold tattoos on each of his fingers seemed brighter than usual in the gloom of the tavern.

Eris rolled his eyes, “I’m not trying to find happiness.” He raised the bottle in his friend’s direction before he took a long drink, “I’m trying to drown my sorrows.”

Lagos furrowed his brows, “I think you’ve had enough.”

“I’ve definitely not had enough.” Eris shook his head, the scent of blood making him dizzy. Perhaps if he drank a little more, he wouldn’t be able to smell it. “I finally understand why Cato was always in such a foul mood, though.”

“Eris—”

“The High Lord has me taking over some of his duties,” Eris waved a hand, eyes scanning the small space around him, looking over all the dead faeries. Eris hadn’t known the extent of what his father had been making Cato do all these years, had never bothered to ask his younger brother what his duties had been outside of questioning prisoners at The Forest House. Being in Cato’s shoes as Beron worked to find his replacement had Eris feeling absolutely dreadful.

Lagos took a deep breath, “This is what Cato did?” Of course Lagos would be horrified. Eris had been sent to the small town outside Calchas to find the steadily growing rebel group, and had been ordered to kill them if he did. Rebel groups in Autumn seemed to be getting more and more popular; Eris wasn’t surprised.

Eris faced his friend, looked into his dark brown eyes. “Horrible enough to drive anyone mad, isn’t it?”

“It would explain why you yelled at Rufus this morning.”

“Fuck off, Lagos,” Eris snapped, “Honestly, if you’re here because Rufus is worried, you’ve come here in vain.”

“I’m here,” Lagos snarled, “Because if Rufus can’t get through to you, I’m not sure anyone else can.” Eris couldn’t count the times his friends had tried to talk to him after Lucien had left Autumn, after Cato and Owain had been killed. Eris hadn’t wanted to talk to them, had pushed them away when they tried.

Eris huffed a humourless laugh, “You don’t have to worry about me, I’m fine.”

“Evidently,” Lagos grabbed the bottle from Eris’s hand just as he’d been about to bring it to his lips, “Of course you’re fine, Mother forbid anyone worry about you.” He slammed the bottle onto the bar.

“Don’t start with this shit again,” Eris was tired, he’d had a long day, he didn’t want to listen to anything Lagos had to tell him — he’d heard it all before.

“This is an intervention,” Lagos waved his hand, “I’m intervening. I’m not going to sit here and watch you drink, following your father’s orders as you try to win a throne you’ve never wanted.”

Eris wiped at the blood on his face again. “Who says I don’t want it?”

“You!” Lagos raised his voice a bit, “You’ve been saying it since I’ve known you!”

“Well, I changed my mind,” Eris ran a hand through his hair, he’d given this issue much thought lately.

“I’m going to steal my father’s crown and I’m going to rule Autumn.” Beron wasn’t good for this court, he’d always been too selfish, too power-hungry, too cruel. Maddox wouldn’t be a good High Lord, he was better off leading the Royal Guard. Priam was just as likely to abandon Autumn as he was to rule it well. And Rufus didn’t want the throne, even if Eris thought he would be the best one on it.

Lagos sounded frustrated as he said, “And how do you plan on doing that?”

Eris flashed his friend a smile, “Not sure yet, but I’m a patient male, Lagos. I’ll wait another 300 years for that crown if I have to.” Eris had never been humble, it was easy for him to see that he was the only reasonable option, the only one of his brothers who could be a decent High Lord after he got rid of Beron.

Lagos sighed, reaching out with a hand, “Eris—”

Eris growled when Lagos placed that hand on his arm, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m taking you home,” Lagos snapped, no longer touching him though, “Obviously, we need to talk. Unless you’d like to fight this out, just like we used to.”

“Tempting,” Eris lifted his chin, “But I just spent a good hour fighting out my anger.” That, and Eris had never beaten Lagos in a fight, and they’d fought countless times in the years they’d known each other.

“Fine, let’s just,” he held his hand out to Eris, an offering, “Let’s go home.”

There was a time where Eris would have taken his friend’s hand without question. Lagos, who had stayed by his side for nearly three centuries and was in danger because of it. Eris looked at Lagos and saw a brother, just another brother he could disappoint, another brother he could fail. Eris pushed his stool away from the bar, “You’ll have to drag me there,” he declared as he stood up.

Lagos rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, “Don’t fucking test me, Eris, I’ll do it.”

Eris waved a hand dismissively, “Go ahead.”

Eris hadn’t truly believed Lagos would do it, but when he fell to the ground, the back of his head smacking against the hardwood floor of the tavern, he guessed he’d been wrong about how much shit Lagos was willing to take from him before he snapped.

“What the fuck?” Eris snarled, kicking out one of his long legs.

“You fucking asked for it,” Lagos said through clenched teeth, his arms around Eris’s torso as a bright light flared around them.

Eris vaguely realized that Lagos had winnowed them somewhere, most likely to the yard outside his cottage.

Eris and Lagos tumbled and rolled in the long grass, fists flying. They were both punching and hitting and swearing, Eris was keeping a tight leash on his flames the whole time, still self aware enough to prevent burning one of his best friends. Eris heard Micah, would have recognized his voice anywhere, as he called out to them.

“Following orders blindly,” Lagos growled as he tried to pin Eris underneath him, “Being horrible to Rufus, ignoring your mother.” They tumbled a little more in the grass, “You’re better than this.”

Eris pushed Lagos roughly with one of his hands, “Am I?” Eris didn’t really think he was, not after all the things he’d done. Eris wasn’t a good male, that much he was certain of.

Before Lagos could respond, he was wrenched off Eris by a livid Widge. “I can’t believe you would fucking do that.”

Eris sat up, raking a hand through his now messy hair. He couldn’t remember the last time Widge had been angry, and almost felt bad for having played a part in it. Micah got down on his knees beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, it took all of Eris’s strength not to shrug him off.

“You can’t seriously be angry at me,” Lagos growled, staring up at Widge, incredulous. “Our friend just killed over twenty people — decent, hopeful, hard-working people — because they wanted to overthrow the worst High Lord in Prythian, and you’re angry at me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Widge started, “But I think we’re all old enough to use our words instead of our fists.”

Micah shook his head, looking at Lagos with furrowed brows, “This isn’t what I had in mind when I said we needed to work things out.” Eris stiffened at the thought that his friends had been discussing him when he wasn’t there, but Micah continued speaking, anger clear in his tone. “I’m certain this was uncalled for, Lagos.”

Lagos threw his hands in the air, “You’re on his side?” Lagos seemed more surprised than hurt, “Why are you on his side, Micah?”

Micah sighed, his other hand coming up to rest on Eris’s arm. “Because he’s upset.”

“I’m not upset, why would I be upset?” They all seemed content to ignore Eris as they continued talking.

Lagos snorted, “Right, that’s the reason.”

Micah flushed, opening his mouth to respond, but Widge spoke first. “I think everyone needs to just take a breath,” he helped Lagos to his feet.

“You can take a breath, I’m not done speaking,” Lagos muttered.

Widge looked slightly panicked as he brushed some dirt off of the other male. “Enough, Lagos, just… just stop for a minute.”

Lagos ignored him, turned to face Eris, brown eyes glowing gold, “I always saw through your unbothered, arrogant, asshole act. Always. Tonight, I could not.” Lagos shook his head, “Keep the mask on long enough, Eris, and you forget what’s underneath.”

Eris held his oldest friend’s gaze, “There’s no mask.” Eris wasn’t some secret hero, he wasn’t some misunderstood male with good intentions, “I’m just my father’s son.”

Micah tightened his hold on Eris’s shoulder, “Lagos,” he said in the tone he usually reserved for ordering soldiers around, “Leave him alone.”

Lagos didn’t look like he wanted to leave Eris alone, he looked like he wanted to hit him.

Eris couldn’t blame him, but he felt oddly at peace knowing that he’d probably pushed Lagos too far. “I’m leaving,” Lagos muttered, “I’ll return when you snap out of whatever mood you’re currently in,” that statement directed at Eris. Eris wasn’t planning on snapping out of his mood anytime soon, but he watched as Lagos winnowed away without another word, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Just as Lagos left, Micah placed gentle fingers on Eris’s chin, moving some of Eris’s hair to look at him closely. “You’re bleeding.” He didn’t need to ask the question he so clearly wanted to, Eris knew what he wanted.

“One of the faeries I killed tonight threw a bottle at me,” Eris mumbled as Micah tilted his head to the side, trying to get a better look, “She had a very good arm.”

“It’s very unlike you to follow such orders,” Micah’s emerald eyes looked troubled.

Micah wasn’t wrong, Eris had gotten very good at talking his way out of orders he didn’t like. Eris felt blood trickle down the side of his face, and Micah leaned closer to him, pressed the clean sleeve of his shirt against Eris’s brow.

“My father doesn’t trust me.”

“Do you want him to?” Micah stopped pressing his sleeve against Eris’s face, his hand replacing the fabric as he held onto Eris, his thumb resting gently on Eris’s cheekbone.

“I need him to.” Eris hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten to Micah.

“What is the cost?” Eris shuddered when Micah’s thumb slowly stroked his cheekbone, “What will it cost you?”

Eris knew the cost. He hadn’t been determined enough, hadn’t been focused enough on becoming High Lord all these years. He’d liked spending time with his friends, liked spending time with Rufus and Lucien. He’d liked trying to charm pretty females and handsome males, liked getting wasted on faerie wine and pixie.

He needed his father to trust him — that was the first step in taking his crown — and that meant Eris needed to get his hands dirty, needed to follow those orders with a smile on his face. Eris knew what it would cost — his friends, his brothers, his mother — and he was prepared to pay the price. Eris looked into Micah’s clear green eyes as he answered, “Everything that matters.” Micah bit the inside of his bottom lip, nodding once.

Eris froze when Micah inched closer to him, their noses almost touching, eyes half-lidded. “Eris, please—”

Eris didn’t really want to hear what Micah had to say, so he simply decided to close the distance between them. Eris tilted his head, mouth slanting across Micah’s, eyes fluttering shut when he didn’t pull away.

Micah’s lips were soft against Eris’s, the hand cupping Eris’s face was firm as he pulled Eris closer in a breathless gasp. Eris’s tongue brushed against Micah’s, and Eris felt some of the control on his magic slip.

Eris lifted his hand, tangling his fingers in Micah’s light brown hair, everything about the other male familiar. He decided that this would be the last time, his other hand fisted in the blades of grass by Micah’s hand.

With one final tender kiss on Micah’s lips, Eris pulled back, resting his forehead against Micah’s, eyes closed. “I need to sit on that throne,” Eris bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. He loosened his hold on Micah’s hair, “Maybe then I can fix this court.”

Micah pulled back, moved his hand so that it rested against Eris’s neck. “You do what you have to, Eris, but I don’t — I know I am selfish for it, but… I don’t think I can sit back and watch you.”

Eris’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Micah’s wavering voice. Micah wasn’t selfish, he was anything but selfish. Eris hadn’t been expecting Micah to be so upset, his cheeks were flushed, tears streaming down his face. Eris had to remind himself that this was for the best, that if he stayed away it would keep him safe.

“Don’t waste your tears on me, Micah,” Eris murmured. He would have kissed them away if he didn’t think it would make things infinitely more difficult.

Micah took a deep breath, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, “I need to go.” Eris felt the sudden urge to beg him not to. Instead, he just sat frozen as Micah stood to leave.

Eris stared at Micah’s feet as he walked away. He vaguely heard Widge trying to stop him, had nearly forgotten that Widge was still there. He ripped at a patch of grass, loosing a long breath.

Eris was still staring after Micah when Widge dropped down to sit beside him. “They’ll be back.”

“I don’t want them to come back,” Eris snarled, “I want to get rid of you, too.”

“I don’t think it matters what you want,” Widge ran a hand through his copper hair, “I mean, obviously it does,” he cringed. “What you want matters, it should always matter, it’s just that I think you’re lying.”

Eris wondered if it was possible to both want them to come back and want them to stay as far away from him as possible. “You’re not leaving?” Eris asked, turning to face Widge.

Widge flashed Eris a small smile, knocking his shoulder into Eris’s. “Not a chance.”

“I’m going to lean on you, then,” Eris muttered.

Widge shifted closer to him, “You can lean on me whenever you like.”

Eris crossed his arms, kicked his legs out in front of him, and slumped against Widge’s much smaller frame. “Everything I touch, I turn to ash.”

Eris felt Widge shake his head, “That’s not true.”

“It is, though,” Eris sighed, “Over two centuries of friendship just went up in flames.” Which Eris had to keep reminding himself was what he had wanted.

“They’re just worried,” Widge said, sounding very sure, “They’re also probably too proud to admit that they’re also a little afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Eris wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the answer. The last thing he wanted was for Widge to tell him that they were all afraid of him.

“Afraid of losing you.”

Eris stared at his boots, the brown leather stained with blood. “Oh,” he said, feeling rather stupid for not having anything better to say.

“And I think you should know, Eris,” Widge continued, “That you’re nothing like your father.”

Eris didn't think that was true, but he was glad someone thought so all the same.

[popculturebuffet]

Final Space Reviewcaps: The Hidden Light or Beelzbub’s Dad and Death Himself

Welcome back all you happy people! My regular coverage of final space continues as our Team Squad continues to be split up. Team Gary heads to the ruins of France and while HUE lives the dream, Gary finds the architect of his misery might also be the archtetcht of hope when he meets KVN’s creator.  Meanwhile Team Avacato find some friends of some friends... and an old enemy horrifically reborn and just as pants crappingly terrifying as before. Find out whose back, whose just been introduced, and whose resting under the cut!

So once again i’ts time for roll call, as our Team Squad has been split into three groups so Team Gary: Gary, Quinn, KVN, HUE Team Avacato: Avacato, Little Cato, Ash, Fox, Sheryl.  Team Bollo: Bollo, Mooncake

Same as last time and if your wondering why some names are missing from Avacato’s team, we will get to that. And since our three plots are entirely seperated from the start this time...

Team Gary: The Father of Beelzbub is A Moderaltey Tolerable Guy Picking up where we left off, Gary and Quinn gaze at earth though we do find out, naturally, the other half of the team is okay when Avacato buzzes in, confirming he’s alive at least. So with half the team stranded in the depths of final space, Gary’s next idea is naturally to plummet to earth and pick up a ship to pick them up. HUE has some flaws in the plan, i.e. the earth’s gravity field but KVN proves useful for once and helps carry them down to earth, our heroes ending up in Paris. 

We get a fun subplot of HUE thoroughly enjoying his dream of visiting Paris in a body.. even though Paris itself is pretty fucking horrific, littered with floating corpses and with a smokey, unnerving atmosphere. But the contrast works.. what dosen’t is the ships our heroes fine, which are junked, likely due to months of having no mainteince coupled with the destruction brought on by the titans. 

Gary does find something.. his worst nightmare.. a bunker FULL of KVN’s “I always thought i’d die like this”. They thankfully don’t want to kill him, and he finds a dwarf ventrixian whose a fan of his as are the KVN’s. As it turns out they somehow watched all his video logs to Quinn, and the little guy saying Quinn is even more beautful than he imagined lets him live when Quinn shows up. Gary is naturally puzzled why someone would create his worst nightmare, an army of kvns who know his personal details... until we find out who created the bunker: Kevin, the genius scientest who created the KVN’s. 

Naturally Gary has as mature, sensible and calm reaction as you’d expect and he goes to see Kevin’s dad without innocent....

Had you there for zero seconds. No he has a fairly fluid and incredibly well voiced freakout ending in him wanting to burn the place to the ground in cleansing fire. It’s.. actually a very good thing Quinn’s the one who went with him as everyone on the other team except MAYBE Avacato would’ve gone with operation BURN THEM, BURN ALLL OF THEM. 

So while Gary can’t burn them he does go to shoot Kevin’s creator in the head after finding out he’s alive and still in the bunker. And.. he actually is alive. It’s a nice change of pace as in most sci fi stories where we find the robot first the creator is long dead. But no Kevin.. is alive. It takes a bit for him to accept this is really happening due to a combination of Gary’s transmissions..and Nightfall having contacted him to make a ship. I’ts only when he tries throwing something at Quinn does he realize that nope these are real peoples and gladly welcome them for some rest so theyc an go find the ship he made for Nightfall. Relately the one major flaw I have with this episode.. is that it takes Gary and Quinn an embarassingly long time to put two and two together. Gary I get, he’s kind of distracted being caught in a waking nightmare and finding out he needs to rely on the man who ruined 5 years of his life. He’s also Gary. It’s okay. Quinn though, even with months of trauma stuck in a hell dimension.. is still the resonable one and still should’ve figured “Hey maybe the alternate future verison of me who was around back then did this”. The reveal is well done towards the end when it happens.. it’s just very weird it didn’t happen sooner. 

So the couple are FINALLY alone.. for about 5 seconds because Kevin gets into bed with them. And while part of his loopiness is probably the horrifying isolation for the last few months, after all Gary wasn’t exactly the most coherent after his stint in prison, I do feel that at least part of it is just him. It just makes the most sense: the infinity guard massed produced the guys and Kevin was one of their top scientests. He likely didn’t half ass a project of this size or importance.. so it’d make sense that instead the KVN’s suck at their job because the person who made them really dosen’t get humans, or personal space and the KVN’s are simply degraded copies of him. 

We do get a sweet moment with Quinn and Gary before Kevin decides they’ve rested enough time to go. They use the KVN’s to head to belgium, where the ship is, but have to fight Landfish, horrifying monsters that feast on the remains of dead worlds. So we get a fun and tense action sequence as our heroes sorta zipline through the monsters and KVN suprisingly turns out ot be useful twice in one episode. Our heroes make it to the ship, though HUE is down two arms and his self esteem, with Kevin asking why an AI would WANT to put themselves in a garbage bot. HUE admits he just wanted to experince life but it comes at a cost.. which granted the loss of arms seems rushed.. but it’s not like pre-AVA most of his life as a robot was that happy or fufilling so it dosen’t come out of nowhere and the person who MADE it better... is now dead and gone. He has no real reason to stay in the body anymore: He’s tasted life, he’s loved, and he’s lost. 

So naturally he goes back to being the AI on their new ship, which Quinn Dubs the Galaxy 2 because naturally Gary’s name tries too hard and Kevin’s is nonsensical.. though really Galaxy 2 itself just.. isn’t a great name. Seriously call it the purple rain or something. Still it’s a cool looking ship and while i’ll BADLY miss the crimson light as Olan designed a really fucking cool ship there, the Galaxy 2 is none too shabby. So our heroes have there ship, HUE has his old Job back, and we get a sobering scene as Quinn and Gary finallyg et the nightfall thing, and Kevin leaves to go get the portal up and running and he’ll call them.. they don’t have his number but he’ll be in england where the project is so it’s not like they can’t find the crazy man when the time comes. So we end with Team Gary heading off to a huge energy signture to hopefully find someone. Who it is, if it’s even one of our groups, is unknown.. but given the stinger it’s probably Bollo and Mooncake.. but we’llg et to that. First

Team Avacato: FUCK

So on their astroid Sheryl wonders if the plan is to just stand around and wait for Gary. Tribore however.. wants to leave again. Despite being in an edltrich space nightmare, he decides to take some paternety leave and cuts off part of the asteroid to go bond with his son leaving us with five heroes who all quickly get abducted by teleportation. 

Their abductors.. are Arachnitects, the last ones left in final space who intially confuse them as part of of Invictus unholy horde before Little Cato brings up Jeremy, and thus they free them and explain what’s up: as said their the last ones left in final space, the only ones who weren’t slaughtered or escape and try to offer our heroes hope and shelter.. before brutally being slaughtered by telekensisis... and it’s with that... HE has returned. While the trailers made no attempt to hide it and it was blatant from the start of last season he woudl return.. it dosent’ make his return any less chilling or impactful or David Tennant’s performance any less terrifying after being gone for a bit: Lord Commander HAS RETURNED

And make no mistake, hopefully, this is OUR Lord Commander, as he comments on the new additions.. and is GLEEFUL to have new toys to play with. Avacato is naturally horrifed he’s back and tries to just shoot him but that’s as effective as it’s always been, and he simply force lifts all of them, and naturally, being a sadsitic bastard, brings LIttle Cato forward as he wants to know where Mooncake is, though Little Cato makes a valid point: he dosen’t know where Mooncake is and even if he DID he wouldn’t tell him. And.. that’s where this part of the plot ends till next week. I”m fucking terrified. Nice to have David back though. Especially with Ducktales over. And as a side note... it’s notable Ash doesn’t try triggering her powers. Either she can’t and Lord Commander’s even stronger than her, or she just hasn’t yet. Or third horrifying option i’m going with thier powers come from the same source. 

Team Bollo:The Forge

So with Gary hopefully coming to the rescue and the rest of our heroes trapped by a sadistic bastard who will likely gleefully kill at least one of them.. we find out where Bolo went after getting his ass kicked. He surivived.. but clearly needs a leg up.. so naturally for a charcter voiced by Keith David he goes about it in the most badass way imaginable: he has mooncake do the thing on a dwarf star so he can FORGE IT INTO A FUCKING BADASS SPACE SWORD TO SLAY THE TITANS WITH. My.. my body is ready for next week. 

Final Thoughts:

This episode was excellent. The premire while not BAD had some issues with pacing and tone, where as this one found the perfect places to inject the series humor.. while keeping the stakes incredibly high and having the chilling return of it’s most terrifying antagonist. and yes tha’t swith the people posseing murder face out there. This episode returned Season 3 to the right track. It also continues to be seralized like season 1.. but I feel at least so far they’ve learned their lesson from Seasons 1 and 2 and combined the two better, having basically one big story, but having the pacing be more on par with Season 2 where things move along at a nice clip and we get more character stuff peppered in. It’s a nice combo. if it’ll hold out I do not know, especaillly with a longer runtime but we’ll see as we go won’t we. For now.. this episode was fucking awesome. 

If you liked this review join my patreon, my current stretch goal is for a darkwing duck episode a month and i’ll be putting up a patreon exclusive review soon for 5 dollar or more patreons so check that out, follow me for more and if there’s any episodes of the show from seasons 1 or 2 you’d like me to cover we can discuss that in my ask box and dm,s only 5 bucks an episode. See you at the next rainbow. 

[triangularjuice]

Remember? -A Pokémon Story-

Chapter 10: A Familiar face

You're running. Running through a forest.

Running from what?

Legs are burning. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins.

You can hear something behind you.

Have to get away.

Your foot snags on a tree root, and you fall to the ground. You try to yank it free, but the roots are wrapping around your ankle. You look behind you, trying to see what you're running from.

You hear your name. You whip your head around, looking for the source. You hear it again, and again, and again, from all directions. It's a voice you recognize, but can't put a face to.

"(Y/N)," you hear more clearly than the rest. You look in front of you and see a tall figure. You can't make out any defining features, just the basics.

Dark, curly hair.

Lab coat.

You try and look at his face, but you can't make it out, almost as if his face isn't even there. You turn and look at the tree roots curling up your legs, pulling you away from this man.

"(Y/N), do you remember?" the man says. Your heart rate picks up. Remember?

You look at him again, straining to see anything that could tell you his identity. As you stare at his nondescript figure, you feel tingling in the back of your mind. A sharp pain stabs your skull, making you yelp and clutch your head. The roots squeeze harder around your lower body as you rack your brain, trying to identify this man in front of you. With another sharp stab in your head, vague memories start returning to you.

An injured Shinx.

A big city.

A twelfth birthday.

You stare up at the man, mouth agape. Tears start to form in your eyes as it dawns on you.

"D-dad?" you whisper to the man. A kind smile makes its way onto his face, and he reaches his hand out to you. You desperately try to grab it, but he's just out of reach.

"Dad!" you scream, as the tree roots curl up and around your torso, pulling you away from your father. You continue calling out for him as the roots morph into cable-like limbs. You look back in horror as the tree converts into Xurkitree.

Its arms wrap around your body, engulfing you completely. You look back at your Dad, who is still waiting for you to take his hand. You beg for him to help you, but he doesn't move. You scream and struggle against your captor, trying to break free, but it's too strong. You can feel darkness prickling the back of your mind. Tears are flowing freely down your face as you look to your Dad's featureless figure one last time. You scream out to him right before you slip away, your mind being consumed in a thick darkness.

~~~~~

You sit upright, panting heavily. You bring your hand up to your forehead and push your (h/c) hair out of your face, holding it in a balled fist on top of your head. Your cheeks are wet from your tears.

You look around, the small hospital room only slightly illuminated by the light of the moon shining through your window. You breathe deeply as you listen to the rain and occasional roll of thunder. Cato is still sound asleep in his bed on the floor.

Earlier, you had asked to be alone for the night, needing some time to think. Professor Kukui was against the idea, but you managed to convince him that you would be fine. You still have Cato, after all. So here you are, in the late hours of the night, crying to yourself, yearning for comfort from a father you barely remember.

You bring your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around your legs. The memories that came back to you in that dream... are they real? Are they actually yours? They sure feel like it.

'I lived in a big city,' you think to yourself, 'one of the biggest.'

'I found an injured Shinx and brought him home so my dad could help him. I named him Cato.'

'The last birthday I celebrated was my twelfth, so I must have been taken sometime after that.'

You look up, searching the room for a calendar or something. Don't hospital rooms usually have a small 'hang in there!' calendar? Frustrated, you hop down from your bed and wince a little, body aching. You tiptoe over to the door, careful not to wake Cato, and slip on your shoes.

You suddenly feel hesitant, remembering how adamant Kukui and the doctors were about you not getting out of bed. If you keep pushing your body like this, it could be really damaging. You know that if you get caught you're going to be in a lot of trouble. Arceus, you could even picture them handcuffing you to the bed so you couldn't leave.

You apologize to Kukui internally and crack the door open, peering out to see if anyone is in the hall. You glance back at Cato and then slip out, carefully shutting the door. You sneak silently down the hallway, nearly tripping over your too-large hospital gown, looking for an office or something of that nature. A clock hanging from the wall reads 3:45 AM, so hopefully you won't run into anyone.

As if on cue with your thoughts, you hear footsteps echoing from around the upcoming corner, and you freeze. You frantically look around for somewhere to hide, settling on what looks like a broom closet. You quickly, but quietly, slip inside and carefully pull the door so it looks shut.

A doctor appears through the door crack, head down in a clipboard, walking slowly down the hallway you just came from. You hold your breath, keeping completely still. The doctor yawns and pauses at the corner, looking behind him.

He looks down at his clipboard and then up to the clock on the wall. He turns around and comes back down the hallway, towards you. He walks past your closet and heads down a different corridor. You wait a couple seconds before slowly pushing the door open and exiting, looking around carefully.

'How hard is it to find a calendar in a hospital??' you think to yourself after a couple minutes of wandering aimlessly through the halls. After what feels like forever to your fatigued body, you finally come across a small office.

Peering in the small window, you make sure nobody is inside before slipping in. Not wasting any time, you immediately scan the small room for some sort of way to find the year. Your eyes land on a small desk calendar, and you quickly pick it up, flipping to the front.

Your heart drops as you stare at the numbers in front of you. 'This can't be right,' you think.

It's been two years?

Suddenly, the door to the office opens, and the doctor from earlier walks in. Startled, you drop the little calendar. He stops abruptly, surprised at your presence. He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

"I-I needed to know the date," you blurt out, quickly. He rolls his eyes, not believing your story. He grabs your arm, pulling you out of the room.

However, when he grabs your arm, something inside you snaps. You start struggling against him, your heart racing. You don't know what's happening, but all you want is for him to let go. You look up, expecting to see the doctor, but you see Xurkitree looming over you, instead.

Your eyes widen as it starts screeching, and you fight against the cables wrapped around your arms. You can feel electricity pulsing through your veins. You scream and kick, panic building in your body. The more you struggle, the more cables start wrapping around you.

"Let me go!" you scream. The electricity builds in your body, making you feel more and more panicked. Suddenly, a flash of electricity sends you both flying backwards. You land with a thud on the floor of the corridor. Breathing heavily, you prop yourself up on your elbows. You look up, but to your surprise, Xurkitree is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, the doctor and a few nurses are lying on the ground, looking up at you with frightened faces.

Frantically, you look around, searching for Xurkitree, but it really is gone. You look down at your trembling hands, small sparks bouncing off your fingertips. You let out a small cry as you look back up at the others, terror written all over your face.

*** Chapter 11: Panic

[mangobilorian]

Buirkan | (mature) vi

Pairing: Din Djarin x F! Reader

Words: 3430

Read chapter five Read on AO3

Din is fucking tired, and the loud-mouthed bitch at his feet isn’t helping his oncoming headache. He can feel it at the forefront of his mind, pushing and growing until his entire head is going to explode. 

“Kjdlgsfbk! Vdqwjkzrty!” Din sighs, not bothering to glance at the girl glaring at him. When she tries to aim a kick at his shin, he lets her because the pain on her face when bone meets metal is so satisfactory. Serves her right for being an unruly bounty. 

It took a month. A kriffing month! To catch this young, inexperienced girl. He missed her by three days on Cato Neimoidia. By one day on Drogheda. By a mere three standard hours on Mon Gazza. That doesn’t count the five other planets Din had to stop at for information regarding the sneaky bitch. The cost of fuel and supplies started to outweigh the reward until you suggested a planet she wasn’t even on, and you were right.

You had the gut feeling to go to Dalisor, saying that the bounty seemed to like trading, mining, and purse worlds. To his shame, Din had thought you were wrong and was reluctant to make the trip to Dalisor. 

But you were insistent (and convinced him using certain methods), so he made a deal that he’d go alone while you stayed behind in case things went to shit. He took extra measures to ensure your safety, especially since he doesn’t trust Dalisor. Three days on the planet proved fruitless, and he started to doubt your reliability. You had little experience with tracking people after all, and he only allowed you off the Crest when he landed on planets he knew the bounty had been on. 

But having you around meant having an extra ear to fish for intel, and you were good at that. He should have known, especially with the whole Ras Drun fiasco, and it both scared and aroused him to see you soak up information even he missed. Of course, it helps that you’re a pretty girl, and Din’s… well he’s not a pretty girl, that’s for sure.

And you’ve been nothing but amazing at helping him. You know hyperspace lane coordinates off the back of your hand, can plot the most efficient routes through supply stops and- fuck, it’s fucking sexy. Your flying skills, however… are shit. 

At least you’re not as bad as you were in the first lesson, but Din also hasn’t made you fly through asteroid fields again even though getting you hot and angry would be a delicious treat for him. Din does make you fly blindfolded. Sometimes. It builds confidence with the controls. Next time he should suggest you fly naked to get used to the temperature in space. 

“Ptyqwxzvg!” 

Din rolls his eyes, and tugs at the girl to move. He still has another thirty minutes of travel on foot before arriving at the Crest. Din was supposed to arrive an hour ago, but he got side tracked by something much more important than sealing the girl into carbonite.

The Aynur Festival, meant to celebrate the stars, starts in a week or so, and he needed to buy you a gift. Well. Din didn’t need to but- he thought it would be nice? Din’s also a practical man, so he stopped to buy you some female products since your- it was time for you- you’re on your period, and Din doesn’t want another surprise. Kriff, he thought he stabbed you with his dick when he pulled back to find blood on the sheets.

The bounty (what’s her name again?) releases another scream into her gag, but Din knows it’s futile. There’s no one around, and Dalisor is as seedy as they come. No will help her. 

Din trudges through the last leg of his journey, bag of supplies slung over one shoulder, dragging the struggling girl behind him. He continues passing the time with his thoughts, occasionally having to kick the girl to stay quiet— his headache is getting pretty bad. Din knows that the second he sees you, his headache will disappear, so he pushes forward, ignoring the girl’s screams. 

The last month, despite the rapid chase through the galaxy, was good. Actually, it was the best month Din has ever had because he spent the whole time with you. Something happened that day in the cockpit, and Din’s thankful for that.

You tell him about your parents whenever he asks, not asking him for information in return. You still don’t know his name, don’t know where he's really from (you think he was born on Mandalore, and he doesn’t deny it), don’t know how old he is. His relationship with you has progressed far enough that he doesn’t feel guilty for holding you without any intention of having sex. 

That’s another thing he found out. Din Djarin, one of the best bounty hunters in the guild, likes snuggles. Fuck. 

The only thing Din feels guilty about— a tidbit of information that keeps him awake when you sleep next to him— is that he never told you the truth of the girl he’s hunting. You wanted to help, but helping him meant that Din had to give up some details about her life, about the bounty on her head. 

He knows that if he told you she killed the men who slaughtered her family, you would not only stop helping him, you’d think he’s a monster. And Din can’t handle either of those things. So he lied. 

He hopes the lie won’t bite him in the shebs when he returns to the Crest. With your hormones dialed up, he can only hope things don’t go to shit the second he walks through the hatch. 

And, since he enters the ship and you’re not there to greet him or the bounty, he releases a breath because nothing went south just yet. 

He doesn’t speak, hauling the girl towards the carbonite chamber. The sooner she’s out of sight, the easier he can rest. Just as he presses the button to open a pod, you climb down the ladder.

“Mando!” You look happy to see him, positively glowing. It’s cute. You’re cute. “I was right then. Dalisor.” Din nods. Of course you were fucking right. He makes a mental note to listen to you more often. 

Din drops the bag of supplies on the ground, careful not to reveal the gift he bought for you, and turns to the bounty. “Is she injured? I can treat her wounds…”

Din sighs. Since that boy on Tatooine, you’d expressed concern over the way he treats his bounties. Din doesn’t care, but you? You like bracing ankles and offering help. “Rya, right?” And for the first time since Din gagged and cuffed her, she stays put and nods. “Mando, what did you do?” 

Din shrugs. “Nothing.” You raise an eyebrow, hand moving to rest on a hip. He lingers over where your fingers splay over your clothed skin, knowing that if he were to lift up your shirt and- “Really. I knocked her out, but that’s it.” You take his words with a squint before approaching the girl, crouching down to her level. Your hand reaches for the gag, and Din’s heart starts slamming in his chest and-

“Don’t!” You freeze, and Din winces. He can’t reveal the reason why he doesn’t want the bounty to talk, can’t risk you finding the truth. “She might… bite you,” he finishes lamely. When he thinks your face might fill with suspicion, you soften instead, and Din feels so fucking guilty. 

“Mando. She needs the gag out before going into carbonite anyway. I promise I won’t touch her unless she’s injured. Okay?” 

If Din denies, it would implicate him. If he agrees, you might see him as a liar forever. But he can’t resist the gentle pleading in your eyes, so he gives you a curt nod, purposefully ignoring the confused expression on the bounty’s face. 

You respond with a significantly brighter smile, and your hand reaches the girl’s gag and pulls. There’s a moment of silence, the type of pause before a shit storm, and Din— ever the pessimist— can see everything go to hell and-

“Are you hurt anywhere?” The bounty pauses, her face scrunching up, and there’s so much compassion in your face that it takes Din a moment to even register what the emotion is. 

“Head. He knocked me to the floor,” the bounty rasps, tilting her head towards Din. “Real hard.” You bite in your lip in concentration, and Din wants to scoop you up and kiss you, forgetting all about the troublesome girl. 

“I don’t know how to deal with concussions,” you say, furrowing your brows. Din snorts, thankful that the sound is quiet enough that you don’t hear. 

You have as much medical experience as Paz. Which is to say, not much at all. The most you can do is apply bandages over watered-down bacta ointment and tape ankles. One time, when Din needed a wound cauterized, you squealed and ran away, put off by the idea of burning his flesh closed. He had to bribe you with hugs to get you anywhere near the cauterizer. “How old are you?” you ask softly.

Fuck. Din should really stop the conversation now. You got your answers, the girl isn’t too hurt, and Din needs her in the carbonite right fucking now. Before he picks her up, however, the bounty answers.

“Sixteen standard years.” 

Kriff. 

He didn’t know that. Judging from your face, you didn’t expect it either. After all, you’re only four, five years older than the girl. Fuck. 

“Come on,” Din interrupts gruffly, and picks the girl up. She struggles, screams nonsense profanity in the air as he walks closer and closer to the carbonite chamber. As if sensing that her time is up, she juts a knee into his waist with enough force to send him stumbling into a wall. 

“If our places were switched, he wouldn’t give a damn about you,” she yells, and Din vaguely hears you gasp. “I had to kill them! They killed my parents! My older sisters, my baby brother. He was so- so small and young and- wait no! You have to help me, please I-”

The hiss of the carbonite drowns out her last words. 

Din waits for the ball to drop, for you to be angry with him. With Death Watch, when he fucked up, the trainers didn't give him head pats and cuddles. No, they strapped him onto a Rising Phoenix and made him fly with weights strapped to his feet until he cried. And when he cried, they gave him a heavy training helmet used to strengthen his neck and told him that Mandos don’t cry. If they do, they hide it under beskar. 

So he waits for you to cry or scream or lash out. He waits for his inevitable punishment. Instead, when he dares a glance at your face, you look disappointed. And somehow, that stings worse than anger. 

“Was she telling the truth?” you ask after a long while, long enough for Mando’s feet to go numb. 

“Bounties will say anything to get out of capture.” It’s not a lie, Din tells himself. Bounties say all kinds of shit for freedom. 

“But was she telling the truth? Mando, please…”

He nods in reply, and Din can barely stand the look of your face crumbling into sadness. It makes him hate himself for being the person who caused you pain. 

No, it wasn’t me. It was the girl and her loud-mouth, he tries to reason with himself, but it’s futile. He knows omitting the truth was as bad as outright lying. Death Watch valued honesty. Haat, ijaa, haa’it. Truth, honor, vision. If a Mando lied to a fellow warrior, that meant blood. That meant disloyalty and an invitation for death. Din scoffs— for a culture so ingrained with truth, why did they have to hide their faces? 

But Din knows the reason. This is the Way.

“If you had known, you’d be angry with me,” he reasons, reaching a hand out to hold you. For a moment, you hesitate, and that makes Din’s heart break a little more, but you eventually return his hug. For all the bite and teeth you earned in the past two months, you still melt into signs of affection and validation. 

“I wouldn’t be angry. I know you need bounties for credits and fuel, but… a teenager? One who killed her family’s murderers? That’s so wrong.” Din sighs and rubs a hand down your back.

“Like you said, she’s a killer.” 

“You’re a killer too, Mando. If you justify all your bounties as being killers, what does that make you?” You break away from his hug, and Din fights the urge to pull you back. “You kill bad people, yes. But what about the people who kill for a good reason? Where do you draw the line? Where do you define the difference between you and the clients and the bounties?” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your jaw stiffens, something like anger in your eyes. But it disappears before it takes root, and Din watches you sag, head bowing.

“I guess,” you shrug, “I’m tired, and I have cramps.” You turn away and make for the bed, halting when Din tells you to wait. He picks up the discarded bag on the floor, purposefully ignoring the gift, and hands you the feminine products. 

Your eyes are blank, no emotion in them whatsoever. Din knows that’s better than anger, but it’s a lot worse than happiness. You take the package without another word and walk to the ‘fresher, the door sliding closed. 

Din waits for three beats before slipping his helmet off and rubbing a gloved hand against his bare face. He desperately needs to shave, the growing stubble chafing against the helmet sometimes. Din wonders how you’d react to seeing his face, see his eyes and hair and-

Fuck, those thoughts are traitorous. As much as Mando needs- wants- you, he needs the Way more. It will be a long, long time before he’ll ever reveal his face to anyone, not even you. The sound of the faucet snaps Din out of his head, and he puts the metal back on, not flinching at the added weight. 

Before you emerge from the ‘fresher, Din climbs up the ladder and into the cockpit. 

*****

Din lays on the bed, chest heaving and sweating. It’s the first time you’ve had sex in a while, so he might have— no, he definitely— acted a little more enthusiastic than normal.

You curl next to him, and despite not being able to see your face, he can sense a tired sort of contentment. He reaches out for you on instinct, and pulls you closer. 

This is how it should be. Din thought things would be more strained, more awkward, but it’s not. Only two standard days have passed since he sealed the bounty in carbonite, and you haven’t said a word about her. 

Din hopes your acceptance of the situation lasts, though, because he set the coordinates to your home planet already. If everything stays normal, you’ll be home with a day to spare with your family and about three days to celebrate the Festival. 

When you asked where the ship was going next, he had shrugged and said he’d figure it out later. Since then, he’s been trying to hide the display from you, distracting you with… other things. 

“Mando?” 

“Hmm?” He doesn’t flinch when you trace a finger down his bare chest, and he mentally pats himself on the back. 

“I was thinking….”

“Yes?” 

“Umm. Don’t take what I’m going to say the wrong way or anything, but I had an idea and wanted to run it by you, so-”

“Just tell me.” Din sighs as you practically vibrate with nervousness in his arms. Most of the time, you act so differently from the girl you were when he found you. But in times like this, you’re every bit the same fidgety, insecure girl. 

“I will. Let me- it’s hard to say it in words, you know?” He rolls his eyes. Din stops himself from getting too annoyed at you, but it’s hard when you keep going on and on and on-

“We could release her…?”

“What?” He hears you sigh, and your body pulls away just a little bit. If the lights were on, he could imagine seeing you pout or maybe furrow your brows. 

“Rya. We can let her go, say she got away.” Din scoffs. Did you even know what you were saying?

“I can’t do that. She’s money, and we need the credits.” 

“Then- I don’t know- we give her to the client and rescue her. Look, Mando, she’s pretty skilled with hiding and tracking. We could use someone like her and-”

“Stop talking,” he says a little too loudly, a little too aggressively. He can hear the slight quiver in your breathing and fuck- he doesn’t want to scare you. That’s the last thing he wants to do. But he doesn’t know how to say his reasons for why your idea is shit, doesn’t know if you’d even understand. 

First of all, Din doesn't usually give the carbonite directly to the client. Karga does that. Secondly, neither of you need the girl; she’d only be a strain on resources. And she could turn coat any day and word would get out about his treachery. 

Din’s a Guild-registered bounty hunter. There’s rules he needs to follow, rules that allow him to operate and earn credits. Just because he cares for you doesn’t mean he should give up his entire fucking career to appease you. The Mando part of him screams Aliit ori'shya tal'din, screams that family is more than blood, and his one happiness could be ripped away from him because he’s too stubborn to break the rules. 

You’re the closest person he has to family now. You make him feel like a man, not a walking piece of metal, not a monster. He’s Din Djarin with you, but you don’t even know his name.

He knows releasing the girl would only bring hell on him, and most importantly, you. Din can’t risk that. 

“Forget I said anything,” you mumble, and Din’s chest aches a little bit more. The fight retreats from your voice. 

“I… shouldn’t have been so loud.” He brings you back to his chest. “Do you want to know where we’re going next?” he murmurs into the top of your head. 

“... okay.” He sighs, and when he reveals the location, he feels you gasp, warm breath fanning over his skin.

“Really? Why?” Din suppresses the urge to laugh. 

“Because the Aynur Festival is soon, and I thought you’d like to go.” You tense in his arms, muscles poised and turned to steel, and Din wonders if he said the wrong thing. If the festival was a bad idea, and if he fucked up. Shit, he needs to-

“How do you know about that?” you ask quietly. He sighs. You don’t seem angry, just… resigned?

“Your book. We don’t-”

“No! I… I want to go. It’s just that the last time I went was with my brother. I never went after he- when I thought he... you know. So- thank you.” 

There’s a quiver in your voice, and Din is really starting to think he fucked up— he never meant to bring up something sad about your past, especially concerning your brother— but, instead of pushing him away, you cry into his chest. 

And, for a second, Din feels sorry he dismissed your request to free Rya go. 

Then he shoves that thought out his head. 

The important thing right now is making you feel better, letting you go home to see your family and participate in a fun festival. He won’t allow himself to think of the next bounty on the list, nor will he let you think about it either. Because if your feelings about Rya were hurt since she had an honorable cause, you would never forgive him if he brought in the next target, an ex-rebel, to an Imp warlord. Which he plans to do because he needs the money for you and the beskar for the foundlings.

He wants you safe first, even if it means you won’t be entirely happy with him. In fact, Din can live with your resentment, even your disappointment, as long as you’re by his side.

translations:

Aliit ori'shya tal'din: family is more than blood Shebs: backside Haat, ijaa, haa’it: Truth, honor, vision. Buirkan: responsibility

a/n: Sorry for the shorter chapter, but Din’s a blunt guy, so he rambles a lot less than Reader.

taglist: @hdlynn @lothiriel9 @babyomen @keep-calm-im-only-crazy 

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Omg idea. Jercy right (I am jercy trash) But focusing on dark jason. Idk if he needs help stopping or embracing it but I really love dark jason. Could go all the way with dark percy as well or nah I just really like dark jason

Hello Anon, you really know how to make me go completely batshit when it comes to these two! And I fully agree I too love Dark Jason so here you are my darling.

This is a "before" of this fic, because I felt like it needed a Jason POV.

Btdubs: karus means precious/beloved in Latin. Enjoy my friend!

Masterlist

Jason Grace woke up to a cold bed. That was the first red flag. He frowned, blinking the sleep from his eyes and fumbling for his glasses.

"Percy?" He called, voice deep and groggy, "Pers? You there, love?"

The silence that greeted him was cold, eery.

"Jackson, come on this is not funny." He stepped into the kitchen, expecting to see a head of black curls pop up behind the counter and scare him.

What he found was worse. There on the kitchen counter, glinting against the grey morning light was a silver dagger, and underneath it, a note.

His blood turned to slush, the temperature of the room plummeting. His hands trembled as he picked up the paper.

hello my hero,

my, my it has been a while. we have a boy with gorgeous green eyes and the darlingest curls. i think he belongs to you. but that can change if you don't hand over the key.

see you soon.

—C

Jason ripped the paper in half. And then flung the dagger across the room. It landed in the middle of the wall, inches from a framed picture of him and Percy. He would kill the motherfucker with that dagger. Would smile as he felt the blade go through skin and bone. He would slaughter him.

His fingers sparked, burned with the need to summon lightning, to harness electricity. He flexed them, rolling his neck, but kept the power inside. Let it simmer. The time would come to use it.

He stalked down the stairwell, slamming the door open hard enough to crack the wall. He didn't notice, didn't care.

"Where is he?"

Blue eyes dancing with fire locked onto a hooded figure standing on the opposite side of the street. With unnatural speed he moved towards them.

The figure chuckled.

But Jason was not in the mood to dance. This was not a game of tag.

He growled, grabbing the stranger by the throat and smashing them against the brick wall.

"Where the fuck is he?"

The stranger, who finally looks up, smiled, "You didn't think it'd be this easy did you?"

"Cato." He spat, "Of course. Ever the lackey aren't you?"

The demigod gurgled, throat still caught in his grip, "You always were jealous."

"Just fucking take me to him you son of a bitch."

"Make me Grace," And before he could blink Cato was slamming their elbow into his face and kicking their leg into his stomach.

Jason bowed over, gasping for breath.

"Stand up and fight Grace, these Greeks have made you weak."

He didn't bother to reply, instead pulling in lungfuls of air, feeling for the currents running through the air and under his feet.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Please," Cato sniffed, "Your little lover boy was so easy to kidnap I could practically do it with my eyes closed."

"Where is he?" He yelled.

"Walk with me."

Before he could argue the demigod was slipping into the alley and jumping over a fence.

"What the fuck does Cor— he want anyway?"

"You asking me what your karus wants?"

His voice was hard, "He isn't my anything."

"Mhm yes I suppose since you have a new beaux now." Brown eyes glinted, "It was great fun this morning. He is very pretty, although he did not take kindly to us threatening you."

Jason sucked in a sharp breath, "You what?"

"Yes," Cato mused, "He looked like he wanted to tie our organs together and feed them to a hell hound when we threatened to kill you if he didn't come with us."

He bared his teeth at the casualness in their tone, "I'm going to kill all of you."

"You can try little one, but then you'll never see your lover boy again."

He had heard enough.

With a low, sadistic growl he summoned electricity from the power line above them. Watching as it crackled at his fingers, dancing from one tip to the next. He looked at his escort, smiled coldly and threw it straight into the demigod's gaping mouth.

Cato didn't have time to blink before their insides turned to ash. Jason left them burning from the within and prowled down the streets. He could hear Percy's voice like a soft caress at his ear.

I am here, my love. I am with you. They will suffer, drown, burn for ripping us apart. We will decimate them for what they have done.

He would find his boyfriend himself. And then he would make bonfires of their bodies for ever thinking they could take his love.

It didn't take long. The instincts Lupa had taught him to use, lead him to a warehouse on an abandoned street. Power thrummed under his skin, rolling through his core.

He knocked at the door, holding in a laugh when the slot opened to reveal pale blue eyes and a freckled nose.

"I'm here for collection."

The bolt clicked and he slammed into the door.

"Where is he?"

The girl, with her wine red hair and full leather outfit, pointed to the stairs with a sickly sweet smile, "He's been waiting for you."

"I should have killed you when I got the chance." He gave her a feral grin and ripped the air from her lungs.

Her mouth opened in a silent gasp before she crumpled to the ground, clawing at her throat desperately enough to draw blood.

He bounded up the stairs and flung open the door. Three more demigods were waiting.

"GIVE HIM TO ME!"

"I see your time away has ruined your manners."

Oh they wanted to play. Fine. He would play. He set his sights on the one in the middle, who was swinging a sword between strong, supple fingers.

"So we meet again Grace."

Jason didn't bother to respond. Instead he grabbed hold of all the delightful currents running underneath the demigod's smooth swarthy skin— the currents that controlled every part of the body; that make the brain fire and the spine work. He grabbed ahold of those little sparks of electricity and pulled them out like a sick handkerchief party trick.

The demigod screamed, collapsing in parts as their feet then legs then arms then body stopped responding. There was only hate in their eyes when they finally stopped moving.

He turned to the other two, savagery glittering in his own eyes.

"Who's next?"

"I think you are?"

He felt a stab in his neck, and then nauseating dizziness. He screamed as he crashed to the floor. The world went dark.

[bonesaldente]

Caliginous I Darth Maul x reader

Chapter 12: The Desert

read this on ao3

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chapter overview

words: 3200 +

____

“I know what you’re thinking, but my master was highly pleased with our work on Cato Neimoidia. And now that Gunray is Viceroy, we can finish one more job for them, to ensure their future cooperation.”

“But two Jedi, not to mention her own guards? It just seems like an awfully risky job.”

“They won’t be expecting me. I’ll catch them off-guard.”

“Wait a minute.” You straighten your posture that was previously slouched over, leaning on the pilot seat’s backrest. “What do you mean ‘expecting you’? We’re gonna take them on together, are we not?”

Maul heaves a sigh and turns to you.

“You said it yourself: Force users don’t fight fair - It would be dangerous for you.”

Your jaw drops.

“So you’re telling me I should stay behind and watch as you face them? Like some kind of helpless damsel?”

“I know you’re far from helpless. But they have an unfair advantage.” He pauses. “Please.”

You didn’t expect him to sound so pleading, so sincere, and the anger in you dies down, leaving room for rationality: He isn’t entirely wrong, and the fact that he obviously worries about you induces a fuzzy feeling in you.

Your scowl turns into a grimace. “I have one condition.”

He looks at you expectantly.

“You have to keep helping me practice with the lightsaber. I want to be able to at least defend myself. Just in case.”

His face relaxes again, obviously not minding the request one bit.

“We’ll have time on Tatooine for that.”

Tatooine. You’ve been on the outer rim planet only once, but one time is one time too many if you are asked.

Wearing heavy equipment makes one try to stray far from desert planets. The kriffing sand makes you slow, gets into your boots and blasters, makes your knives go dull, and it is still found inside your pockets for weeks after.

Needless to say, you are not thrilled to be flying to Tatooine.

“How much time do we have?” You hope it’s not too much. The sooner you get off that rock again, the better.

“A day or two, most likely. Depending on how quickly we’ll be able to locate them.”

You exhale audibly, praying you’ll make quick work of the two Jedi.

“So we- You kill the Jedi. Then what?”

You are slightly displeased still, having been left out of the planning, getting all information on a ‘need to know’ basis.

“We take the Queen of Naboo and bring her to Theed. The Trade Federation wants her to sign a treaty there.”

“Wonderful. Politics,” you mumble, then proceed to rub your temples. “Let me know when we arrive, I’m going to lay down for a while.” The prodding headache from the intrusion to your mind still hasn’t faded and serves as a constant reminder that your thoughts and memories don’t belong to you alone anymore. Weird; Before meeting Darth Sidious, you never really felt that way - like your thoughts would be used against you. Not even in the beginning, before you … got closer to Maul. But now, every idea, every little daydream (especially the ones surrounding a certain zabrak and his athletic body) is accompanied with a surge of embarrassment when you picture the dark lord of the sith going through your mind again.

You can only hope he won’t deem it necessary all too soon, if at all.

Maul shoots you a slightly concerned look.

“I wish he hadn’t invaded your mind like that.” He admits after a pause.

“So do I… ” Is all you say in response, scrunching up your nose. “So do I.”

*

You have hardly even stepped out of the ship and you already want to turn around and go back.

The suns are searing hot and the day hasn‘t even set completely yet, there is not even the tiniest breeze and nothing but desert safe for what looks to be a settlement in the distance, a mere dot on the horizon. You are still standing on the ramp and already feel sand settling in the wrinkles of your layered clothing.

“I despise this,” you mumble, “so, so much.”

Your companion swooshes past you, two probes levitating ominously behind him. He presses a few buttons on his wrist panel and they soar off into the distance.

“With the help of those we should be able to locate them soon. Then we can leave this place.“

“Marvellous. I think I‘ll just stay on the ship for as long as it‘s still cool inside.“

He shoots you a glance. ”You know, if you want to practice, this is as cool as it‘s going to get today.”

You groan inwardly, knowing that he is right, but also not feeling like stepping out into the desert at all.

”Probably,” you agree unwillingly. ”Give me a second and I’ll be ready.”

You disappear into the ship, gathering your lightsaber (you’ve taken to referring to it as ”yours” in your thoughts, despite the fact that it’s stolen from somebody who, too, stole it). In wise anticipation you take off your jacket, already knowing you‘re going to get a heat stroke if you wear anything over your tanktop. It’s bad enough that you don’t own any shorts, only heavy utility pants that - while much more practical and protective - get very, very hot.

 It’s undeniable that your lightsaber combat skills have improved considerably. You are starting to feel confident enough to incorporate some of the moves you learned with a sword in your fighting style, and you now have an accurate enough sense of the lightsaber to know how you can move and jump without letting the blade touch you. This changes up your technique vastly, going from awkward, shaky strikes to much more controlled, agile movements. Are you any match for Maul? No. Will you ever be? Probably not (and you can’t deny the fact that you feel frustrated that after training your whole life, there is a level you will never get to).

But will you be able to give any assailant hell?

You are certain of it.

 It doesn’t take long, however, for you to become agitated with the sand that keeps on giving in under your steps, slows you down and piles up inside your boots, as well as the heat that is making beads of sweat appear on your forehead.

Maul is executing a series of strikes that, despite you blocking them, are forceful enough for you to have to take a few steps back - and this is where the uneven ground becomes a real problem: Unaware of the deepening behind you, you yelp and stumble backwards, thankfully having the sense to deactivate your lightsaber before you fall once and for all.

As soon as your body lands in the sand, it is everywhere. In your eyes, between your toes, in your hair, under your shirt. You lie still for a moment, trying to calm the frustration, but to no avail. While pushing yourself off the ground with little grace, you are angrily shaking the hem of your top in an attempt to feel less restricted, less hot, and most of all less sandy. You kick at the sand, once, twice, as if every grain has personally done you wrong. A curse in your native language escapes your lips while you are quickly undoing your braid, trying to shake at least some of the forsaken substance out, but knowing well that you are still going to find it after multiple showers.

“I hate this!”

You kick your boots off and toss them somewhere close to the ramp. There is this pressing desire to destroy something pulsing through your veins - you need to take your frustration out on something.

“Come at me again.” Maul instructs you calmly upon witnessing your aggravation.

Now everything is boiling up, not only your hatred for desert planets but also your frustration at having to work under a ‘master’ again - feeling like somebody is always trying to control you. You don’t mind working with Maul, at all, but you do mind the fact that this Sidious is basically holding your life in his hands like a little bird; alive only because he chooses to let you live, still always ready to be crushed between his fingers. If you wanted to, you’re sure Maul would let you leave, but Sidious wouldn’t.

You allow yourself to let out your anger through jumps and hits and twirls, and the satisfying sound of sabers clashing is like music to your ears. The handle starts to feel like it’s attached to your body, an extension of your arm, the way it fits snugly in your hand and moves to your will. All inhibition out of fear of hurting yourself with the weapon fades away, and with it your ability to pace yourself - another jump, another backhand slash, your lightsabers colliding, and your energy is drained. It doesn’t take Maul much more effort to push you away.

You retract the blade in defeat, your legs wobbly with exhaustion, both physically and mentally.

Collapsing onto your knees, you exhale shakily.

“You have improved,” he remarks, stretching out his hand to help you back to your feet. “You learn fast.”

Still trying to catch your breath, you only manage to nod in appreciation of his praise. How is he so unaffected by both the heat and the physical exertion, while you are reaching the limits of your body?

A grain of sand that has snuck into your eye causes you to start blinking rapidly, rubbing your eye in an attempt to get it out. But your hands, too, are covered in sand.

“I really need a shower now.”

 The water does wonders in terms of instant anger and stress relief. It’s tempting to just stay in the refresher, where the temperature is controlled and where not everything is immediately covered in a layer of dust and sand.

But you can’t stay forever, so with a heavy sigh and in fresh, clean clothes, you open the door and reenter the ready room, surprised to find that the ramp is closed.

“Trying to keep the heat out.”

Maul’s voice from your left startles you. He is standing in the doorway that leads to the small storage space, still in the black robes he wore outside and looking like he himself is coated in a thin layer of dust.

“Oh. That’s good, that’s …” really considerate, when you think about it: He didn’t seem to mind the heat, and seeing as he was born on Dathomir, that makes sense too - but he knows you mind the temperatures. You gulp. “... nice,” you finish your sentence.

You notice water dripping from the ends of your hair, creating a damp spot on your shirt.

“Blast,” you mumble, rushing to your bag to find something to tie your hair up with.

You don’t even notice Maul is standing behind you until you lower your arms again, having thrown your hair in a lazy updo. Looking up over your shoulder, you give him a questioning look after seeing his concentrated gaze.

He catches a strand of hair that you missed between his fingers, holding it up to look at it intently.

“Your hair,” he mumbles, slowly stroking his thumb over it to feel the texture. “It’s soft.”

You never considered that the sensation could be new for him, but looking back, his hands did always end up buried in your hair whenever the two of you… got distracted. Heat rushes to your cheeks at his obvious fascination when his fingers graze the skin on your neck, but your flusteredness quickly subsides when you realize that he is still covered in dust.

You jump away from him, pointing your finger in a mock-threatening way.

“I just got cleaned up, so don’t even think about touching me.”

He flinches for the fraction of a second, then looks at you with arms crossed and mischief glinting in his eyes.

“You never seemed to mind me touching you before.”

Oh, you bastard.

You scowl.

“Well, I do now. There’s dust and sand all over you, and I just managed to scrub it all off of me.”

“If you say so,” Maul shakes his head in amusement, then proceeds to the refresher.

 With the water running again, you realize you have some free time.

“What to do, what to do…” you mumble as your eyes scan the room for a distraction.

Your gaze gets caught on an empty wooden crate that is standing in a corner innocently.

It’s been a while since you’ve done some target practice (For safety reasons you’ve decided it would be smarter not to throw knives in the confines of a moving spaceship), and that crate would make an excellent target.

Quickly you carve a small ‘X’ into the wood to replace the bull’s eye, then you place your makeshift target on a shelf to get it to a proper height.

Target practice has always been one of your favorite kinds of training. Probably, because you are good at it, and it doesn’t involve people, as opposed to sparring.

The first three throws are good and land in the center, right where you want them. For the next round, you decide to change things up and spin before throwing, giving yourself less time to aim but more momentum.

Quickly, you find yourself getting lost in the monotone practice, tunnel vision on your target the only thing that occupies your thoughts - it’s almost meditative

Time passes faster than you expect it to, and midthrow, you catch sight of Maul leaving the refresher.

Without a shirt on.

You miss the ‘X’ by a couple of inches, the blade boring itself into the very corner of the crate; the furthest you have missed it today. An annoyed sound leaves your mouth, though you can’t fully bring yourself to be frustrated with it when the reason for your miss is so well built.

You desperately try not to stare at him, though it certainly isn’t easy.

The final knife you throw hits the target dead-center again, and you mentally declare your practice session over, only now allowing yourself to look at him.

Maker, he’s attractive.

The black inkings on his crimson skin only seem to enhance the lines of muscles spanning across his torso and with the way his pants are sitting so low on his hips-

‘Don’t you dare read my mind,’ The thought is loud and insistent in your head - an attempt to protect your pride, because you would probably die of embarrassment if he knew you really found him this appealing.

To be fair, it’s been a while since you had some… alone time. You are hesitant about doing anything in the shower, because you are almost certain he’d be able to tell through your heightened emotions. But it is getting to you.

And his upper body being on display like that is not helping.

“Now that I am clean enough for you,” He takes slow, self-assured steps toward you, until he is so close that you are forced to look up to face him, his voice dropping to a rumble. “Maybe you’ll finally let me ... ”

He doesn’t finish what he is saying with words, instead meeting you halfway when you stand up on your tiptoes, lips melting together. Your hands roam over his bare torso, feeling old scars, but also raw power in the hard muscles that contract and relax under your touch.

Suddenly, he freezes.

“What’s wrong?” You breathe against his lips, sensing his abrupt unease.

“There are people nearby,” he pulls away with a frown, summoning his lightsaber and a coat with the force. “Stay here, I’ll go check the area and keep them away.”

You snatch a dagger from under your bed and place it on your belt, just in case someone gets close to the ship, while he opens the ramp and rushes off to the right, where you assume he can sense lifeforms closing in. You follow him down the ramp and stay just a few feet away from the ship, watching him cross a dune and disappear.

 It is quiet for a few minutes, whoever it was Maul felt must be far away enough to be out of your earshot.

A sudden clang from the front of the ship alarms you and you whip around, but see nobody. Cautiously, you crouch down and sneak around the ship, watching for an attacker, but the place where the sound originated is abandoned. Footprints in the sand trail the other way around the ship, meaning whoever is here could very well be…

behind you.

You catch the assailant’s hand just before it can wrap itself around your neck, twisting the wrist and forcefully throwing the creature to the ground, immediately recognizing the ghastly appearance of a Tusken Raider.

The sand person gets up before you can finish him and swings his spear your way, wildly, primitively. It’s easy to evade his attacks, and before the savage knows what’s happening, you’ve slit his throat.

The short lived fight leaves you slightly out of breath and on alert, your heart thumping fast in anticipation of another attack, but your gut tells you that this was the only danger lurking here.

“Ugh.”

You nudge the grotesque body with your foot, testing to feel its weight. The decision that the corpse is much too heavy for you to move without considerable effort is made fast, so you elect to leave it where it is and wait until Maul returns.

If it was really only the sand people, then you are not overly worried for his safety. They are brutal savages, yes, but they are not much of a threat for somebody like Maul (or you, for that matter).

 As expected, Maul’s return is fast.

“Sand people,” he utters.

“I know,” you say, gesturing to the leg that sticks out from around the corner. “I’ve had the pleasure already.”

His eyes widen in surprise.

“I did not feel the presence of one so close. I must be more vigilant in the future.”

It is evident that he blames himself for leaving you behind with an imminent threat, so you try to ease his mind.

“It was more annoying than anything else. I have faced bigger challenges than a Tusken Raider, believe me. Now, would you do me a favor and help me get rid of the body?”

He nods absentmindedly and lifts one hand, using the force to raise the body into the air while at the same time creating a hole in the ground, where the body lands with an unceremonious thud.

‘Convenient,’ you think to yourself, remembering all the times you’ve had to drag and lift bodies that by far exceeded your own body mass.

It’s around noon right now, and the sun is beating down on you two mercilessly. You are about to go back inside the ship, when a quiet whirring catches your attention.

“The probe!”

It flies straight to Maul, where it stops and starts a series of beeps that you assume are its way of transmitting information.

“We have the location of the Jedi,” Maul declares finally with a certain gravity to his voice. “Wait here. Please.”

You sigh. “You be careful, yes?”

“I don’t need to be careful,” He lifts his chain proudly, “It’s them who should be afraid.”

“I don’t doubt that. Just… come back fast, won’t you?” You can’t mask the fact that you feel hesitant to let him go on his own - that you feel worried about his safety.

“I will.” He sounds softer now, seeing your concern for him. “Until then,” he pulls you closer and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Then he’s gone.

____

next chapter

____

Reader doesn’t like sand. It's coarse, and rough, and irritating... and it gets everywhere.

I’m a sucker for throwing knives ever since I played Assassin’s creed syndicate (can you tell?). The stealth? The coolness? superb. Mwah.

This time less of a wait, though I can’t promise the same thing for the next chapter. I’m going to try to post it in less than one week, but you know how things get :,)

As always, thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

____

@princessayveke​ @spaghetti-666​ @noiralei​ @bagpipes606 @secretnerd00

[dadspeed-appreciationsquad]

How Do I Tell Your Dad?

Set after the season 2 finale, but more when everything's settled I suppose. Gary struggles with the fact that he adopted Little Cato and now Little Cato's actual Dad his standing right here.

"Gary?" Avocato walked into Gary's room and found him sitting up on his bed with his legs laying flat and crossed, bouncing a ball off the wall across from him. He stopped once he saw Avocato standing at the door and smiled brightly.

"Avocato! How's it going man?"

"Mind if we talk?" Gary's smile faltered slightly.

"Of course! What's going on in that noggin of yours?" Gary tried to act natural, but Avocato could tell he was tense.

"I wanted to ask you about Little Cato. I've been gone so long, I want to know about everything that happened with him." He paused. "And with you too." Gary sighed and looked towards the ground with a small smile on his face. He looked back towards Avocato and patted the bed. Avocato smiled and finally walked into the room and sat next to Gary.

"Well, surprisingly eventful, but mainly, it's been hard." Gary pursued his lips. "I'm not gonna lie, we missed you Avocato." Gary moved so he was sitting side by side with Avocato, his feet planted firmly on ground.

"So much has happened since you, well, you know, died." Gary coughed. "I honestly didn't think I would be able to care for Little Cato. I mean, I'm not exactly the most sane person to entrust with a kid." Avocato laughed and patted Gary's knee.

"I trust you. Isn't that enough?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Gary leaned his elbows in his knees. "Well Little Cato wasn't," Gary paused and tilted his head back and forth, trying to think of a word to describe what happened, "he was hurt. He just got you back, only to lose you again. It took me awhile to actually get him to talk. But when I did, he told me he wanted to kill the Lord Commander." Avocato sighed.

"That's my boy alright. You told him no though, right?" Gary's eyes widened and he laughed nervously.

"Of course I did. But actually I told him that we totally could get revenge." Avocato glared at him. "What! I already informed you that I am in no way "parent material"."

"Continue." Gary nodded.

"Right so we almost die." Avocato glared harder.

"BUT! We didn't, obviously, and Little Cato ends up trusting me, I think he started to at least. Well at the very least he was talking." Avocato let out a nervous laugh.

"What else should I have expected from you. You agreed to go on a suicide mission with me when you just met me." Gary smiled.

"We clasped hands! It was like, destiny or something." Avocato bumped his shoulder.

"So Little Cato trusts you, are you guys friends?" Gary laughed.

"Friends? Well actually I ad-" Gary paused when he realized what he was about to say. He was going to tell Little Cato's FATHER that he adopted his boy, REPLACED HIM basically, and not too long after they had brought him back to life?

"Gary? What's wrong?" Avocato leaned down to get a better look at Gary's face. Gary flushed and scooted back on the bed.

"Haha..ha, BEST friends. That's what we are. Yeah, totally." He laughed nervously. Avocato narrowed his eyes and sighed.

"Well I'm glad. He got to see the good side of you that I saw." Gary nodded.

"I guess you can call it that." Avocato stood and stretched out the kinks in his back.

"You can fill me in more tomorrow. You seem tired." Gary looked around the room, avoiding Avocatos gaze.

"Yeah. Tired. That's what we'll call it." Gary gave a tense smile, "I'll see you later." Avocato nodded and left the room. Gary's smile faltered and he dropped his head into his hands the second Avocato left.

"Oh my crap".

Gary did not see Avocato later.

Gary actually avoided Avocato at all costs.

Which was actually really hard, being that they're on a ship with very little hiding spots.

Currently, he was hiding in Little Cato's room, who wasn't unhappy he was there, but was definitely annoyed.

"Gary."

"Yes, SpiderCat?"

"You need to leave."

"Now why on Earth would I do that? I am having the time of my life, right here. Wasting away and hiding from my problems." Little Cato rolled his eyes.

"Cause you need to talk to my Dad. I don't know what's happening with you, but he's been all mopey, and the fact that you're hiding in here tells me that you're the cause of that." Little Cato sighed and layed down on his bed, looking up at the ceiling.

"So talk to me Thunder Bandit. What's got you acting so weird?" Gary sighed and bit his lip.

"I adopted you." Little Cato nodded.

"Right, I was there."

"How do I tell your ACTUAL Dad that? 'Hey, so I know you were dead, then we brought you back only for you to be possessed. But I actually adopted your boy, betrayed your trust and totally accept if you want to throw me off the ship?" Little Cato coughed.

"Well I don't think he'd be that upset." Gary sighed.

"He might kick the crap out of you." Gary sat up and glared at Little Cato, who only proceeded to laugh.

"I'm kidding. Gary, you're my dad's best friend. He'd be fine with it. I mean, it's not like you're trying to replace him or anything." Gary nodded and sighed.

"I guess I should go be an adult and tell him huh?"

"Yeah, but you can stay here for a little longer if you want." Gary smiled and pet Little Cato's hair.

"Thanks, but if I do that I really will lose my courage." Gary stood and left the room with a confident stride. Little Cato rolled his eyes.

"What idiots."

"Just, knock you idiot man. It's that easy. Just raise your fist and bang it against the door. That sounds strangely sexual, hey! Don't get distracted Gary. Just go in there and talk to him." Gary paced outside Avocatos room and sucked in a breath of air before raising his fist. Just as he did, the door opened.

"Gary? Hey man, I haven't seen you around for a bit." Gary blushed and nodded. Neither spoke as they just stared at each other for a few moments.

"Uh, want to come in?" Avocato gestured towards his room and tilted his head. Gary nodded again and followed Avocato in the room.

"Take a seat." Gary sat on the bed while Avocato took a spare chair, sitting so the back of the chair was pressed against his front.

"Now, I guess you're here to talk about why you've been avoiding me?" Gary's eyes widened and he let out a nervous laugh.

"Wh-what would give you that idea? What if I just was busy?"

"You literally screamed when you saw me earlier."

"Crap. Uh, well then, yeah I guess I'm here to talk about that." Avocato nodded and leaned his elbow on the chair and placed his head in his hand.

"Well, I'm all ears." Gary nodded.

"Right so, uh, yeah. Haha, Little Cato, great kid am I right?" Avocato nodded and just stared at Gary. Gary was kinda hoping he'd respond to that. He coughed the awkwardness out of his throat.

"Well, turns out he's sooo great, I just, you know, happened to, you know?" Gary gestured with his hands, hoping Avocato would just get it. Instead, he just raised and eyebrow. "IkindaadoptedLittleCatoandhesometimescallsmeDadwhichisreallynicebutnotwhenhisactualdadisheresoitskindaawkwardimsorry."

"You…" Avocato's shoulders tensed and he leaned back slightly. Gary flinched. "Adopted Little Cato?" Gary bit his lip and nodded. Avocato sighed and pinched the area between his brows.

"This is what you were avoiding me about?" Gary nodded again.

"Did you think I'd be upset?"

"Why wouldn't you be? It probably feels like I tried to replace you and I-"

"Baby," Avocato placed his hand on Gary's shoulder, Gary shut up quickly and stared at Avocato. "I asked you to look after Little Cato."

"Yeah but-"

"And you came back for me. You saved me Gary. If you wanted to 'replace' me as Little Cato's Dad, it wouldn't be the best idea to save his biological Dad, would it?" Gary shook his head and looked down. Avocato stood up and sat next to Gary, once against placing his hand on Gary's shoulder.

"I couldn't have asked for anything more than that. My son, as traumatized as he probably is, accepted and trusted you enough to make you a part of his family? How could I be upset with that?" Avocato laughed and smiled at Gary before pulling him into a hug.

"Thank you, for taking care of him when I couldn't." Gary froze before hugging Avocato back tightly.

"Thanks Avocato. I couldn't have asked for a better friend."

"I know." Gary laughed as they pulled away.

"I guess I was acting a bit stupid."

"A bit?" Avocato raised an eyebrow and Gary rolled his eyes.

"Yes, a bit." Avocato laughed, rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.

"Now, what do you say we play a round of cards? I'm sure you're rusty after not having me around to play with."

"I'm rusty? Oh you're on Catman." Avocato smiled as Gary ran out of the room to get his cards. He sighed and looked up.

"Do you plan on staying there or showing yourself?" Little Cato dropped from the vent and smiled.

"How'd you know I was there?" Avocato laughed.

"I'm your father. I always know." Little Cato crossed his arms. "What were you doing spying on us?"

"Snooping, I thought that was pretty obvious." Little Cato tapped his fingers against his forearms.

"Well, when are you gonna tell him?" Little Cato smiled and leaned against his dad. Avocato patted his head and smiled.

"Soon enough."

[clatoera]

hi bestie 33 for tswizzle prompt list 🤗🤗 - @kentwells

Alright BESTIE I wrote this explicitly for you because I know this is a FAVORITE topic of yours. It's short but. It's something

Love you.

@kentwells

Missing moment from ARWBFB, between the 72 and 73 games.

#33: "they’ll judge it like they know about me and you" from this Taylor Swift Prompt List

“Get your hands off of me.” Clove wriggles, albeit a bit desperately, underneath the substantial weight of Cato’s entire body on top of her. He’s got her pinned down easily, knees on either side of her hips, one hand easily holding both of her wrists uselessly above her head. If she struggled just enough the hem of her shirt would slip up enough so that the cool training room floor grazed her skin, sending trickles of cold reaming through her spine. She continues to twist the best that she can underneath him, and the fiery look in his blown eyes tells her it’s working in some way. “Get off.”

A broad hand, the one not accounted for, slips up and grasps around her throat. It is not the coldness of his skin that makes her gasp, nor the way his fingers leisurely squeeze at the sides of her neck and make her world just start to flit dark. No, it is the way he leans over her, letting go of her wrists in favor of running his hand over the side of her torso, catching on the bare skin there. The slightest twinge of his hand brings her to a full gasp, a desperate, feral urge to breathe and breathe as deeply as she can as her lungs plead for air. “And just like that, you’re dead.” 

With her newly free hands, devoid of any weapon, she acts without thinking and desperately claws at his face, all the effort she can muster in pushing him off before he– he wouldn’t kill her on the training room floor, would he?–  can deliver a final blow. It’s nearly futile– the world is becoming darker and darker and air feels more valuable than any currency she can imagine– when his hand flies back and grabs at his own face. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, are you trying to claw my eyes out?” Cato runs his fingers right under his cheekbone, revealing blood on the pads of his finger tips. 

Clove takes the moment to roll on her side, finding herself desperately gasping to quench the absolute burn in her lungs at the loss of oxygen. “We’re training you aren’t supposed to kill me.” She rolls onto her hands and knees, bracing herself before attempting to stand, anticipating a sense of dizziness due to the loss of air moments ago. “I’m done for the day.”

“Noone is going to take it easy on you in the arena. You’re tiny and someone’s going to take advantage of it–” Cato tries to pull her to a standing position, but the half hearted slaps at his wrist tells him his advances are particularly unwelcome. “Fine. Quit. Lets go home.”

“Someone like you is going to take advantage of me?” Clove hisses, before firmly kicking the side of his knee to get him away from her. “Leave me alone.” 

“Clove, don’t be like that, come on you know you don’t like the showers here.” He steps to the side, just out of the reach of her leg and foot. “The games are coming, you bitch about how poorly you sleep in the beds here, is now really the time to sacrifice sleep to make a point–”

“Leave!” Clove screams, finally pushing herself to stand, before she ends up leaning against the wall, finding she needs more support than anticipated in catching her bearings. “Do you know what the girls say about me here? Half of them think i’m sleeping with you for extra sponsors in the games, and the other half think you beat me because of how you act here, and every single one from both sides still wants you.” 

“They can whatever the fuck they want, they don’t know us, they don’t need to know, they don’t need to understand. Since when do you care what people think?” Cato grabs her by the forearm, pulling her in to him in the privacy of the empty training room. “The games are coming. I’m not going easy on you now, because now is not the time. You’re going to come back. I’m not wasting time apart from you, just because some girls are running their mouths.”

“I’m not staying here because of what people are saying, I’m staying because I don’t want to fucking see you.” Clove rips her arm out of his grasp, and uses all she has to push her hand in the center of his chest and away from her. “Go. You’re going to get us caught, anyway

Cato grabs her, then, and flings her fully into his arms, one hand under her shoulders the other under her knees. “I don’t care what they’re saying, let them judge us, Clove. Let them know. We’re going home.”

[metamorphicrocky]

Second in Command

I randomly started thinking about why Little Cato was the only kid being restrained when the Lord Commander ordered everyone to kill their kids, so I wrote this because I am a monster that cannot be stopped

Avocato marches back into his house, his back ramrod straight. His face is a steely mask that hides the battle raging in his mind over the sole thought racing through his head. He walks up the stairs briskly, heading right into his son's room without a knock.

The boy is practicing gymnastics moves, flipping onto his bed and bouncing all over the room. The boy stills as his father enters, and the excited grin on his face diminishes to a more reserved smile.

"Hey, Dad," the young Ventrexian greets, walking up to him. "What's for dinner because I'm star—!"

"We're leaving," Avocato cuts off, his tone a vicious blade.

Little Cato scrunches his nose up in confusion. "But tonight is training night, don't we have to do that?"

"No, now move it," he orders. He remains expressionless.

"Are...we eating out?" Little Cato asks innocently.

Avocato glares at his son with a growl. "I don't want to hear another question. We're going this second."

The kid shrugs sheepishly and walks out of his room, running to the top of the stairs and sliding down the railing with a whoop. Avocato walks normally, his hands behind his back as his permanent scowl deepens. His boy waits next to the door for his dad to walk out first, and he trails after him contentedly.

"So what are we doing?"

Avocato glances at the bouncing kid, his newer yellow sweater on with the skirt that he insisted on buying. His mohawk is a bit of a mess from the exercising moments before, but nothing is amiss with him. His eyes stare up at Avocato, trusting him completely and without question.

He looks away, a weird feeling in his chest making its presence. "You'll see."

The boy gasps. "Ooh, a surprise!"

Then his attention is caught when a few of Avocato's fellow generals walk out of their houses, their firstborns all in tow. Little Cato immediately runs over to greet a few of his friends, tackling them and wrestling them to the ground. The children all laugh as the generals continue marching onwards, meeting each other's eyes in silent knowing and determination. Avocato is too aware of how the generals all follow behind him in perfect tandem, and he notices the weight of his uniform for the first time while working under the Lord Commander.

In these moments, the generals have an unspoken agreement to let the children continue on with their fun, chasing each other around and wreaking havoc all over without interruption. Some of them ask what's happening, but no one has an answer. So, they drop the subject and play tag. To them, everything is great.

These are their last moments, the last times anyone will see their eyes blinking and chests rising rapidly from exertion. The generals are quiet with the exception of their military-grade boots stomping as they move further on the march of death.

Avocato studies the way his son's tail swishes and ears twitch, not a care in the world. He's just a boy with his friends who are all going on an adventure together.

Little Cato pounces on another one of his friends, and they go tumbling and rolling across the ground, landing on their backs in the middle of the open outcropping. The two laugh, but Little Cato stops when he opens his eyes to see a guard staring down at him. He sits up slowly, then walks over to his dad in confusion.

The other generals gather their children and push them to their knees before them. The Lord Commander stands, regarding the scene in apparent glee.

"Dad? What's going on?" Little Cato asks, grabbing one of Avocato's hands.

"Get on your knees," Avocato orders, not sparing his son another glance.

The boy tugs on his hand. "Why? What's happening?!"

"Do it, boy!" the second in command yells, his tone frigid and furious.

Little Cato flinches, immediately letting go of his father's hand. His eyes dart around the area to see guns being pulled from holsters as his friends do what they're told. Avocato glares at the boy, trying to intimidate him into behaving one last time.

The boy's eyes widen as his pupils dilate, and Avocato is too slow to realize what the kid is thinking until he slips through his father's legs and sprints in the opposite direction of the mass execution.

"Hey!" Avocato shouts, alerting the guards around him of the escapee.

He watches as a few soldiers try to grab the kid, but he's too agile and small for them to be able to hold him for long. Little Cato slashes at one man with his claws and bites another on the leg in his futile attempt to be free, but now all of the soldiers have converged on him. His frantic adrenaline kick fades the moment two guards are able to drag him back to his father, who stands unfazed next to the Lord Commander.

Cries from the other children fill the air, their fear tangible.

Little Cato continues to try to rip his arms out of their hold as they drag him on the ground, the boy screaming and yelling obscenities and demands to be let go. The guards stop directly in front of Avocato, and his son goes limp in their grasp as he stares at the generals behind his father.

They shout, "For eternity! For the Lord Commander!" Dozens of shots ring out simultaneously as fear explodes inside Little Cato's eyes.

The boy stares up at him, his arms being held up by two faceless figures. There isn't betrayal in his eyes, nor is there remorse or sadness. Anger is absent, but the boy is scared.

Frightened and terrified. He doesn't want to die, Avocato can clearly see.

The expression is so open compared to the sharp, fierce glare painted across his own face.

He draws out his gun, pointing it blank at his son's head as the boy just stares and stares and stares with his mouth open in shock.

"Do it, Avocato. And become my first. Do it," Lord Commander promises next to him.

He sharpens his gaze, looking into Little Cato's eyes once more—

"Dad, if there's anything you believe in, believe in me."

—and his expression falters. He sharpens his gaze again as he shoots twice, killing both of the soldiers instantly with a glower on his face.

Little Cato collapses and stares at the corpses in pure disbelief. He whips his head towards his father, but Avocato turns at the same time and aims his gun directly at the Lord Commander. He tries to fire, but the leader just grins sinisterly and breaks his gun, ripping it out of Avocato's hands with his powers. Fear ripples through his body, and he turns back around to face his son.

The boy reaches out for him as he starts running, and Avocato tries to reach him as well. But they're both stopped. The Lord Commander directs vines out of the ground beneath them, pinning Avocato to the dirt as Little Cato is lifted into the air in a trap of roots.

Avocato gasps and stares at his terrified and struggling son in horror. His head swivels to the Lord Commander with a growl in his throat, a desire blooming within him to murder that man with his bare hands.

"If I sense doubt in you ever again, remember: I own your son. And now, I own you!"

His voice is demonic, full of rage and fury, and it fills Avocato with more hatred and dread than he's ever experienced.

Desperately, he reaches his hand towards his son as the vines surrounded his small frame. Little Cato has tears streaming down his face as he yells for his father, and Avocato is shouting for his boy as guards drag him away.

As Little Cato disappears from view, Avocato collapses with a curse, defeated and alone, the scent of children burning and blood boiling introducing him to a world without his son.

[randomfandomfamily]

How about where Little Cato and Gary get into a fight and now Little Cato feels bad and thinks he’s a terrible son to him?

---

hoo boy I’ve already thought about this one a LOT, I’m stoked to write this.

Little Cato tapped his foot anxiously, waiting for Gary to return. “HUE, how long has it been?”

‘It’s only been nine minutes,’ HUE replied, ‘You still have six minutes before you are allowed to go in after Gary and Nightfall.’

Groaning, Little Cato leaned back in his chair. “This is taking too long! What if something happened to them?”

“I’m sure nothing bad happened,” Fox said, “Gary and Nightfall just went in to investigate a lead. They’ll be back in fifteen minutes, just like they said.”

Ash nodded in agreement. “And even if something does go wrong, I bet they could handle it.”

“Yeah, but what if they can’t?” Little Cato asked. “What if something happened to them? What if there’s more bounty hunters after Gary? What if-” The familiar sound of gunfire made Little Cato’s jump out of the chair. “I knew it!”

He darted past Fox and Ash to his room. He grabbed his blaster and turned to leave, but Fox blocked the door. “Gary said fifteen minutes. We still five more.”

“Get out of my way,” Little Cato warned.

Fox shook his head. “No way, Ventrexian.”

Little Cato growled and leapt at Fox, effectively catching the Trvuulian by surprise. He probably didn’t expect Little Cato to actually try to get past him. He slipped out of the room while Fox was off balance only to find Ash waiting for him.

She didn’t look like she was actively trying to block his path, but she was trying to talk him down. “I don’t think you should go down there, Little Cato. Gary said-”

“I’m not losing him again,” Little Cato growled. “I’m not losing anyone else.” He shouldered his way past Ash and slammed the button to open the door.”

HUE tottered after him. ‘Gary explicitly told you-’

“I don’t care!” Little Cato shouted as he ran down the ramp. “I’m going!”

As soon as his feet hit the ground, he was full on sprinting. The building looked like it was being lit up from the inside from the sheer amount of blaster fire.

He kicked open the door and looked around frantically. “Gary! Nightfall!” A couple of thugs looked his way and started firing. Little Cato evaded them easily enough, but he still couldn’t see the people he was looking for.

“Gary, where are you?! Nightfall?! Can either of you hear me?!” He dove behind a pillar and fired at the nearest targets. He let himself slip into autopilot, ducking and weaving through the fight, shooting everything that looked even remotely like a threat.

It wasn’t until he felt a hand on his shoulder that he felt relief wash over him. “Gary!” The man didn’t respond, he simply grabbed Little Cato by the hand and pulled him toward the exit. Little Cato grinned and fired at anything that stood in their path on their way out.

Even though they were still surrounded by bad guys and gunfire, Little Cato felt a rush running alongside Gary. This is what he was meant to do, fighting against all odds is what he was made for. He only wished Avocato could have been there to see them.

HUE was standing right where Little Cato had left him, the door still standing open for Gary, Nightfall, and Little Cato to jump through. “Let’s go!” Nightfall shouted as the door closed behind them.

Everyone held their breath until they cleared the atmosphere and were sure they weren’t being followed off planet.

Little Cato pumped his fists in the air victoriously once they were in the clear. “Whoo! Gary that was awesome!” He waved his arms around excitedly, gun still in his hand. “We totally kicked butt back there, did you see-”

His blaster was suddenly torn from his hand. “What the hell did you think you were doing?!”

Gary and angry didn’t really compute. So it took Little Cato a moment to process the question before he finally managed, “What do you mean? I was helping.”

“I told you to stay on the ship,”  Gary said. “And I told you that if Nightfall and I weren’t back in fifteen minutes, then you could come after us.”

Little Cato felt heat rising to his face. He felt embarrassed. No, worse, he felt ashamed. But he had no idea why. What did he do wrong? “There was gunfire! What did you want me to do? Just sit there?”

“Yes!” Gary exclaimed. “That’s exactly what I wanted you to do!”

“But that’s stupid!” Little Cato protested. “What if you had gotten hurt? Or worse?!” He felt sick. He had never yelled at Gary before. Gary had never yelled at him before. Were they fighting? Was this a fight?

He couldn’t seriously be fighting Gary… could he?

“Doing what you’re told is not stupid,” Gary said, “And you better watch it with that tone.”

Little Cato blinked in confusion. “You… are you serious?” Do what he was told? Even if that meant Gary got hurt? There was no way in hell. “What if you had gotten shot again?!”

“That’s not the point.”

“But that is the point,” Little Cato insisted, “It’s my point! I know you think I should’ve listened, but-”

“Nightfall and I had the situation under control,” Gary interrupted, “We were on our way out, but then you burst in, so we had to get you first. If you had just waited, we could have been long gone by now” Little Cato couldn’t look Gary in the eyes. He looked so angry. It made him feel agitated and scared at the same time. “I’m your guardian now. And if I say you stay on the ship then you stay on the ship.”

Little Cato felt an unreasonable anger of his own start rising in his chest. “I’ll do what I think is right,” he snapped in response, “Whether you think it’s the right decision or not.”

“That’s not for you to decide.” Gary said. “And as of this moment. You are not allowed to set foot off this ship.”

His gaze finally snapping up to Gary, Little Cato exclaimed, “What?! You can’t do that!”

“Gary,” Nightfall interjected.

“AVA.” Gary held Little Cato’s gaze almost challengingly, as if daring the teen to speak out again. “Little Cato isn’t allowed off the ship until I say so. Don’t open any doors that lead outside for him.”

‘Understood.’

Little Cato’s anger finally reached a breaking point. He was too angry to even argue anymore, he just turned and ran. It probably wasn’t the best decision, but he didn’t dare stop.

How could Gary do that? All he had done was try to help! Was that really so wrong?

The nearest accessible vent was just a couple hallways down and he ran all the way there. He nearly bent the frame prying it off the wall, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He slammed the vent back in place and retreated to the nook he had made for himself in the walls and tried to catch his breath. It wasn’t as good as the one he had back on the Galaxy One, but it served its purpose: letting Little Cato be alone.

“So trying to save my father is wrong now? Is that it?” Little Cato paced angrily. “What did I do?! I thought we were supposed to be looking after each other. I told Gary not to follow me when I ran away, and he did anyway! Why is this so different?”

Little Cato sat on the floor and hugged his knees to his chest, the anger starting to ebb away. “I don’t get it. Why don’t I get it?”

The longer he thought about it, the more he thought that maybe the problem really was about him and not Gary. He and Gary and never fought before, and the only thing that changed was that he had been adopted.

Really the only thing that changed was… “I’m his son,” Little Cato realized. “And I… I mean, I don’t get why he’s so mad. I don’t get what I did wrong so maybe…” He felt his stomach drop through the floor of the ship. “Maybe I’m just… am I a bad son?”

The empty vents didn’t have an answer for him, but the question still rang in the silence like the world’s most vicious echo.

Little Cato rested his forehead against his pulled up legs. “No, no, no, no… Gary is trying so hard to make this work, and I just…” He fought back tears and hugged his knees tighter to his chest. “I am such an idiot…”

A similar statement was being shouted in a different part of the ship. As soon as Little Cato had left, Gary had deflated, absolutely exhausted from his fight with Little Cato. “Okay, I knew I wasn’t going to be emotionally prepared to ground the kid,” he admitted, “But I didn’t expect it to be that bad.”

Nightfall smacked him in the back of the head, catching him by surprise. “You’re an idiot!”

Gary rubbed the spot she had hit. “What? What are you-”

“Shut up for a second and listen.” Nightfall gestured to the door Little Cato had ran out of. “Do you have any idea what this must have looked like to him? Did you even try to see this from his point of view?”

“Uh, no?” Gary said in confusion. “I told him to stay on the ship and he didn’t listen. That was kind of the whole point.”

“No, that was kind of your whole point,” Nightfall corrected. “But his whole point was that he was out of his mind with worry, probably driving himself up the wall waiting for you, and then suddenly there was gunfire.”

Gary felt like he was missing something. “But we had it under control.”

Nightfall crossed her arms. “Did Little Cato know that?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Look, I’m not saying he was right to disobey you,” Nightfall said, “I’m just saying look at this from his perspective for just a second.”

Gary gave up. “Fine, Nightfall, what’s Little Cato’s perspective on this?” He asked, getting tired of beating around the bush. “What’s the big point that I’m missing here?”

“He doesn’t want to lose his father again, Gary!” Nightfall shouted. “And you of all people should get that!”

The words rang in the room, leaving Gary speechless. He had kind of assumed the kid jumped off the ship just to join in the fight, but he hadn’t really considered the kid had joined the fight for him.

“Oh my crap…” Gary said in disbelief. “You’re right. I’m an idiot.”

Nightfall rolled her eyes. “Great job.” She brushed past him on the way out the door. “I’m done helping you parent for the day. Go find your kid.”

Gary already knew where to find him. It was the same place he always went when he wanted to be alone. He walked out of the room and tried to do a mental recap of the ships layout. Where were the vents on this thing? And which one was closest?

He was thinking so hard that he didn’t notice the orange blur until it plowed into him. “Whoa!”

“I’m sorry,” a muffled voice cried, “I don’t know what I did wrong, and I don’t know what I have to do to fix it, but I want to be a better son and I promise I’m trying and-”

Gary put his hands on Little Cato’s shoulders and gently pushed him back. “Slow down, kid. What’s this about being a bad son?”

Little Cato gazed up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I just… you’re trying so hard to be a good dad--and you are a great dad, and you’re doing everything right.” He scrubbed at his eyes. “But I think I just did everything wrong and I don’t know if I can fix it.”

“Hey, I so did not do everything right,” Gary said firmly. “Nightfall chewed me out for the way I just acted.” Little Cato glanced up at him, looking surprised and confused. “She told me I wasn’t listening to you. And she was right. I didn’t listen to what you had to say, and that wasn’t real fair of me.

“You’re a good kid, Spider-Cat, and a great son.” Gary ruffled his hair. “I get that you only came after me because you were worried. And you have a completely justified reason for being worried, but that doesn’t mean you get to act on every single impulse you have. That’s a surefire way to get yourself into a lot of trouble. Trust me.”

Little Cato nodded, wiping away the last of his tears. “Right. I think I get it.” He twisted the hem of his yellow sweater nervously. “And you’re really sure I’m not a bad son?”

Gary smiled. “Look, we’re both new to this. It’s gonna take a hot second for me to get used to parenting, just like it’s going to take you a little while to relearn living with a parent.

“But we’ll figure it out,” Gary reassured him. “One way or another.”

Little Cato returned the smile tentatively. “Okay. I think I can handle that.”

“Good.” Gary pulled the kid in for a hug.

This was better. This was so much better than how they had left things a few minutes ago. Listening, not fighting. Gary was going to have to thank Nightfall for that later. But as for right now…

“By the way, you are still grounded.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

[vanserraseris]

END OF PART II - Everyone was so nice and supportive and I appreciate it so much!!! Warning, Eris has friends (soldier friends cuz I just think he’s close to his soldiers) and because I don’t like the idea of him being lonely. There’s a time skip from the last part, but we get baby Lucien. Thanks so much, Ruchi :)

im loving this sm and YES give eris friends. love you lots ash <3

Prince of Ashes. Part II.

masterlist.

“Stop that.” The words were no more than a low growl. 

Micah let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting his head back to look up at Eris from where he was sitting on the floor, back against the couch and cheek against Eris’s knee. He’d been leaning on Eris’s leg the whole night, tapping annoyingly on the top of Eris’s foot with pale, scar-flecked fingers. Enya, one of Eris’s hounds, was sitting by Micah, his other hand idly stroking her sleek fur.

“Asshole,” Micah mumbled, running a hand through his now messy, chestnut brown hair. With a groan and one final pat of Enya’s back, he pushed himself up off the floor and sat on the couch right next to Eris, their shoulders touching. Lagos was leaning against the arm of the couch, his legs tucked in close to his chest so as not to touch Eris. He’d been sitting there quietly the whole night, braiding and then rebraiding his long, dark hair.

Grass green eyes on Eris, Micah said, “Just because your little brother’s a walking faelight doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole.” Eris felt the sudden urge to hit Micah upside the head with the flimsy book in his hands, but he knew better than anyone that Micah wouldn’t be too bothered by it. Having known his friend for centuries, Eris was almost positive Micah would just laugh. Eris shut the book, it was useless anyway, and settled for jolting the leg Micah had seen fit to sidle up against.

With a bare foot, Lagos kicked Eris on his thigh. “I’m telling you, this is Day Court magic. You can read a million more ancient books from your little library, and I’d still be right.” 

Eris could have hit him with his book as well. “When I find the fucking bastard, I’ll kill him.” 

“You’d kill your younger brother’s father?” Micah was always trying to convince Eris, and perhaps himself, that Eris wasn’t some horrible monster. Sometimes, Eris grew tired of it.

“I’d kill my own,” Eris said with a shrug, “You really believe I’d be uneasy about killing someone else’s?” 

“I don’t think anyone here believes that,” Lagos mumbled. Eris glared at him, no real hate in the look, but one that might convey the feeling that he regretted having befriended Lagos in the first place. Lagos simply flashed him a dimpled grin, before he turned to look at Lucien. Widge had the little runt sitting on his knee, he looked entirely relaxed.

Lucien was smiling, his red hair a mess, his tiny fists reaching out to grab the harmless little fox that Eris had made out of his flames to bounce around them. Eris had never disliked his mother more as Lucien beamed like some sort of pixie in the dimly lit sitting room of his cottage. Beron would kill them all if he saw this, Eris knew, and had practically stolen Lucien from The Forest House before anyone took notice of his new talent.

Eris scowled as he struggled to think what might have set off the strange magic. Eris had been sitting in front of the fireplace, Lucien caged between his long legs as he crawled in the small space. Eris had, in a moment of weakness, let Lucien curl his chubby fingers around one of his own. Lucien had let out a little shriek, lifting Eris’s finger like some sort of trophy, and much to Eris’s horror, had started to glow. Not even a year old, and Lucien was already causing trouble for Eris.

Widge looked at Eris then, his copper brows raised and his dark eyes wide, “Do you glow like this, too?” 

Eris had to stop himself from snapping an irritated “no.” Widge was always a little stuck in his thoughts and almost never paid attention to what was going on around him. Eris shook his head and Widge simply nodded, eyes going back to Lucien. 

Lucien laughed, red curls bouncing as Eris willed the fox closer to his youngest brother. If it was possible, Lucien became even brighter.

Eris snarled, a sound that came deep from his chest, as he tried to remain calm. The little fox instantly disappeared, the book in his hands burst into flames, the fireplace flared on the other side of the room. So much for keeping calm, Eris thought, as Lagos moved his foot so that it was no longer on him. Beron had finally stopped thinking that Lucien was another male’s son. Eris was just starting to feel like he could let down his guard, that he no longer had to hover over his youngest brother and ensure Beron didn’t get his hands on the tiny thing. Eris didn’t need to look in a mirror to know that there were flames dancing in his eyes, he breathed in through his nose. Eris didn’t want to look in a mirror anyway, he found he looked most like his father in anger.

The gentle hand that squeezed his arm had Eris clenching his eyes shut. He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, his lips pressed together as he tried not to sneer. He wanted to tell Micah to move his hand. Almost as if he’d sensed it, Micah’s fingers tightened only briefly before he took his hand off of Eris. 

“Is it just me, or does the runt smell like a fucking heir?” 

Eris might have been losing his mind.

“Your nose has been broken one too many times,” Lagos muttered. That was probably true. 

Eris had never been more glad to have met Micah as he spoke with a confidence that could reassure Eris in the worst of his moods. “We’ll figure this out.” 

While Eris may not always share his carefully crafted plans with his friends, he had no doubt that they’d have his back.

Eris faced Micah, frowning. He was beautiful, the traditional Autumn Court tattoos shining gold against the pale skin of his throat, bringing out the lighter strands of the shoulder-length brown hair that framed his sculpted face. Eris hadn’t loved Micah as anything other than a friend for centuries, but he was always struck by how lovely Micah was. Not only that, but Micah was steady; One of the only dependable and constant things in Eris’s long life.

Micah flashed him a warm smile, clear green eyes on Eris, his head tilting just a bit, “So try not to worry over it. I hear that if pretty males frown and furrow their brows, they get wrinkles.” Eris couldn’t help but scrunch his nose, he couldn’t care less about wrinkles. Lagos spoke again, Eris could hear the smile in his voice, “And if you get all wrinkled, that bewitching female you’ve been trying to bed will lose whatever interest she has in you.”

“What female?” Widge questioned. 

“The one Eris can’t stop talking about,” Lagos replied. Eris didn’t think he talked about her that much. The face Widge made suggested that he had absolutely no idea who they were talking about. Eris felt slightly validated, but coming from Widge, that confusion meant absolutely nothing. Lagos knew that as well. “Come now, Widge, he’s been talking about her for months,” he added, his grin widening.

“Bit offended, mind you, he never talked about me like that,” Micah grumbled, his shoulder knocking into Eris’s. 

Eris scowled when Lagos leaned over him to mouth “he did” at Micah. Eris shoved Lagos with a hand, his friend yelping as he tried not to fall off the couch. Eris could have sworn on the cauldron that he hadn’t talked about him too much either. 

Widge just furrowed his brows, “The last person I remember Eris talking about was that human general.”

“Cauldron, he’s talking about your obsession with Jurian over 200 years ago.” Lagos sounded very pleased by this. 

Eris could feel his ears heating. Not one of his finer moments, and not like he’d call it an obsession, but Lagos liked calling it that. “I got over him quickly,” he defended. 

“Yes,” Micah smiled, “Only to throw yourself at a river nymph.” 

Eris rolled his eyes, still relatively frustrated, but feeling much better than he had before. “I’m out of ideas,” he announced.

“How in the hells can you be out of ideas, we’ve given you so many,” Lagos said, exasperated. 

“None of which were even a little helpful,” Eris raised his brows, looking at Lagos. 

Lagos shrugged. He’d had the most useless one, suggesting that Eris move to Vallahan with Lucien. “Two birds, one stone,” he’d stated. “You leave the throne to Cato like you’ve always wanted, and you keep your vow.” Much easier said than done, but as the night wore on, Eris was finding it the most appealing option.

Eris ran his tongue over his teeth, “I should just kill him.” 

Micah stiffened at Eris’s side, Lagos almost snapped his neck to turn and look at Eris with wide eyes. 

Widge tucked Lucien into his chest, almost as though to shield him from the heir of the Autumn Court. “You wouldn’t,” he said disbelievingly, “Eris, you wouldn’t.” 

“Not the child,” Eris snapped, he crossed his arms, feeling very offended that his only friends thought him capable of killing his own little brother.

It was no secret that Eris wasn’t above murder, wasn’t above killing Beron, but killing one of his brothers seemed to be a line he wouldn’t cross. “I was talking about our well-loved High Lord.” 

“Yes, because you were so successful the last time you tried,” Lagos patted Eris on the knee. 

Micah eased back, “If you’d been talking about the child, I would have been very angry with you.” 

“Whatever would I have done,” Eris said under his breath.

Micah and Eris had argued quite a bit when they’d first met. It was definitely Eris’s fault for the most part, but Micah was headstrong and stubborn. Micah had spent 50 years climbing the ranks of the military only for Eris to waltz into the role of commander. He’d been extremely irritated at having to deal with a spoiled prince in his war camp and Eris had taken great joy out of bothering the experienced general. 

Micah smiled, “Probably sit and brood.”

“You could always just tell the High Lord he’s been cursed by a witch,” Widge offered. He was a bit behind on the conversation, but at least he was thinking about something other than his formulas. 

“Smartest male in all our armies and he comes up with that,” Micah muttered. 

Eris frowned. It wasn’t like anyone else had come up with something better. Perhaps he should just tell his mother, let her deal with it.

Lagos suddenly launched off the couch, nearly tripping on the edge of the carpet as he fell to his knees in front of Widge. “You brilliant, brilliant oaf,” both hands cupping Widge’s freckled cheeks as he shook him slightly. 

“Care to share, Lagos,” Micah asked as Lagos placed an exaggerated kiss on Widge’s forehead. Widge’s eyes were wide, both his eyebrows raised, as he moved Lucien away from Lagos. Eris was glad to see that everyone else looked just as confused as he felt.

“We can put a spell on him.” - The whole room seemed to freeze, even Lucien had stopped blathering. 

“You’re not going to curse my brother,” Eris thought that would have been rather obvious. 

Lagos grinned, “No, definitely not. I don’t want your ire directed at me, ever.”

Eris scowled, reaching for Lucien. “Then I’d advise you—” Eris took Lucien into his arms, the fireplace flaring. He pointedly glared at Lagos, “Not to curse the child I’m sworn to protect.”

Lagos only smiled, wiggling his fingers at Eris as a warm glow radiated from his brown skin. “My mother is from the Day Court, dumb ass.” Eris was still glaring at him, not like he’d forgotten. “She specialized in protection spells at one of the academies,” he dipped his chin, “Not curses.” 

It couldn’t hurt to casually ask Lady Morai some questions about the whole thing. Eris frowned as he looked at Lucien, speaking to Lagos as he gazed fixedly at Lucien’s glowing little nose.

“And this is normal?” Eris tried to keep the concern from his voice. 

“He is a bit young,” Lagos didn’t look too worried about it, “I started doing that at about half a decade.” He smiled, “Scared the shit out of my father.” 

Eris looked at Lagos again, “Can you honestly fix it, then?” 

“Not sure it’s something that needs to be fixed,” Widge countered. 

Before Eris could bark an irritated “no one asked you,” Lagos raised his hands, taking a step closer to Eris.

“We take him to my mother, she can suppress his magic, she did the same with mine.” Of course she had, Eris thought, knowing very well that being different in the Autumn Court was oftentimes a death sentence. “Just until he grows old enough to break the spell, no fixing is needed and nothing is permanent.” It sounded so very simple. Eris had always been wary of things that seemed too easy.

Eris bit his lip, thinking on this new proposal. He’d met Lady Morai, had been to her home on more than one occasion, but he didn’t necessarily want to trust the female with something like this despite the liking he’d taken to her. Telling his friends was one thing, telling anyone else … 

“But no harm will come to the child, correct?” Micah sounded like the general he was in that moment. Eris was glad Micah had asked the question he’d been thinking. 

“Precisely.”

“And your mother won’t tell anyone?” Eris didn’t want to have to kill the parent of one of his only friends. He hated himself for even thinking it. 

“She thinks you’re the Autumn Court’s fucking saviour, the Mother only knows why.” Lagos raised his brows, “She’d take this to the grave, I swear it.”

No one spoke as Eris considered this option - it was the best one he had. “And you’re sure she can do this -”

“Sure enough,” Lagos replied. 

Eris snarled. 

“She knows what she’s doing,” he reassured.

Eris hoped that was true. 

Lagos held out his hand, golden tattoos on each finger of spell-cleaving characters, “I’ll winnow us.”

“And we’ll be here when you return,” Micah glanced at Widge. “Maybe we’ll feed the hounds.”

Lagos flashed Eris a smile, hand still outstretched, “Come on, you can trust me.”

Eris did. Lagos had been the first person Eris had ever truly befriended, having arrived at the war camps in the same year Eris had been sent there. They’d grown as close as brothers.

With one last look at Lucien in his arms, Eris tentatively reached out to Lagos, holding his hand. Lagos closed his eyes as the magic in the room swelled, warm and gentle and nothing like the crackling flames of the Autumn Court. Eris turned away from the bright light when he could no longer look at it, and for the first time in over two centuries, Eris prayed to the Mother.

[kalle-and-lita]

When Aiko really put her mind to a task it was frightening just how serious she could be. Kalle stepped back in time to avoid the precise swing of her fist, and parried quickly with the blunt end of his chain glaive before she could force him back another step. She ducked beanth his swing but it was enough to make her back off and rethink her strategy. Kalle inhaled deeply through his nose and watched Aiko with keen eyes; she was panting from overexertion, a thin line of sweat beading the top of her forehead.

He tensed as she dug her feet into the floor, launching herself forward with unnatural speed. She predicted his parrying blow, whether by her own observation or her precognition he wasn’t sure. Aiko jumped over his weapon, clasped the shaft of his glaive firmly in hand, and yanked him forward with her strength. Kalle quickly dropped his weapon, catching Aiko’s fist with his own hand. She growled in frustration and with a surprising show of strength and acrobatics she grabbed his wrist, became dead weight, and dropped to the floor to bring him with her.

He had to commend her ability to think on her feet as they crashed to the floor, scrambling to get an upper hand. If she somehow managed to get her legs wrapped around his neck, she’d be damn near impossible to pry off.

And she tried very hard to pin him down, but his eons worth of training and experience outmatched her by leagues and it wasn’t long until he had her face first into the floor.

“Alright, alright,” She cried, slamming her free hand against the hard steel, “You win!”

Kalle let her go with a barely audible gasp, falling onto his back,

“I almost had you,” she muttered, still face down, “One of these days, Old Man. One of these days.”

Her promise made him laugh, “I’m sure, Aiko, I’m sure. You’re improving, you’ve been taking lessons from Cato?”

“Yeah, and from Uncle Guilliman too. Still can’t beat you though…”

“I wasn’t aware that it meant that much to you.”

“You’re like a bajillion years old,” she teased, “You know how much my street credit would sky rocket if I managed to kick your ass?”

“A bajillion she says,” Kalle muttered, pushing himself to sit, “If you’re looking for ‘street credit’ challenge Guilliman.”

“Nah, I couldn’t take Uncle in a fight, even if he had both arms tied up. He’s a primarch, you’re way easier than him.”

Kalle shook his head and moved to his feet, holding out a hand for Aiko to take. She did so after a moment of more grumbling, allowing him to haul her up.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.” she said, falling in stride beside him as they left the training cages and back to his quarters. She was quiet for the most part when they returned, his back turned to her as he whipped them up a meal. He noticed, Aiko being quiet was very unlike her.

“You have something on your mind?” He gently prodded, plating their meals so he could join her at the table. A look of uncertainty flashed across her face,

“Will you tell me about the lady in the Holovid today?”

Kalle paused at that, as that topic of conversation was not exactly what he had in mind. But he had promised to tell her the next time she’d asked, and thus far she’d been respectful of his wishes.

“Very well,” he conceded, “What do you wish to know?”

All at once she seemed to perk up at that, half pitched eyes glistening with excitement, “What was her name, how did you two meet?!”

Her enthusiasm put off the somber nature of the subject, and he couldn’t help but smile at it, “Her name was Lita,” he said, taking bites out of his meal, “She was a mortal I met almost ten thousand years ago in the Great Crusade.”

“Yes, but how did you meet?”

“Well, it started with a fight…”

~~

Kalle grit his teeth against the shrill screams that echoed through the battlefield. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the dying screams of the Xenos or the cruel laughter of his battle brothers as they tortured it. It was a pathetic creature writhing on the ground, bones broken and shattered in horrifyingly twisted directions. Every noise his kin brought from its body felt like nails screeching across his brain, and it shivered all the way down into his bones and made his hair stand on end.

And his brothers didn’t seem all that interested in disposing of the toy.

Before he could stop himself Kalle pushed his way through his kin and jammed the blade of his glaive into the Xenos’ skull. It died, finally, its screams rattling until there was nothing but blessed quiet.

“Hey, we were having fun with that!”

Kalle stepped back from the wild swing, but was overwhelmed by the rest of the group fairly quickly. It was only by the First Captain’s interference that he lived, but not without some form of punishment. For three days he awaited judgement in the barracks until he was called to stand before the Throne of his Gene-sire, the Primarch Konrad Curze. His punishment wasn’t exactly what he thought it would be. He remembered staring at the floor, kneeling before his father in uncertainty.

“My Primarch, if I may-”

“You may not,” was the cold reply, “You have your orders, you will follow them unless ordered otherwise by me or First Captain Sevatar. Dismissed.”

Frustration coursed through him as he made for the stateroom floors to his new assignment. It was humiliating to be taken from the front lines to serve as a babysitter for one of Curze’s pet humans. But he could not afford to disobey his father, so reluctantly he made for the forbidden Arboretum.

She was a small mortal, like most were, graying jet black hair tumbling over her shoulders and pitched eyes beaming at him with excitement. She’d been pleased to meet him, Kalle could not say the sentiment went both ways. He recalled standing watch over her in the safety of the grand garden that’d been given to her, listening to her happily hum as she tended to the garden beds.

“Are we going to stand here in sullen silence or should we try to establish some sort of rapport?” she called teasingly, a question he refused to give a reply to. She laughed at him with a shrug of her shoulders, “Sullen silence it is, then. For what it’s worth, Kalle, I’m happy that you’re here. Though you should probably bring a book next time.”

~~

“Wow, you were an ass to her.” Aiko commented, pushing back her now empty plate. Kalle smirked and stood to clear the table,

“I was, and it wouldn’t be until much later that my opinion of her changed.”

“What happened?”

Kalle patted Aiko gently on the head as he passed by her to the kitchen, “A story for another time, perhaps?” She opened her mouth as if she wanted to argue, but thought better of it with a nod.

“Okay, I have to go check on Kaede and the rest of the guys anyway. See you later, Old Man!”

“Stay out of trouble!” He called back as she disappeared out his door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It didn’t matter how many eons had passed since she’d died, speaking of Lita always hurt. Her death had been an injustice he could never avenge, and the first in a long list of failures in his life. How could he ever hope to protect his loved ones when he couldn’t have even protected her?

These thoughts continued to eat him up inside as he cleaned until he was exhausted, splayed out on his couch.

A better man, a better father.

A better man, a better father.

Lita’s death had given him the chance to finally choose how he wanted to live his life, to choose who he wanted to be. She knew that, and it had taken him far too long to realize it himself.

A better man, and a better father. Somehow, he couldn’t help but feel she’d be pleased to hear that. And that thought made him smile.

[everlarkficexchange]

Unmasked ~ Four

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Please enjoy the fourth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

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

~~ Chapter 4 ~~

“This is perfect, darling,” Effie whispers as she toys with my hair for a moment before placing my hat on my head, like I am some sort of child. “Word will get back to Sir Robert that you were riding in the park with Mr. Cato Baxter and then he’ll be hooked for sure! Perhaps he will even be in the park and see you! It is the first fine day in some time, and gentlemen need a little competition.”

“I’ve only just met Sir Robert. Why would he care?” I protest as she moves to stand behind me to inspect the bustle on my riding habit.

“Pish! Already he is asking for dances and sending flowers. Trust me, my dear. He will care, and you do not want to let this one go.”

“I don’t know him at all!” I yelp as she jabs a hair pin into my scalp.

“What’s to know? He’s wealthy, handsome, charming, has no scandal to his name. He’s perfect for you! The rest will follow.”

“Perhaps,” I say and stand still while she buttons my jacket. I despise being treated like a child, but as Effie lifts tear filled eyes to me, I swallow my pride and allow her to mother me. Besides, my own mother is not here to get all teary over a ride in the park with a gentleman or the possibility of a real suitor.

“Are we ready?” Madge asks, sweeping past me towards the door to the room we have been sharing.

“Ready,” I confirm and take up gloves just as we hear the butler answer the door downstairs.

“Miss Everdeen,” Cato takes my hand and bows over it with a smile that wavers as Madge joins us, tugging her gloves onto her hands. “Countess. I did not realize we would have company, Miss Everdeen.”

The strange sparks in his eyes set me on edge. Why would Madge’s presence anger him? My skin begins to crawl and I already regret my brash acceptance of his invitation, even if it does help to secure a marriage with Sir Robert.

“The Countess is my chaperone today,” I remind him.

“Indeed. Shall we?” He turns and strides outside, leaving Madge and I to follow. Already, I feel my face pulling into a scowl.

“How solicitous of him,” Madge mutters under her breath. I snort and walk into the sunshine. I ascend the mounting stone and then yelp as rough hands assault me. Sagittaria balks, sidestepping as I cling to the reigns, struggling to reseat myself.

“Your horse seems a bit skittish, Miss Everdeen,” Cato sneers.

“She is not. You startled me in helping where you were not needed and that startled her.”

“That is what skittish means,” he says and grabs hold of her bridle. This only upsets Sagitarria more.

“Sir! Unhand my horse,” I snarl and he does so. I soothe her, stroking her neck and cooing until she settles with a snort and toss of her head. I quite agree with her but do not know how to extricate myself from this outing without being rude. Effie is still upset with me over my last run in with Mr. Marvel, insisting that I am acting more like a bitter spinster than a young woman who wishes to get married at all.

“I was simply assisting you mount your horse,” Mr. Baxter explains with a creased brow.

“No harm done,” I say through my teeth. I am attempting to smile but am sure it fails when I catch sight of Madge, hiding her laughter and safely mounted on Diablo. He is the most ornery horse in my family’s stable and yet somehow turns into a docile lamb around my friend. She has tamed the beast, and quite marvelously so.  

“This way ladies,” Cato declares and I roll my eyes, earning a choked sound of held back laughter from Madge.

“A true prince. Catch me if I swoon,” I mutter under my breath and this time Madge really does laugh. I think I even hear one of Effie’s footmen holding back laughter, and glance back to see his head bent and his shoulders shaking. Good to know my misfortunes in courtship provide such amusement. To the park we go!

“I am sorry, Katniss. I should not laugh,” Madge whispers as we move through the city towards the park. “But–”

“But he is a ridiculous, pompous ass?” Madge gasps and I lift a shoulder with indifference. “I think he might fit better on a farm.”

“Let us hope it only takes one outing to incite some manly jealousy in Sir Robert.”

“Why must we incite jealousy at all?” I grouse.

At first, it seems that riding in the park was the perfect idea. It is the largest expanse of green in the entire city. I breathe deep of the woodsy scent, the trees banishing the noxious fumes of the city and providing a breath of fresh air. They line the wide avenues and while there are any number of people out in the park today, the space is so wide that it hardly feels crowded. It is the most at home I have felt since arriving here. I relax and attempt to enjoy myself, giving Sagittaria some slack in the reins. She longs to gallop over the hills. I can feel it in the reins and the way she tenses beneath me, ready to spring.

Unfortunately, my enjoyment is short lived. Mr. Baxter’s horse is as pompous and overbearing as it’s rider. The beast continuously nips at Sagitarria’s haunches until my poor girl justifiably kicks out at the brute in defense.

“Your horse kicked mine!” Mr. Baxter complains.

“Your horse thinks Sagitarria is lunch,” I return, guiding Sagittaria as far away as possible. “The horse named Diablo is better behaved than your monster!”

“Is there a problem?” a vaguely familiar voice asks and I turn in the saddle to tell whatever misguided gentleman this is to mind his own affairs when I stop with my mouth hanging open and my eyes widen.

“You!” I shout. How is it that he always seems to appear when I am having horse related difficulties?

“Miss Everdeen,” Peeta says, inclining his head in my direction. His great big grey steady and unmoving. Sagitarria shifts, closer to Peeta and his mount, away from Cato. “I am glad to see you are able to keep out of the mud and your horse upright today.”

My cheeks burn in humiliation and Cato huffs. “You know this bastard?”

“No,” I say.

“We’ve met,” Peeta speaks for us both and tilts his head slightly at my lie before reaching down, his palm open for Sagittaria to nuzzle in a familiar manner. Peeta smiles at her and clicks his tongue. She huffs affectionately into his gloved palm, traitor that she is.

“Oh good! I see you’ve found her!” Sir Robert rides up then, his horse almost skidding to a halt as he pulls a touch too forcefully on the reigns. “Miss Everdeen! It is a matter of urgency. Your Aunt has asked us to escort you home, immediately.”

My heart leaps for a moment, immediately thinking of my father.

“Thank you Mr. Baxter, your services are no longer needed. Ladies,” Sir Robert circles us once and then begins to ride off. Madge goes with him, glancing back over her shoulder at me with concern in her eyes. What a grand chaperone she turned out to be, trading one bastard for another.

I don’t even see the command Peeta gives his horse, but the brute turns and follows, and without my input, Sagittaria goes as well, pulling even with Peeta’s horse as Cato sputters and protests behind us that we had just started our ride and that he is perfectly capable of seeing us home.

“I apologize for our ruse,” Peeta whispers. “We feared your horse was near to revolting.”

“She would not with me riding.”

“Not even with Cato’s nag biting at her?”

I purse my lips and stare at Sir Robert’s back as he converses with Madge. He turns in his seat once to look back at us and smiles, then winks at me. My heart does that strange fluttering thing again and I wonder at how two brothers who share such uncanny similarities in features can have such vastly different personalities. Sir Robert is charming and solicitous whereas Peeta seems rude and abrupt.

“I should not be speaking to you, sir. We have not been properly introduced.”

“Perhaps not in a way that most would approve of, but sometimes necessity demands forgetting etiquette, don’t you think?”

“You did not tell me who you were.” And you caressed my ankles.

“I was more concerned with your well being.”

“Clearly demonstrated in the way you tossed me about like chattel.”

“Would you rather I loitered in the pouring rain? I told you I had urgent business–”

“So urgent that you couldn’t be bothered to dismount and assist.”

“–and yet I did not shove you on your potentially injured horse and send you on your way. I made sure you were taken care of.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Even the most self-sufficient person requires assistance now and then. How is your father?” I whip my head to the side to stare at him and he stares back. Unwavering. “You forget I stopped at the inn in your town. Always a good source of local news.” His voice is soft in his explanation and stirs feelings I would rather forget. I can almost feel the icy rain trickling down my spine and the warmth of his fingers on my ankle.

“He is unchanged in health.”

“I am sorry to hear that. And the boots? I realize they are small consolation, but I must know. How are they?” He drops his gaze to my feet and I shift my legs. There’s no hiding that I wear a pair of fairly new riding boots. His smile at the sight of them irks me.

“Quite comfortable. Thank you,” I manage to say and he nods, as though satisfied.

“Delly always was quite skilled.” I think of the familiar way she spoke of him and feel my spine stiffen. Sagittaria’s gait shifts to accommodate my awkward posture and she huffs in protest, dancing two steps closer to Peeta’s horse so that our legs collide. His giant horse does not even budge, but plods along undisturbed.

“Humpf. One is always biased towards one’s sweetheart.”

“Delly is an old friend. Not a sweetheart.”

“You are quite easy with her name and she with yours.”

“Does that scandalise you, Miss Everdeen? I’ve known her since birth and she is practically a sister to me. I thought you much more robust in your sensibilities. A young woman who galivants unaccompanied over her family’s land – in breeches no less until the age of fifteen– hunts, sees to any number of business and farming affairs, attends to the births of new foals, whose mother and sister are both skilled healers? Surely you are not put off by a few uses of given names.”

“I am put off by gentlemen who do not reveal their true nature and seem to know far more about me than I do them.”

“I shall attempt to close my ears next time I visit your quaint town. Lest I hear anything about you.”

I ignore his sarcasm and return to something that still bothers me. “You failed to tell me who you were.”

“You already said that.”

“No last name, no direction.”

“Did I behave in a manner that would require you to need those?”

“You are a bastard and the title fits,” I hiss, aggravated with the direction of this conversation. He blinks once and then tilts his head, as though examining me like a puzzle to be solved. I squirm in the saddle at his steady gaze.

“And you, madame? Are you not a fortune hunter? I had no choice in the manner of my birth but you have a choice in your manner of matrimony.”

“That is not your concern and hardly proper–”

“Are you pursuing my brother for his fortune alone?”

“No!” I whisper, although the lie burns on my tongue. “He is many things beyond his fortune.”

“I am aware of that, but are you? Robert falls in love far too easily and has had his heart broken countless times.”

“An odd defense tactic, Mr. Mellark. I’ve never much heard of gentleman having their hopes shattered. Do you not simply move on to the next prospect?”

“I suppose you believe that to be a realm only allowed to ladies? Broken hearts? Then how do you explain yourself, your breeches, and your rumored to be perfect aim? You move about parts of the world usually reserved for men, and if the gossips of your home are to be believed, you do so with far more grace and skill than most men.” I scowl at him and he smiles. It’s disturbing, this new expression. It flirts and teases, scandalises and taunts. He looks more like his brother in that moment and the thought is so bothersome that I shove it aside, turning from him and instead staring unseeing at the trees as we ride beneath their wide, gorgeous green bowers. Beside me, Peeta sighs deeply.

“Ah. My apologies again, Miss Everdeen. I cannot seem to control my mouth around you. And to answer your concern, I am not in the habit of providing proof of parentage when I pluck strange women from the mud. I fear it might send them all into a fit to admit that my blood parents were never married. At the very least, I would then have to endure a dozen prayers for my soul.”

I feel laughter forming in my chest at the idea of him sitting astride his great, unmovable grey, eyes lifted skyward in exasperation while a prayer circle surrounds him. Old ladies clutching and waving their bibles about. The amusement I feel annoys me.

“Perhaps you should start if you are going to make a habit of plucking strange women from the mud. We are made of stronger stuff than you give us credit for.”

“So far, you are my only rescue of that sort.” I huff in disbelief or aggravation and Sagitarria dances again into the side of Peeta’s horse. Once again, the beast is unmoved, continuing in his path like an equine stone wall.

“Does your horse feel anything?” I ask testily.

“Cicero cannot hear. That necessitated training him to be unresponsive to everything but my touch. An advantage on a battlefield, but perhaps not so in the park with skittish mares.”

“Sagittaria is not skittish and I am getting tired of brutes such yourself and Mr. Baxter suggesting otherwise.” Peeta’s eyes narrow at me, his eyes flashing in true anger this time. I wonder if it is at being lumped together with Mr. Baxter. I have insulted him repeatedly and yet just as he confessed, I cannot seem to stop.

“I was not speaking of your horse,” he whispers. I gasp at that, but before I can dig up a retort, Sir Robert is there.

“Another lap about the park? The enchanting Mr. Baxter has left and so I believe we may continue unbothered.”

“Yes. That would be lovely, Sir Robert,” I turn to him with a relieved smile, ignoring Peeta and maneuvering Sagittaria so that Madge will have to deal with the bastard this time. I throw her an apologetic look and settle in next to Sir Robert. “It is such a lovely day, I hate to return indoors so soon.”

“You live mainly in the country, yes?” Sir Robert asks and I nod. “I fear I would be ghastly bored if I could not live in the city.”

Behind me, Madge laughs, the sound clear and beautiful and full. The first genuine laugh not brought about by me that I have heard from her since we left Everdeen. I turn to stare at her, my cheeks heating as I catch Peeta’s eyes. He smirks at me and my mind churns with awful thoughts of violence that I quickly suppress. I feel feverish and furious, unable to explain my reaction to this man. Especially when one with much more polished manners and much more desirable credentials as a future husband is also present.

I turn my full attention to Sir Robert then. After all, he is the one courting me. Not Peeta.

To be continued…